A/N: hello! dkfjnfjk Thank you for the wonderful comments everyone! I'm so so so so sorry I suck at responding to them, but i am also on tumblr under capthawkeye and Ana is there too as tsaritsa! Here's a longer one for you~~

warnings: sexual content and cursing

have you no thought, o dreamer / walt whitman, Are you the new person drawn toward me?

Sunday morning, he wakes up in Central - putting a three hour train ride between them; away from East City, away from instructing, his research. Away from his problems.

It's out of character for him to run, having done so in earnest only once before; if anything, he's the kind of person who prefers to meet them head on. But he's doused in sweat and his...problem is eager to make itself known every morning poking conspicuously through the sheets. The kind of problem that throbs and aches and is excruciatingly sensitive to any kind of contact, any movement, until it's either relieved or he washes it away. This morning, he's tired of the cold showers.

Shame isn't something that enters his thoughts. There is only the rhythm of the strokes and the water pelting his head, streaming from his tensed shoulders down the muscles on his back. What started timidly is now fervent when he borrows the woman making a recurring appearance in his dreams.

Roy doesn't put a face to her. Within his imagination, she's petite and shorter in stature than him - of course, she would be as she is... on her knees - but Roy knows instinctively that she's the perfect height for him to rest his chin on. He's stroking her hair as his fingers fasten tightly against the grout of the shower tiles, but not as tight as the grip her lips have on him. He thinks about that kiss, the texture of her lips so soft melding with his, and he wonders why it stays with him, why his mind insists on imagining more. He grabs fistfuls of her wet, flaxen hair, rougher this time, and guides her with a more demanding pace. He points to deeper places she can open up without using any fingers, grunting in tandem with the pace when she readily obliges.

She opens her eyes, brown and bright and looking right at him. It takes over. He imagines she takes it all as she can and a little of his seed dribbles over her mouth and it's the prettiest damn sight he's seen that morning.

Alone in the shower, he hunches over himself; gasping. By the time he catches his breath, the water is turning cold, and Roy chuckles bitterly at his mess going down the drain. What he wouldn't give to dissolve right there to escape what he feels is inescapable.

The cooler temperatures regulate his overzealous heartbeat and for the umpteenth time, he weighs the pros and cons, getting as far as he did all the other times, and pushes the absurd idea back because these things never end well ethically, morally, emotionally.

Roy exits the guest bedroom, half-dried but fully dressed, to welcome the morning already marred with guilt. He walks towards the busy kitchen noisy with the running of a sink, a sizzling frypan, and a toddler using her high chair as drums to demand breakfast from her father standing in front of a stovetop. He greets as any polite guest would: "You know, if you had shut that thing off I might've had more than two minutes of warm water.

Maes turns the faucet off with a bit more force than necessary and bids Roy a good morning with a glare. "No, it's definitely not your twenty minute shower."

Roy ignores him and instead ruffles the bangs of the kid, kisses her cheek so that she shies away like she's being tickled, and says, "Good morning, Elicia." The toddler squeaks out a good morning as she's picked up from her chair and placed on his lap. "Did Gracia leave already?"

"You just missed her. Her fancy schmancy hospital brunch starts in fifteen," Maes explains to him, depositing a large plate and a smaller, brightly colored plastic plate in front of him. reproaches him from the stove. "Besides, since when do you indulge in long, warm showers?"

Roy covers the three year-old's ears. "I was uh-" he clears his throat "-taking care of business." He leaves it deliberately ambiguous. Elicia babbles something too fast for him to pick up on, her tiny hands outstretched and trying to grasp the food in front of her. He helps cut up her fruit into bite-size pieces.

"You should know better. I'm here for you and I'll always lend you a hand." Maes sits with his own plate. "Then we might've saved some of that warm water."

He smirks. "No, no, no, no. This required... something different. A bit beyond your skill set."

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Maes points repeatedly with the pronged end of his fork. "You got yourself a lady, didn't you?"

He deflates a little, sighing. "No…"

"A dude?!"

"Maes-"

"Because, you know me, I don't judge-"

"Hughes, it's nothing like that."

Maes leans into the table towards his kid, "What do you think, puddleduck? Do you think Uncle Roy has a girlfriend?"

Elicia is still happily wiggling about from her food and stares at her father with fingers in her mouth then turns to scrutinize Roy with her green eyes. Slowly at first and then incriminatingly, she moves her head in a vigorous nod and looks back to her father, beaming. "Yeah!"

Maes laughs and enthusiastically grabs Elicia from Roy's hold, rubbing her cheek against his. "Good job, Elicia!" He sings to her, replacing her in the high chair. "With your intuition, you could be the best detective!"

"You just told her yesterday she's going to be the best archeologist for digging in the sandbox."

In his typical fashion, he proclaims, "She can be whatever she wants!"

"You're going to confuse the kid."

"Or-!" Maes feeds Elicia a piece of bacon. "She'll know she can choose whatever she wants, because she can't ever disappoint her dad."

Roy shrugs and stares at his breakfast. He can feel the stare coming from his friend and he doesn't want to meet it. There isn't anyone quite like Maes Hughes who can bother him into getting him to spit things out, so he tries his best to focus on the scrambled eggs in front of him.

There's a silence, or there would have been if not for the unsuspecting child talking to her food. Roy almost laughs eating the fluffy eggs in that almost silence. Unwisely, he thinks Maes has let the topic drop.

"Is she a student?"

Roy chokes on a mouthful of toast and egg and coughs to dislodge the food that had gone down his windpipe. His neck is strained and struggling, he manages, "I think you're watching a little bit too much of my mother's novelas."

Maes chuckles, but it's not in the jovial sense; it's the cut-the-bullshit chuckle. His friend leans into the table, grabbing his elbows. He knows that pause. The pause tells him Maes isn't about to mince words. "You get here on the earliest train coming into Central Station. Looking like shit, like you've been up all night. And then you're quiet. Pensive. Like you did something wrong. And, at first I thought you might've gotten into some trouble, which is silly because how much trouble could you possibly get into without being able to get yourself out." He looks at Roy gravely with the barest hitch at the corner of his lip, like he's got him cornered.

Roy looks up like a child who's been reprimanded.

Maes takes a sip out of his coffee cup and is silent like he's enjoying keeping Roy under this exposing spotlight. "But now Gracia isn't here and you still won't tell me and you always do this weird embarrassment thing when it comes to talking about the women in your life. So it's a girl you can't have…She's either married or a student. But I think we both know you aren't a homewrecker."

His mouth goes inexplicably dry.

"How am I doing?"

He mutters, "Terribly."

And then, the entire interrogation facade falls through when even Elicia is no longer eating undoubtedly sensing the tension. "Oh come on - I'm right on the money so tell me!"

"No - because there's nothing to tell and I have a train to catch soon." Roy peers at his watch. "And if I leave now I can get at the station six hours early."

Maes snorts. "The last time you said that you were leaving town and Greta was packing her things the next day." He doesn't say anything and he's suddenly lost his appetite. "All I'm saying is that I know you, Roy. Sometimes better than you know yourself. You haven't even gone to see your mom who harangues me every chance she gets. Just... Cancel your classes, otherwise it's just gonna blow up in your face again."

He should, he really should. But he's stubborn too and won't usually accept help until he's strong armed into taking it. "I won't interrupt your dad-ing."

"I think I'll be able to handle another child for a day or two," Maes deadpans while wiping Elicia mouth.

Roy frowns, but admits to himself that it's tempting. It's painfully clear that this isn't something that would secede after giving into his baser desires, Whatever it is, he can tell it would work itself up into a frenzy until he ultimately makes the entire situation worse than it already is. He needs the time to think clearly - to think with his head and not with what's in between his legs. "I'll be fine," he says carefully, watching as Elicia digs into her yoghurt with gusto.

He can't even convince himself.

In the early afternoon, her phone lights up with an email. She takes an imaginary foot to squash the little butterflies she gets all because his last name illuminating on her phone. His email reads:

Subject: CHEM306 Sec 001-005 Monday's class cancelled.

All,

Class is cancelled for tomorrow due to some personal matters. Use this time to think about your next topic discussion. Office hours will resume as usual next week.

Curled up on the couch, she sinks even lower into the cushions, putting aside her textbook and looks into the middle distance with a small frown. Riza dislikes the disappointment the trickles down her spine, but she dislikes the questions popping in her head even more.

It isn't a surprise when she doesn't see him walk in the library that Monday night. But she is on Tuesday. Riza doesn't want to count the number of times she looked at the glass double doors expecting someone to walk in. She stares hard into the Inorganic Chemistry textbook but the words don't stick and she's bothered. She hates feeling like this because out of all the irrational, reckless things she could do while still keeping her academic career and dignity, she chooses to keep pining over him.

She doesn't know what she wants, but she feels there's plenty left unsaid on her tongue that he's placed there.

Almost five days of radio silence and Wednesday comes too soon. She is contemplating far too much to even stick to her already terrible sleeping schedule. She's displeased that he's the cause for all of this, studying the tiles on the floor the entire way to class. Walking through the threshold, she glances up briefly, fearing that a sign is posted on her back announcing that she knows what he tastes like, but he's writing about the different "search strategies" with his back to her.

Riza makes for her seat and pauses for a heartbeat on the steps along the side of the room. On her desk, a coffee cup, unmarked, is there - waiting for her. Students are slowly trickling in and she sneaks another glance, but he doesn't notice her. Throughout class, she's figuratively scratching her head just staring the earthy, aromatic beverage. She doesn't need it to stay up; her heart is beating too fast and not quite invested in the outline for plethora of options to sift through credible academic work as her instructor drones on.

When he's absent that Wednesday night, she puts it to rest and that was that. Only a really good kiss and ending it with the way it started: just coffee. Riza attributes the strange loneliness to the lack of student traffic - that's all.

Except that he's there on Thursday and everything is jumbled once again. Mustang hands her a predetermined list in terms of what he needs from her and it becomes clear that she crossed a line. When it settles, when he settles in the room, he's very distant, polite. They're polite and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't a little distant herself. Both of them seem to have independently come to the conclusion that The Kiss and anything related to The Kiss will not be addressed. For the most part, it's not a bad system; Riza thinks this is probably the best way to get through it.

At all.

He's not gonna bring it up; therefore, neither will she. It'll remain as it is to save her from embarrassment.

It works, for a couple hours. It's easy to separate this person - Professor Mustang - from the man who backed her into a bookcase and kissed as he drove a knee in between her legs. It's easy to look for the books he asks for; she can hide in the aisles of the library and carry out her work in peace. Unfortunately, something still itches.

It's not easy to ignore the plain expanse of his back when she inevitably returns, arms laden down with heavy tomes. He doesn't bothered to changing out of the dress shirt he wears for class: the cotton stretches deliciously against the length of this shoulders and tapers down his waist. He's already rolled up the sleeves to his elbows and the skin that is bared gives her pause. She shakes away the thought before it can plant itself and take root. He is being as professional as he can be in this capacity; it's only fair that she responds in turn.

For some reason, she feels constantly on her toes the entire night and at the end of it, Riza doesn't know why she thinks this is a good idea, beyond trying to justify it as a kind act, but the words spill out of her before she can think them through properly.

"I hope everything is okay with you in regards to canceling class," she says, placing grabbing the books next to him on the desk. She thinks nothing of it until the silence between them stretches uncomfortably. She hates to admit that she's stalling, putting the onus to give her a response. If I can be mature about it so can he, she thinks somewhat viciously.

"I was visiting some old friends," he answers finally, an edge to his tone as he stands up and begins to collect his pens and notebooks from where they've all scattered to. It's finality, Riza realises as she puts two and two together and she scrambles to explain.

"No, sir, I wasn't meaning to pry, I just-" she falters as he stills before her, He's looking at her with an expression she can't decipher - all she knows is that there's a wildness to his eyes like before, and his hands are trembling ever-so slightly as they grip his laptop and messenger bag tightly. She isn't sure how she's crossed another of his invisible lines again so quickly, but his stare makes her feel like a little kid all over again. It's humiliating.

"Goodnight Miss Hawkeye," he says quickly, before brushing past her to leave.

Riza doesn't question why Rebecca is up at such an ungodly hour eating chicken noodles and watching reruns of an old soap opera when she returns home - the sleep schedule of a university student is about as regular as a nutritious meal - and considering her own sleep schedule (or rather, the lack of it), Riza doesn't feel like chastising her.

It does present an opportunity, however. Rebecca being awake means that Rebecca is available to partake in bitching and gossiping, and Riza is at her limit at keeping these at-war thoughts and feelings to herself. She curls up next to Rebecca with her own pathetic breakfast: a bowl of generic chocolate puff cereal.

"'Becca? I have a question." She doesn't mean to sound as pitiful as she sounds and Rebecca turns to look at her properly. Riza notices her friend's makeup from last night and she smiles with endearment.

"I might have an answer, but I can't help you if it's about this show because I'm as lost as you are."

"No," Riza starts, but the words settle in her mouth. It's so foreign to her: to be the one talking about something other than school or work. "Say, a boy kisses you or you kiss him. As a matter of fact, it's irrelevant. You two kiss - and then, nothing. Silence."

"There's a boy?" she asks with fiendish glee. Riza groans, and shovels more cocoa pops into her mouth.

"There might be a boy," she says finally. It feels strange to suddenly put this out into the open: that there is? Was? Could be? She hates that she wishes that there was; hates more that deep down she knows she's built this up to be greater than what it actually ended up being.

Rebecca puts down her half-eaten bowl of noodles, "Spill."

Riza tells her, simply replacing the fact that she was crushing on her professor with the boy from the party. Rebecca had been almost blacked out for the majority of that party so Riza feels secure in the lie. She tells her about the tensions between them, the explosive kiss, and how he seems to wildly flip between keeping her at arms length and then doing little gestures that coax her back in.

Rebecca listens with the air of someone who has seen it all before, and the lack of shock in her reactions is comforting to Riza. It wasn't just her then, making this out to be bigger than it actually was.

"What do you think?" Riza asks, her cereal bowl forgotten and soggy next to Rebecca's congealed noodles.

Rebecca hums, and bites her bottom lip in thought. "I hate to say it Ri, but you're clearly crushing on him-"

"No shit Sherlock-"

Her friend puffs her cheeks out in frustration. "If you were anybody else Ri, I would tell you to find someone else to fuck and get it out of your system. But you're already in too deep with this guy. He clearly likes you - no student can afford to buy two coffees and if he's giving up his stupid almond-milk-with-extra-foam to woo you then you're clearly more than just a passing distraction to him as well."

"But why does he keep shoving me away? There's no rhyme or reason to why or when he does it-"

"There will be to him," Rebecca says wisely. "If he's indecisive but still buying you shit, he likes you. There's something on his end that's making him second-guess. He's not second-guessing you Ri, he's second-guessing himself. Or someone is, at the very least."

When she walks into class that morning, slightly more rested than what she normally manages, she spies a takeaway cup placed on her defacto spot. She approaches it cautiously, aware of the other students slowly trickling in for the lecture. There's no note scribbled onto it this time. Just a plain cup of coffee that Riza is grudgingly having to admit smells wonderful. However, she pushes it to the next seat over with her index finger, like she's scared to touch it properly. In a way, she is. She doesn't like how her heart leaps at the sight of a fucking cup of coffee - and not in the way that university students are meant to have their heart's leap whenever they see, hear or smell java - no, not in this case. There is meaning in this innocuous cup of coffee, but Riza is tired of the dancing and skirting around each other, the attraction and subsequent repel. Rebecca had been right - she felt that she had made her position perfectly clear.

Riza wasn't sure how much more she could plainly state her position anymore than she already had. The way she had gripped at his hair and moaned into his mouth had spoken volumes, surely.

She grabs the heavy textbook from her bag and sets it up to stand on the desk, shielding the front of the lecture theatre from view. If she rests her head on her hands, she can't even see the top of the two-story whiteboard.

Which means she she will certainly be unable to see her professor.

More students are filing in now, yawning and shambling up the steps of the lecture hall. She slumps down in her seat further, resting her head in the crook of her elbow. The sounds of the lecture hall fade into the background, and all Riza is left with is the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee and the warmth of the morning sun hitting her back through the large windows at the back of the class.

She wakes with a start, and the classroom is eerily quiet. It's no longer comfortably warm; as Riza lifts her head, she realises that it is empty, the big double doors at the side of the classroom left wide open. The coffee next to her has gone, instead replaced by a stapled stack of paper.

His writing is familiar enough even as she's still blinking the sleep out of her eyes, but that soon changes as she reads her grade.

The 'A-' has been crossed out, replaced with a horrifying 'C'.

Please organise a time to visit my office so that we can discuss how to improve your essay topic.

Riza sees red.

She's out of the lecture theatre in a flash, uncaring how she must look to any bystanders right now. Organise a time? Riza snarls. If he thinks he can just get away with -

She finds herself standing outside his closed office door, slightly out of breath from walking so briskly across the campus and something else that she doesn't want to positively identify. She grips the strap of her bag tighter in her hands and Riza takes a moment to breathe properly, deeply.

She feels like she's barreling towards something inevitable here - that every step she has taken - drinking the first coffee of many; reciting the poetry; letting him cage her between his arms and dip his head down just so...it's all been guiding her towards this moment. She doesn't want to call it fate, but Riza's doubtful that any deliberate choice on her part would have made an iota of difference for what was going on between them.

For all her justifications that he was a man and that was why she liked him so much, liked the hints of authority and control that slipped through every now and then when he was with her: that wasn't the case here. He was being a coward, running away from his problems instead of addressing them like an adult.

Riza wasn't going to give him that chance.

She wrenches the door open and storms inside. "You better have a fucking good reason for dropping my grade, sir." She knows she must still look windblown and flushed from her dash across campus but she can't find it in herself to care particularly much.

He's standing by his bookcase, jaw open in shock as she shuts the door and all but thrusts the graded essay proposal into his face. "Miss Hawkeye, I don't think-"

"Not Hawkeye," she grinds out, all but throwing her bag to the floor as she flourishes the stapled paper once more in his face. "You don't get to pull that crap with me when I know this isn't about my proposal!"

His jaw clacks shut and he considers her with a shrewd gaze. "Then what is it about? You'll need to enlighten me, Riza." Her name is all sorts of sin rolling off his tongue the way it does and Riza hates that she falters a little, momentarily distracted by the way his mouth sounds out her name.

"I don't know," she says honestly. It pains her that she can't figure him out for the life of her. "You're the one who kissed me and then ran away for the weekend. How am I meant to interpret that?"

Roy shifts uneasily. "Well, I-"

"No excuses," she says firmly. "We can't not talk about this, whichever way this goes, and I think I deserve an explanation at the very least because - why are you looking at me like that?"

All traces of irritation are gone; he's suddenly looking at her like there's a secret he revels in when he sees her. He leans against his bookcase, running a hand through his hair almost - dare she say - nervously? His entire posture has shifted, relaxed, and Riza suddenly realises just how close she's standing to him: the sandalwood of his cologne is intoxicating and heady and if she moves even an inch closer she thinks she will be able to spot his pulse jumping on his neck.

"I want an explanation," she reiterates, crossing her arms across her chest, essay proposal crumpled and forgotten. There's a beat and Roy nods, pushing himself off the ledge of the bookcase, moving towards the door. The lock clicks with some finality but Riza doesn't find the action scary.

"My only question is," he begins, moving back and mirroring her position of crossed arms. "Why are you doing this right now? Why here, with me? Any other girl in her right mind would be going straight to the Dean with this."

The question blindsides her. Truthfully, she doesn't know if she can answer that herself - at least, not without feeling a great deal of shame while doing so. "That's not an answer," she says stubbornly.

"I think you already know, don't you?" He extracts the crumpled proposal from her fingers, lingering over the digits as he peels them off one by one. The paper is ripped in places and he tuts, unfurling the folds and placing it down on his desk carefully. "You're a bright kid. In this class particularly." His other hand is still holding onto the tips of her fingers, curling his fingers around her own. He's warm, and Riza suppresses a shiver as he shifts closer, pulling her hand close to his chest. He grips her fingers firmly and cocks his head to the side, considering her.

"The short version of the answer is that I'd like to fuck you, Riza Hawkeye, because it's clear that you'd like to fuck me."

She's backed up against the desk and sighing into his mouth before she's given a moment to register the shivers of pleasure and goosebumps taking over her. She grips the shirt pressed against his chest. His lips are still new to her in the way that they are careful, yet pressing; hungry, but contained. He doesn't need to ask her to open her mouth because she does so willingly when he runs fingers through her hands, making her think about how else they can make her feel and the noises she'd make for him.

She's warm all over; hot in places she wants him to touch. She wants what she couldn't have before, what she couldn't get from the boy. The saying always goes it's easier to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission and she's more than ready to get on her knees and beg for it. The temptation touches her thigh, his stirrings hiding behind his slacks. His hands are on her hips but they never roam further than they're allowed. Every now and then, thumbs will caress small spanses of her skin and it only sent waves of heat, rippling throughout. He groans through their kiss when she touches delicately over the fabric of his slacks.

"You don't know what you're doing," he tells her. It sounds like a thinly veiled challenge to her, a dare, because even though she has twined herself around his body, it still feels like he is holding back. He doesn't shy from her bold advances, but equally he doesn't push her. She knows it's not meant as an insult to assume her experience but she didn't find him attractive because he was cautious and carefully considered each and every choice he made - hell, if that had been the case, neither of them would be here right now, pressed up against one another and trying to keep their voices quiet in his office. She wants the man who she catches glimpses of, who promises snap decisions and no regrets.

"Why don't you show me?" She feels him growing harder with each stroke of her palm and a million scenarios populates in her imagination of what she can do with it - of what she wants to do with him. She nudges one hand of his up her shirt. Her leg slightly hinges to the side and he doesn't hesitate to slip from under her shirt, grab the bend of her knee, and push back with the other just enough on the desk that her feet levitate over the carpet. It's very unladylike, the way she's sitting on his desk, with her legs spread for him. Only her panties and the flimsy pleat of her skirt are her only defenses standing and judging by the way his hand is coasting up her thigh, she figures that won't be for long.

Yes, she can very much see his appeal. Up until now, she hadn't given it much thought. It was only conjecture, but she imagines a man of his attributes, physical and intellectual, can attract girls like her to unfurl themselves for him. Before she was too tired or too flustered - vacillating like a needle on a moral spectrum and now, she feels it with the pressure of his mouth, the tease of his tongue, the sharp exhales she gives from it, and the ripples over his clothes.

But there is another element.

She arrives on this conclusion as she's untucking his shirt and her hands want to know Roy Mustang. He is still very much an enigma. She hardly knows anything about him apart from his academic passions and what's printed on his syllabus. They are only pieces. He piques a curiosity in her and she embraces, for the first time as a Chemistry major, the fascination of a scientist at the brink of discovery. How does a man no older than thirty with lip-biting muscles hiding underneath white cotton end up in academia? What brings someone as charismatic and intelligent as him to leap dangerous chasms and slip under the skirts of his student making her sigh as he caresses her neck? What drives him to touch her over her small clothes thus soaking the fabric from her own arousal? There is an ache for that information, but none so needy or demanding as the present ache in between her legs where he strokes and teases.

Riza, fevered and blushing, murmurs a simple plea. The last, flimsy barrier is pushed aside and his hands know her then. Even if she were to deny the extent of her arousal, the wet sounds of his fingers delving between her folds are enough to convict her and they are lubricated in less than three heartbeats. He lets two fingers disappear inside her, finding a slow rhythm.

She peels away from him while clutching his strong shoulders, digging nails into the sleeves of his shirt. His hand curves over her mouth and her breathless "ah" is muted as it leaves her throat. She opens her eyes and finds his staring her down with a gaze that simultaneously melts her where she sits and straightens her spine. He doesn't stop with his ministrations and her eyes begin to close from her steady climb.

"Look at me," he demands, if one can even do so while whispering. She fights to look at him with her full attention, but it is not without its difficulty when her legs begin to tremble. "Don't make a sound, little bird. Understood?"

She nods, trying to suck in breath through his hand. The movement of students suddenly increase in volume and it makes sense. But his hand does not relieve the pressure on her lips as the other works her, creating a surmounting sensation that bunches in her lower abdomen and makes both hands grip harder. His eyes are obstructed by his bangs, but his smirk is visible. The students are getting louder and her climax is threatening to barge without invitation. With each thrust of his hand, a rather light tap from his palm hits her clit and it makes a world of difference to Riza. Whatever is coming won't be discreet and it slips in throaty "mmphs" and heavy breath through her nose that's pointed to the sky. He's kept the same pace this entire time and somehow it makes her want to scream into his skin.

"Riza," he reproaches. That doesn't make it better, it makes it worse, and where sound can't escape it circumvents into the jerk of her hips, the throw of her head, or the clamp of her legs blocked by his hips.

She breathes in deeply, feeling like she's shattering into a million glass pieces in his hands, just as there's a knock on his door. The knob is tried without success and on the other side, a girl calls out to him, "Professor Mustang?" He puts her own hand over her mouth and allows her to burrow into his chest knowing the danger if she dares express her orgasm vocally. He holds her tight to his chest and later she will question if it was sort of post-orgasm affection or as a precaution. Riza hears the exchange with wide eyes. "What should we do? I thought these were his office hours." "Maybe he-"

"I know that student," he whispers and she's still catching her breath. "Katie Montgomery, a bright and pretty girl. Quiet enough in class. But not as quiet as you." He kisses her temple and when the footsteps retreat, the halls dying down soon thereafter, he lets her go. She feels boneless and euphoric - and not just because of the orgasm that is still wrecking her body. His fingers brush against her clit once more and she struggles to keep herself quiet: he draws her mouth back to his and she lets herself relax, lets herself come down from an orgasm that was wholly unexpected but sorely needed.