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lykomancer

Possession


"Mine."

Kimbley feels the press of cold lips to the crown of his head, nuzzling the dark strands, as Greed established his claim over the alchemist, and he sighs, fingers twitching around his drink. It was going to be one of those days.

With Greed, every day was one of those days

"Mine."

Those lips are at his throat, laying claim to the life that bubbled just under the surface—a life that could be snuffed out so simply by those razor-edged teeth scissoring down to shear through his pale flesh.

Kimbley takes a drink, the alcohol sliding down sweet and hot as cinnamon, his Adam's apple moving under the homunculus' mouth.

"Mine."

An array-branded hand is lifted and the dark, deadly lines given attention; Greed drags his tongue along them, tracing the design, savoring the sweat-salt sting of human flesh, redolent with the lingering aftertaste of whiskey.

The Crimson Alchemist smirks against the lip of the tumbler, swallowing again. The Sin thinks he can harness that power to his own desires with a single word? He should count himself lucky that this little game of his isn't blowing up in his face...

Literally.

"Mine."

Greed's head rests against his alchemist's back, listening to each beat of his heart—the driving rhythm of the human's own internal combustion engine—and broad hands slide around the narrow waist; the oroborus mark matches the burgundy suit in the dim lighting, but Kimbley doesn't have to look down to know this.

Not anymore.

"Mine."

Blunt, square-tipped fingers dive down to slide sleek over the inside of his thighs before skittering back to cup the warm secret bulge, Greed's thumb circling over the most sensitive spots. He doesn't have to look either.

Not anymore.

Kimbley finally turns on the barstool to face Greed, yellow eyes lazily lidded, lashes sweeping low in a coy glance as the homunculus relaxes his grip and leans back to grin.

The alchemist smiles back, one hand curled to clasp Greed's leather-clad hip, the other's long fingers twisting nimbly in the white ruff. He yanks hard, and the Sin lets himself be pulled forward, pulled down to that hungry mouth.

Kimbley bites—his sharp white teeth cutting into Greed's lips, breathing in the alchemical energy of his inhuman healing like heady carbonation off of the fine champagne of the Sin's cold blood—and when he finally pulls away his grinning lips are stained ruddy crimson. He shoves Greed away from him forcefully, taking advantage of the brief moment while the homunculus was still purring from his "kiss," and spins back to his drink.

The delayed explosion rocks The Devil's Nest, and in the dead silence that falls in its wake, a single smug voice speaks.

"Mine."