Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Theme: 12. in a good mood
Rating: R for sexual situations
Disclaimer: The characters and setting belong to Arakawa Hiromu and Square-Enix. I'm just messing around with them.
At night, safely caged in her own apartment, Riza Hawkeye lets herself dream.
When the dreams first started, she was afraid of them. They were (they still are) too hot and too wild, and she knew it was wrong to have such thoughts about a superior officer (but she wasn't sure if it was wrong to have such thoughts about the man who'd given her back her life after the war broke it down).
Now she accepts them, albeit somewhat grudgingly. Sleep has become an enemy that she's learned to respect. Truth be told, she's not sure what she'd do without the dreams. Sometimes, even with them, she feels ready to explode whenever he's near.
Tonight, in her dreams, she is bound by fire. Cords of flame secure her hands behind her back and keep her ankles together. They tickle slightly.
"I wasn't aware of this particular alchemical capability of yours, Colonel," she says.
"You don't know how little you know about me, Riza," he says. He is smiling. Only in her dreams, she allows herself to think: I love that smile.
"If you say so." She ignores the inappropriate use of her first name, because there's something even more improper for her to address. "Are you aware that you're not wearing any pants?"
He slowly smiles as he lifts his right hand and tugs off the glove. "Yes," he says, placing a finger to her lips. It's true: he isn't wearing any pants. Although she isn't sure she wants to point this out, he is also clearly aroused.
"Colonel--" she begins, but he cuts her off with a kiss. His mouth is very hot, like he's about to breathe fire down her throat. When he breaks the kiss, the rest of his clothes have vanished as well.
Somewhere around here is always where she stops protesting, in the dreams. Maybe it's the strange mix of patience and eagerness in the way he kisses her: his lips firm on hers, but his hand trembling minutely on her jaw. That never changes. Neither does the need in his eyes. Later, she will remind herself that it was just a dream of him, but now she has no such defense.
Now, the flames that bind her lance down her arms and up her legs. They consume her uniform, until all that is left is the familiar weight of her gun in its shoulder holster, a cool reminder of the violence that is never far from them, even now.
He touches her in ways he shouldn't, and she lets him. She even enjoys it.
"Roy," she says--
--and that is what shocks her awake. It always is. There are some boundaries she can't cross, even in dreams. This is good to know.
Still, when she untangles the sheets from her body and rises to her feet, Hawkeye starts the morning in a good mood.