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Merciless


It was easy—always so fucking easy—to be you.

A new you. A better you. I enjoyed it, too; couldn't you tell? I loved shifting into the body you adored so much, watching the horror on your face, looking on as you tripped and stumbled and wailed like a fucking newborn, caught in the humanity you never wanted. I was laughing at you the whole time, though I wondered if you could hear me over the sounds of your screams.

Maybe you couldn't. That's just as well.

It felt marvellous to be so supple, strong, powerful, and I owed you for my looks, didn't I? But no, no, you were the one who owed me, Envy. You owed me for everything—everything—and now that I was in your place, I understood the hate that you felt, but understanding didn't mean pardoning.

I guess I could've been done with you back when Dante decided to discard you, saying you were no more use as a human. I could've just let you get taken out with the trash, you know? Out with the old, in with the new. But you were so fucking pitiful—lying there, head down, hair over your face. You looked like you'd been kicked, and I suppose having your guts re-arranged and transmuted into entirely fucking different matter could cause that, right? But you were human. Weak, scrawny for a guy, flushing and warm and shivering despite your new heat.

And in that moment, I realized that throwing you out would have been a waste.

It's too bad you couldn't see yourself...how entertaining you were. I could see you, and maybe that's the closest thing to viewing you through your own eyes; well, heh, who the fuck really knows? I leave the philosophy to Dante and all the goddamned alchemists. All I know is that when I got bored—which was often, given that Dante had gotten her new Philosopher's Stone and didn't have any new missions for us at the moment—you were my favourite entertainment, and to this day, that's still true.

I've never regretted keeping you, Envy.

You've been the best fucking pet that I could hope for, much better than Gluttony would have been, and I still delight in making you purr and growl and squeal.

Fool that you were, you thought you understood your name. You fancied that you knew how it felt to have everything taken from you—your identity, your appearance, every fucking aspect of your life. Petty, jealous little creature. But you had no idea. You had no fucking clue how much more you could lose, or how thoroughly your patchwork reality could be torn to shreds, bit by bit, with me wearing your smile and me pulling the strings. I relished every minute of it, too. It was fucking wonderful to take from you as you wanted to take from everything and everyone else.

I remember how obstinate you were. I know how obstinate you still are.

But I don't mind. Not at all. That's what makes this fun; don't you see?

You can't even fathom how it felt. You wanted to do this to Edward Elric, didn't you? Wanted to take everything of his (or yours, as you saw it), fuck him bloody, kick him, rub his sorry nose into the fucking dirt, lick his smudged face and own the little shit. I know that was what you were after. But you didn't get it. You didn't even get a sixteenth of that satisfaction because you were too goddamned impatient, and instead of owning—instead of taking—you just killed.

Tsk. Tsk. After four centuries, you should have known better. You should have learned how to savour. But you didn't. And now I'm teaching you. Isn't that the most gorgeous irony ever?

Maybe the joke would be funnier to you if you weren't the joke.

Still, you might recall the way I laughed the first time I took a knife to your clothing (the same clothing which was no longer a part of your skin) and sliced through the middle of your top, pricking your pale skin as you shuddered and swore at me. I wasn't as careful as I could have been, I concede, and the blood which dripped down your skinny chest was heated, nothing like the ice that lived in your veins for four centuries, and nothing like what's flowing through mine.

Human. Alive. I whispered the words when I smeared the blood upon you and licked it away, when I ran my tongue across the red trails my "carelessness" had created, when I nipped the thin skin over your sternum.

I wondered if you heard me, or if you managed to close your ears like you closed your eyes. You had the audacity to look annoyed—or was it wounded?—what with your head lowered and your dark hair slipping between my fingers.

By then, I had already lived as you for long enough to have figured out that it was your pride and fucking joy, that hair, and I thought of cutting it away. Lowering you. Showing you what you'd really lost.

Yet in the end, I decided I didn't want to ruin your beauty.

My beauty.

It is mine, and so are you. All mine.

Your scent. Your taste. Your cruel eyes and your vile tongue. But not your humanity. No, this was a curse reserved for you—for the being who reached too far and too quickly, for those who transgress into the realm of the gods. You thought yourself a god, didn't you, Envy? Once, indeed. You might have been. Once. Now, you're scarcely even a man.

You'll never know how much I loved pulling your hair, yanking it, biting you, beating you, tasting you, kissing you with the wide mouth you had created and sucking the breath straight out of your human fucking lungs, chuckling with your mocking, hyena timbre, grinding your pelvis with your own slim, delicate hips. The first time...the first fucking time...I went slowly. Little by little. Inch by inch. Merciless were the fingers that played around the hem of your loincloth, easing it lower, revealing your navel—my navel—the indention of a fake birth and the glabrous, milky fair skin.

I sat you in my lap, positioned you like a doll, broke your lips and kissed your eyes. I ran my fingers through your hair and massaged the knots from your back.

I can be gentle to you, and I was then. You're too pretty to spoil. I never had any intention of removing your arms and legs, not when I wanted to touch them, and you, and feel the warmth your human flesh had accumulated. I adored running my fingers along your cuts and scrapes—the lacerations I had given you—and painting my fingertips with your blood, then tincturing your lips garnet and kissing you and tasting sweat, salt, oil, and iron.

Such an angry pet you were, Envy. No matter how much I coaxed, you never stopped hissing at me, breathing every curse in every tongue you knew, and I do love you for that.

Never are you more perfect than when you're flustered, or in the mood for violence, which seems to be always, and you're the ultimate orphaned child, the monster whose father didn't want him and whose mother thought she was too good for the world; you don't belong in any eternity. But in as much as I am you now, I do want to keep you. Forever.

I warned you that I might be vicious, and that was a caution for your own security, because you see, I was incapable of knowing what I would do.

And then having you with me—having you on my fucking lap, squirming and pressing against me and trying to shift away from me—having your head touch my chest, looking down and seeing our hair flowing together and pooling at my waist...it was almost too much, Envy. Almost too much. I could've torn your loincloth away and bent you over and fucked you dry until you yowled and bled and screamed and came, and I could've given you a fresh bouquet of bruises, or I could've left you unconscious and dreaming on a pillow of your own slick blood.

But in my own way, I was more merciless still.

Because, you see, I knew how fucking much you craved release. When I moved you closer, I could feel how hard you were—for me, for yourself—and I could've taken care of that, but instead I dug my fingers into the backs of your thighs and pushed you into me, rubbed you half-senseless, and oh Envy, I could've sworn that I heard you admit how badly you wanted me. How truly, utterly helpless you were to resist your own perfect form. You wanted me to hold you down and fuck you. You wanted my cock to slide between your pretty legs, but I wanted it between your pretty lips instead.

At least at first.

You wanted to beg, didn't you, Envy?

I removed the fabric from my thighs and eased your head down, allowing you to nose around like a horse sniffing out apples. How adorably hesitant you were, and I heard you growl low in your throat, and I knew how much your own cock was aching and throbbing and needing my touch. But I wasn't going to give it to you. Not until you had begged me. Even if your lips were too proud to utter the words I wanted to hear, then you could plead with your eyes. How many slutty, wanton looks do you keep in your arsenal?

My hands played over your hair as you rested on your knees before me. I indulged in the softness, remembering how it had tasted burnt. All of you tastes hot and kind of electric, singed as though alchemy had scorched every one of your beautiful strands, and I smiled as I considered that...yes, alchemy had done that, hadn't it?

So now it was a warm human mouth breathing on my flesh, causing my own breath to hitch in anticipation. Little tease. I urged you to be quicker, to just suck me already, but you took your time. Your pink tongue darted out, licking, licking so slowly, but you were still doing what I wanted, exactly what I wanted, and I hadn't even needed to beat you into it. My gaze commanded you. Wordlessly, I had broken you into servitude, because you just couldn't help yourself, could you, Envy? You were unable to resist wanting the body that you had dreamt into life in the first place.

I know you hate me for stealing your guise. But I also know that you loved opening your mouth and tasting what you were.

Your tongue felt so fucking good, sliding this way and that, over balls and shaft, rough against me, tracing the patterns of barely seen veins. You leaned forward, licking more quickly, causing me to purr softly and pant. Perfect. You were so perfect, and I couldn't believe it; who in the hell had you been practicing on? Had Dante gotten your cherry, or Greed, or some random human? Had you ever fucked your blond toy? Did you enjoy him the way I enjoyed you? I could've asked. Could've pried. Could've forced you to tell me all your dirty secrets, because you could never say no to me—

—but I decided some truths were better left unsaid.

Homunculi don't sleep, as you know, and I need something to turn over in my mind when I'm lying awake at midnight, counting the silver spiderwebs on the walls and letting the moonlight trickle over my eyes. I think about you constantly. All the time. All the fucking time.

I'll never tell you, though, how much I want to know you so I can understand what I am now. That's what this is really about, you see.

Dante drew that array and created me, and before I even met the serpent swallowing its tail on my thigh, the woman—our master—told me about you. And I saw you. I saw you when my eyes were still unfocused. You were in the bed next to me, a blur of green and white and black, screaming until your human lungs turned raw and bled.

That was me? You? The weakling? The overgrown infant who kicked aside whatever food he was given and snarled when he was spoken to?

I was just getting over being purple and inside-out, and I had no bandages to line my gaping sores, yet even so, you were a more pitiful thing than I. I watched you, and my own throat—too new to emit screams—constricted, and I thought...I thought I wanted to show you something. Teach you a lesson. Learn from you. Discover myself.

But I couldn't abide you acting so pathetic, Envy. I couldn't fucking take that.

Maybe Dante was still planning to mend my knotted serpent of a spine, but you needed to grow one, and if my hands were yours, then mine were the fingers which needed to pluck your courage to the surface. Violence, right? That's what you would've advocated, had you been in my place (and once, maybe once, you were). You needed your senses pummeled into your head. You needed to re-learn strength, and since I had acquired what once belonged to you, then who better to educate you than myself?

And you have gotten stronger. You really have.

The first time, you gave me so many scowls when I leaned back and threw my arm over the top of the chair, when at last you reached the top of my cock and swiped the slit with your amazing tongue, when you wiggled the muscle against me—back and forth, over and under and lower and higher. And then you looked up at me with those vibrant purple eyes, and it didn't matter that you were bleeding or bruised or hurting, because you smirked.

I almost lost it right there, you know. I almost yanked you up by the hair so I could throw you in my lap and fuck you until every bone in your body had shattered.

And maybe I should've, just so I could've held your throbbing heart in my hands and seen for myself whether it's as black as everyone says.

But I didn't, and I'll never know what stayed my hand. Either I was less merciless than I thought, or I was even more so, depending on your point of view. All I knew—and all I know even now—is that I couldn't fucking think whenever your tongue and mouth were on me, wet and hot and engulfing me, and you went slowly, so slowly, half an inch by half an inch, until I felt like my body had melted and turned into a mess of parts all over again, and you were sucking me and moaning and wanting me, and I felt it, Envy.

Each sound vibrated, punctuating your movements as you tickled me with your hair and bobbed up and down, taking me in so deep that I didn't know how you managed not to gag. But I didn't care. I didn't fucking care how you did it. I just wanted more. All. Everything of yours.

I relaxed in my seat and cupped my cheek with my hand, pretending I was bored, even though I was actually making an effort to swallow the gasps and groans that had filled my throat.

You were good, pet. You were so fucking good. But I couldn't let you know that; I couldn't feed your vanity.

I willed the redness from my cheeks and focused on what I saw crossing your face, much as you tried to hide it with your hair. Your eyes were always so fiery, passionate. When you reached up and proceeded to work me with your hands as well as your mouth, then I couldn't hold back a surprised grunt of pleasure. Perfect attention to detail, pet. I would've expected no less. In that moment, I decided it was time for you to have a little treat.

One of my feet eased forward casually, toes curling to grip the cloth that still hung over the lower part of your abdomen. I peeled it away with one jerking movement, grinning to see the erection you had for me—for yourself?—and carefully, slowly, teasingly, I nudged my sole against it and gave you the tiniest bit of friction.

How satisfying it was to hear you cry out, to feel you choke your scream on me.

I didn't let you pause, didn't even let you consider discontinuing your work. Your reactions were making me too eager for more of you, and I think I lost control in that moment, my dearest pet. I remember my mind going blurry, fuzzy, spotted red and orange, and then I had my fist in your hair and was pulling your head—your lips and throat—exactly where I wanted it. I held you in place and thrust into you until I could feel you trying not to gag as the whimpers were torn from you.

Yes! Perfect! All I knew was that you had better pray that your saliva was lubricant enough to keep your throat from being ripped, but so fucking what if it didn't? Didn't matter to me. Nothing mattered except possessing you, stripping you of every vestige of identity, pride, and shame. It was a drug—ownership, control, the best feeling I could have, and they say I fucking envy everyone else, but I didn't; I didn't, because I had what I wanted, all that I could want, all that I could need!

This thought proved enough to tip me over the edge.

I still remember your expression when I came—the way you coughed and wheezed and tried to swallow, spluttering and spitting as thick white trails slashed down your chin and dribbled onto me. What a messy little pet you were, and I made you lick away all the liquid you had carelessly spilled. Breathlessly, I informed you that if you were going to dirty the interior of our home too much, then I just might leash you up outdoors.

To this day, it amuses me to think upon how you snarled at me. How could you still wear any dignity when you were flecked with semen from cheeks to jaw?

I thought of cleaning you off. Polishing you like a trophy—which is what you are, after all. I could've scrubbed you head to toe with a cloth, wiped your "Sins" (our Sins) away. But no, no, I decided you weren't ready for that yet. You needed more lessons, because the first had not been enough. Even then, I had to ask myself—did I want you to show more resistance? Or did I want you to succumb and whine in utter humility? I didn't know. I still don't think I know.

Sometimes I think I want both of these things in the same instant.

Contradictions are what make us exquisite, Envy.

I gave you no respite, no comfort. You were not ready for that yet. I wanted you to suffer more, to work for your goal, my goal, our goal. Without touching you, without giving you the satiation you so desperately craved from me, I bound you in chains and locked you away in the basement our Master had long used as a dungeon. I endured your stinging words and your venomous silences, the hateful glares you launched at me every time my face appeared in the doorway.

To hone your skills, I loaned you out. I let Dante borrow you, and Pride, and the newest Lust. I gave you to anyone who wanted you, but only long enough to make such interesting stories for them to recite to me later. It's a pity you never told me your dirty secrets, Envy, but I was able to buy them from others. My talents are such that it's not very hard to do, and I believe the others are still rather enamoured with your current station in life; who would have imagined that you could fall so far?

I can't decide what my favourite part was, but I know that watching other people fuck you caused me to wiggle in my seat with excitement and anticipation.

You were pretty in the waning light, stretching and coiling like a feline, laid bare just for me, twisting sinuously as you panted and tried not to show how much you were enjoying every new experience. I watched hands play over your back, your shoulders, your stomach, and your hair. I looked on as fingers entered your mouth, muffling your high-pitched voice. I smiled to behold your flesh sliding against flesh of different colours from your own, sculpting for me a beautiful image—many beautiful images—producing a spectacle, a show, and it was all mine to witness and mine to enjoy.

No matter who else used you, you belonged to me when all was said and done; you had been given to me, and I owned every part of you, and there was a joy to be had in knowing this, in wallowing in this simple fact of ownership.

I always rested nearby, loving every minute of every session I had the pleasure to watch, and whether your performances consisted of acting or genuine euphoria, I didn't give a fuck. Either way, my cock was most receptive to your breathy, hungry little sounds and your unabashed desire, the colour your cheeks turned and the looks your eyes made and the way sweat glistened on you when the clouds departed and the moon shone full and bright.

I kept my distance...at least for a while.

For days, I was content to look on idly as you were trained to be the sort of pet I wanted. I touched myself, running my hand over my erection and squeezing it, jerking slowly and more quickly as I fantasized about fucking you, claiming you wholly. How sweet that would be. How perfect! But I couldn't take you all at once; no, no, that would spoil the fun. I had to unwrap my candy slowly, savouring every second and every sound it made.

I planned to have you, Envy, but not yet, and the building want inside of me would only serve to heighten the final instant of completion.

When I placed the metal collar around your throat, you looked as though you had half a mind to choke yourself on your leash so as to spite me. I don't doubt that you did.

Hatred is gorgeous on you, pet. You wear it as well as Edward ever wore angst, and I don't doubt that you would've loved to have done this to him if only to see the frustration on his face and the wetness in his eyes; I, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to see you seethe...and you did a fine job of it, whether quietly or with the slew of ugly and amusing curses you seemed to reserve such an appreciation for.

I was an attentive master. I kept you fed and watered. I groomed you. I took you wherever you needed to go and bathed you regularly. My hands cupped your collar and rubbed the cool surface, massaging the contrasting warm skin around it until you succumbed to moaning pliantly and lying in the tub, whereas before you had been thrashing about like a fucking idiot. Not that I had minded; pushing you into submission wouldn't be any fun unless you fought back.

The irony is, I never exhausted you. You exhausted yourself.

Ever since I had locked you up, I had stopped administering beatings; really, I only whipped you from time to time. Even so, you fought back until you had bruised your own body, and when I caught sight of the way you tried to claw your collar loose, then I knew that I would need to bind your hands. Unfortunate, too. Nonetheless, I linked your hands and scrubbed your tired body as you lay before me, eyes half-opened and dim, unfocused. I'm sure losing didn't feel very fucking good, did it?

But I didn't rub it in. I took care of you, washed your hair, tended to the red marks you'd given your neck, and cleaned your legs and between them until you tried to pull away and suppress your whimpers.

Over time, I had you in every form except the one you wanted.

You would have preferred to see your own face looking back at you, but instead I saw fit to tease you a little; you might have deemed it tormenting, but I beg to differ. I fucked you as your old man, holding you down and threatening you with your dirty secrets, slicing your vague childhood memories to ribbons of agony and hatred as you writhed and panicked beneath me.

Whether this was sadism on my behalf or masochism, I'll never know, but I wanted to see your pain and to feel it. I think I may even have wanted to empathize, although I have no idea why.

In a way, Envy, you're all I have. You're my possession, the one clue to my identity. You know who I was before, and you are who I am now.

In as much as I owned you, you owned me too...in a manner of speaking. And I hated it. I fucking hated it as much as I loved it. I hated being so dependent on you. I hated needing answers from you. I hated always needing, needing, needing. I hated always wanting more, always wanting you, always wanting to wring the emotions from you that I couldn't get on my own.

I fucking hated that no matter how much I debased you, you'd still come further than me, had been better off than me, and had power over me.

For that, pet, you needed to be punished.

I had you in every way I could conceive of. At times, I used objects—wrenches, like that little blonde bitch would have stuck in her cunt, or guns. I swiped the forms of military personnel and pushed the metal into you, holding your back to my chest as you tensed and breathed stiffly. I mimicked men and women both, as well as chimeras, and once, I even imitated the Gate and filled you with black tentacles. Heh. I don't recall that you liked that very much, but you came anyway, didn't you?

It's funny that I pierced you, pulled you down with the chubby arms of little blond boys, and nothing quite got to you—not until I tried Greed's form, ironically enough.

Maybe it was just the fact that by then, you'd been used so thoroughly. Maybe that was what finally cracked you.

All I know is that when I fucked you as your enemy, when I made the wicked words slither into your ear, when I recited your human life with Dante and that bastard who had sired you, then, then you snapped—wailed, swayed, toppled to your knees.

I released you, watching silently as you laughed hysterically until sobs bubbled in your throat, tearing hideous screeching noises from your vocal chords.

Crying and laughing all at once. Contradicting yourself impeccably.

It was all I could hope for in a single instant, and that was when I finally decided to end the game. When I began our adventures together, I didn't know what the fuck sort of reaction I expected from you; I didn't know, for me, what would constitute a finish line. I had just kept going and going with no particular conclusion in mind, but as I watched you sitting there, leaning sideways, with your hair tangled and knotted, tears shining on your face...then I knew.

I'd won, lost, and beaten myself.

So that brings us to the present, doesn't it? That brings us back to me having pushed you into pure insanity. I think I might've taken the plunge with you, but I'm still not sure. Guess it doesn't really matter, either way. We're both damned, Envy.

Now I'm sitting here, bored, knuckles on my cheek, and I'm contemplating this final act.

One more time. Until what, I don't know, but somehow, I'm sure that this will be the ultimate consummation.

I look down at you as you sit at my feet, noting that where once you would have been giving me baleful dark grimaces, now you're grinning mischievously despite the metal encircling your throat, and I realize—though I guess I always knew—that you understand how symbiotic our relationship actually is. The more you're hurt, the more I'm hurt, and you understand that, don't you? You know how to defeat me.

"Finish it," you say, reaching an unbound hand up to thread your slender fingers through your long hair, picking at it. "Or are you too fucking afraid to look in the mirror?"

Your tone is lilting, a purr—hypnotic, damn near humming the words. And they don't make sense, not really, but then, neither do we. In your own nonsensical way, maybe you've touched on a point. Maybe I have been afraid all along.

I retain my form—your form—as I pull you into my lap. You must know that I don't plan to shift this time, because you display an eagerness that I've never seen from you before. As soon as you're situated, you lunge forward, biting and growling and kissing me ferociously, then frowning and mewling as you grind your crotch against mine. With no words, you plead for me, for you, for a perfect unison.

Chain links clink musically as I strip you of your clothing.

I keep my breathing steady as I tip you forward, bringing your face into the crook of my neck, and I laugh to feel you biting and sucking and licking without me even needing to command you. Your hands are suddenly everywhere, tugging at my top and ripping with your nails, criss-crossing my stomach with jagged fuchsia lightning that vanishes almost as soon as it appears. I've never seen you so ravenous before, but here you are jerking down my clothing and angling your ass into the necessary position.

My, my. What have I unleashed?

In an instant, I have you nude but for the silver-coloured ring around your throat, and you're against me. Warm. So much fucking warmth rushing over me, blanketing me, contrasting with my own temperature. We're alike, exactly fucking alike in appearance, but you're burning alive and I'm fresh from the grave.

"How does it feel to be fucked by me?" I ask, idly, running my tongue along the side of your face to collect the budding sweat droplets. It's too soon to be losing control, but I can already feel the restraint rushing from my mind and body.

You're too aroused. Too alive. There's no resisting this temptation.

In response to my inquiry, you laugh. It's a rumbling sound, deep in your human lungs, rich with emotion and vigour, spreading throughout your ribs and throat just as your heat suffuses within me.

"It feels like everything," you confess. The words are barely more than air whispered into my ear.

Your answer isn't one I would have expected, but I suppose it really is the only truth, right? I have to hand it to you, Envy: in madness there is sanity, and you've proven this to me time and time again. It would feel like everything—like living and dying, like the Gate, like the organic and the inorganic. Because I'm everything. I'm the shadow of all that exists in this world, and yet I'm nothing without you, because you're my muse, my teacher, my inspiration, and I aspire to be all that you were and to succeed in every place where you found failure.

That's the very nature of Envy, yes? The serpent who swallows its tail. Wanting, needing, devouring, imitating and never being.

Even if the world eludes me forever, I do have you. In its own way, this may be poetic, or it may be merely a poeticism.

In this moment, I don't care. In this moment, there's only us: the nothing and the everything, and we don't belong in any world, any moment, but we're here, filling the seconds and the silences, and I'm holding my breath as I lean you forward, forcing you to arch as I lower my hand, stroke myself a few times, then shakily guide my cock between your smooth thighs, nudging your ass. I shiver when I hear the moan that elicits, when I feel you slide over me and press down, creating such delicious friction.

The best part is, I don't even have to prepare you. I've been preparing you so consistently that now you've become a nearly exact fit. Even so, I go slowly—easing inwards and biting down hard on the soft skin of my lips as I feel your comfortably tight heat gripping me, and then you're nibbling my lower lip, clenching...and...damn.

Fuck, Envy.

I could almost come right then and there. Could almost thrust in carelessly until we're both drenched with blood, and fuck, maybe I should, maybe, but after all this work, I think it's better to hold myself back, and I do, but it's so fucking hard. You're tight; even after everything, you're goddamned tight and searing, rippling smooth; it's almost, almost too much to stand.

I suck in a deep breath and hold you still, dragging out the penetration for so many painful seconds as you grunt and try to force me all the way in. Still so fucking impatient, I see.

You wrap your arms around me and clasp your hands together behind my back, and I shove my hips up, burying myself all the way in. You dig your knees into my sides and rock back and forth, and I help you, enjoying your sudden decision to to act so much more dominant. You have me now and you know it, because you're the one cradling me, holding me, clamping down around me, and this is your face, your creation, your dream and your nightmare—ice and shadow.

I know you see the reins you hold, little pet.

I shift, adjusting my location slightly, and I'm rewarded with a sound that's muffled by the flesh of my neck and shoulder. Ah-ha. Thought so. My grin stretches as I snake a tongue into your ear; of course I'd know your body so well. It is mine, after all.

You're murmuring something, words I can't make out, and it almost sounds like a prayer—but no, that's silly.

Thoughts are fleeting, dying, burned away by the heat of your life and our bodies connecting, melding together; my fingers grip your neglected erection and curl around it, pumping with tedious slowness. You arch sharply and move on me, and wincing, I tentatively begin to thrust.

Good. No, better than good. Amazing.

Breathing in you, drowning in you, supporting you as you cling for dear life. I'm not sure what's the ocean and what's an anchor, but we're together, and that's all that matters, Envy. That's all that fucking matters.

I bury my face in your hair and hold the small of your back as I find a rhythm; it's awkward at first because you don't settle down and because I'm still jerking my hand, panting harshly as you start to force a rhythm of your own, and I can do nothing but succumb and meet your wiggling movements until both of us are frustrated and frantic and searching, and then it hits—you, me, synchronization.

In one moment, everything is strange and shuffling, and in the next, it just fucking works.

Wonderful. Too wonderful. Bliss and rapture and I want to let my eyes roll back, let my muscles go slack, but I can't; I fucking can't do that because I have to set this damned pace, and the next thing I know, my hips are thrusting forward, upwards, and you're trying to meet every motion, and all I know is heat and the taste of you.

It's dizzying, this pleasure. So fucking intense I think I could get drunk off it, off you; nerves are on fire, senses go crazy, and I'm digging my nails into your back and holding your cock more tightly, going faster, faster. Shit; now I'm the one with no control, but I've waited so long for this, Envy.

Waited so long. Dragged it all out. And now I'm having it. Having you. Really. Owning you.

You climb up me, then down again, riding me more quickly, clenching intermittently, and the next thing I know, I'm going even more quickly, touching and biting and kissing anything within my reach, and you're next to me and shaking, trembling; I can feel your ribs, your heartbeat pounding. I can taste your sweat and I can feel your tight, tense belly trembling against me.

I think I'm saying something but fuck if I know what—or is that you? We have the same voice. The same identity. I'm in you and you're in me. Around and around for all eternity.

I close my eyes and all sight is gone, and there's just sensation; touch, taste, smell, sound. I can't even tell if we're matched in speed now, because I'm going too rapidly, and you're bouncing along whether you want to or not. Almost there. Almost. Fuck. I can feel the pressure building, can feel it in my groin, the pit of my stomach, my undead heart...everywhere. Tension and tightness, swelling, flooding, bursting through me.

When I feel you spasm, when I hear you scream in ecstasy, then I think to myself, I could say "I love you," but the words never come, because I'm not sure I do. Not really, and even if I do...even if I do...it's got to be narcissism.

So instead, I say, "Fuck!"

And then I can't contain it one goddamned second more. I lift you up and shove in hard and bite down viciously, grinding my teeth together as I climax, and then all sensation is lost, and there's nothing but one glorious moment of white noise.

It's so empty, as empty as we homunculi are, but it's complete it's in own twisted and beautiful way, and somehow, I think it's got to be the best fucking thing I've ever felt.

I can't tell if I come down slowly or quickly. I'm not counting the seconds and I'm not feeling them, and the only fact I'm registering is that your arms are still around me, even if they're slipping, and I think how weak and tired you must feel...and I may be mistaken, but I think a smirk tugs one side of my lips.

I'm still in you. You're still on me. What have we here, if not a world of our own making?

It'd be nice to speak. To compliment you. But I still don't know what the fuck to say, and it still hasn't really sunk in that after all this time—after all these times—I've finally had you in pretty much every form I could imagine, as well as the one that you did.

For half a heartbeat, I feel a tendril of regret seeping in, telling me that all has been said and done (with an ironic emphasis on the done) and that there's nothing more to be seen, no more fun to be had.

The voice in my head asks me—was it worth it? Gorgeous as this was, was it really fucking worth it?

But then I open my eyes and see you: lit by the sunrise, midnight caught in your hair, violet eyes sparkling in an I-know-something-you-don't sort of way. And then I think I'm a goddamned fool for ever having wondered anything at all, because you're worth it. Every. Single. Time.

"What do you think, pet?" I ask at length, stroking your hair with the one hand which isn't dripping wet. My line of vision focuses on the band on your neck; it's gleaming silver now, painted by the dawn, and I wonder if I'll be keeping you in it.

Might be fun to do so. But I see no point in binding you now.

After all, I'd just satisfied every single fetish you initially asked me for, and I was as brutal as you had demanded. It amazes me how kinky you are, actually. I doubt anyone else would have ever guessed, but then, we do share a special bond, don't we?

"I think you're going to use that form more often from now on," you say in a seductive tone, before proceeding to graze my ear with your teeth. I can't be sure, but I think the smirk I see on your face is probably pretty damned identical to mine.

Mirror image indeed. I'd wonder which of us is the flawed product, but there's no sense in doing so.

You alter your position, pulling off of me and curling up against my body, stretching outwards like a lazy, contented feline. How you must have loved every encounter, every orgasm, every agony and every spark of pleasure. No one else would have indulged your fantasies as I would have, and you wouldn't have trusted the others; you never even trusted our master this much, and it makes me feel so powerful to have your identity, your trust, your dirty secrets and your hidden desires...

...just as you have mine, in fact.

"There is one more form you never show me, y'know," you mention, suggestively. You sit up, then drag a fingernail along my chest, and one of your eyebrows arches, giving you an expression of impish delight.

Meanwhile, I resist the urge to flinch.

"Your true form," you add, as if I didn't already know what you meant. You spread your fingers, then idly walk them over to my clavicle, and as I sit in silence, you gather a few strands of my hair and loop them around your fingers, smiling in admiration...although on our faces, a smile always does look more akin to a sneer. "As lovely as my hair is...I think I want to see yours again...you body-thieving asshole."

"Under one condition."

Well, what could it hurt, after all? I don't like being reminded of my human life. No homunculus does, especially one as new as myself. But you have done me a service; whether you gave it to me willingly or whether I took it on a whim, you did give me this body, this face, this attitude. Even when you thought you were receiving, you were giving, and I guess I may as well let you have a little something in return.

"What?" You sound sharp, impatient.

Vaguely, I wonder if you'll ever learn patience, but I know better. Some things never change, even when it comes to someone who used to be so malleable as yourself.

My lips pull back to bare my teeth. "I get to take you in this body."

I don't give you a chance to retort, and I wouldn't accept "no" for an answer even if you did have some kind of objection. The alchemical light flares—an instantaneous burst of energy—and then the hair around your fingers is spun gold, and I watch as the look on your face switches from surprised to perplexed to pleased to shocked...the last coming when I grab you fiercely and throw you down, flipping you over with no effort whatsoever.

The beauty of being inhuman is that I don't have to worry about stamina, and we can do this again and again and again, and already, I'm wanting you once more, and I'm sure you love it as much as you hate it—as much as you hated me, as much as I hated you.

Never satiated. Filled with emptiness. I hate you for dragging me into this hell, Envy, but you're what I have now; what I have, what I am, and what I'll always be.

"All my mercy died with me, and I still hate you," I admit, and it's true. Even if you leash me. Even if I want you. Even if I love you. I still hate you so fucking much. And the words are bitter as aged wine, and I'm smiling, and metal fingers snap the collar on your throat so I can replace it with desperate, venemous kisses, and with the grasp of cold automail. "Payback is a bitch, y'know?"

You turn, and your eyes flick over the body you asked to see. Your expression is neutral, or irritated; I can't tell which. Then, then—ever so slowly—there comes the twitch, the tug that blossoms into a full-fledged grin, followed by a scornful laugh.

"Yes," you say with no irony whatsoever, and your eyes narrow at me. "Yes. It is."