Archive of Our Own ^beta

He is used to fighting for hours with Hawkeye, not days. And not even really fighting—tense words over unfinished paperwork or early mornings or rash decisions, sure, but this is different, and everybody in the mess hall can tell. No blatant hush falls when Roy enters to grab a metal tray, but he knows people are waiting to see where he sits.

He fumes down the meal line. Yes bagel, yes potatoes, no carrots, yes chicken. Yes cake, too, fuck it. Chocolate. Whatever. If he doesn’t sit next to Hawkeye, people will know their fight is serious, which could lead to other departments trying to poach her, which could then lead to swarms of nobodies clawing for her position. If he does sit next to Hawkeye, people will assume they have reached a truce, but Roy will have a bad lunch.

“Lieutenant,” he says as he slips beside her. He is already having a bad lunch.

She pauses, snorts, and nods, and swabs gravy with a heel of bread. They’re at one of the larger tables on the side, but it’s just him and Hawkeye. Roy imagines that somewhere in the mess hall, cadets are daring each other to join them. He’d almost welcome it, too, because while he’s had many a quiet lunch with Hawkeye, none have been ruthlessly silent like this.  He brings up the weather for good measure, and asks her if she tried the cake. The weather is normal. No. No, she doesn’t want his slice, either.

Her fingers are sticky from the gravy and she maybe almost puts them in her mouth, but instead wipes them on the napkin in her lap.

“I imagine,” she says as she stands, “that someone as brilliant and capable as you won’t need my further assistance this afternoon?”

Roy crosses his arms. His brilliant and capable self would, in fact, prefer to be alone. But if he sends her home, then she might have a comfortable and relaxing evening.

“Please report to my office after lunch hour as expected,” he tells her. She rolls her eyes before walking away. Bold. You know, it’s not normal for a Lieutenant to be so bold with a superior. Other people have whispered about it and maybe it’s true. He gives her a lot of slack—made her his conscience, for God’s sake—how did that become public knowledge?—and now she’s slamming the metal tray in the collection bin in front of everybody. So everybody knows Lieutenants can act like that to Colonels now, and the entire system is gonna fall apart. Roy takes a bite of the cake and it’s dry and very sweet and feels like a paste sticking down his neck. She’s being fucking unbelievable.

She continues to be fucking unbelievable after lunch. When he approaches his office door she’s stationed outside as normal, but her weight is ever so slightly tipped to one side and she’s tapping on the door frame with her fingertips, a neat little display of disrespect.

“Cute,” Roy bites as he walks through the door. Hawkeye follows but pauses at the threshold.

“Do you want it open or closed, Sir?”

“Closed. Unless you’d like all of Central to overhear sensitive information.”

“Forgive me, Sir. Since you have not effectively outlined strategy in weeks, I assumed you wanted my help with the Monday crossword.”

Roy runs up to shut the door behind her, which means he personally glimpses an officer snickering in the hall. Hawkeye steps curtly to the side and stares forward, this time at attention. Roy turns slowly. It is winter, because somehow it’s always fucking winter. Like Central is turning to Drachma. It’s barely after lunchtime and already the light is dimming. Roy’s office doesn’t get sunset.

“I could fire you over that,” he tells Hawkeye.

“Oh, would you please?” she answers sweetly.

They work across from each other only because there’s no other option. Sometimes Roy will drop a paper to the ground and Hawkeye will let him retrieve it himself. The radiator bangs and dust burns and they can’t even crack a window because the wood has swollen in the frame. Normally they’d take off their coats but neither moves to undo even a lapel. Hawkeye’s bangs start to frizz in the damp air and she smooths them with her palm. And then Roy spills a bottle of ink across the page she’d been transcribing.

“It was an accident—”

“You’re right. Nobody could have predicted you’d spill ink, especially not after I suggested you move the bottle twice.”

“Stay there, I’ll ring for the janitor. I wouldn’t have knocked into it if you didn’t take up half the desk.”

“If only there were a solution. If only our great nation produced more than one desk—”

The janitor knocks once and enters. Hawkeye relinquishes her ink-stained coat for dry cleaning. The janitor blots the spill from the floor, and then peels two hours of transcriptions from the desk surface to crumple at the bottom of a waste bin. That’s all, thanks. Roy will get hot coffee, but only because Hawkeye doesn’t have a coat.

When he returns, his lieutenant is perched on the windowsill, staring over tops of buildings and stripped branches. The glass fogs where she breathes. At some point in Roy’s absence, she tried to redo her hair, and now her barrette lays snapped in two across the paperwork. She’s worked her hair into a braid with no tie at the ends.

Roy hands her black coffee directly, because he knows if he puts it on the windowsill it’ll somehow tip over, and then Hawkeye would be encouraged to kill him. She nods in thanks and opens the lid to let the steam come out.

“I can get the secretary to redo those transcriptions tomorrow,” Roy offers. He thinks this will soften her.

“Glad to know my skills are uniquely invaluable,” she says. “Sir.”

All right. You know what, fine. Roy puts his own coffee down and removes his coat and drapes it over the back of his chair, and then arranges a fresh stack of paper where Hawkeye was sitting.

“You’re right,” he says, “my apologies.” He gestures at her empty seat. “Do it again.”

Hawkeye looks him in the eyes for the first time all day and Roy wonders if her targets ever realize they’re about to be shot. She is almost his height in her uniform boots, and when she pauses she is close enough that Roy can see the drops of sweat on her upper lip and smell black coffee on her breath. She tenses her jaw and maybe almost says something, but then thinks better of it. Instead, she sits, and dips her pen in the ink, and starts writing. Her hair falls a little into her face because she’s bad at braiding.

“Really?” Roy says lowly, because he can’t help himself. “You’re just going to take that?”

The look she gives him is one he’s seen before. Head tilted back, ropes of her neck working under her tight black collar, lips folded into her mouth. In other circumstances, he’d get that look after teasing just a little too far, after kicking at the line they’d stretched between them as soon as Hawkeye joined the military. He is surprised to see it now. He holds her gaze and takes a sip of coffee.

There’s a soft knock at the door and Roy’s secretary pokes her head in.

“Sorry to interrupt, Sir…” she says, wanting to be anywhere else in the whole world and maybe even dead. “Ms. Clarissa Worthington is on line one.”

Normally, this would be Hawkeye’s cue to leave. She doesn’t. She folds her arms and stays right there, staring, as Roy picks up the phone.

“Clarissa! Don’t worry, I didn’t forget about tonight, I got…I understand…well, a little late, probably. If you want to reschedule…” Roy glares at Hawkeye and she does not move. Riza glares right back at Mustang.

His expression changes in a way only someone like Riza would notice. Something about how his eyebrows move back and how there’s a break in the rhythm of his chest filling with air. He twines an ungloved finger around the phone cable and looks away from her.

“Well…I see.”

There is a very long silence, broken only by his small grunts of assent. Then: all right, goodbye, and he abruptly shuts the call. He rakes his fingers through his hair, pulls his office chair out with the toe of his boot, swings down behind his own stacks of paper, and begins working with diligence.

“God forbid you miss your reservation,” Riza says after a moment. “Clarissa, was it? Is she the dog groomer?”

Mustang taps his pen against the desk blotter. “Interior decorator.”

“Hm. Maybe she can add a desk in here. Ah, I forgot, you don’t mix work and pleasure.”

At this, Mustang gives a low and decidedly bitter laugh.

“God knows I don’t,” he says. His eyes meet Riza’s. “She’s intel, Lieutenant.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you, Sir.”

“Bullshit.”

“Stand up, then,” Riza dares, and Mustang outright laughs.

“Unbelievable!”

“Is it?” Riza licks the tip of her finger to pull a fresh sheet of paper from the stack. Her voice stays conversational, easygoing. “More unbelievable than accepting explicit calls in front of your subordinate?”

Roy tilts his head back, still laughing. “Oh, talk about professionalism!”

“No, is that how all your intel goes? We’re out doing hard work while you’re in your office with the door locked and the blinds down? What’s the code phrase for Drachma, is it…”

Riza bites her sentence and the air is thick with damp heat. She sets her pen down, and stands, and smooths her hands down the front of her shirt. She turns to leave but doesn’t take a step.

“Go on,” Mustang prompts from behind her. “If you’re going to accuse me, accuse me. What’s the code phrase for Drachma?”

“You tell me.”

“No, really. If I have to write you up they’re going to want details. You really think I’m in here all day getting off?”

Riza spins and braces her arms on the desk. Mustang leans back in his chair and clasps his hands behind his head. His collar button falls open and a tint of stubble spreads across his chin, and his face is so smug that Riza could slap it.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“There’s been talk that I give you special treatment. Not a good look for my standing. Would you speak to Colonel Jared this way? Colonel Raeburn?”

“And what if I file a complaint against you?” Riza counters, poking a finger to his chest. “Central would never believe you’re behind on all your work because of phone sex, right?”

That’s it. Roy swipes the form Riza was transcribing. He crumples it and tosses it across the room.

“Real mature,” she spits, and knocks over his stack of files with the back of her hand.

“No, go on, make more work for yourself,” Roy says. He grabs another form from Riza and begins folding it into a paper airplane, creasing patiently with the nail of his thumb, wondering why she doesn’t intercept. He finds out when he feels her presence to his left: there she stands, dangling an inky fountain pen just inches from the cuff of his crisp white sleeve.

“Write me up,” she says, pushing the pen closer. “Go ahead.”

“This is designer—”

“Oh, sorry. Wouldn’t want to ruin one of your twelve identical shirts,” Riza says, and she moves to scrawl a line across the back of his hand instead. Roy flips his palm over to catch hers against the table.

They are close enough to breathe each other’s air. His hand is hot and crushes hers, and his collar is unbuttoned, and the skin of his neck is red. Some ink leaks from the fountain pen. Roy curls his free hand around his chair so that he doesn’t instinctively reach toward Riza’s waist. She has that look again, working both lips between her teeth, her brows low, but she tips her head back and reveals her throat like a dare. Her hair falls undone across her shoulders and the office phone rings.

It goes to speaker before Roy can ease his grip on Riza’s hand. The thin and weary voice of his secretary comes through. The car is waiting for him downstairs.

“Have a lovely work meeting,” Riza says. “Remember to use protection when gathering intel.”

Roy steps back from the heat of her body and re-buttons his collar. But he keeps eye contact, even when he moves across the room to grab his long black coat.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he tells her.

“They have pills for that.”

She likes how insolence feels in her mouth. Roy snorts and drapes his scarf around his shoulders and glances at the mess of paperwork.

“I want that taken care of by my return. You’re on the clock until 19:30,” he reminds her on his way out the door. “That’s an order, Lieutenant.”

When he’s gone she drops back into her chair. Like hell is she going to pick all this up. He started it. She drums her fingers on the desk and then walks to the hall to catch his secretary, who’s arranging her pocketbook to leave for the night.

“Hi, Rosemary, would you happen to have an extra barrette or hair tie?” Riza says with as much sweetness and apology as she can muster. She doesn’t miss the flicker of Rosemary’s eyebrows, but she lets it slide.

“This okay?” Rosemary asks, pulling a floral claw clip from her bag.

Riza knows nobody nobody in the mess hall will notice a change in hairstyle, but she still anticipates stares. She gets a certain amount, regardless, on any given day—especially if she doffs her uniform coat—but her arguments with Roy have made top-tier gossip for the cadets. They splay across tables toward the back of the room. Some of them pull their knees up and rest their boots on the benches. Riza can’t remember abandoning decorum so blatantly like that in her younger days, but whatever. Whatever, fuck it, they’re not her charges. She scans the room for Rebecca and then remembers Rebecca is also on a date. She feels an urge to go reprimand the cadets for general crimes against their station. Instead, she drops her tray at a single table and eats a banana.

The muscles in her back are tense. She wants to kill Roy, and yet she keeps giving him the looks that make him unravel. It’s a bitter game she plays with herself: how much can she agonize her superior in a single day? Nothing will come of it—so the room gets charged, so his skin flushes. Maybe in a timeline without fraternization laws they would have already been lovers. But they are in this timeline, where in addition to those laws, Roy is being an entire ass.

Riza picks apart a salisbury steak and stabs peas individually with the tines of her fork. It’s been about twenty minutes. Roy would be accidentally touching Clarissa’s knee by now, oh, pardon, now her forearm, oh, now her thigh. His hand that just crushed Riza’s hand would settle on Clarissa’s thigh and maybe move upward, maybe skim the hems of her underclothes. Armada has long red tablecloths, so nobody would even see if he kept one hand on his wine glass and eased Clarissa’s thighs apart with the other—

Riza tosses her fork into an empty water glass and brings the tray of plates to the bussing station. She should just go home, let any repercussions be a tomorrow problem. No, that’d just give more fodder to the workplace gossips. She doesn’t want to do the fucking paperwork. She needs to do something with her body. She ends up in the basement gym. After she lifts, she showers, and takes as long as she damn well pleases. When she walks back into Roy’s office at 19:45, her hair is damp and wound in the flower clip.

“Did she not invite you back for coffee?” she asks when she notices him leaning by the radiator.

“Call up the restaurant. We ate a nice meal and then she summoned her driver. I told you it was intel,” he said. A blotted mark deepens at the base of his neck, and Riza rolls her eyes.

“And you did, what, nothing?” he continues, kicking one of the crumpled papers across the floor.

“Sorry, I was otherwise occupied.” Riza lets it be vague, because it’s late and she’s still angry. She lets Roy pull his eyes across her form, taking note of her damp hair and skin, and the change of clothes, and draw his own conclusions. He walks toward her, arms crossed.

“New hair clip,” he remarks.

“Oh? Whoops—I’ll have to return it to its rightful owner,” she replies. Roy moves his hands to his pockets.

“So one phone call makes me a problem, but you get to fraternize on company time?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Riza tells him. “There are laws against that.”

“Right,” Roy says. “There are.”

“There are.”

He is close but his hands remain in his pockets. Riza looks at the mark on his neck and wants to cover it with her own mouth, deepen the color, make him forget anybody else ever tasted his skin. She has the thought and then tries to evict it from her mind.

“You’re doing it again,” Roy remarks, and she realizes she is looking at him like that. She should take a step back but instead she lifts a brow.

“Doing what? Standing?”

“You do it a lot,” Roy continues. “Like it’s a dare.”

Riza doesn’t say anything because she can’t think of what she wants to say, whether she wants to diffuse or antagonize, keep her career or blow up her career, stay in Central or self-exile to Xing, sell her belongings, become a nun. She turns slowly on her heel and gets half a step away before Roy grabs her arm and she feels excited that maybe she’ll be bruised.

“Clarissa must have left you bothered, huh?” she manages before Roy slams her back to the wall and kisses her, hard.

He expects her to melt in his grip. She doesn’t. Her arms flex underneath his hands and he matches the planes of her chest to his own. She does not become pliant or let him lead, no, he half expects her to toss him across the room and slap him. He has the thought and then craves it.

“So that’s what it was,” he breathes into her mouth, “every time you gave that look, you wanted to be pinned down.”

“You’re so full of it.”

“Every meeting, every mission…Lord, Hawkeye, even at billiards.” He moves from her mouth to kiss her jaw, her ear. “I admit to watching you bend over the table every time you aimed.”

“Good,” Riza says, “I’ll add that confession to my Human Resources report.”

Roy clicks his tongue and runs one hand to her muscled shoulders, and the other hand to her waist. That’s when she eases into him, nearly grinds herself against his body. Who knew.

But then, Riza uses the wall for leverage and nudges Roy away with her hips. He steps back, panting, palms outwardly raised.

“Look, if you don’t want this—”

“You’ve been insufferable for days,” she says, almost as a reminder to herself.

“Right. And you’ve been an angel.” Roy messily tucks his shirt into his trousers and walks to the bar cart that he keeps in the corner. He is taut and lightheaded and so desperate to find each of her buttons and push them all at once.

“Get me some, too,” Riza says about the whiskey. Roy pours two angry cups and slams one in front of her. She swigs it and the liquid drips down her front. She slows to meet Roy’s eyes. She is mad at him and still, that agonizing game nags her mind. She sets the glass down and smooths a bead of whiskey back into her mouth, sucking it off her finger. She considers removing her top but that would be too kind to the bastard. Instead, she pulls the hem up to dab at her chin, and Roy watches the muscles of her waist.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“You wish.”

Another bitter laugh. “Like you don’t.”

“I find ways to manage,” Riza hums. She pulls the flower clip from her head and sets it on the windowsill. The ends of her hair are still damp and darker than the rest, like sand licked by the ocean. Roy takes a dignified sip of his whiskey.

“The code for Drachma changes depending on the informant,” he starts, all businesslike, “but Ms. Worthington has my favorite preferences. Let’s say an official is gaining unpopularity among the masses. How did she put it—ah, yes—she said she wanted to slide her tongue around me until I hit the back of her throat.”

Roy levels his gaze at Riza, looking for a response, seeing if she’ll buy it.

“That’s stupid,” she says.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand the intricacies of espionage.”

“No, I mean,” Riza says, “that the code doesn’t make sense.” She moves her body to the desk chair and sits on its arm. Roy fixates where it presses against her.

“If an official is gaining unpopularity,” she continues, “that implies a threat of violence. Like a hand running up your thigh, but then digging nails into your flesh. A threat.”

Roy takes another sip and bites the inside of his cheek.

“That’s good,” he relents. “Maybe I’ll put you in charge of the cryptography.”

“Would it come with a pay raise?”

“No.”

Roy watches her on the chair arm. Her legs part slightly, and her center curves around the padded leather. He wonders if it will be wet there when she stands. He wants her on the ground, across the desk, against the window glass.

“Your neck,” Riza points out, finally, and Roy’s hand flies up to cover it.

“We were…in a back booth,” he says. “And I needed a little more information.”

“Of course.”

“God forbid I reject a beautiful woman,” he says.

“God forbid.”

Riza’s mind wanders to the restuarant tablecloth again, constructing what could have happened underneath, what she knows probably has happened underneath at some point, even if not tonight. She imagines Roy coaxing a woman into his lap, one free hand on the wine, the other guiding her hips up and down, up and down…

There’s some noise in the hall—shoulder clapping, jeers, the sound of briefcase zippers and evening plans. It is distant, and then loud outside Roy’s office door, and then distant again down the hall.

“Well,” Riza says, hands on her knees, stepping up as if to join the workplace exodus home.

“No,” Roy says lowly. Riza stills.

“Excuse me?”

He gestures to the paperwork. “I specifically remember ordering you to get this done.”

Riza exhales and shakes her head, and kicks her chair into place behind the desk. She does not sit. There is something she could say, and maybe even wants to say; something that would coax all their worst parts to the surface, that would sharpen the blunt mess of her desire to a razor.

“Make me,” is what she says to Roy, and the line between them snaps.

He pulls her to him and this time it will bruise. Whenever his mouth parts from her skin he whispers his fragments of his disbelief: does it feel good to be so difficult? Her breath catches when his hand grips the nape of her neck, so she reaches around to pull some of his hair. She wouldn’t have to be so difficult if he wasn’t being such a prick. Oh? And he moves her by the neck to press her front across the paperwork, like this?

She lifts herself onto her elbows and pushes her hips back toward him, and feels him harden through his trousers.

“I suppose,” she whispers, almost laughing, “you do have a reputation for being easy.”

Roy digs his nails into her hips and turns her over. He wants to see her face and take her apart piece by piece until there’s no smugness left. He slides his thigh between her legs and there’s a pulsing heat.

“You say that like you haven’t been soaking wet all day,” he tells her. He slows a bit, grinds his thigh into her, and then decides there’s too much fabric. When he undoes her leather belt she glowers at him, and he cools the inside of her wrist with the heavy metal buckle. She undoes the button and the zipper and he slides them off and looks at her.

“The novelty is unexpected,” he remarks, snapping the elastic of her underwear. So what if she wears thongs. So what if they have strawberries on them.

“Fuck you,” she says. He works his hand between the fabric and her skin, and her cunt is swollen and searing.

“Again—you wish,” he grins, and slides a finger up and down her slit. Her right knee raises and her hips move, almost automatically, to coax him deeper. Humiliating. Or it would be, if Roy didn’t look wrecked at the movement. He uses every fragment of willpower to draw his hands away so he can unbutton his shirt.

“You’re staining the placket,” Riza breathes, watching her wetness transfer from his fingers to his shirt.

“Whatever,” Roy says. He does care a little bit, secretly, but he accepts with utmost humility a very blatant truth: his dry cleaner already knows he’s a whore. He pulls off his shirt and at least makes sure it doesn’t hit ink on the way to the floor. He works on the fly of his trousers and seethes when the air hits his cock. Riza looks at him with heavy lids. He gave her some slight touches, second base, but already she looks filthy, her shirt hiked up around her ribs, her hair wetting manila folders, she’s on his desk—Hawkeye is splayed across his desk, her cunt is dripping on his desk, they are fighting and she’s moving her shirt to drag her fingers across her breast.

Roy considers how he thought this would happen, whenever he dared to fantasize (usually three beers in, alone on his couch after working late). He imagined—hah—he imagined gently cupping her cheek and pulling her face toward him for a gentle kiss under the snow, God, snow, and maybe taking her to a nice restaurant and walking her to the door, you know, and maybe she’d invite him in for a nightcap, and then they’d have sweet and loving sex in a soft bed. In his fantasies, they are very nice to one another.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” says Riza in reality, and she arches her back, and pulls Roy closer with her thighs. She has that daring look again, one he hopes nobody else is granted. He grips the base of his cock and lets the shaft settle against her thigh.

“Depends,” he tells her. “Are you going to stop being so fucking difficult?”

She shifts beneath him to make him ache. Her eyes narrow.

“You think this is going to solve things?”

“It might. I have stellar reviews.”

“I’m not as easily manipulated as your harem,” she says, and then adds, “Sir”. 

Roy wants to rail her until she can’t walk straight. He wants her legs over his shoulders and wants her with an unrelenting pace, wants to be deeper than anybody she’s ever had, wants her fingernails to scar his back. But he also wants her to beg for it.

He pulls back suddenly, smiling a little when she moans in his absence. He lazily works his hand to the sight of her propped up on her elbows, hair in messy ropes, brows knit.

“Fine,” she hisses, when she figures out his game. She moves her hand to her cunt and dips her fingers inside. They don’t feel as good as Roy’s but she makes a show of breathing loudly, purring, moaning at her own touch. Roy knows exactly what she’s doing, and his cock jumps because the stupid act is working. He grips himself harder at the base.

“You want to know what I—ah—would tell you on the phone?” she starts.

“To stop fucking around and get my paperwork done? Yeah, I hear it every day.”

“Do you want me to continue or not?”

Roy does. He watches her fingers move in and out of her own body.

“I’d tell you…on my day off…I’m home touching myself to the thought of you, just like this…I want to suck patterns down your throat and chest…move my lips over your abdomen until you can feel my cheek press against the side of your cock…take you into my mouth slowly, you weave your hands into my hair and you want to press forward but I’m going so slow, feeling you heavy on my tongue, my hands trail up your sides…you want to fuck my throat but my nails press into your hips…hard enough to leave a mark…”

Roy is breathing heavy and Riza smooths her palm over her cunt, so dark against her hand.

“And then,” Riza continues, now with a barely-there smile: “I tell you to stop fucking around, get your paperwork done, and hang up the phone.”

She wins. Roy yanks her hips to the edge of the desk and shoves her thighs apart and splits her, drives himself deep into her sopping cunt with none of his usual ceremony. She barely has time to adjust before he pulls all the way out and fucks into her again, and again, and again, and then lifts her upright so he can whisper to her throat.

“Who knew the most stoic lieutenant had a mouth like that,” he tells her, and sucks at the top of her shoulder.

“Not where anyone can see,” she breathes.

“Oh, now she’s demure.”

She makes a gorgeous sound, almost starts to form his name, and then buries her face against his neck. Roy continues.

“Really, are you like this to everyone you sleep with? So wet and tight and hot…and insolent…” He grabs a fist of her hair and pulls back—a little harder than he meant to, truthfully, but the way Riza whines eases his conscience.

“You’re incredible,” he tells her. “So intent on following the rules…now look at you…cleaved by my cock in the middle of my office…”

“Add me to the notches on your desk,” Riza says as drily as she can manage.

“I haven’t brought anyone here before.”

“Ever?”

Roy laughs against her hair. “And risk getting caught by you? You’d have me executed for defiling the workspace.”

Riza almost refutes it, but then Roy slows his pace, and snakes his hand between them to press against her clit. Another gorgeous sound.

“I need…” she starts, but doesn’t really even know, just something, a different angle, pressure, something more. Roy removes himself and she gasps at the absence. He flips her toward the wall, presses her against it, hikes her knee to rest on the windowsill, and wraps his hand around her front. She feels the head of his cock against her slit again, and braces herself as he pushes back inside. He pulls her hair to one side and kisses the back of her neck as he fucks her, kneading her clit with every slam against the wall, and she’s close and he brings his mouth to her ear.

“You know I have an important meeting tomorrow? I’m going to spend the whole time remembering how juicy your cunt gets as I ruin you. I never imagined you’d fall apart around me like this, fuck…trapped between the wall and my cock…who taught you to take a cock like this? Can I pull your hair harder? Mm…do you even hear yourself whimper like that, God, I’ll never be at peace again…but that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Whenever you looked at me like that? You wanted to wreck me…tease me so I’d ravage you, look at how drenched you are, how pretty you sound…how tight you are, and loud, fuck, Riza—”

He presses her hard into the wall as she comes, so tight she can barely move, and he works his hand and bruises her hips and bites where her neck meets her shoulder and then her legs grow weak and they both kneel to the ground. He pushes between her shoulder blades and she folds in half, and she’s barely finished coming when he sinks back inside. She folds further, nearly flat on the ground, and he nails her to the carpet when he moves.

“I…” she starts, and reaches her hand to her clit again, and the pressure is so much, and the sounds of Roy rutting into her are filthy. If she comes around him twice, she’ll never hear the end of it. She comes. Roy moans this time, and pounds her impossibly deep and hard, and she hears the end of his question before he even starts asking—yes, she’s on the pill, and yes, God, please—

He moans again as he fills her and winces when he pulls away, his come dripping into the carpet, the marks on her hips and film of sweat on both of them, her washed hair dirty again, he can’t stop looking at her leaking cunt, can’t stop thinking of all the other places he wants her.

It’s silent for awhile, save for their breathing. Roy glances at the clock. Anyone who’s still at the office and not getting fucked is officially a loser.

Riza stands first and starts to gather her clothes. She debates showering here or at home and settles on the latter, because if anyone is still in the building, they might see Roy follows her to the locker rooms. She shakes the thought out of her head. Another day, some other time, she’ll visit it.

“Do you need a ride?” Roy offers when he’s dressed. Riza surveys the damage to the room—most of the paperwork is wrinkled and damp or otherwise compromised. There’s a stain on the carpet where they…and that meeting tomorrow, that’s set to take place in this room, God, she forgot about the meeting—

Roy catches the panic on her face.

“I’ll call you a cab. You go home,” he tells her, with more gentleness than either of them expected. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You better.”

“I will.”

He reaches to help her with her overcoat but she does it up herself. Then the cab is outside. Then they pause at the doorway of the office, each of them waiting to be kissed.