Succubus
By Kurama-sweethart (Moe Shmoe)
Beta:
baeckahaesten
Pairing: Mainly Lust x Roy with mentions of Lust x Marcoh
Rating: R for the general theme
Warnings: Alternate Animeverse, Spoilers for Ishval

Succubus (n.)
a female demon which comes to men in their sleep to seduce them and have sexual intercourse, drawing energy from the men to sustain themselves, often until the point of exhaustion or death.

I.

She had appeared as if from thin air on the night after their third battle, an attack on a small Ishvalan village to the Northeast. A perceptive few might have made a connection between the mysterious woman and the destruction, but her pale skin and dark eyes suggested otherwise: she was surely not local. Dr. Marcoh had claimed that she was his research partner, an ally in creating the stone that aided the transmutations of the infamous State Alchemists. She wasn't an Ishvalan, so she couldn't be a fugitive. Thus she was allowed to stay.

It didn't matter much to Roy, anyway. He had a sneaking suspicion that the curvy woman's job was not to help with the doctor's research so much as to help with the loneliness of a married man away from his wife. Hell, sometimes Roy felt it too, that loneliness, what with being alone with mostly men as company for months on end. But he never spoke of his skepticism. Perhaps out of respect for the old man: Maybe because of something else.

Roy opened his knapsack and pulled out a small bottle of painkillers prescribed by Marcoh himself. He quickly placed three of the caplets into his mouth and swallowed them dry, squinting against the throbbing migraine that threatened to render him unconscious. Instantly, Roy felt the pills hit his empty stomach and he doubled over as it agonizingly gargled its displeasure. He finally gave in to sleep in the same state, hours later.

II.

The sunlight felt ethereal, filtering through the thin fabric of the tent. Roy squinted up into it, sitting up and glancing over at the empty cot that had, up until a week prior, been the place in which Maes Hughes had slept. But he had been dispatched a lonely seven days before, back to Central to resume normal political duties outside of the war. He could still hear the frantic whisper of his best friend, justifying himself as if Roy were not the man in need of convincing.

"There's no way I can stay here any longer." Maes had said, shoving all his belongings roughly into a small canvas bag. "The blood, the bodies… I'll go insane, Roy. I'll lose my mind and you know it."

And he had understood, understood with every fiber that made up his body. Maes had someone to return home to- that lovely woman from their days at the institute. She was there, back in Central, waiting for him with a diamond on her finger. Didn't he deserve that? Hadn't Maes earned that happiness?

Still, there was a pang of betrayal Roy felt, of treachery, that haunted him every morning since the train left that Roy felt Hughes should have spent there, in their tent, suffering with him.

III.

Roy ducked under the flap of the tent, into the small room formally known as the mess hall, however the name was so contradictory that all the soldiers referred to it as 'The Cave'. It was barely large enough for five of the men to squat comfortably in, let alone for the cook to set up his stove and slop out the lumpy goop that hardly passed as food. Nevertheless, there was always a crowd piled around it, as if one morning they might wake up and find that there were no more warm meals, no matter how lumpy or goopy, and that they were to eat insects as some of the establishments to the south were rumored.

He picked up a plate, shoving his way through the mob towards the last batch of soggy eggs. Scooping every crumb onto his plate, Roy violently pushed his way back out into the already unbearable sun. The eggs were gone before he could even head to the tables. Yet his stomach still snarled as if nothing were eaten at all.

"Holding up alright, Major?" Asked an all-too-familiar voice, and Roy hardly even had to turn around for his greeting. The Flame Alchemist dumped his plate into a murky gray bucket of water that had long since been blessed with soap, listening to the clink of china against china.

"I should be asking you the same, Armstrong." he replied darkly, his misery as apparent as it was the beginning of the war. "I heard about the third battle. I'm sorry."

Armstrong only smiled sadly, clapping Roy on the back. "A man must do what a man must do. I only wish that they were men instead of children."

IV.

The range was thick with the stench of gunpowder and smoke, loud with the silence of aim and concentration. It was her paradise, in a way, the long runs divided by wooden fences, finished with the thin metal bulls-eye that had become as familiar as a lover's embrace. Hawkeye could stay there for hours, lodging shell after shell in the target, relishing the kick of recoil every time she pulled the trigger. Her rifle had become like a drug, addicting and sweet and undeniably always there when it was needed most.

The sun was blazing that morning, causing sweat to run down her neck and pool at the base of her spine. She pulled the semiautomatic close to her face, breathing in the smell of the grease she used to clean it and the underlying aroma of metal. Riza squinted one eye closed, aiming right in the center of her target. In the time that took her to think, the bullet bit through the metal that at any other time would be flesh.

"Another perfect shot." Roy murmured, leaning up against one of the wooden poles that held up the tent that did little but magnify the sun's heat. If it weren't for his expression, one would think he was flirting with her.

Hawkeye scowled. "I never miss," She retorted blandly, reloading another magazine into her rifle and glaring at him, eyes a curious mix of brown and crimson. "Sir."

"Call me Roy." He replied pleasantly, smiling at her. She always had a sort of animosity toward him: he suspected it was a feeling of inadequacy. The feeling that she, as a sniper, had failed in this war. Why else might the General call in the assistance of the prized State Alchemists?

"I would prefer to keep our relationship formal, sir." She didn't look at him as she emptied her magazine before he could blink. Not one of the bullets missed its mark. "If you don't mind."

Roy smiled, almost as puzzled by her façade as she was by his, and shrugged. "As you wish, lieutenant."

V.

Marcoh's laboratory was one of the only true buildings on the eastern military camp, albeit aluminum and

about as sheltering as a wooden lean-to. But it was cool and moist, so unlike the stifling heat of the Ishvalan desert. His establishment was about five feet below ground level, nestled in amongst mud and covered in reflective glass to repel the merciless desert sun. It was surrounded by the tents of the soldiers and thus well secured. It was obvious that, whatever Dr. Marcoh was doing there, the military didn't want anyone or anything to come upon it.

Marcoh spent most of his days in his makeshift laboratory, pouring over alchemic texts and going over the elements and compounds of the red stone. It was better he stay there, anyway, he mused bitterly, chewing his bottom lip. He didn't think he was strong enough to see the destruction going on just outside his shelter. As if turning a blind eye could cause less people to die.

Roy stalked down the stairs silently, squinting into the inky darkness. "Marcoh." His voice called slowly, as if the damp air deterred the sound. The doctor jumped, twisting around at the alchemist.

"Roy. Come in." He replied in the same languid drawl the military expected. "Do you want me to refill your aspirin? I got a new shipment in last week with the train."

Hesitant, The Flame toyed with his words before finally speaking slowly. "I just ran out." He said with a forced smile, a psuedo pleasantry. His mind screamed at him to keep his eyes away from the bubbling flask of scarlet liquid, thick and holding the stench of hot blood.

VI.

"That man is suspicious of you." came a distinctly feminine voice from the depths of his laboratory once Roy had long since closed the door behind him.

"Or maybe of you." Marcoh spat, tossing an irritated glance over his shoulder. His eyes could barely adjust to the dim light to make out the figure of his assistant. "You weren't exactly subtle when you arrived."

The woman sighed and moved around behind him; Marcoh could see her dark profile from the corner of his eye. She was frighteningly beautiful, all blunt curve and fair skin. She had an almost dreamy appearance, as if she'd been conceived from a man's fantasy or a woman's jealousy. "I was mingling with the soldiers this morning." she seethed, still bathed almost entirely by shadow. The change of subject was blunt, but her tone dared him to acknowledge it. "There's talk of conspiracy."

"Conspiracy? Ha." Marcoh sneered, pouring a few elements into each other, swirling it together in the vile. "If there is one, it's run by the higher-ups, not me."

"Still," the woman hissed. "The rumors concern me. You can't screw this one up, doctor." She pronounced his title as if it were a joke, and then disappeared back into the darkness as a snake would into a clump of weeds.

Marcoh's frown deepened, and he went back to his research.

TBC...