#lustai

Fullmetal Alchemist | Riza/Lust | Riza has trained herself to be the perfect soldier, but a chink in her armor leaves her all too defenseless.

Requested by an anon; I hope you enjoy!

Very inspired by guttertongue’s incredible art of these two; the closing line is taken from this piece.

Lately, Riza has been thinking about Ishval.

In one sense, she’s never not thinking about it; the war has seared itself so indelibly into every part of her subconscious that it is less an event that is over and more an ongoing experience that she carries with her. But lately the thoughts have been different.

She finds herself nostalgic.

It is sickening and she is disgusted with herself for it, but self-flagellation fails to quash the feeling. She thinks of when things were simple and when her world narrowed to the scope and barrel of a gun. The way she remembers it, she never really had to think at all. She never had the opportunity to deviate, never felt the grim void of uncertainty open up before her.

(She remembers it incorrectly, but that does not matter.)

Now she has nothing but uncertainty and opportunity, and endless scads of time to think.

She has eaten dinner and fed Hayate, read the newspaper and finished writing a letter. She has made and finished a mug of chamomile tea that failed to either warm her or induce drowsiness.

She is thinking about Ishval too because it is something to think about, or more accurately something else. She can remember the way a young man was turning to face her when her shot caught him, and how he looked surprised more than anything else as he fell. He had black hair, and perhaps it wasn’t a young man at all, but a young woman—

She breathes out sharply and closes her eyes as if erasing mental images could ever be that simple. Hayate stirs at her feet and lifts his head.

The trouble with the way she has lived until now, she has discovered, is that it takes only a drop of pleasure to destroy all her ascetic will.

Or maybe she’s just weaker than she thought.

Are you so afraid of what you want? the not-woman calling herself Solaris asked her before. Riza didn’t bother to answer her, but the question has been echoing around her head ever since.

What she wants is a future for this blood-soaked country and its people, and justice. Her path has always stretched out clear before her. It is clear now, though she’s fallen off of it.

Does it eat away at you, being the perfect soldier?

Yes, she is afraid of that. She is a weapon, Colonel Mustang’s weapon, and she cannot allow herself to be compromised. She should have shot Solaris the first time, should track her down and shoot her now, should tell the Colonel.

But instead she sits at her table with her head in her hands, and her recollections of Ishval merge seamlessly into memories she should never have acquired in the first place. She has borne her share of guilt for all these years, and now it grows heavier and heavier.

It’s all right. You can be whatever you like for me.

When she shoves her chair back and stands, Hayate jumps up as well and whines. But though his presence has meant the world to her, there are wounds in Riza he will never be able to heal.

.

“I thought it would be a while before I saw you again,” Solaris says, smirk on her face and in her voice. She plays Riza so expertly; if the lieutenant is a weapon, she knows exactly how to wield it. “I thought your resolve was stronger than that.”

“My resolve is strong enough,” Riza says shortly. As soon as the door is closed behind her, she has the other woman up against the wall. She can feel the softness and warmth of Solaris, and the sight of her pretty black waves and perfectly-painted lips is exquisite. She’s wearing a thin-strapped burgundy dress, a departure from her usual black but just as form-fitting.

“You are strong,” Solaris agrees. Her gloved fingers trace Riza’s shoulder and then down her bicep. She always seems fascinated by the musculature, somewhere between studious and hungry. The attention is always intoxicating.

Riza does not deserve to be looked at like that, like she has worth, not given what she’s done. This is a simple truth, and she thought she had accepted it.

But it feels—so—good—

Solaris’s mouth is hot and her lips are soft and the kiss tastes of everything Riza has denied herself. They kiss open-mouthed and languid, tongues curling against each other and teeth catching lips. They break apart and look at each other, a thin strand of saliva joining their lips and then yielding to gravity. Riza is red-cheeked and breathing hard, her mind hazy. Solaris looks the same, except that her lipstick has smeared. Her eyes are narrow and dark with lust.

Or maybe it’s just the reflection of Riza’s own lechery that she sees there.

Solaris cups her chin and digs her sharp nail into Riza’s lower lip. Her other hand has slipped underneath her jacket, underneath her shirt, to claw at her back. She will leave bloody trails there to join the other marks marring what was once her father’s life work.

He would be furious with her for ruining it; Alchemy was his first and only love.

“Come,” Solaris murmurs, and pulls Riza’s head down to her neck. Riza obediently opens her mouth to suck and leave hickeys that will fade much too quickly. Unable to resist, she kisses down the other woman’s collarbone. Above the curves of her delicious breasts she is confronted, as always, by the tattoo.

Something hot and horrible rises in the back of her throat, and suddenly her eyes are filling like she’s a child again. She presses a tentative kiss there, and hates herself for it, and wishes she had been stronger. She blinks and a tear escapes down her cheek.