The (Madam) Christmas Guide to Convincing Your Stepson to Get His Goddamn Ass in Gear

by onthearrow

Chapter 2: Part 2

Notes:

With great pleasure, I offer you all the second part of the Yule fic...where it REALLY gets good.

Merry belated Christmas, my royais ❤️

The rest of the weekend passes in a haze. He wakes on Saturday with a severe hangover, and loses most of the day nursing it. Sunday is spent nursing his ego. He slinks into the office early on Monday, earlier than Riza, specifically so that he doesn't have to walk past her on his way in.

Still, she brings him coffee and the morning memos as usual. She offers him a smile that he does his best to return. It probably looks more like a grimace. When she asks how the rest of his weekend was, he gives her a nondescript answer and returns his attention to the reports piled on his desk. They're by no means urgent. But he's having a hard time looking at her without the pit of shame in his stomach growing heavier. She must get the hint, because she leaves him shortly afterward.

The rest of the day passes slowly. He avoids her, and, when he can't, does his best to not meet her eyes. He makes his escape when she goes to the range at the end of the day.

Tuesday goes similarly, down to the early morning, when she comes in with his coffee and memos, and attempts to make further conversation. He plays along to the extent that is polite, but no more—he doesn't need her pity. Luckily, she doesn't stay long.

Wednesday and Thursday are the same. It feels like his insides are festering. He wishes he could talk to Chris about it, but admitting to his own stupidity is unbearable. And Chris will likely pity him, and he's already getting enough of that from Riza.

Havoc isn't an option, either, for obvious reasons. And the idea of talking to Fullmetal is preposterous. He misses Maes. For all of his professional success, he has very few confidants. The realization only worsens his mood. On Friday—Yule Eve—Roy comes into the office, sees the garlands and the red and gold decor in HQ's hallways, and realizes he's never been less excited for Yule. In fact, he's dreading this evening—not because he has to meet Chris' supposed boyfriend, but because Riza will be elsewhere for the first time in eight years, talking to a man that isn't him. It makes his gut curl with jealousy. He thought they belonged to each other. The Promised Day proved that. Or so he thought.

The morning drags on. It’s surprising, given it's a half-day, but perhaps that's what making time pass more slowly. Riza brings him his coffee, and this time doesn't even attempt to speak to him. Her eyes stay downcast the whole time. And then, it's business as usual. Roy keeps to himself as much as he can—his productivity is at an all-time high this week, with all the paperwork he's gotten done.

Still, as soon as the clock strikes noon, he rises to collect his coat. He's supposed to be at Chris' by three to help her with dinner, and needs to change and pick up groceries before that.

Unfortunately for him, Riza appears in the doorway just as he's finishing with his buttons.

"Heading out?" she asks. She sounds unhappy.

"Yes." He loops his scarf around his neck. "Lots to do for Chris."

"Right," she answers stiffly. She's not looking at him again. It hurts. "Well, don't forget your weekend packet."

She holds up a familiar-looking folder. Roy suppresses the urge to incinerate it.

He comes towards her in the door anyway, pausing with her in the frame to take it and tuck into his coat. "Thank you, Captain."

A wolf-whistle sounds from the desks in the front room. Falman is sitting back in his chair, eyebrows raised, a smile playing on his lips. Breda and Fuery are gaping at him with uncertain expressions.

Roy glares at them. "What?"

"It finally happened…" Fuery says faintly.

He doesn't have the patience for this. Roy withdraws his hand from his coat. "What happened?"

Breda's gaze moves to a spot above his head. Roy's eyes follow it, only to find—

Mistletoe.

"Huh," jokes Falman, "how'd that get there?"

How did that get there? It wasn't there when he came in this morning. Panic surges through him. He's under the mistletoe. With Riza. Who, exactly a week ago, rejected his affections.

Suddenly, his panic turns cold, changes to anger. Who the fuck put mistletoe here? Whoever did full-well knew the two most likely to be caught beneath it would be Riza and himself. It's clearly meant to be a joke, and a cruel one at that. And it's one thing to prank him, but to drag Riza into it? To have a laugh at her expense, when she's already made her feelings for him clear?

Before he can lay into them with his fury, the door to the suite opens.

"Boss!" Havoc struts in, eyes on the paper in his hands, clearly oblivious to what he's walked in on. "There's a last-minute addition to the packet, where's the Cap—"

He trails off as he comes to a halt beside Roy, taking in the scene—Falman, Breda, and Fuery; Riza's pink face; the mistletoe.

"...Captain." he finishes lamely. "Am I interrupting something?"

Roy glares at him. He's fairly certain who put up the mistletoe, if Havoc's flippant attitude is anything to go by. He plucks the additional sheet of paper from Havoc's hands and tucks it beneath his lapel, movements agitated.

"No, you're not interrupting anything," he replies curtly.

"You sure? The Captain looks awfully nice right now," Havoc prods. "It's bad luck to not kiss whoever is under the mistletoe with you."

Roy's gaze slides to Riza against his will. She does look nice, as she always does, though she's so red she could pass for a Yule decoration. Probably because she doesn't want to kiss him at a rate inversely proportional to how much he wants to kiss her. God, this is unfair. And ridiculously embarrassing.

He turns back to Havoc on his other side. "Yeah, you're right."

And with that, he grabs his lieutenant by the lapels, drags him forward, and lays a smack on his lips. He holds it just long enough to count, then shoves him back against the doorframe.

"Fuck you," he says plainly, starting towards the exit. He turns, walking backwards to address his subordinates. "The rest of you, too. That was inappropriate. We'll talk about this on Monday."

The group is too surprised to react. Havoc has gone very pale. Riza, unsurprisingly, looks upset. Falman appears to be trying not to laugh, which pisses Roy off further. Wiping his mouth, he yanks open the door and slams it behind him.

It's not until he's stepping out of HQ into the cold that he realizes he didn't say goodbye to Riza. He didn't even wish her so much as a happy Yule. He tries to convince himself it's for the best on the walk home, though something in his gut pulls uncomfortably the longer he dwells on it.

He's been a complete ass to her this week. He berates himself as he changes to head over to Chris'. He told himself he wouldn't be unkind, but he has in his withdrawal. He thinks of all the times she tried to talk to him, only for him to rebuff her. How immature. If he keeps acting like this, he'll lose her friendship, too. And that would be the real tragedy.

He tries calling her before leaving, but nobody picks up. Either she's not home from the office yet, or she's already out with Grumman. He bites back the burning jealousy rising in his chest. It doesn't matter. They never could have had this anyway. He should be happy with what he’s already got. He replaces the phone in its cradle and vows to call her tonight instead.

The drive to Chris' is uneventful. He purchases groceries on the way. When he arrives, his aunt is in good spirits, beaming at him as he steps through the door, her jovial countenance amplified by the strands of lights strung about the apartment.

"Don't you look handsome!" she says. "I never see you out of uniform, this is a nice change."

He manages a weak smile. "Thanks, Chris."

He'll never tell her, but he lives so much of his life in uniform that civvies feel unnatural. Who is he in this dark green sweater? He rubs his thumb and forefinger along the bottom as Chris takes the grocery bags from him. He doesn't like these dark wool slacks, either, or these Oxfords. He misses his boots. But it's fine for just tonight. Perhaps these clothes will give him some distance from this week.

"I'm glad you're here, you can help with the pie and the potatoes," she continues as Roy hangs up his coat. He follows her into the kitchen, past the dining table, already set with four places.

That gives him pause. "Chris, is one of the girls eating with us?"

"No, our guest is bringing his granddaughter." Chris sets the bags on the counter and begins pulling out their contents.

"Granddaughter?" Roy bites his tongue—the last thing he wants tonight is to help entertain a child he doesn't know. He will, if he has to—when he was young, Chris' girls taught him how to braid hair, and that usually works on Elicia. Which reminds him, he needs to stop by the Hughes apartment to drop off her Yule presents tomorrow.

"Don't sound so troubled," says Chris. "I'd have a grandchild by now, too, if you'd gotten your ass in gear. How'd the conversation with Riza go?"

He looks away immediately, unsure of whether to tell her the truth or a lie. It doesn’t matter, Chris has already seen his face. She stills, staring at him with a stricken expression he rarely sees on her.

“What happened?” she asks, with far more delicacy than usual.

He shrugs. “She, um. Grumman is setting her up with someone else.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Chris frowns at him. “Talk to me, Roy-boy.”

And so, realizing he doesn’t have much choice, he recounts the events of last Friday. Chris listens along well enough, asking the occasional question. But when he finishes, he finds she’s looking at him with her brows furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re an idiot,” she says plainly, then goes back to putting away the groceries.

Roy’s mouth falls open. “What the hell, Chris?”

“Well, you are,” she counters. She tosses a green and white striped apron at him. “Put this on.”

He catches it, pulling the strap over his head. “Some sympathy would be appreciated, you know.”

“If your father wasn’t already dead, what you just told me would have killed him,” she grumbles. “He didn’t speak a lick of Xingese, and he still managed to land a beauty like your mother. You, on the other hand? You can’t even tell when a woman is giving you an opening. In your own damn language, no less!”

“An opening?”

She hands him a sack of apples as he’s tying off the apron. “Peel these,” she says, “and then slice them. Thinly. No alchemy, you lazy boy.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, rummaging in the drawer next to the sink for the peeler. “What do you mean, though? An opening?”

“I’m not spoon-feeding this to you. Figure it out,” Chris tuts. “And something tells me you’ve been in a horrible mood all week because of this. You better apologize to Riza later.”

“I know.” He begins on the first apple, shoulders slumped. “I will.”

Chris drops the subject thereafter, which he finds mildly frustrating. What opening? He stews on it all through his preparation of the apples, which takes a good thirty minutes. Chris eventually sets him to making the whole pie, to which he protests at first. It’ll never beat Gracia’s. But once he begins following the recipe, he realizes it’s a lot like alchemy. In fact, it is alchemy, just without the transmutation. He resolves to make the best damn pie Chris’ boyfriend has ever tasted.

That said, making crust is labor-intensive. It’s nearing six o’clock by the time he’s assembled everything. Still, Chris seems satisfied with his work.

“I’ll pop that in the oven when we sit down to dinner,” she tells him. “You better get started on those potatoes. Our guests will be here any minute.”

“Good grief,” he mutters. “Is the quickest way to your boyfriend’s heart through his stomach?”

Chris laughs—a big, booming sound. “If it was, it’s not me he’d be dating.”

“You’re a decent cook,” he protests, reaching for a potato.

“Oh, really? And was last week’s pork decent?” she retorts. Roy can’t help it, he splits into a wide smile at her response, despite his dour mood.

“That’s a shit-eating grin if I’ve ever seen one,” she comments. He opens his mouth to retort, but before he can get a word out, the buzzer rings.

“Look sharp, Roy-boy!” Chris heads to exit the kitchen, but briefly stops to wipe at his cheek. “You’ve got flour on your face.”

“Shit—I’ve got it.” He swats her away. “Go get the door.”

“Sure, sure. Come on, wash your hands and say hello.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He abandons the potatoes and rinses, listening intently to Chris in the entryway. It’s around the corner, just out of sight, but he hears the door swing open, and a man’s greeting.

“Christmas! Happy Yule, dear!”

He finds himself frowning as he wipes his hands on his apron and heads towards the front door. That voice sounds familiar.

“Reginald. Come in, love, come in.”

Reginald? As in—

He rounds the corner. Sure enough, Führer Grumman—his boss, and the head of the goddamn country—is standing in his stepmother’s foyer, taking off his coat, surrounded by tacky lights and tinsel. Roy’s jaw unhinges. Chris is dating Grumman? That has to be some kind of HR violation, right?

And, speaking of HR, Chris hasn’t closed the door yet. She’s beckoning someone else inside. And, very suddenly, he remembers who Grumman is supposedly spending Yule with this year.

Riza.

A muscled leg, clad in dark, sheer stockings and capped with a tall, black stiletto heel, steps through the door. And, following it—

His captain.

Riza is standing in the entryway, looking just as baffled by the present situation as Roy is feeling. He has no further time to process, because Grumman is launching himself at him.

“Roy!” He’s engulfed in a cloud of gunpowder and aftershave as the head of state embraces him. “Surprise, eh? You can call me ‘Uncle’ now. Or not. Ha ha!”

He laughs just as loudly as Chris does. Now that Roy thinks about it, it’s a perfect match, albeit a fucked-up one.

“It’s nice to see you, sir,” he manages.

“No sirs here!” Grumman tuts. “Call me Reginald. Or Uncle. Or Uncle Reginald. Whichever you’d like.”

“Right.” Roy squares his jaw. This has to be a dream, right? This is insanity. He locks eyes with Riza. Fuck, she’s stunning. Her hair is down, curled in loose ringlets at the bottom. The pieces near her face are tied back with a black velvet bow. She’s wearing makeup, too—he’s never seen her lips painted that shade of red, or her eyelids that shade of gold. She’s a vision. A complete fucking vision.

And clearly, she thought she was dressing for someone else. He tries not to think about it.

“Roy-boy, take their coats. I’ll get started on drinks,” Chris barks as Grumman pulls away.

“Okay,” he says hollowly, looking between the three other faces in the room. Grumman, still entirely unperturbed, hands his jacket to Roy, then follows Chris, leaving him alone with Riza.

For a moment, all they can do is stare at each other, the span of tiled floor between them feeling as vast as the distance between here and East City. Then, she says, very timidly: “Did, um. Did you know this was happening?”

“No,” he replies immediately. And then, because he’s a fucking asshole: “Clearly you didn’t, either. I doubt you would have dressed as nicely if you knew it was me.”

Her uncertain gaze turns venomous. “For your information, I had no intention of putting any effort into my appearance for whatever poor idiot my grandfather tried to set me up with, until you started behaving like a complete oaf. But it’s fine. Message understood, sir.”

He stares at her, trying to decipher her meaning. Chris and Grumman’s excited chatter drifts in from the other room. He hears the pop of a champagne cork.

“What message?” he questions in surrender. He unsticks his feet, heading for the coat closet.

Her eyes narrow. He can’t remember the last time he was on the wrong side of her fury like this. It’s terrifying.

“That you’re not interested. That I should find someone else.”

Wait—what? His mouth is dry. And, to make matters worse, Riza is no longer looking at him, gaze instead fixated on some point over his shoulder. And then, he sees—there’s hurt behind her eyes.

Oh, fuck.

“I never said that.” He abandons Grumman’s coat on the knob of the closet door rather than hanging it, then approaches her. “When the hell did I say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She’s still not looking at him, but her eyes are glassier than usual. Her voice is small. “When you ignored me all week. Or this morning, when you decided you’d rather kiss Havoc than me.”

“I’d’ve much rather kissed you!” he bursts out before he can even think about what he’s saying. “I didn’t think you wanted me to!”

“How did you get that impression?” She looks genuinely confused.

“You said your grandfather was setting you up with someone for Yule! I thought you were telling me to back off,” he counters.

“What? No.” Her expression has gone from hurt to exasperated. “I was complaining about it! It was supposed to be an opening to a different conversation, Roy!”

An opening.

Chris is right, he is an idiot.

“Shit,” he hisses. He’s standing toe-to-toe with her now, but he can’t look her in the eyes. He drops his gaze, stares at their feet. “I’m sorry, Riza. I let my jealousy get the better of me.”

She heaves a heavy sigh. “Well. I could have been more up-front about it.”

“I could have, too. Don’t blame yourself, this is my fault. I should have told you months ago.”

She reaches across the space between them, taking his hands in hers. “Told me what?”

He glances up to find her smirking at him, her betrayed expression replaced by something far more mischievous.

“That I’m in love with you,” he replies. It’s so easy to say it, so easy! What the hell was holding him back? It feels good to say it. Her smile has grown wider; her eyes are shining happily. He feels twelve times lighter. “And that I’ve been in love with you for a very long time. I was going to ask you if you’d be willing to have an illicit workplace affair with me, but now that Grumman has just about delivered you into my lap, I’m not sure that’s strictly necessary.”

She squeezes his fingers. “Some discretion is required, I’m sure. But you have no idea how glad I am that you are the ‘handsome son of a family friend’ he hasn't stopped talking up.”

“You didn’t want some dumb, doe-eyed boy that can’t handle you?” he jokes.

She raises an eyebrow. “Handle me? What are you implying?”

Is she making a double-entendre? He thinks she is. His stomach flips, excited. He’s going to kiss her senseless, right here in this foyer.

She raises his right hand to her face, brushes her lips over his knuckles. Goosebumps erupt down his arm.

“I love you too, Roy,” she whispers. He leans forward, heartbeat in his ears, head in the clouds. She loves him after all. This beautiful, powerful woman reciprocates his affections. He’s going to make her his. Her lips are so, so red. He’ll get her lipstick all over his face if he kisses her. How he wants to.

“Roy-boy! Quit dawdling, these potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves!”

Both of them jump, though they don’t drop each other’s hands. He glances over his shoulder—luckily, Chris and Grumman aren’t in his line of sight. But their absence has clearly been noticed.

“Sorry!” he calls after his aunt. “Coming!”

He turns back to Riza and leans in to steal a kiss, but he’s stopped by two fingers against his lips.

“Later,” she softly assures him. “When we’re not rushed.”

He nods, then presses a chaste peck to the pads of her fingers. She’s already wearing blush, but he sees her cheeks pinken further in reaction.

“Give me your coat,” he tells her. He almost wishes he hadn’t, because the moment he sees what’s underneath, he realizes he’s going to have a very challenging time actually listening to the conversation tonight.

She’s wearing the shortest hemline he’s ever seen on her. The dress—dark green, velvet—hits just above her knees. It’s loose at her legs, but tight from the waist-up. Technically, it’s not immodest. But the way the fabric clings to her curves is maddening. It hugs her breasts until it doesn’t—there’s a window of skin at her chest before the dress flows back into the mock neckline. Even her biceps look good—the sleeves end halfway down her forearms, accentuating every muscle.

“Wow,” he breathes as she turns to face him, staring with what is probably a very obvious expression, still holding onto her coat.

Her flush deepens even further. “You like it, then?”

He nods. “Stunning,” he breathes.

Surely there’s enough time to kiss her anyway?

“Roy! The potatoes!”

He sighs. The disappointment is evident on her face, too. “Coming, Chris!”

He tucks hers and Grumman’s coats in the closet and moves to return to the kitchen, but—shit. She’s stunning, and he’s weak. With hasty movements, he pulls her to his chest and presses a gentle peck to her cheek.

“I’m glad we’re okay,” he confesses. “This week has been horrible.”

She hugs him back, chin resting on his shoulder, her body melding against his. Her breath brushes past his ear when she speaks. It gives him chills. “I know.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve already forgiven you, Roy.”

He ventures to kiss her hair. God, she smells amazing. “Having you here makes this evening a lot more bearable,” he tells her.

She chuckles at that. “No kidding.”

With one last squeeze, he parts from her and heads to the kitchen. It’s only once he’s facing down the potatoes again that he realizes he just passed that entire encounter with Riza in a fucking apron. He’d feel idiotic, but…well. It worked.

It feels like he’s floating. Grumman has settled on the other side of the counter at the breakfast bar, a glass of champagne in front of him. Riza sits down to his right. Roy can’t help but stare—she’s so pretty. Not that that’s news to him, but. She’s pretty. And she just told him she loves him. And at some point tonight, he’s going to kiss her. He fixates on her lips. They’re so red, festive for the holiday, and all he can think about is sucking the lower one between his teeth.

Something elbows him in the side, crowding against him. Chris.

“Did you work your shit out?” she asks under her breath.

He nods jerkily. “Yeah. All good.”

“Good boy. Now stop gaping, you’re being far too obvious. And dinner will be late if you don’t get to peeling.”

“Yes, Chris.”

She presses a kiss to his temple, so quick that by the time he registers it, it’s over. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

He continues with the potatoes, trying to fight the smile off his face. They don't take too long, and with Chris chopping, they’re on the stove in no time. Chris closes the lid on the boiling pot, then turns to all of them.

“Shall we move to the living room?” she suggests. “We’ve got a few minutes before this stuff cooks up.”

“A lovely idea, Chris,” says Grumman cheerfully. “Come on, kids.” He gives another laugh.

Roy glances at Riza. With his eyes, he says: What the fuck.

With hers, she replies: I know.

Chris presses a glass of champagne into his hand. “Out of my kitchen. Now you’re just taking up space.”

“I can never please you, can I?” Roy jokes as he removes his apron and follows Riza into the living room, taking the opportunity to admire the sway of her hips. Rarely, in all his years of knowing her, has he allowed himself this. But it doesn’t matter now.

Grumman takes one end of the overstuffed, pink sofa. Riza sits on the adjacent loveseat, upholstered in clashing green and shoved up against the Yule tree, oversized for the room it has found itself in. Roy joins her, despite the tight fit, and admits to himself the action was deliberate. He likes the feeling of her thigh pressed to his, even if he’s pawing pine branches out of his personal space to do it.

“You okay over there?” Riza asks, watching with amusement as he wrestles with the tree.

“Fucking hell, how did Chris even get this monstrosity in the house?” he gripes, managing to tuck the most offending of branches behind the loveseat. “This isn’t a Yule tree, it’s a Yule bush.”

She snorts into her champagne.

“Right, right! Get drinking, you three!” Chris interrupts his retort as she enters the room bearing a tray of assorted cheeses, meats, and bread. “You’re going to need to be drunk to enjoy my cooking.”

“Nonsense, Chris,” says Grumman. He reaches for her, inviting her into the space beside him. “Sit down a minute, won’t you?”

“I am, I am.” She settles in the crook of his arm, takes a sip of champagne, and then turns to Riza. “Riza, dear, it’s so nice to see you again. I’m glad you came.”

Riza manages a smile, one Roy knows she wears when she’s trying to get a handle on the situation. “Thank you, Madam Christmas.”

“‘Chris’ is fine, dear,” Chris says. She glances at Grumman. “Especially if you’re insisting on Reginald.”

“‘Reggie’ is fine, too!” Grumman adds. He takes a sip of champagne, hums happily. “Wow, Chris, this is good stuff.”

“Thanks, darling.” Chris pats his knee. Roy fights the urge to look away. He’s uncomfortable regardless. He presses his leg harder into Riza’s. She presses right back.

“So, um.” Riza takes a sip from her own flute. “This apartment is fairly close to the new bar. How long have you had it?”

“As long as I’ve lived in Central,” Chris replies. “So, four decades, give or take a few years. Roy grew up here, you know.”

“Oh?” Riza’s gaze turns towards him, genuinely surprised. “You did?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Weird, right?”

“On the contrary, I’m quite charmed.” She smiles, clearly intrigued.

“Perhaps Roy can show you around later,” Chris suggests. There’s a devious twinkle in her eye, which he tries to ignore. He fixes on the floral wallpaper behind his aunt instead. “You’ll have to show her your room, Roy-boy.”

“Yeah, you can see my model train collection,” Roy deadpans.

“Actually?” asks Riza.

“Actually,” he affirms. “I, um. I went through a train phase as a kid.”

“It was more than a phase,” Chris chuckles. “It was a hyper-fixation. He knew every kind of steam engine, all their components, their names, how many of each had been manufactured, the year they first went into service…if he knew any more, I would’ve thought he actually was a train.”

“How remarkable!” Grumman comments. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised. Somehow it suits you, Roy.”

“Right.” He feels his face heating.

“Well, what about now?” asks Riza. “Do you still like trains?”

“I suppose,” he says.

“Tell me, Roy. How many times a day does the line to Briggs run from Central City?” Grumman prods.

“It doesn’t run every day,” replies Roy immediately, frowning. “It runs every other day.”

“Ha! I knew it.” Grumman chuckles to himself.

Riza is looking at him so warmly that he can’t hold her gaze without blushing. He stares at his champagne instead, and the weird shag carpet Chris has in here just beyond it.

“What’s the capacity per car?” Riza quizzes.

He debates whether or not to answer. But it seems harmless. “It depends,” he says. “If it’s first class, then it’s twenty, but—”

His thoughts come to a screeching halt as he feels a warm hand slide across his lower back and settle on his hip, just under the hem of his sweater. Riza’s thumb strokes against the thin fabric of his dress shirt. Her hands are cold again, but the touch feels incredible anyway.

“Um. But…” He takes a shaky breath. Chris and Grumman appear oblivious—he and Riza are sitting so close that they shouldn’t be able to tell she’s holding him like this. And her expression is completely the same as before.

“Second class is fifty,” he says in a rush. “Third is seventy.”

“Wow, in one car?” asks Chris.

“They’re roomier than they look,” he answers. Riza is still stroking him. He shoots her a pointed glance, but she doesn’t stop.

“When I was a child, there were no trains,” Grumman comments. “It’s remarkable how technology has advanced.”

From there, the conversation, thankfully, segues towards something else. Roy finds himself slumping in relief, still doing his best to avoid the spiky pine branches in his proximity. He takes another generous sip of champagne, just about draining his glass. Riza lets go of him, and he finds himself mourning the loss of contact. He sets his drink down on the coffee table and catches her left hand with his right as she withdraws it. Chris and Grumman appear to be too engaged with each other to notice. He snakes their hands between their legs, entwining their fingers, and smiles at her.

He’s holding her hand. He can hardly believe it. She’s staring at him with an enraptured expression. He leans close to her ear, whispers: “This is nice.”

She nods, squeezing his hand. “It is.”

He squeezes right back, then lets go before they can be noticed by their two companions. But Chris and Grumman appear to be deep in debate over the most appropriate color lights for a Yule tree.

“Yours is lovely, Chris, but—”

“Don’t tell me the Führer of goddamn Amestris prefers colored lights. You’re telling me you have Yule trees with colored lights in that presidential palace of yours?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Oh, fucking hell, who signed off on that? I’m coming over later.”

“If colored Yule lights are what it takes to get you to stay the night, dear Christmas…”

“I can’t listen to this,” Roy whispers at Riza.

He stands abruptly. “I need more champagne,” he announces to the group.

“In the kitchen, Roy-boy,” says Chris, not looking away from Grumman. “You act like I don’t want to come over, you silly old man—”

Roy beelines out of the sitting area. Behind him, he hears Riza rise as well. “I need champagne, too,” she says.

In the kitchen, he finds the champagne on the counter. He refills his empty flute, then turns to top off Riza, arriving just behind him. There’s a lipstick stain on the edge of it.

“Okay, what the fuck,” he hisses at her, drawing her towards the pantry, where they’ll be out of his aunt and her grandfather’s line of sight. He sets the champagne on the counter to hold her by the shoulders.

“Chris really neglected to tell you she was dating my grandfather?” she asks, bewildered.

“Your grandfather neglected to tell you he was dating Chris?” he counters. “This is preposterous.”

“I know. But somehow…” she looks away from him, face contemplative. “They seem suited to each other.”

He winces. “Yeah. I know. But that doesn’t mean this isn’t completely fucking awkward.”

She huffs out a half-laugh. “It’s certainly an unconventional Yule for us. But I’m glad I’m with you.”

He finds the tension seeping out of him. “Yeah, me too.”

And, quite abruptly, he realizes his face is mere inches from hers. His hands are on her shoulders. They are tucked away from prying eyes, at least for now. And twenty minutes ago, he confessed his love to her in the foyer.

He’s blown away by her beauty. He looks at her lips, and he’s not subtle about it.

“Riza,” he breathes.

“Yes?” her voice wavers slightly.

“If I don’t kiss you right now, I think I’ll combust.”

She flushes instantly. He loves it. Her cheeks are nearly the same color as her mouth. He feels like his heart is going to beat out of his throat. His whole body is on fire.

“Same,” she says. “Just—be careful, my lipstick—”

“Oh, fuck the goddamn lipstick,” he grumbles. It’s the last thing he says before taking her by the cheeks and bringing his lips to hers.

He has, admittedly, some intention of trying to keep this clean. They’re in his aunt’s kitchen, for fuck’s sake. But as soon as their lips slot together—as soon as he gets a taste of her—propriety goes out the window. Fuck, she tastes like champagne and woman and Riza. And her lips are soft, and pliant, and they yield so easily to his, and they both whine as soon as their tongues touch each other.

“Shhh,” he hushes both of them, pulling away to look over his shoulder, but Chris and Grumman are somehow still on the colored lights thing, and mostly blocked by the giant fucking Yule bush, so he returns his attention to her. True to her warning, he’s blurred the edges of her lipstick with his kiss. His stomach tightens at the sight of it, especially when her eyes go wide staring at his mouth, where he’s certain he has a matching smudge of red.

“Shhh,” he hushes again, and then brings them back together, immediately questing deeper. He has to very actively work to fight back a moan—the cavity of her mouth is hot and wet, and he’s losing himself in it. He’s not thinking at all, really, just smearing his lips against hers as he tries to make up for a decade’s worth of longing. Her hands sink into his hair and squeeze at the root. It feels incredible; he needs her closer. He pulls her flush against him, one hand spreading across her ass and groping aggressively, the other clutched against her cheek. This is—fuck. This kiss alone is better than any sex he’s ever had, hotter, and so, so loaded. He wonders if she’d come home with him tonight if he asked. They’ve wasted enough time; he needs all of her.

A sound behind him enters his awareness—something liquid-y. As much as he hates to stop, he turns from Riza, only to find—

Ah. The potatoes again. The pot is boiling over.

“What’s that?” he hears Chris say from the living room.

“I’ve got it!” he calls out, giving Riza one more peck on the cheek before going to the stove. He briefly glances Chris and Grumman still on the couch, but tries to keep his face out of view—best not to let them see the lipstick smeared all over the lower half of his face. There certainly is on Riza’s. Even as he reaches to pull the lid from the top of the pot, he keeps glancing back at her—she looks far less proper than she did forty-five seconds ago. It strokes something in him, seeing just how much of a mess he’s made of that pretty red lip. He’d like to shove his fingers into her mouth and mess it up further, or his—

“Roy—” she whispers urgently, still tucked beside the pantry.

“I know,” he tells her, going into the drawer for a spare towel. He wets it in the sink, then brings it back to her. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

“Clearly, we both did,” she retorts, but she’s smiling. Her eyes dart down, then back up to his face, and abruptly, he realizes—he’s hard enough for her to tell. His face heats, even as his gut tightens pleasurably. She doesn't seem displeased—it’s the contrary, even.

“Sorry,” he says anyway.

She reaches for his face, wipes it clean, and then sees to her own. “Don’t apologize,” she replies. She returns the towel to him. “Will you bring my champagne back into the living room? I’m going to go reapply this lipstick.”

“Don’t bother,” he says without thinking. “I’m just going to ruin it again anyway.”

Her eyes go dark. And then, she reaches for his crotch and palms him through his slacks. He can’t help it—he gasps in surprise. He never expected her to be so bold, and yet—fuck. She squeezes him once, then pulls away in the direction of the bathroom.

Oh. She liked that. Roy all but collapses forward, hands braced on the counter, trying to catch his breath. Riza Hawkeye just groped him in the middle of his childhood kitchen. He stares at the potatoes, boiling rigorously. He wonders if he’s capable of making it through this dinner, let alone dessert. He wants Riza to be the dessert. Would Chris and Grumman buy into the excuse of them both getting terribly ill at the same time and making their escape? Probably not.

“Roy-boy? Everything alright in there?” Chris asks from the living room. He turns—thank god she can’t see the boner he’s still actively fighting off at this angle.

“Fine, just um. Burnt myself on the pot.”

Grumman laughs. “The Flame Alchemist burnt himself?”

Roy manages to smile at them. He has to admit, they’re pretty cute, perched next to each other on the couch.

“On the contrary, it happens with great frequency,” he replies. “Occupational hazard, you know.”

Grumman laughs again, even louder than before.

“How are those potatoes looking?” asks Chris. “Because the roast smells like it’s getting pretty close to done.”

Roy pokes at them with a fork. “Yeah, they’re ready.”

“Great. Let’s hop to it, then.”

He never gets Riza's champagne back into the living room, because he's too busy helping serve. She doesn't seem to mind—the heaviness of her gaze on him hints that she'd like to get through dinner as quickly as possible as well. He wonders what she's wearing under that dress. Perhaps, later, she'll let him peel it off of her.

As they sit down to eat, he realizes Grumman must really love his aunt—this cramped dining table doesn't hold a candle to the presidential mansion. They're practically on top of each other—his knees are knocking into Riza's beneath the table. Up top, there's not a single inch of free space. Everything is covered with plates, or cups, or utensils, or placemats, or the kitschy centerpiece Chris puts out every Yule with the weird elves holding the candlesticks. But Grumman looks utterly delighted to be here regardless and, admittedly, Roy is too. The whole room feels warm, and he doesn’t think it’s due to their proximity, or the centerpiece, or the roast. The conversation flows so easily he forgets the strangeness of the situation entirely.

Well. Almost. Because while Chris has outdone herself with this meal, it doesn't quite chase the taste of Riza from his lips.

He'll kiss her again before dessert, of that he's sure. Somehow, he'll get her alone again, and fulfill his promise to make a mess of that perfect lipstick a second time. Despite all the eating, it stays pristine. That blows his mind—women are truly fascinating creatures.

But still, it'll be no match for him.

She catches his eyes, smiles. He checks that Chris and Grumman's attention is significantly diverted, then slides his free hand under the table to rest on her knee. He can live without a knife for now.

"Delicious, Chris," Grumman proclaims. "I mean it. Wouldn't you say, Roy?"

He manages a smile. "Beats last week's pork."

Chris laughs. "Smartass."

Roy strokes his thumb across Riza's kneecap. The smooth texture of her stocking, combined with the warmth of her skin underneath, makes it difficult to keep his mind from wandering. But he doesn't dare let go.

"I'm not following," says Grumman, looking between the two of them.

"Roy detests pork. I always forget," Chris supplies. "Though you didn't as a child."

"I'm sure it was the academy that ruined it for him," Riza chimes in. “It was always pork on Tuesdays, and it was barely edible.”

“A far cry from what I was eating at the Hawkeye manor, and Chris’ before that, that’s for sure,” Roy admits. He keeps his face placid, but slides his hand a little higher up her leg, until his fingers brush the hem of her dress. He wonders how her muscled quads would feel against his ears.

“Riza made this beef stew once,” he continues on. “I think it was the best damn thing I’ve ever tasted.”

She snorts. “Soothsayer. What beef stew?”

He slides just the tips of his fingers under her hem, finding victory in the way her breath hitches. “The one you made for my eighteenth birthday.”

“Oh, yes, now I remember,” she replies, just a hair too stiffly to be natural.

“Aw, that’s sweet,” says Grumman.

“And undeserved,” Chris adds. “Roy was still a brat at eighteen.”

“Was he? He was perfectly kind to me,” says Riza.

“That’s because you were a pretty girl,” Chris retorts, but Roy isn’t really listening, he’s too busy inching his fingers higher up Riza’s leg. They’re seated so close together that it’s impossible to tell from across the table, and that knowledge has him giddy. Up, higher, higher—he must be at the halfway point on her thigh. Her dress pools around his wrist as he pushes further, soft green velvet against skin and silk—he wonders just how high he can get away with.

“He always had a way with pretty girls,” Chris is still saying. “Knew how to charm them until they were eating out of the palm of his hand. I suppose that’s partially my fault.”

Roy slides higher—her skin is so fucking warm, fuck, it’s almost as hot as her mouth.

“—though I think, dear Riza, that you’re immune to his bullshit, especially now. I admire you for that.”

Riza shoots him what he thinks is a warning look, then sends a practiced smile in Chris’ direction. “‘Especially now’? What does that mean?”

“Well.” Chris gives a vicious grin, and Roy suspects she’s about to drop some kind of bomb. He slides his fingers just a little higher—

“You’re not a pretty girl, Riza. You’re a pretty woman.”

“Oh,” says Riza. “Thank you, Chris.”

Roy barely registers it, because her stockings—they’re gone. Where there was fabric before, there suddenly isn’t. He’s touching bare skin. He tries not to let the bafflement show on his face as he attempts to figure out what’s—wait.

He slides his hand along the division of silk and skin, calling on the elevated sense of touch he developed in the few weeks he couldn’t see. The edge is scalloped—lace, he realizes—and at the crest of her thigh, there’s—

“Don’t look so insulted, Roy-boy,” Chris cuts into his reverie. “You’d be insufferable without Riza here to keep you in check.”

“Yes, that’s for certain,” he agrees immediately, because he thinks he’s figured it out, and his mind has turned to white, devoid of all thought.

He meets Riza’s gaze. With his mouth, he says: “She’s something else.”

With his eyes, he says: Are you wearing fucking garters?

She only smirks, then turns to Grumman. “Grandfather, would you mind passing the string beans?”

“Of course, dear.” Grumman reaches for the dish, handing it over the centerpiece to her. She has to stretch to grab it, dislodging Roy’s hand, but exposing—

Oh. Oh, fuck. Holy shit.

Peeking out from the hem of her dark green dress is a sliver of bare leg, bisected by a black strap that hooks onto—yes, he was right. A thigh-high stocking.

Riza Hawkeye is wearing a garter belt at his childhood dinner table. The blood that isn’t in his face is rapidly heading between his legs. As soon as this meal is over, he’s going to get her alone, shove her against a wall, and hike up that dress so that he can have a proper look. And then, he’s going to get down on his knees, shove his tongue between her legs, and—

Riza sits back down, string beans in hand. She glances at him as she primly places several on her own plate.

“String beans, Roy?”

“Sure, I’ll take a few,” he says with his mouth.

With his eyes, he says: I’ll have my way with you later.

“Sure, here,” she adds a few to his dish. With her eyes, she says: You better.

“Ah, shit!” Chris straightens suddenly. “The pie!”

The pie? It takes Roy a second to remember what she’s talking about, and even longer to recall that he was the one that made it.

“What? Is it burning?” asks Grumman.

“No, I forgot to turn up the oven when I put it in! Hang on.” Chris pushes herself back from the table and heads towards the kitchen. “Sorry, everyone. Dessert will be a few minutes later than I’d planned.”

“That’s fine,” says Roy, shoveling string beans into his mouth as Riza does the same. “I can wait.”

He has every intention of asking to be excused this very instant. But before he can, Grumman asks him some question about flame alchemy that segues into a five-minute exchange on the subject. By that point, Chris has reseated herself, and then he and Riza have no choice but to continue making small-talk for the ten minutes after that.

He stays engaged enough. But his eyes are constantly locking with hers. And he can’t stop thinking about what’s beneath her dress. Under the table, she crosses her legs, showing off another chunk of bare thigh and her spindly stiletto. Fuck. He forgot about those. It’s the icing on the cake. He wonders if he could get away with fucking her on the creaky twin bed he slept his childhood in.

Finally, a lull comes in the conversation. He doesn’t hesitate to seize it.

“Chris, I’m finished. I think I’ll show Riza my, uh. Model train collection.”

Chris smiles wickedly. He thinks she knows.

“Don’t jaw her ear off,” she warns. “Have some propriety.”

“I will,” he assures her, rising from the table with his plate.

He won’t. But Chris need not know. He grabs Riza’s plate as well, takes both into the kitchen, and heads for the hallway. She intercepts him there. Roy doesn’t even hesitate, only grabs her hand and just about drags her towards his old room.

It’s been a while since he’s been in here. But he doesn’t even bother with the light, just slams the door behind them, and promptly shoves her against it. He’s not gentle like before. Mindless with desire, he grabs one of her legs and hooks it around his waist, rubbing his hand where the garter meets the back of her thigh, then up, over the curve over her ass, to more lace. Lacy panties. She’s wearing lacy fucking panties, and a garter belt, and—

“Do you like toying with me?” he questions under his breath, panting into her neck. “Huh, Riza?”

“Yes,” she admits immediately. “Ah—”

He presses a wet kiss to her lips, hooking his thumb beneath the garter. He releases it as he pulls away—it snaps against her skin. She gives a little inhale of surprise.

"Do you always wear garters under your skirts, or was this a special occasion?"

"Always," she huffs, kissing his jaw.

"Fuck," he groans. He's painfully hard. He grinds against her, to make sure she knows. "You feel what that does to me? I've been fighting this off since your little reveal earlier."

Her lips are everywhere—his mouth, his cheeks, his neck. Her hands are sunk into his hair, deep at the root.

"Good," she whispers. "You deserve to be strung along like this, after that ridiculous miniskirt manifesto of yours."

He whines into her mouth. "Jealous?" he questions as he pulls away.

"No," she counters so quickly that it's obvious that she definitely was, and he feels proud and guilty at the same time. "But I knew I had them beat."

"No kidding," he pants into her neck, dragging himself against her once more. "Can I see, Riza? Please, let me see…"

"Yes," she hisses.

He wastes no time flicking on the light, bringing his old bedroom into relief. The shabby twin bed wedged against the window is the same as always, as is the blue paint and the model trains gathering dust along the bookshelves.

"Wow, you weren't kidding about the trains—" she starts, before he cuts her off, dragging her towards the bed. He reaches the edge of the mattress, then tips her towards it face-first. She lands on the comforter with an undignified huff, braced on her elbows while her lower half hangs off.

"C'mere," he grunts, dragging her hips up until her ass is high in the air, legs straight and supporting her beneath. She whips her head around to glance at him, eyes wide. Her hair pools over her shoulders, that tease of a velvet bow still somehow intact. He loves that bow, loves this outfit—it's so Riza. He knows she likes feminine, girly things, even if she never wears them. But this…she's sweet on the outside, while beneath…

Her dress is barely covering her ass—he's exposed swathes of milky thigh. He can't look away, drawn in by the contrast of the dark stockings against her pale skin, bisected by the garters straight down the back of each leg.

"Fucking hell," he chokes. He touches the hem of her dress lightly. "Fuck, Riza, I—is this okay?"

Her breaths have grown shallow. "Yes," she says, like she can't get enough air.

He lifts her skirt, draping it over her waist and—oh. If he thought he was incapable of rational thought before, he definitely is now. Her ass is framed by garters and underwear so flimsy it seems more decorative than functional. He can see through the black lace, and the gusset is so narrow it barely covers her.

He can't form words, he's so blown away. He makes some unintelligible moan-hum combo, so overwhelmed he's not even sure where to look—her perfect ass, pointed in the air; her barely-concealed sex, straining against her undergarments; or her face, staring back at him defiantly from where she's braced on the bed, despite her marred lipstick.

"Fuck," he finally manages, which is no more intelligent than before. He reaches for her ass with both hands and grabs hard, grip firm enough that her flesh puckers. "Riza, fuck," he breathes. "Sweetheart…"

She pushes back into his hold. She's blushing profusely—he's certain he's in a similar state.

"Beautiful," he tells her. "Had I known you looked like this under your uniform, I never would have been able to control myself."

"Surely you fantasized," she ventures.

"Doesn't hold a candle to the real thing," he retorts. For good measure, he snaps one of her garters again, then drives his hips against hers, dragging his clothed erection along the valley between her legs. “Can’t you feel?”

She muffles a whimper into the crook of her arm. "Shit—"

"Yeah?" he smooths his hand over one cheek, even as he continues to grind into her. "Feel good?"

"Yes…"

“What about this?” He pulls back to trace his index finger along the edge of her panties, down into the crux of her legs. The fabric over her sex is moist. His next exhale rumbles out of his chest.

“More,” she breathes, pressing against his finger.

“Oh?” His blood is rushing in his ears so loudly he can barely hear himself. He slides his hand further forward, cupping her mound, rubbing insistently. She squirms, face still buried in the hollow of her elbow.

“Feels like you’ve been wet for me for a while,” he remarks, hooking one finger beneath the fabric. He feels coarse hair, and then—ah. Prodding further, he runs his finger tip through her folds—shit, she’s so wet.

She lets out a ragged noise, her heat fluttering around him from the simple touch alone. “Roy—”

“Shhh,” he hushes, “you’re supposed to be looking at model trains.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she bites, glaring at him from where she’s braced on the quilt. “Take off my underwear.”

That earns her a laugh—a low thing, deep in his chest that escapes him even as his belly tightens with desire. He withdraws his finger—it’s sticky-wet with her arousal—and snaps one of her garters again, leaving a trail of moisture in his wake.

“Ah!” she yelps. “You’ve got some fascination with—”

“You in a garter belt? How could I not?” He brings his hands to her hips and begins pulling her panties over the crest of her ass, painstakingly slow in his movements, revealing her inch by inch. “And, for the record, it’s not a fascination—it’s an obsession.”

She stares at him over her shoulder. For the time being, he decides to ignore the way her hips can’t seem to stay still. “What’s that mean?”

“That means—” He lets her underwear settle just below her cheeks, and reaches forward to run a finger along her folds again. Revealed to him, they glisten in the light of the lamp he used to stay up to all hours, reading alchemical texts. The gusset shines with her arousal. He feels light-headed in the best of ways—he's got his fingers in Riza's cunt. He can hardly believe his fortune.

“That means,” he tries again, so distracted that he’s having trouble keeping his thoughts straight. He runs her finger along her; she squirms. His other hand comes to grip her ass, thumb sliding under the garter. “...that now that we’re on the same page with our feelings, I will find every opportunity to snap these garters against your ass. I’ll—I’ll spank you, if that’s what you want—”

“Yes—”

He doesn’t hesitate, just pulls back his hand and cracks it across her exposed skin. She gives a strangled cry, whole body hitching. The finger buried in her folds is flooded by a fresh surge of wet as she clenches around him.

“Shhh,” he tries again, but even he sounds rough, like his voice has been scraped against concrete. He can’t help it—this sight is unreal, the feeling of her slick is unreal, the red handprint smarting across her ass, bisected by a black garter, is unreal.

“Fuck,” he whines quietly, mostly to himself. “What the fuck, Riza. I’m going to corner you in closets, in dark corners, just to have my way with you, just like I’m doing now. I’ll spend hours with my face between your legs if that’s what it takes for you to come. C’mere, turn over.”

He withdraws his finger, popping it into his mouth as he guides her by the hip with his free hand. And—oh. His grip on her goes slack. She tastes so fucking good. Riza turns over to find him still licking her juices off of himself, eyes wide like a man crazed.

“Shit,” he groans softly, breath hitching. He reaches for her knees and pushes them perpendicular to her body, then extends her legs so that he can pull her panties off completely, over the stiletto heels that hover by his nose as he finishes the task. He stuffs the undergarment in the pocket of his trousers—the front of which are pathetically tight—and grips her ankles in his hands, pressing a kiss to the inside bone of each. Then, he lays both on his shoulders, leans forward, and sinks two fingers inside her.

“Roy,” she whines, drawing out his name. It sounds so good—perhaps a little loud. But he’s too distracted by the feeling of her clenching around his fingers to remark on it. He pushes in a little further—her pussy is so wet that it squelches at the intrusion, to which he lets out a tattered gasp of his own.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “God, Riza, you’re stunning.” He grazes his thumb over her clit—this time, she moans loud enough for it to be a problem.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dropping his free hand over her mouth. Her eyes go wide; she moans even louder, muffled against his palm.

“Do you like it when I keep you quiet?” he asks, to which she nods, eyes shining. He pushes his fingers deeper, circling his thumb over the bud at the apex of her slit. She whimpers as her body tightens around him, her hips come off the mattress. He remembers her lipstick, pressed against his skin, and his earlier fantasy, and suddenly, it’s all he can think of. He turns his hand, hooks his thumb under her chin, and pushes his index and middle finger past the seam of her lips to settle on her tongue. Her whole face pinches in response, eyes turning glassy.

“Okay?” he asks, to which she nods, tongue wrapping around his fingers. He almost forgets to keep stroking her, it’s so mesmerizing, staring at the way his body disappears into her mouth, and the way she so dexterously pleasures him in the cavity beyond.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads with her, returning to her cunt, watching his fingers disappear inside there, too. God, he’s inside her body, and maybe later—

“You look so good,” he whispers, taking in her flushed cheeks, the way her blonde hair has spread out around her head like rays of sunlight. “Your cunt is so wet, and your mouth—fuck, sweetheart, could you do that to my cock, too?”

She nods furiously, sucking hard on his fingers. Then, she pulls off them with a slight pop, and says: “Come here.”

She slides her ankles from his shoulders, reaches forward, and tugs him down on top of her. His ancient mattress creaks beneath them as he clumsily lands, face buried against her collarbone. He finds her lips and covers them with his own, moaning into her mouth as their tongues brush, eyes sliding shut as her fingers slide into his hair. He’s in the cradle of her hips—he can’t help but rut against her, potential stains be damned. Whatever is happening in the next room may as well be happening in Drachma, he’s so far-gone for her.

She tastes like champagne, grinding into him with as much enthusiasm as he is her, legs locked around his waist. He runs a hand up her thigh just-so, so that he can run his thumb under her top garter. When he reaches the crease of her leg and torso, he squeezes, lost in the feeling of her soft flesh under his hands. All these years, he’s wanted her. And now here she is, beneath him, the two of them writhing and groping like teenagers. He supposes it makes sense—they’ve wanted this for a long time.

Her hands slide between their bodies—she’s undoing his belt. He tucks his face against her neck and whines, lifting his hips to grant her easier access. And then, his pants are undone, and her hot hands are slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear. The sound he makes as she wraps one fist around his cock is undignified, even more so when she begins to stroke him.

“Shit,” he gasps, thrusting into her hand. “Feels good—”

“I’ll make it better,” she promises, withdrawing. He wants to protest, but then she urges him up and off her, guiding him back until he lies face-up on the bed, head on his childhood pillow. She hovers over him, then pulls his slacks and underwear down low enough to free his cock. He watches her watch him, taking in his length with increasingly widening eyes.

“You’re thick,” she states, wrapping a fist around him once more. He instinctually thrusts into the circle of her fingers, biting back a moan. “I thought you would be.”

“Why—why’s that?” he huffs, trying not to move too enthusiastically—this mattress creaks.

“It’s sturdy, like the rest of you,” she answers. She pins down his hips with one hand, slides her hand up his cock. A fat glob of precome beads at the tip of it—she’s staring at it with her wrecked red lips parted.

And then, she pitches forward and licks it off, swirling her tongue around the head of him. The wet heat of her feels so good—he struggles to keep his hips on the mattress. His moan is guttural.

“Shhh, you hypocrite,” she tuts, pulling back to regard him with narrow eyes. “Might I remind you, you’re supposed to be showing me your train collection?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he pants. “You’re just—yeah.”

“Tell me about one of your trains, Roy.” She strokes his cock once, twice.

“Hng—seriously?”

“Yes, I’d like to hear.” She smiles at him, still red-cheeked and glassy eyed, and squeezes him again. More precome dribbles out. He’s not sure he has ever been this aroused.

“I—ah—alright. I’ll tell you about, um—”

He trails off as she lowers her head towards his dick. She halts when he stops speaking, raising one eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Right, okay. The, uh—the RK68, it’s rather unique, it runs between—ah, fuck!”

She’s engulfed him in her mouth. His cock hits the back of her throat, and for a moment his entire being is condensed to the feeling of wet heat wrapped around him and the sight of himself disappearing between her lips. She looks up, lips stretched around him, and he swears he nearly comes then and there.

With her eyes, she asks: Why did you stop?

“Sorry,” he huffs. “It’s, um, unique.” She begins to move up and down his shaft again; he bites back a whine. “It runs between—ah, Riza, fuck—multiple small towns in the north, and what makes it special is—ngh—” She’s taken him extra deep on that thrust, he can feel himself twitch in her mouth. “It—shit, ah-aah—it doesn’t run on steam, it runs on diesel, and—Riza, sweetheart, please don’t stop, please, I’m—”

He’s already so close, pitifully so—but it’s been years since a woman took him into her mouth, and this is Riza. She’s got a talented tongue, but that doesn’t matter as much as the fact that it’s her swallowing him down, weaving her fingers into his, looking at him through the fringe of her bangs with a loving expression. That’s right, she loves him. She said so herself. With his free hand, Roy sinks his hand into her hair, careful to not mess up the style.

“I’m so close,” he confesses, voice thready. “You’re so good at this, I—how did we go so long without doing this? Fucking hell, Riza, I’m going to—ah—”

“Roy! Riza! Dessert!”

He nearly jumps out of his skin, Chris’ summons is so startling. “Fuck,” he swears under his breath, though his intonation is far more bitter than his previous utterings. Riza too has stilled, drawing off his cock and staring at him with an uncertain expression.

He drops his head back on the pillow, letting out a small groan. “Coming, Chris!” he manages to reply, loud enough to be heard through the closed door.

He throws his arm over his eyes. “God, she scared the daylights out of me,” he admits.

“Do you think she knows?” Riza asks.

“Probably,” he mutters, sitting up with his hands braced behind him. “You know the business she’s in. But that also means she’s hardly scandalized.”

She offers him a weak smile. “I’ll just pretend to act normal, then.”

He nods. “Yeah. Though, I’m sorry—” he gestures vaguely at her, “I didn’t get to you.”

Her smile turns to a wicked grin. “Were you under the impression that we’re done for the evening?”

She gives his cock another tug to punctuate her statement. He bites his tongue, breath hitching, hips twitching.

“Right,” he chokes, giving a half-aborted thrust into her fist. “Do you—ah—want to come over tonight?”

She leans close to press a contrastingly chaste kiss to his cheek. “I’d love to—you've got the bigger bed. But we’ll have to pick up Hayate first.”

“That’s fine,” he grunts. “Ah—Riza, you’ve got to stop that before I throw over dessert completely.”

“That sounds like an invitation to keep going.”

“If you want your grandfather to figure out what’s happening back here, too, then sure,” he points out.

“Ah.” Her hand stills. She sits back, looking bereft. “Shame.”

Reluctantly, he slides his pants back over his hips. “Later. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You better.”

“Roy!” Chris’ yell sounds again—she’s closer now, the hallway instead of the kitchen.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, reaching in his pocket to extend his handkerchief to Riza with hasty movements. Then: “We’re coming, Chris!”

“Oh, no kidding. Get the fuck out here!”

After that, it’s a scramble to put themselves back together. Riza cleans her face, then his, as he attempts to straighten her clothes.

“Roy, my underwear—” she hisses.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he replies, turning her around by the shoulders to adjust her bow, and keeping her undergarments securely in his pocket. “Come on, let’s go.”

Back in the dining room, there’s a plate of still-steaming apple pie set in each of their places. Grumman and Chris are already seated and eating.

“Sorry we didn’t wait for you, but you two clearly have no hustle,” Chris remarks snidely. “Sit down.”

“Oh my goodness, Chris, you really outdid yourself,” Riza says, eyes on the dessert.

“Don’t compliment me, compliment Roy. He’s the one that made it,” Chris replies. She turns a knowing gaze on him. “Such a talented boy.”

“Thank you, Chris,” he says stiffly, seating himself as he fights back a blush.

Grumman, however, seems distracted enough by the pie that he’s not catching onto Chris’ insinuations. “Did you really, Roy?”

“I can’t wait to try it,” Riza adds, reaching for her fork. Under the table, she squeezes his knee.

Trying to keep his expression neutral, Roy takes a bite. He must admit—it’s a fairly decent pie. Not as good as Gracia’s, but definitely better than average.

“Mmm!” says Riza after swallowing. “That’s great.”

“Delicious,” Grumman adds.

“Passable,” chimes in Chris.

“So, Riza, how were the model trains?” Grumman asks. “Did Roy live up to his reputation?”

She’s blushing. Roy wants to make her blush harder.

“They were, um. There were quite a lot of them,” she manages. “Roy was telling me about the, uh. The RK68.”

He’s surprised she remembers the model number. He barely even remembers telling her about it. But, then:

“He says they run in the south, on diesel.”

“The north,” he corrects automatically, because he can’t help himself. His chest balloons—so she was distracted, after all.

“Right, the north,” she amends. Her flush deepens. He thinks about her wet cunt fluttering around his fingers.

“Oh, I’ve heard of those,” says Grumman. “Can’t say I’ve been on one…”

The conversation continues amicably for several minutes, until all four of their plates are clear. Roy’s leg jiggles beneath the table—the coziness of the dining room has become oppressive. He needs to go home, where he can lay Riza out beneath him and slip his cock into—

“More pie, you two?” asks Chris.

“Oh, so sweet of you to ask,” says Riza with that polite smile of hers. “But, truth be told, I’m feeling a little tired—I’ve been up since quite an early hour. Roy offered to drive me home, so feel free to stay here, Grandfather…”

His lungs feel like they’re not getting enough air. Bless her. It’s time to go.

“Ah, I see,” says Chris with a knowing smirk. “Roy really outdid himself with that model train collection, huh?”

She looks at him, raises an eyebrow. He looks away immediately, struggling to keep his expression neutral and his blush at bay.

“Of course, dear,” says Grumman. “Are you okay with that, Roy? I can always take her—”

“No, it’s perfectly fine,” Roy interjects, probably too quickly. “Totally fine. I’m tired, too.”

“Ah, I suppose it works out then,” Grumman replies.

“Wonderful.” Roy rises from the table, taking his plate and Riza’s. “We’ll see you two later, then?”

Of course, there’s still a great ceremony of goodbye-ing as they depart. Roy hugs Chris, then Grumman, and Riza does the same, and then they get into their coats, and repeat the hugs, and then the conversation descends into some tangent that makes it so that they all have to hug all over again. It’s a lifetime before they are finally, finally, out the door.

Their hands find each other as they reach the staircase, the two of them clumsily descending, side-by-side, as they try and fail to keep their laughter contained.

“‘Model train collection’, huh?” asks Riza as they spill onto the landing below, loop around, and take the next flight down.

“What, did you want to see more of it?” he teases, squeezing her fingers in his. “How’s this—I take you home with me, and you can see the whole damn thing?”

“All of it?”

“All of it,” he assures her.

She smiles, then unceremoniously pushes him against the wall of the stairwell, pinning his hands above his head as she steals a questing kiss from him. He hums into her mouth, undulating his hips against hers.

“I’d like that,” she says as she pulls away, eyes bright. “Come on, then.”

They reach the ground floor and stumble onto the street, made slow by their inability to travel more than a few feet without their lips meeting. It’s snowing, though it’s far more forgiving than last week—these flakes are dry and small, almost weightless in the light of the street lamps and crowning Riza’s golden head. She’s a revelation. He can’t keep his mouth off her.

“Where’s your car?” she pants when they’re halfway down the block, hands clutched in the lapels of his coat. She sucks his lower lip into her mouth, and for a moment, he doesn’t have the brain power to reply.

“Around the corner,” he finally manages, breathless, when they part.

“Okay, okay,” her eyelids are hooded as she looks at him. “Let’s go. Need you.”

“Me too,” he admits, glancing over his shoulder. When he sees no prying eyes, he reaches for her hand and guides between the folds of his coat to where he’s straining against the fly of his trousers. “Feel?”

Her breath hitches, her hand squeezes. He muffles a groan into her hair.

“Come on, come on,” she insists, and begins tugging him down the street with renewed vigor. “I’ve waited far too long for this.”

“I know, me too.”

Rather than climbing into his car, they clash against the side of it, Roy pinning her to the door with his body. Their kiss is ferocious—teeth and tongues and open mouths determined to taste every inch of each other as their hands roam. Riza’s start fisted in his hair, then move to his collar. He cups her by the back of the neck, then reaches down to hook one of her legs around his waist. It’s indecent, to say the least—he wouldn’t be caught dead doing this normally, and he’s sure she wouldn’t either. But he’s drunk on her, to the point that he thinks he’ll expire if he’s not inside her soon.

“Roy,” she begs, voice ragged.

“Yeah?” He smears his lips across her jaw and down her neck, panting.

“I need—”

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

She drives her hips against him, grinding into his erection. His lower body sparks and throbs with pleasure.

“In me—I need you in me,” she says in a rush, and fuck, he can barely wrap his mind around the fact that it’s Riza asking this of him. It’s an even more heady feeling than the press of her body—she wants him inside of her, to fuck her, to—God, he can barely think straight.

“I know, I’ll take care of you—” he manages between kisses.

“No—now. Fuck me in the car—”

His head spins, and for a fraction of a second, he’s ready to do it. He can imagine it, him tearing open the door and collapsing on top of her, parting his coat and undoing his fly, fucking into her with her head right beside the steering column.

But there’s a million reasons not to. Mainly, they are in public, and they are still a superior and a subordinate officer, and, more selfishly—he needs another look at those garters.

“You know I want to,” he tells her, trailing more kisses down her neck. He drags his cock against her for good measure. “But we’re not that stupid.”

She whines into his hair. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and then he draws away to open the car door for her. She settles into the passenger seat with glassy eyes, making sure her leg splits out through her coat with the motion. He stares at the sheer stocking, at the stiletto on her foot, and swallows, before going around the other side to climb behind the wheel.

“Okay,” he says tightly, removing his gloves. It’s freezing in here—somehow it feels even colder than outside. He fumbles the key into the ignition. “Sorry, it’ll warm up in a second. Alright—Hayate, and then my place?”

“Please,” she says. Her voice comes out far lower than usual. He can’t help but look over—she’s so debauched he nearly reconsiders his decision to not fuck her here and now. Even in the low light, her cheeks are mottled with red. Her hair is coming undone. And, beneath her skirt, he knows she’s achingly wet for him.

He pulls the car out onto the quiet street.

“Do me a favor, Captain,” he says softly. “Put your foot up on the dashboard.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. Her rattled breaths fill the cabin of the car. Roy looks over, afraid he’s asked too much, but her eyes have gone dark. Oh. His gut tightens, his cock throbs.

He looks back towards the road. “Go on,” he encourages. “I said I’d make it worth your while, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Her whisper is shaky. And then, she follows his instructions, lifting her stocking and stiletto-clad leg up and around the gearshift to prop on the dashboard.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. They’ve come to a stoplight. He glances towards her once more—her coat and dress have split high enough to reveal her garters. The sight is delicious—he files it next to the library of other favorite images he has of her—though this one is far more explicit. And then, he reaches across the scant amount of space between them, snakes his hand beneath her coat and her dress, and plunges his fingers back into her pussy.

She lets out a broken cry at the stretch, hand flying to the door for purchase. Her tendons flex against her skin as he twists enough to allow his thumb to brush her clit. It’s an uncomfortable angle, but it seems to be working, because she’s already much louder than she was in his bedroom.

“Roy—” she gasps, “fuck.”

The light changes. He briefly withdraws his hand to put the car back in gear, then returns to as he was before—he’s going to have to avoid stoplights to get this to work.

“Tell me what feels good,” he tells her.

“That,” she chokes as he brushes over her clit again. “Ah!”

He hums, increasing the pace of his finger. God, she’s so wet, and if her cunt is capable of gripping his fingers like this, he can only imagine how she’ll feel around his cock.

“Can’t wait to be inside you,” he blurts. It’s good the roads are deserted—this would be dangerous if there was anybody else out here. “You’re going to feel incredible on my cock, you know that?”

She whines, her insides fluttering around his fingers. “Have you fantasized about it before?” she asks breathlessly.

“Of course,” he immediately admits, even as his face burns. He risks a glance at her—her head is tilted back against the seat, eyes closed as her chest heaves.

“Faster,” she commands. Then, “Tell me.”

“What I fantasize about?” That feels vulnerable. But, then again, he’s got her spread open in his car. He dips into her hole for more slick, brings it back up to her clit. She moans loudly. A fresh wave of wetness slides over his fingers.

“Yes,” she grits out.

“Ah, okay.” He manages a left turn one-handed, then shoves his fingers deeper into her. Her pussy squelches audibly, and they both groan at the sound. Emboldened, he continues: “Where do I even start? When we were teenagers, I used to get myself off with my face buried in the sheets you’d freshly laundered, because they smelled like you. I’d—I’d touch myself and pretend I was inside you.”

“Ah—” She flutters around him again. “I nicked one of your dirty dress shirts from the laundry once, and masturbated with it on.”

He nearly swallows his own tongue. For a moment, he forgets to move his hand. “When I lived at the manor?”

“Yes—why’d you stop?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs. They’ve reached another light. He shoves the car into neutral, then slips his fingers back inside her, crowding himself closer as they idle.

“What else?” she asks through slitted eyes.

He presses a searing kiss to her mouth. The smack of their lips makes his gut clench, as does the trail of saliva between them that catches in the red of the traffic light as they part.

“My other fantasies?” He holds her gaze. “I’ll tell you more, if you promise to give me a recreation of that particular escapade sometime.”

“Roy—”

“Would it be more fair if I promise I’ll recreate one of my own for you?”

Her breath catches. “Do I get to decide?”

“Of course.”

The light changes. He gives her another quick kiss, withdraws his hand to change gears, and then continues his previous activity, eyes on the road. They’re not far from Riza’s apartment now—just another few minutes. And he doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he gets there. For a moment, the interior of the car is filled with only her heavy breaths and the wet sounds of her sex.

He blurts out the next fantasy that comes to mind. “Last week, I thought about eating you out on your kitchen table, or your countertops. I think about it all the time. I’d make you come with my tongue, and then on my cock, mess be damned.” He’s panting too, he realizes. He can’t remember the last time he was this hard. She’s so slick that his fingers slide deeper without him even trying.

“Would you come on my tits?”

“Would you want me to?”

“Yes.”

He moans, loud and low, briefly letting go of the steering wheel to palm his cock through his trousers. The little bit of pressure feels so good that he’s tempted to pull the car over. But they’re so close to Riza’s—

“Put your other leg up,” he demands.

She scrambles to obey, opening herself wider, stretching around his fingers with no resistance. They both make noises of pleasure at the same time, their voices mingling in the humid interior of the car.

“Roy,” Riza whines. With her newfound leverage, she sinks herself further onto him.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles white. Fuck. Fuck. He risks another glance at her, and almost immediately wishes he hadn’t, because he doesn’t want to look away. With both her feet on the dashboard, little is left to the imagination. Her lips are slick, flush, and open as she takes gasping breaths. The hand she’s braced on the door clings for dear life while the other clasps weakly onto the fabric around his bicep. And he can see her slick shining on his fingers as they disappear inside her.

Oh, God.

Her place is two blocks away. He tears his gaze from her and presses the accelerator, his thumb still dancing across her clit.

“Please, Roy,” she begs, voice pitched higher than he’s ever heard it. “I’m—ah—just a little more.”

He bites his tongue, manages his right turn, speeds down another half block, and pulls up in front of her apartment building. The street around them is deserted, but even if it weren’t, he’d be past the point of caring. He turns off the ignition and launches himself towards the other side of the car, maneuvering her with little care for being gentle—they’re both too far gone for that. He pulls at the leg closest to him, tugs her foot over his shoulder, drags her across the seat, and buries himself face-first in her cunt.

He’s spent years dreaming of her taste, but this—it’s incomparable. She’s a dizzying combination of herself and sex, sweet and spicy on his tongue like cinnamon. He moans unabashedly against her as she mewls above him. Their position is precarious—he’s only half on the seat, and she’s stretched between the dashboard and him—but he hardly cares. He licks a broad stripe from her hole to her clit, then latches onto the bud and sucks. He’s rewarded with her hands in his hair, fisting at the root as she cries out his name. He plunges his fingers back inside her—she’s so fucking tight, even more than before. He sucks harder, works his tongue faster. She clenches around him like she never intends to let go.

She’s going to come—he can feel it. She’s going to come, right here in his car, on his mouth. His captain, his perfect Riza—all because of him. He drags his cock against the ridge of the seat, dizzied by the wave of pleasure it brings. Holy shit, he could come like this, too. He could come without her touching him, just with his face buried in her slit, nose rubbing against her slick folds, nearly three knuckles deep inside her. He thinks if he so much as touches his cock right now, it’s all over.

“Roy—” she keens above him, drawing out his name, driving her hips against his face. “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—ah—”

The hands fisted in his head grip harder, press him so close to her that he has almost no room to breathe. He doesn’t care—every single one of his senses is engulfed with her right now, and her movements are growing irregular.

“Right there, right—there! Yes, yes!” Her voice breaks. Her hips stutter. And suddenly, he’s lapping up a rush of wet as she falls apart all over him, her thighs quaking around his head. The noise she makes is strangled with desire. He rides his way through it with her, still firmly latched to her cunt, lost in the feeling of the contractions that seem to be undulating from her core across her entire body.

She comes down slowly, chest heaving. When she begins to squirm underneath his tongue, he pulls off, pressing his ear against her thigh as he attempts to catch his own breath. He’s braced on the seat with his elbow, barely hanging onto his sanity, cock so hard he can feel himself leaking into his underwear.

“Hayate,” he pants, raising his eyes to hers. She’s entirely debauched, her whole face pink in the slant of the street lamps through the now-fogged windows. For a moment, she seems confused by what he’s trying to tell her, which makes sense—her eyes are completely glazed over. Her entire body is relaxed.

“Go get him,” he begs in clarification. “I swear, Riza, I need you so badly it’s starting to hurt.”

She blinks slowly. He can see her mind power back on—it’s endearing that it takes so long. It strokes his ego.

“Right,” she says faintly. She dislodges her foot from the dashboard, then awkwardly pulls the other over his head, back into the passenger seat. With a shaking hand, she reaches for his chin, pulls him up, and licks into his mouth. He whines when her tongue brushes his—he needs her. He’s never been so desperate for someone, so desperate to fuck. His skin prickles with an aching, needy heat.

Just when he’s about to propose they fuck in the car after all, she pulls away.

“You taste like me,” she breathes.

And then, she’s opening the car door and spilling out onto the sidewalk like a newborn foal. Still half-leaned into the passenger seat, he watches through the streaks her fingers have made in the foggy window as she ambles unsteadily towards her apartment building and inside the front door.

It’s several tense minutes before she returns, during which he attempts to calm down. It’s of little use. By the time Riza reappears with Hayate, he’s only slightly less riled. As she helps her dog into the back seat, he thinks about the route between here and his apartment. It’s only four minutes by car—the close proximity had been on-purpose, a deliberate choice of theirs when they transferred to Central. For entirely professional reasons, of course, though now he’s grateful for the convenience. No sooner is Riza in the front seat that he’s pulling back onto the street, pedal pressed to the floor.

“Careful, General!” she warns.

“I know” he assures her, braking before he turns. “But I am—” his breath leaves him shakily, “—so desperate.”

“That bad?”

“God, yes. I’ve been constantly half-hard, or worse, since discovering that garter belt, how do you think I’m feeling?”

Her hand settles on his thigh, too high up to be innocent. “Worked up?”

He accelerates down another block, makes a left turn with more ferocity than usual. “I can’t stop thinking about you on my cock, Riza.”

She lets out a breathy sigh. “I need you inside me. That orgasm barely took the edge off.”

With that, she drops her hand between his legs to squeeze at his neglected erection. Roy groans through lips pressed tightly together, struggling not to thrust into her hand. He doesn’t entirely succeed—his hips jerk on the seat as she continues to palm him.

“Careful, Captain,” he pants, throwing her earlier words back at her.

“I know you’ll make it, sir.”

“Ah—” He bites back a whimper as she gives him a particularly hard squeeze. “Barely…”

Luckily, his townhouse is the next block down. He gives up all pretense of self-control, grinding against her fingers as he runs his mouth.

“I’ve—waited for years,” he pants as he rolls through the last stop sign, barely slowing down. “Wasn’t sure if it would ever happen, but fuck, Riza, I’ve wanted you as long as I’ve been capable of wanting anybody. It’s always been you, sweetheart—”

“Me too, I can’t wait to feel you—”

He groans, eyes fixed on the road, hips rising completely off the seat. “Yes—”

Blessedly, there’s an open space in front of his home. He parallel parks more frantically than he ever has—which is saying something, because it’s his least favorite thing about driving, and that’s without his loyal subordinate’s warm hand wrapped around his arousal. But he manages it just the same, and as soon as the ignition is off, the two of them are stumbling out of the car with urgent movements. Riza fetches Hayate from the backseat, and together they sweep up his front steps like they’re very late for something.

His hands shake as he retrieves his keys from his jacket pocket, then fumble as he tries to get them into the lock. He’s—he’s going to get inside this door, and fuck Riza. Where’s he going to fuck her? He can’t even decide—his head is nothing but static. He finally gets the key in, presses, and unsticks the door. They surge inside like a wave upon a lakeshore. Riza drops Hayate’s leash and disappears further inside the house—Roy has no idea where. He can’t bring himself to care, turning back to her, cupping her face, and shoving her up against the entryway wall.

There are lips and hands everywhere—his mouth slots against hers like they intend to align their tongues and teeth. His fingers fist in her hair, finding the bow and pulling it free as hers go to his belt. She makes quick work of that, and then his fly, and suddenly the chilled air of his home is hitting his already-slick cock.

“Now, Roy, now,” she pleads. “I’m so ready, just—”

“I know, I can’t wait,” he whines, tucking her hair bow into his pocket before grabbing her by her thighs and hoisting her against the wall. Her legs wrap around his waist, he blindly gropes for her dripping cunt, and then—

He slips inside her.

Oh, God. She’s so hot. She’s so wet. She’s tight, but so slick that she welcomes him all the way inside her in one smooth thrust. His entire world collapses to the place where they meet, his gut pulling white-hot with pleasure. He moans into her neck—a desperate, thready sound.

“Fuck—” he chokes. “Riza, sweetheart—”

“Feels so good,” she replies, sounding as if she’s in a similar state. “Oh, Roy—it’s—move, please—”

He can’t not obey her. He withdraws slightly, keeping her weight braced against the wall, and when he’s just starting to mourn the loss of her wet cunt, shoves back in. They cry out in unison. Her thighs tremble around his hips.

“More,” she pleads. “Harder.”

“Of course,” he promises, repeating the motion, again and again, faster and faster. In his frenzy to keep her pressed against the wall, his fingers curl under one of her stockings, so hard that the delicate fabric tears under his grip. The rip is audible.

“Sorry!” he gasps. He’s not sorry. He looks down—the run is down to her knee. He did that. Fuck, it makes the heat building in his gut coil with even greater intensity.

“That was Xingese silk, Roy—ah!”

He redoubles the speed of his hips. “I’ll buy you another pair. Fuck, I’ll buy you twenty pairs.”

And he’s certain he’ll rip every single set. His chest balloons with pride; his breath grows heavier. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It’s—so good.” He pulls far enough back to see her face—her eyes are screwed shut with pleasure. Whatever was left of her lipstick is long gone. Her hair is a complete riot. “I’m so full, Roy, it feels—I’m going to come on it…”

“You’re going to come on my cock? Already?” he asks, redoubling the pace of his thrusts. He can feel her garter belts under his hands, can hear the sound of his flesh hitting hers. His pants and underwear are around his thighs, his ass exposed to the air, and he’s never felt so powerful.

“Yes,” she whimpers. “I know it’s fast, but—it’s you, Roy, I’m getting off on you fucking me.”

“Yeah?” He could follow her right over the edge, it feels that good. But he wants it to last. He tries to focus on her instead, tries to work on angling his hips just right—

“Ah! Right there, there—” Her voice pitches high, echoing off the ceiling.

“Yes,” he moans into her neck. She’s clenching tight around him; he’s barely hanging onto himself. All of him aches—her orgasm is surging up around them, and he—

“Roy!”

He feels it more intensely than he did the last one. This one is deeper, longer—he has to grip the base of his cock to keep himself from following her. Even so, he moans in unison with her, teeth sinking into the exposed skin at her collarbone as she squeezes around him. She clutches his hair so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t tear it out. Even if she did, he wouldn’t care.

He takes advantage of her fucked-out state by pulling her weight off the wall and onto him. Still keeping himself buried deep inside her, he staggers out of the entryway and into his kitchen, depositing her on his dining table. It’s still closer than his bedroom, and he’s impatient.

“About that fantasy of mine,” he says as he sets her down.

Her eyes are glazed with lust, her lips are swollen, but she looks at him lovingly. “What about it?”

He shoves his hands further up her dress, catching the fabric with the intention to take it off. “I want you to come all over this table.”

Her expression turns more urgent. “Then you better start with my clothes.”

He needs no further instruction. He shoves her dress up her torso as she lifts her arms. He can’t say he really mourns the loss of it, especially when he casts it aside to find her bra matches the panties in his pocket. It’s black, lacy, and transparent—he can see her rosy nipples through it. And it barely contains her—her tits are almost spilling out of the cups.

“Goddamn, Riza,” he says with reverence. “If I’d known this was under here, we never would have made it out of my bedroom.”

He tugs at it, dislodging the straps to free her breasts. When they burst forth from their confines, he immediately takes one in his mouth, tongue flicking across her nipple as he rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. The position gives him limited mobility to thrust inside her, but it’s okay, because in the stillness where they’re joined, he can feel how his ministrations to her breasts make her core flutter.

“Oh—” she moans softly, hands threading back into his hair. “That stupid mouth of yours is good everywhere…”

He smiles against her, moving to her other breast. She moans again—this one is wordless, and her lack of inhibition makes his cock twitch, which in turn sends more noises spilling from her lips.

“Roy,” she whines, “Roy, Roy, just fuck me, please, I want to see—”

“See what?” he drags his teeth across her nipple, then pulls off, noticing her flush goes all the way down her chest.

“I want to see—” she starts as he presses her further back onto the table, climbing up atop it to crawl after her. His cock comes loose of her, but he finds he doesn’t mind—from this vantage point, knelt between her spread legs, he can take in everything.

“Lose your train of thought, Captain?” Holy shit, he doesn’t know where to look. The last time he saw any amount of her skin bared to him was under unhappy circumstances, and he did his grisly task without allowing himself to actually perceive her. But Riza is packed with muscle everywhere, especially at her shoulders. And her hips—he’s avoided admiring the way they flare for years. But they’re beautifully, perfectly curvy—child-bearing hips, Chris would say, which makes his stomach flip uncomfortably, even as his chest fills with excitement.

And that’s just her body. Then, there’s the lacy black bra, and her flawless tits spilling out of it. And, best of all—

The garter belt. It makes her already-small waist look impossibly smaller, a beautiful black contrast against her creamy skin. Her stockings end just inches before her sex, and the thigh highs and garters frame the patch of hair, along with the glistening pink it veils, like the intention is to draw his eye.

It’s working. He’s already forgotten he asked Riza a question when she says: “I want to see you come, sir.”

He blinks back to the present. “You—fuck.”

Her words have sunk in. Riza wants to watch him—shit. He’s going to lose himself inside her, that’s for certain. And she seems to think it’s going to be a show.

“Touch yourself before you put that back inside me,” she says suddenly.

“That sounds very close to an order.” He raises an eyebrow at her.

“It is. I want to watch.”

“I—okay.”

He fights back a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Nobody has ever asked to watch him—well. It’s not like there has been anybody around to ask, not for quite a long time. Still, he finds his hand going to his cock, resting on her thigh, shining with her arousal, and hard, hard, hard. He closes a fist around himself, and shudders as he does.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she says in that demanding voice again. Something about it makes his insides coil with pleasure.

“What I’m thinking?” he asks with a heavy exhale. He twists his fingers around the head of himself, aware of the way she watches his hand.

“Yes, Roy—what are you thinking about while touching yourself and looking at me?”

“A lot—ahh.” He hisses on a particularly good stroke, then reaches for one of her tits, thumbing her nipple leisurely. He’s glad to see it affects her—she squirms, letting out a breathy sigh. “I’m thinking about ripping your other fucking stocking. I’m thinking about coming in you, about filling you up. I’m thinking about it leaking out of you when I’m finished.”

Her flush deepens. Beneath his fingers, her nipple gets harder. “Do you think there’s going to be a lot?”

“Of come?” In the back of his mind, he can’t believe he’s having this conversation with her. As of this morning, they were technically nothing more than colleagues. But the part of him present in this moment shudders, cock twitching in his hand as she asks. A drop of precome beads at the tip. Without thinking, he swipes it off with his thumb and pops it into her mouth.

Her reaction is instant—she moans loudly around his finger, pupils going so wide he can’t see her irises, and licks him clean. Fuck. Fuck.

He attempts to consider her question. There’s an immense amount of pressure in his abdomen, building like water against a dam. When was the last time he got himself off, anyway? It certainly wasn’t this week…

“There’s going to be a lot, sweetheart,” he finds himself saying. “Are you ready for it?”

She withdraws from his thumb. “Yes,” she whines. “Fuck…put it back in.”

“I thought you were enjoying the show?” He drags his hand from her lips, down her neck, between the valley of her breasts, across her stomach, and back to her sex, where his index and middle finger slide into her with an indecent squelch.

“Ha–aah, yes, but—”

“But what?” His cock is throbbing—he’s lightened his strokes, because it’s too much otherwise. But she need not know that—he’s enjoying the way she convalesces between demanding and mindless with lust.

“...need you,” she manages around hitching breaths—he’s passing his thumb over her clit with each press of his fingers inside her. “Please, Roy…”

“Alright, darling,” he murmurs, letting go of himself, but still keeping his hand in her, to brace himself above her body and lower his lips to hers. She sighs into the kiss. He wonders if it’s possible to melt against someone, because that’s what it feels like he’s doing right now. He wants to become one with her—she’s already the better half of him, anyway. The realization makes his desire flare once more, even worse than before, when he came stumbling in here. He needs to be inside her—no, he must be inside her. He’ll burn from the inside out if he doesn’t bury himself back in her sex.

Her hands are on his cock; she’s guiding him back towards her center. The head brushes against her slick folds. He lets out a strangled groan, pants escalating into heaving breaths. He withdraws his hand from inside her to help hold himself up—his arms are shaking. Just her heat around the tip of him has him in ecstasy. It’s never felt like this. His vision has narrowed to just her face, growing brighter the deeper he slides.

“Riza,” he moans softly. “Ah—Riza—”

“Yes?” Her breath is shallow, too. She cups his face; her fingers burn on his skin.

“I love you,” he chokes out. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Roy.” She smiles as she says it, her whole face softening.

He bottoms out inside her, cock engulfed in hot, wet, burning heat. She’s wrapped around him—tight, insistent, beautiful. He’s not going to last. It’s too much. A low moan slides out from between his teeth.

“You’ve got my back,” he shudders, grinding his hips against hers.

“I—mmm—I do…”

“You’ve got my heart, too,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “You know that, right?”

“I do—move, Roy—”

“Okay, okay…I’m just—” He slowly slides out, then back in, and nearly comes then and there. Her stuttering whine doesn’t help. “It’s going to be fast, I’m already so close—”

“It’s alright,” she shudders, her legs wrapping around his hips. The kitchen table creaks beneath them as he circles himself against her. “Use me, c’mon. I…ah…I want to see.”

“Shit,” he groans, hips picking up speed. He looks down their bodies, at where he disappears inside her. She’s so wet that each thrust into her heat is audible. “Oh my fucking god…”

“That’s it,” she encourages him. “Your cock feels so goddamn good. Keep going, love.”

He’s little more than his own desire at this point. She feels otherworldly, and the faster he goes, the better it gets. The legs of the table scrape across the floor as he thrusts, and someone is making a noise—not her, he realizes, him—a whiny, high-pitched thing completely unbecoming of a brigadier-general, and he doesn’t give a flying fuck, it feels too good, she feels too good, and he’s waited how long for this? How many years has he brought himself off to the thought of her beneath him? And now, here she is, tits bouncing with the force of his movements, heavy and full and easily the most erotic thing he’s ever seen. Her garters are slightly askew with the angle of her legs, wrapped tight around his hips. She’s everywhere, and she smells like every good thing that’s ever happened to him, like home, like the best thing he’s ever known, because she is.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, thrusts growing erratic. He couldn’t string a sentence together if he tried, all that’s coming out of his mouth is a stream of whines and moans and curses and her name.

“Riza—” he gasps. He’s so fucking close; his abdomen has never burned like this, the pressure has never been so great, and it’s cresting, cresting… “I’m going to—fuck, I want to come in you so badly…”

His every instinct is to bury himself inside her as deeply as possible, fill up her wet heat with himself, mark her as his. He shouldn’t, not without permission—

“Give it to me,” she begs him. “Please, Roy, you have my heart, too. Come inside me—”

“Riza—”

“It’s okay, please—I need it, fuck, please, please—”

He’s gone. He cries out as his hips give one last stutter, and he’s thrusting into her with such force that the table scoots a good inch beneath them. Her own moans mingle with his as he gushes rope after rope of himself deep inside her, his waves of his pleasure flooding her core. He can feel the way he fills her, feel the way that it seeps down the sides of his cock when it runs out of space to occupy. She’s fluttering around him—belatedly, he realizes she’s coming, too, one of her hands fisted in his hair as she clings on for dear life.

It feels like it goes on forever. They stay locked in a wet, writhing, mindless mess for far longer than he’s used to. He doesn’t mind—he couldn’t pull himself out of it if he tried. His breath leaves him in whimpers, muffled against her beautiful golden hair.

He’s only half-aware of what he’s saying. “Beautiful, Riza,” he murmurs. “So fucking beautiful, felt so good…never come inside anyone before…”

Her answering groan is thready with need. “Never been come in…” she returns breathlessly.

He nuzzles into her neck, collapsing his full weight atop her. She doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t complain that they’re still joined. “...love you…”

“I love you too,” she whispers. “Can we do it again? Maybe in the bed, this time?”

He makes a noise of protest. “I’m going to need a minute…but yes…”

“Good, because you’re still clothed.” She sighs, ruffling the hair near his ear.

He manages a very weak chuckle. “Was there something you wanted to see?”

She snorts back. “Equivalent exchange.”

“Oh, I get it,” he starts, pulling away far enough to look her in the eyes, grinning. “You want me in garters, that’s it?”

She swats at him, smiling back. “Let’s start with naked.”

“Fine, fine!” Laughter overtakes both of them. He clutches her close, rolling to one side, and together they cup each other’s faces, foreheads pressed together, atop the table.

That’s right. Riza Hawkeye is naked, with him, on his goddamn kitchen table. It’s almost too preposterous to be a dream, which tells him it must be real. He slips out of her in a rush of liquid and wet noise, and can’t be bothered to give a damn about the mess. He thinks he might lick it up, should he find his muscles anytime soon.

“It’s been quite the evening, hasn’t it?” he murmurs.

She nods. “No kidding. Twelve hours ago, I thought you wanted nothing to do with me.”

His heart twists. “As did I. Glad we got that sorted, yes?”

“Thank goodness. I’m going to kill whoever hung that mistletoe,” she grumbles.

“Not if I kill them first,” he counters. “You didn’t see who it was?”

“No, but it wasn’t Havoc,” she tells him. “It appeared before he arrived. Only Falman, Breda, and Fuery were present. When I stepped out for coffee around nine o’clock it wasn’t there. When I came back, it was, and none of them said a damn thing about it.”

He frowns, mind turning. “That seems so unlike any of them, though.”

“Maybe Falman? He sure seemed amused. You really didn’t see anything from your office door?”

“No, not at all.” His frown deepens. “It doesn’t make any sense. If they’d gotten up to mischief like that, they wouldn’t have been able to keep quiet. I would have noticed. I wasn’t that focused.”

“Well, we’ll force it out of them Monday,” she says with some finality.

He smirks. “We certainly will.”

She cups his face in her hands and presses a kiss to his lips. He can feel the way she smiles through it.

“Happy Yule, Roy,” she says as she pulls away, face aglow.

He cups the back of her head and brings his mouth to her brow. “Happy Yule, Riza.”

—

Across the city, Chris Mustang ashes a cigarette into the tray on her bedside table, careful to keep it off her silk pajamas and the floral bedspread keeping her warm.

“Reggie,” she says, taking another drag, “you’ve had more than enough time with the finance section. Fork it over.”

“I’m not done, dear,” Grumman answers, not unkindly. “Here.”

He passes a different section of the newspaper from the dip created in the mattress between them. Chris takes it, squinting in the low light of her bedside lamp.

“I swear, my eyesight gets worse every damn day,” she grumbles.

“You’re preaching to the choir, my rose.”

She snorts, nudging him in the arm. “Still.”

She squints at the paper again. “What is this? The nuptials section? Oh, for fuck’s sake, do you think about anything else?”

“Every once in a while, I consider the affairs of this country,” he retorts smoothly. “Do you blame me? I want great-grandchildren. And I want my granddaughter happy.”

“Well, you best be glad this absolutely harebrained scheme of yours worked out,” Chris grumbles. “If it had gone sideways, it would’ve been the most unbearable Yule I’ve ever endured.”

“I’d call it a roaring success,” Grumman comments, reaching for her hand, still holding the newspaper. He gives it a squeeze. “They ran out of here like the building was on fire. And that’s good, because my mistletoe ploy failed miserably. Admittedly, I was worried.”

Chris smothers her cigarette with vigor, turning to him with a scrutinizing glare. “What mistletoe ploy, Reginald?”

“Ohhh, now the ‘Reginald’ comes out, I see we’re serious,” Grumman jokes, mustache wiggling in amusement. “It wasn’t that bad…or, well. It seemed innocent enough.”

“What in the world did you do?” Chris folds her arms, newspaper crinkling with the motion.

“It was harmless, Chris! I just snuck into Roy’s suite while he was occupied and Riza was out, and hung up some mistletoe. I swore his men to secrecy; they promised not to tell,” he insists.

“And then what happened?” She’s not sure she wants to know. It’s enough to make her crave another cigarette, or something stronger.

“They got caught. And apparently, Roy kissed First Lieutenant Havoc instead of her. That had me worried we were barking up the wrong tree.”

She can’t help it—a laugh bubbles out of her chest. “He what?”

He’s laughing too. “I know! And it’s all in good fun now, but I felt terrible earlier—Riza arrived at the mansion just barely hiding how upset she was. But she came by for dinner last night equally down, and I just knew something had happened, and I thought that maybe one more push, in addition to tonight…”

Chris thwacks him over the head with the nuptials section. “Reggie! You meddler!”

He laughs again—she does too. “It all worked out, didn’t it?”

“You owe those two an apology! You better call them and tell them what happened first thing tomorrow,” she demands.

“Sure, sure,” her lover jokes. “If we can manage to unstick them from each other…”

“Oh, fucking hell!” Chris says, exasperated. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, throwing back the covers. “I need another goddamn drink.”

His laugh follows her all the way to the bar cart down the hallway. She snatches a bottle of brandy and two cups, then begrudgingly returns to her bedroom. Grumman is still smiling, covers drawn up to his chin as he looks at her mischievously.

“You’ll thank me later,” he tells her, grinning like a child in a candy store.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she placates him, sliding back under the covers.

“Especially when that wonderful boy of yours marries her, and gives you a grandchild, and is generally the happiest version of himself you’ve ever seen,” he continues.

“Yes, yes,” she mutters, mind skirting around the image of Roy in a tux and Riza in white. He deserves it, he really does.

She passes a glass to Grumman. “Here, take this.”

“Thank you, dear.” He holds it out as she unstops the bottle and pours for him, then herself.

“Alright,” she says as she puts the brandy on her nightstand, then turns back to him. “A toast, then. To your completely harebrained schemes.”

His smile widens. “And to our families, united in marriage. And grandchildren. And happiness for all of us.”

She feels her expression soften. Reaching forward, she clinks her glass to his.

“Cheers, my love.”

“Cheers, my sweet Christmas.”

Notes:

That was, uh, a lot. (In case you're wondering--it's me, I'm the one that likes trains. Can't say I have a model train collection, but my friends are ALWAYS sending me Japanese bullet train merch.)

I hope you (1) laughed at least once and (2) found the smut to be moving. Let me know, thanks for reading! 😘

Notes:

Yeah...this is about to all go off the rails in the best of ways. 😎

Aiming to have part two up on or before 12/31! Was aiming for 12/27 but we'll see how much the smut needs to be fine-tuned. 😬

Hope you're enjoying so far! Let me know what you think!