A/N: A short missing scene fic inspired by an angsty nsfw royai piece by b-griveros over on tumblr! I highly suggest you check her art out! it's AMAZING!
Exhausted in mind, depleted in stamina, and defeated in spirit, Roy groaned into the crook of her neck and his steady hands were loose on her hips. Riza could tell his mind wasn't in it. She wasn't either.
His final thrust burrowed deep, briefly touching on the erogenous area that tingled to the tips of her toes. Feeling the fingernails sink into her like he meant it, Riza knew then that their final tryst wasn't in vain. Or pity. Or remorse.
Her fingers raked through the thick, sweat-sodden hair. She exhaled, letting him go, when he slid out of her to dispose of the prophylactic. She lied there - in the audience of her bare apartment walls. The day had made her feel as naked and exposed as she was at that moment, almost catatonic from the constant mental loop. Riza was so lost in her thoughts she gasped from the sudden dip in the bed from his weight.
Roy kissed her just under her belly button, nestling his heated body between her legs. Somehow that pressure over her midsection was comfortable. His fingers prevented his chin from digging into her abdomen and she was content with his warmth. Riza knew he just wanted the proximity and she needed the headspace to think, to drift, and to process as she stared into the ceiling above.
"I know you didn't-"
She didn't let him finish, "Don't worry."
He sighed, his breath warming the valley of her breasts, and the skin of his hand felt hers as it travelled from the bone of her wrist past her elbow until he clutched the back of her arm as if he couldn't bear to have her any farther than necessary. The corner of her lip twitched into an almost smile, but it was bittersweet. She watched his brow crease and dip in the way he did when he was trying to create solutions where there were none.
Her palm rested on his bicep and another atop his mussed hair. For all his strength and intelligence, indicated by her touch, Roy couldn't create a play to save them. Tomorrow would be different and holding her would be playing with a fire he couldn't control. "Falman and Breda..," he repeated, his stomach swallowing his heart, "...sent to the North and West, respectively."
"I know."
"A kid like Fuery sent to fight a battle he has no stake in. And you..." He opened his eyes and hers were lost, unfocused. They'd known. Of course they had known. Somewhere along the line they had slipped; perhaps in the moment where she picked lint off his uniform or when their eyes communicated a little too much or when their laughs were a little too genuine.
'She can be used to get to you.' The words haunted him. It rattled in his brain like a screw ricocheting around a shaken tin can. He was sorely mistaken about who would be on his side, bearing his same colors, and before he could turn to protect his trusted retinue, they were all stripped away from him. A fingerfehler, to be sure.
He frowned. No, forget antipositional or erroneous moves, the game was rigged against him since before he twinkled in his father's eye. Crestfallen, he continued, "And you, a hostage under the watch of the king himself."
Riza shifted under him. She figured that right about now he was second guessing himself, blaming himself for placing them all in danger without taking into consideration that they were there out of their own volition. None of them were forced. She would never say it out loud, but she sometimes found his self-sacrificing, almost heroic sentiments awfully close to defeatism. She didn't want this to be the last time she held him. "Then you're only left with one option."
He traced circles on her skin with his fingers, "Enlighten me."
Before she answered, Riza wondered if King Bradley believed in torturing soldiers himself. "Dethrone him."