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A Tryst in the Sands

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No, it shouldn’t be like this.

Her subconscious reprimands her that it’s wrong telling her this isn’t why they are here. The warm air feels cool to her heated skin as he helps her shed the tan cloak. Her fingers are intermingled through his black locks and heavy breaths can be heard in the abandoned building.

Recklessness is a liability for a soldier like her, but this is her only solace in the desert wasteland. An act of rebellion, committing a crime on top of another. She is beyond help. They both are.

Here they stand, two of the deadliest soldiers in the war, their tongues wrestling with each other in heated breath. She feels his hands and fingers caress her up her torso – a softer touch than the prickling texture of his gloves. It is enough sensation to provoke a sound from her throat. He smiles through their kiss and she nudges him to stop fucking around.

His lips leave her, looking around, and she takes that moment to realize how small she is compared to him, what they are, and their purpose of where they are. A guilt crashes into her as she stares, but his head gestures towards the corner of the sand-dusted room. She turns her head to look.

“The table?” She mumbles, contemplating for a second until she realizes she doesn’t have the luxury of time. Shrugging, she pulls him back down to her by the collar with a pinched brow, as if his kiss would ward away the nightmares at night. His enthusiastic response helps with forgetting for a moment and their feet begin to shuffle towards the abandoned flat-topped furniture.

No, it shouldn’t be like this because she doesn’t deserve to find solace in the touch of his lips, of his fingers, of his soul. Still, there’s a yearning to relish in the forbidden nature of their tryst that makes this entire situation even more rewarding and the sin is so sweet for them both.

Her fingers climb underneath his uniform, airing out the warmth of his torso with each undone button, and takes in the ripples of his skin, the muscles that appeared in a matter of years.

She’s lifted onto the table by his strong grip and her trousers vanish with his nimble-fingered hands. He pulls her in closer to the edge and she fiddles with the workings of his pants – their lips never parting, their words never sounding. Gasps for breath are heard in understanding.

Fingernails digging into his shoulders, her head leans back as his hips lean in and her mouth opens without realization, a moan escaping from her lips.  The feeling satisfies her, filling her and sending electric shocks throughout her skin under the heavy Amestrian uniform. Her legs wrap around his waist and she wants to keep the Flame Alchemist with her for as long as possible.

He tugs the Hawk’s Eye back into him and her lips finds his again, more demanding and lustful this time around. And in the middle of their illegal act, of their simple rebellion, of their sex, he tells her that this is bad. Riza rakes her fingers through his sweat-sodden hair, burrowing him into her neck, and she challenges him to stop, but he doesn’t. She's well aware of the comfort he finds in her touch.

Her fingernails find the skin of his back and burrow in as she feels the swell of her climax with each thrust, tightening around him. Her legs pull him in closer and there’s sweat on his brow, but she doesn’t notice the humidity in her own clothing.

He bites into her skin and she bites her lip to hinder the whimper that loudly wanted to be more.

Riza clenches her thighs as she feels it consume her, everything in her. It makes her forget where she is, what she’s done and it’s just him and her. She muffles her scream into his shoulder.

His fingers dig into her hips as he thrusts a final time before his release and she can’t quite see his face, but she figures it’s surely contorted in the pleasure of his orgasm. He looks up to her panting and the face he gives makes her want to tackle him onto the floor another time to forget the time and the sand and this battle, but this is war and they were soldiers.