Maes/Riza/Roy. R. ~200 words.
Every breath tastes like violence, barely contained.
He has an excuse. His weapon is a glove, as innocuous and innocent-seeming as the white cloth it’s made of. Maes tries to claim it’s because he’s the brains of the operation; his weapon is his intelligence.
She isn’t impressed, with either their excuses or Maes’s intelligence. She still smells like gunpowder and machine oil when she bears Roy to the hard, unforgiving concrete with only his coat to protect him. It lingers in the air, clings to his tongue. Every breath tastes like violence, barely contained. It tastes like hell’s temptation.
Hands too large to be hers slide along his thighs, part his legs for her to kneel between them. His breath stumbles, rushing too fast over suddenly-dry lips. She wets them for him, and finally he catches the familiar scent of her.
He’s on edge, straining for more than the brief touches and teasing promises they give him. Everything’s a contradiction; the soft flesh of Riza’s thighs, the hard demand of Maes’s hands, the need for release and the desire for nothing but more. Always, always more.
Lips brush his ear, sharp teeth and warm breath. Maes’s voice is a harsh whisper as strong hands pin his own to the floor. “Beg her for it.”
It’s not in him to say no.