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lykomancer

Ave Maria


Within bare months of her arrival in the sunken city, Sloth and Envy had worked out a mutually acceptable agreement between them. The others, of course, didn’t know about the details of their bargain, not even Dante, but they did see the results and those with any sense or human emotion left—that is, Lust and Pride, primarily—felt a vague foreboding about what this might imply. Sloth had already proved herself to be an emotionless killer who, if time allowed, toyed with her struggling prey for hours before finally managing to break them beyond repair with the same blank, bland facial expression, revealing neither pleasure nor annoyance nor mercy; and Envy was a charming yet dangerous psychopath—purring and playing like a tame kitten in one moment and in the next murderously enraged, killing for the least offense. He was nigh-well impossible to live with, spoiled rotten and capable of throwing temper tantrums that brought jagged chucks of rock tumbling down from the ceiling of the cavern above, and no one had thought that he was even capable of being anything other than self-centered—at least until they saw the way he behaved toward Sloth.

What the others didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—was that here at last Envy finally had gotten something he had wanted—something he really, truly had wanted—and that he was so delighted with his victory over those he hated most of all that he was almost enamored with his prize—his gift from Dante and the blond bastard’s little brats, tailor-made by them perfectly for him. Yes, Sloth pleased Envy more than anything else had in centuries simply because of who she had been and what she was now, and the circumstances that had lead to her change from devoted wife and loving mother to soulless monster.

She was like a lovely, flawless porcelain doll, with delicate painted lips and wide shining eyes like chips of deep amethyst framed with black silk lashes; she was beautifully, lushly feminine and soft, and Envy loved the look of her, sitting at one of the window seats with her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, and he loved the feel of her, her mute lack of resistance an open invitation to draw her up against him and nuzzle the fragrant curtain of her hair back to nip blood-blossoms along her throat and push up dress up her smooth thighs until his fingers found the plump, wet lips of her sex. He loved the taking of her, over and over without rest or respite, savagely hard and furious, shifting his form to fill her so completely that he finally manage to draw hushed cries from her fluttering tongue, and he loved letting her take him simultaneously, coming and dying in alternating spasms as he drowned in her embrace, eager for more, more of her and more of the little death she gave him.

He loved striding into the room and shoving her up against the wall, smirking with her ex-husband’s mouth as he beat her to bloody redeath and broke her neck, as he hissed terrible, hateful words at her in the voice that had once confessed undying love; he loved toddling up to her in the guise of a small blond child, his golden eyes gleaming maliciously as he climbed up into her lap and licked at her lips, his small, soft hands thrust down her dress to pinch her nipples, squirming against her.

Yes, Ed’s form was one of those he liked best and used frequently, shifting into it whenever the whim took him—the dark head bowed between her legs suddenly running brighter, the fingers stroking her becoming coolly metallic, and then he growled when he looked up at her with her ex-son’s tiger-bright eyes and licked his lips. “Mother, Mother—” he murmured, sliding over her sprawled limbs, and she reached up to thread her fingers through his thick bangs and pulled him down into kiss that tasted like an ocean with no memory and rock her hips up in offering with a desperate groan.

“No—” she breathed against his—Ed’s—shoulder, closing her pretty, inhuman eyes and he grinned fiercely as he pushed her lower body up off the floor, arms clasped around the small of her back to hold her while he thrust. “I’m not that boy’s mother—I’m not. I’m not her—Make him go away; drive these memories away—He’s not my son—”

“He isn’t?” She was still sensitive about that; his doll still had a lingering remnant of humanity haunting her, and Envy sadistically enjoyed exploiting this one weakness, and it added to his enjoyment of her body. He ground down against her, and she climaxed almost immediately with a shuddering gasp, her cold cunt clenching tight in rhythmic pulses; he barked a sharp laugh, amused that she was so undeniably aroused by this body fucking her, by her son’s face leering down at her—and while Trisha Elric was dead and this thing under him was nothing but the empty shell of her, this was the body that had carried that short bastard in its belly and this the sex that had spewed him, screaming and red-faced, into this world. This was the body that had mothered him in the most biological sense, and the flesh carried its own memories.

Sloth shivered in quaking aftershocks as he resumed pumping into her, moaning in appreciation of her tight slickness, and she shook her head in rolling arcs, her hair sweeping the floor. “No,” she groaned again, her voice catching in her throat, and he thought again of how perfect she was—not the dark seductive velvet purr of Lust but something as fragile and broken-edged as the shattered remains of crystal wedding glasses, and that was better; her appearance of vulnerability excited him, and he snapped his hips forward with bruising force, losing more and more of his control in favor for immediate gratification—at least for now, for this moment. They had all day; he didn’t have to postpone his first orgasm. If he took the edge off now—

“Prove it Prove that you aren’t her—Should be—ah!—easy for you, if you really aren’t—”

“I—” Sloth panted, bucking up to meet his painful strokes and opening her eyes to meet his challenging golden glare and Envy sucked in a hissing breath, pumping faster. He knew what he wanted to hear, and he was sure she’d say it; she was good like that, this broken doll—almost as broken as he himself was, and they shared similar ideas on how to handle vexing human problems—

“I’ll kill them both.”

And oh, that was exactly what Envy wanted to hear her say in her sweet little breathless whisper—words he’d never wanted to hear more in his life—and the thought of watching her kill the little blond brats, her watery tentacles holding them in place and pouring down their throats to choke the life from them—the thought of the wonderful irony of them being throttled to death by the creature they’d created of their mother—Envy’s eyes rolled back as he came in one last series of jackhammer thrusts, his whole body shaking and low cries of approval vibrating in his throat, and before he collapsed down on top of her limply, he felt her tense up again, throbbing round his spasming cock and milking his pleasure from him.

Shuddering, Envy dropped back into his “own” form and raked his long hair out of his eyes. “That’s my girl,” he purred, eyes narrowed and gleaming with delight. “We’re going to kill them all.”

He chuckled a little before lowering his head to one breast, thinking suddenly of the savage little inhuman child cringing before him on the floorboards of an abandoned store room in the military headquarters and the desperate way the thing had clung to the dark-haired woman who’d ran off with him, not realizing the changes that had occurred between the time she’d lost him and when she found him again.

“We don’t need those little bastards. We’ll make our own family,” he added flippantly, lips curling in a smirk before he laughed at Sloth’s elegantly raised brow.

“You’ll be such an excellent mother,” he said, already hard again and ready for more of her. “I just know it—”