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lykomancer

A Bene Placito


I'm counting the seconds that tick by while I wait, feeling the passage of each moment like a physical thing as I listen to the soft fuzz of static coming down the line; it's a long connection from Eastern City to Central, and I understood that there would likely be a half-heartbeat delay while the signal relayed through the miles of cable—the little bastard will have answered before I even know he's picked up, have answered and already be wondering who it is and perhaps even considering hanging up before he hears my voice slithering through the receiver.

Perhaps I was a little overly protective of my pet, calling him like this, but then, he'd been away in Eastern a good long while and I'd been—occupied—with other things that needed to be handled before I could handle him. And it was true that Dante hadn't sounded particularly forgiving when she'd found out that I'd been screwing his pathetic blond brains out on the side; in fact, she'd looked damn near murderous—-> Really, I just think she's jealous that I got to taste the bastard's son before her, and I can't blame her—he really is a sweet little treat.

Dante had learned long ago that she'd never have me completely under her thumb, and that I had no compunctions about indulging my own wishes over hers—I wanted what I wanted when I wanted, and that dried-up old demanding bitch could take a backseat and stuff her selfish little desire for the Stone right up her loose, rotting cooch. It wasn't like she was actually getting off her ass and doing anything to get the damned thing she wants so badly; no, she just sits at home, tending to her fucking flowers and sipping tea and making all of us do her dirty work, the lazy—

"Hello?"

I startle, suddenly coming back to the moment, and then grin broadly. Forget Dante; she wasn't important, not now. I'd deal with her later—right now it was pleasure before business. "Well, hello, hello, Shorty," I purr, cradling the phone against my shoulder. I relax back into the wide, cushy velveteen chair, the tension of waiting easing out of my body and something almost like real living heat rushing through me at the sound of his voice, sharp and edged with aggression.

There was a longer hesitation than could be chalked up to the distance that spanned between us, and I chuckle softly, imagining his surprise at hearing me, seeing him in my mind's eye as he flushes and glances over at his brother, sucking on his bottom lip as he tries to decide how to respond.

"What do you want?" he finally hisses in a low voice, and that makes me snicker again, since he's probably cupping the phone against his chest in an attempt to hide it from the walking tincan, when in fact such an action makes him look more guilty than if he just straightened up and spoke normally.

"That's a particularly stupid question; you should know what I want by now. I want you. To be a little more specific, I want you on your knees with your tight ass up in the air and your whoring little legs spread, your hands tied behind your back. I want to see my come dripping down the insides of your legs; I want to see bloody welts across your skin from the whipping I gave you; and most of all, I want to see that dull, hazy look in your eyes that means that, in spite of—no, because of everything, you want it too, more than me."

There was another long pause, and then I heard the mouthpiece muffled and my little pet speaking to someone else, interrupted briefly by a higher-pitched voice and some clanking. More silence, then he explodes.

"You've got a lot of fucking nerve calling me and trying this shit now, you know that? What in the hell are you thinking!" Ed sputters for a moment. "You shouldn't even be calling me in the first place, much less—"

I'd begun speaking to cut him off in his awkward little pause, but that damned lag gave him time to pick up the thread and resume, so my words crash into his awkwardly at first. "Shut up, Shorty." I shift in my seat, leaning forward a little, irritated. If I was there, I'd put him straight for being so fucking mouthy to me. He knows better than that. "You're going to listen to me, and you're going to listen to me good, ‘cause otherwise I'm gonna make you regret every word when next I see you, and trust me, you really don't want that—now do you?"

A sigh. "What do you want, Envy?" Pause. "Besides what you mentioned before."

"I want to play."

"Go on."

"Heh. That's better, pet. Here's the game then: I'm gonna tell you what I want you to do, and you're gonna do it exactly as I say. If you cheat and don't do what I tell you, I'll know. If you cheat and do more than I tell you, I'll know. And if you do either of those things, Shorty—" I leave the threat hanging. I wasn't using his name yet, like I usually did when we played, and I'm sure he recognized that as a threat in and of itself.

"You're sick, you know that. And I don't appreciate being bullied."

I burst out into uncontrollable laughter, and for a moment I can feel his outrage burning down the line. I ignore it; it's not like it matters much anyway—outrage seemed to be one of my paramour's favorite emotions when confronted with something he wasn't comfortable with. "Oh, really? And what I do to you isn't bullying, then, of course, because you like that—You like it a lot, and you can't lie about it. Not when I've felt you hard against my leg when I beat your ass; not when I've seen you blow your load all red-faced and squalling without me even having to touch your cock—" I laugh again, then trail off into a thoughtful hum, sensing him just seething on the other end. I cut him off before he can protest. Time for the first order.

"Alrighty, then Ed my pet, first things first. Lay down on the bed; make yourself comfortable. Let your hair down."

"Yeah, yeah—" He's grumbling, but I can hear the creak of the bedsprings as he settles down, begrudgingly obliging me no doubt more out of his own insatiable curiosity than out of any fear of what I might do if he didn't listen. That's fine. I'm not interested in why he does it, just that he does.

"Now what, you pushy bastard? Get undressed?"

"Don't presume to know what I want, pet. It's rude. No—I want you to leave your clothes on for now. I want you to relax completely and start to touch yourself. All over. Run your fingers through your hair and pull a little—then along your face and throat—feel how vulnerable it is, your life just under the surface—"

"This is stupid. What's the point?"

"Hush. You're thinking too much. Stop thinking and just do it. It's what I want."

"Since when do I care what you want?"

"What, you want the actual date?" I snort, tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair. I want to be there; I want to be able to see him, touch him, own him that way. But I can't, not yet, and this is an excellent game, one which allowed me to see exactly how much mine he was. I continue in a pleasant tone. "If it helps you, imagine that I'm the one touching you—or that Colonel you're so fond of."

That wasn't fair and I couldn't blame him for responding with a soft snarl. "I'm going to hang up on you!"

"No, you're not. What you are going to do is—you're still wearing your gloves? Take them off. And while you're at it, take off that ridiculous long-sleeved black thing, too, and your boots if you've still got them on."

"You're such a bastard." Ed sighs, and then there's silence, and I frown, raising a brow—what was this? the shrimp was disobeying?... and then I relax again, hearing the soft rustle of cloth sliding and the creak of the bed as he moves. I hear the thud of his boots falling to the floor as he toes them off.

"Good, good. Now where were we? Oh, yes—You are going to slide your hands up under your shirt and over that pretty body of yours. Trace along that nasty little scar on your shoulder—Mmmmm—Have I ever told you how much that scar turns me on? You can probably tell, though, even if I haven't said—It reminds me of all the ways we are alike."

I hear his hissing intake of breath, and for a moment I wonder if I've gone too far, adoring and complimenting him on the mark of his sin. Still, just thinking about that darker, thicker ridge of skin between his unblemished flesh and the smooth, coolly inorganic steel plates of his automail makes my stomach quiver, makes my cock twitch briefly with mild interest. His flaws were what made him beautiful, and I loved beautiful things; his errors made him strong, and his strength was what interested me and kept me coming back to him.

"Down, now, over your chest. Feel your heartbeat trembling your skin; feel your heat—contrast it with your automail. Rub your fingers along your nipples; tease them a little, gently at first, and as they start to harden, get a little rougher. Pinch them, dig your nails in, tug on the ring."

"Mmm—" He's silent for a few long minutes, and then there some kind of acquiescent noise and a soft sigh as he steps it up, and I can picture him so clearly: his long blond hair feathered out over the pillows, the black shirt rucked up to his collarbones as his fingers work on the dark nubs, one run through with the gold ring I gave him, his lovely face infused with color and his eyes closed as he concentrates on my voice and the first stirrings of lust in his body.

"Harder," I urge in a low whisper, and I'm rewarded by a shaky little gasp and whimper. He's twisting that piercing, I bet. It was a pleasant surprise to find out how sensitive it was; it only takes a few minutes of suckling and pulling on it before he's completely, mindlessly wanton, crying out and pumping his hips shamelessly in the air.

I let my own fingers drift across my chest idly, dragging my nails over the taut nubs of my nipples before dragging down over my stomach, my thumb swirling around my navel lazily. Listening to the little noises panting down the line was appealing, and his submission to me even with this great distance between us was amazingly erotic.

"Ed." I lower my voice to a deep throaty purr, half-closing my eyes to focus on the pretty pictures flashing through my mind. "Does it feel good?"

"Yes—" he drags out the word, slow and sensual, and my groin tightens almost immediately. Ed was such a sexual creature; he deserved to be kept as a full-time pet, leashed and collared and licking his master's feet.

"Are you aroused?"

"Yes—"

His breath huffs unsteadily, and I raise a brow. "Are you cheating, Edward? I didn't tell you that you could—"

But this time he's the one who cuts me off. "No! No—I—"

"You were thinking about it, though."

"Yeah—Fuck, Envy, you know how—"

"—hard you get whenever someone plays with that ring I gave you?" I finish neatly. "Yes, I know." That kind of was the point after all.

There was a quiet pause, and then he spoke again. "What are you thinking about? Tell me."

I smile, switching positions until I am sprawled out lazily, draped over the arms of the chair, one arm thrown over the back, the phone pinched between my head and shoulder, my other hand dropped down in the valley between my legs, stroking myself to full erection as I think about the answer.

"I'm thinking about you, of course, and all the terrible things I want to do to you. Thinking that, if I were there, I'd slide a cock ring down around you and then make you touch yourself like this, and I'd watch, waiting until you were all flushed and squirming, whimpering because I was keeping my distance, just aching from that ring of metal squeezing the base of your prick...and then I'd order you up on your elbows and knees and make you present to me—"

A soft groan feathers through my words, and I find that spark of alchemical energy within myself, stripping myself down with the ease of thought. Much better. My fingers curl around my cock tightly, and I close my eyes. It's not as sweet as riding the little blond I got on the other end, but it'll do.

"In fact, do that. Take your pants off and then roll over and stick your ass up. Rub those aching tits of yours against the blankets."

I listen to him shift around, breathing hard in anticipation, and for a moment I am there—I can hear it, see it, almost fucking smell it—and I groan again, twisting a little against the prickly velveteen.

"I want t—"

"Yes. Do it."

"Ah—god—!" Muffled slightly, like the phone is slipping. Then, considering the position, I can't imagine he's having an easy time of things.

"Slowly. Go slow at first, pet."

"Ah—ah—Uh-huh—You were saying?"

"Yes. And when you were positioned as I wanted, I'd come over to play with you properly. My military dog—I think I'd put a collar around your neck and a ball gag in your mouth, and I'd hook the two together with a short leash so that you couldn't lift your head—maybe put cuffs on you and hook them up, too. Make you curve your back in and tip your hips back—a good show dog has to have proper stance, you know—"

"And then?" He's panting steadily, his breaths punctuated by little plosive moans. "What then, y—you fucking bast—bastard? Walkies?"

"No—" I sigh the word, jerking a little quicker in response to the lovely noises he can't mange to contain anymore. I know for a fact that I'm still going slower than him; the squirt's impatient and likes it like he likes almost everything else—fast and punishing furious. "Next? Next I'd fish your belt out of the pile of clothes, and I'd use it on you, reveling in the smack of the leather on your skin and the red welts and the noises you'd make—indignant yelps eventually dying down to cute little whines. I know you, I know that at first you'd try to be stoic about it, like it didn't hurt, and then slowly you'd start wiggling like that would help ease the sting, and then—

My breath hitches, and I realize I'm twitching my hips up in an ever quickening pace, and I can hear Ed's almost aggressive gasping.

"Then you'd start wanting it, and start moaning like a slut, and I'd drop the belt and grab your hair and thrust into you dry, and you'd scream against the rubber gag and buck underneath me, and I'd laugh because your pain amuses me—and—and—I'd just pound into you mercilessly, as h—hard as I wanted, until you wanted that too—c—cause you get off on being hurt—and—"

I have to wonder if he's even listening to my words anymore, or just hearing the dark, hungry, needy, demanding tone of my voice and responding on a visceral, instinctive level. It doesn't matter; it has the same affect. That far-off bed in Eastern City is creaking rapidly, and Ed is mewling breathily against the receiver, pitch first going up in desperate cries that sound pained and then dipping down in low, seething grunts, and oh! that's one of my favorite noises in the world because I know that any minute now he's—he's going to...

"Come for me, Edward," I gasp suddenly, and everything else has fallen away—there is no chair, no phone, no distance between us—and it's so good, so good, I don't even need to be there and he obeys me; he doesn't need a collar because he's leashed by my will and my word, and I fucking love it—fucking—love...

"Ah—ah—Oh! Ah—! AH!" He gives a staccato burst of increasingly loud yells, and then a trembling cry as he does as I command, and I can't resist that; with a hissing snarl, I arch back hard over the arm of the chair, cold fluid spurting into my cupped hand.

Not as good as the real thing, but, damn, I wasn't complaining. I unwind slowly, catching my breath and listening to Ed pant. It was worth it just to know that he was mine, all mine, even outside of our clandestine meetings, and that no matter what, I could make him my little whore.

"Mmm—" He mumbles something, and I can hear the metallic bang of his automail hand against the phone as he reaches for it lazily. "Mmm—nnn...nnnvvvyy—" He sighs and tries again, though I already know he's trying to say my name. "Envy—?"

"Yes, pet?"

"Fuckin' hate you."

There was no other response but to laugh. "Yeah?

"And I'm not your pet."

"Oh?"

"No. And you should never call me again."

"I'll take it that you had a good time, then?" I wipe my hand clean on the back of the chair and then roll out of the thing to my feet, twirling the cord around my finger as I redress. I can't help the broad grin, wondering if Ed knew how transparent he really was.

"Fuck you. If I did, it's only ‘cause you're not actually here and I did all the work."

"We'll see about that, Shorty."

He slams the phone down hard, cutting me off abruptly, and I laugh again. I may have the first word, but he really did like getting the last one; that was fine by me, because it simply meant that I'd have to start a new "conversation" with him later—and he'd unwittingly given me an excellent idea.

Walkies.

I am going to need to pick up some supplies before I see my military dog again.