Rachel (inugrlrayn) wrote,

Burning Down Roy/Olivia

Title: Burning Down
Fandom: FMA
Pairing RoyxOlivia
Author: inugrlrayn
Prompt: kink_bingo Rough Sex
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: So, I've never written this pairing before, but I figured that the whole point of kink bingo is testing your limits, so we'll so how this pans out.

There is no love here. She despises all that he is, a bitter rival even at the best of times. It is only now, when they’re like this, that she can drudge up even a little respect for him.

He’d tried to be nice. He’d brought her flowers and chocolate as if he thought she was just another one of his conquests, so easily won over. She was sure he knew better, but he’d done it all the same, resulting in both being tossed in his face.

This, though, this is something she can respect. Her chest heaves as he pins her against the wall, gloved hands roughly gathering her wrists above her head. He kisses her then, but there is no tenderness or affection on Roy’s lips, only lust and the animalistic fury of whatever lies between them.

She tilts her head back, allowing him to devour her whole, teeth scraping dangerously over her neck as his free hand pulls violently at her shirt, popping buttons with each yank. In another flick of his wrist, her pants are falling to the floor. She thinks for a moment, wondering when he’d gotten her distracted enough to toss the sword so far away, but the idea is whisked off in sharp nips and a hand pulling roughly at her bra.

She feels a snap, and the fabric hangs limply in front of her breasts, only the position of her arms keeping it from slipping entirely away. There are teeth on her lips again, and she will not submit this time. She pulls her arms away, reminding him that she’s not going down easily, shoving him hard, back against the desk, advancing after him like a wolf after its prey.

His eyes shine in the dim light of the office, hungry and ferocious. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was angry, but she knows that look, the one that’s been on her at every opportunity since she returned to Central, ever since the flower incident. She briefly wonders what he looks like under the uniform, still firmly in place, down to the last little insignia. She doesn’t really want to find out, because she knows under there is a man with scars and pain, hopes and dreams, and weaknesses she’ll exploit one day. She doesn’t want to know of Roy’s humanity, because she hates that part of him, only wants his body and his fire, searing through her like a spark through dry tinder.

Her hands artfully flick the button of his pants open, and she refuses to be distracted by a warm tongue sucking at her breasts. He’s fixated on one of her nipples and she wants to cry out, but that would be giving in. Instead, she slides her hand under his boxers, gripping him hard enough that he gasps, nearly in pain. It has the desired effect, for his lips are gone from her breasts, and he’s rolling them over, pushing her down hard against the wood.

This is going to hurt tomorrow, but she will not complain. She’s too tough for that, too tough to acknowledge the bruises already forming on her wrists, the blood drawn down her spine from roughly gloved fingers. It will be the only damning evidence of pleasure over hatred. It’s not something she’ll be able to easily reconcile when she’s thinking straight again, but right now it doesn’t matter, because the world’s on fire and together they’re burning to the ground.

His tongue and teeth are worrying the hollow of her throat and he’s not pulling off her underwear in favor of ignition cloth scraping over her skin, roughly pushing the fabric aside. He’s practically hammering into her, sandpaper gloves biting deeper into her hips with each thrust.

If she did not despise him so much for what he is, she could reach her hands up under his shirt, dig her nails into the bare flesh of his back. She does not want to touch him, not the real him that’s hidden under blue wool and gold stars, and so she settles, dragging her nails roughly though tousled jet black hair.

There is no love here, only silent screams as his pelvic bone scraped against her clit with each movement, spiraling into a glorious disaster, and right now it didn’t matter that her head ached from hitting the desk with every thrust, or that his body was taut and he was muttering obscenities. After all, what did she care if he was enjoying this? All that mattered was that she was breathless and on fire, burning from the inside out.

He’s gone before she’s caught her breath, and it irks her that he’s recovered so quickly, bested her at her own game. It’s a relief though, because now she doesn’t have to face him, say something in the awkwardness that would be sure to follow. She can pretend his scent doesn’t linger in the wreckage of her office, that the papers on the floor aren’t the product of sex and violence, and she immediately pushes the thought from her sated mind, gathering up her clothing in silence.
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