ramblings.

“It said- or proposed- or whatever- that the human soul weights 21 grams. That a doctor watched as people died, and weighed them before and after, to see if their weight changed. When they died.”

He groans. It runs through you like a shiver. His hands tug at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms so he can pull it off.

“It was flawed,” You manage, as his hands run along the newly exposed skin, “But some people accepted it as fact anyway. When the paper was published. And another flawed- oh, God- another flawed paper, from around the same time…”

He hums a response as his hands work at your belt. It’s so hard to focus when he’s touching you like this. His fingers, thin and light, his breath on your neck, his hips pushing against yours so you can feel how much he wants you. The wall scratches the back of your skull.

“Another study?” Kimblee’s fingers pause, and you realise, suddenly, the exchange he expects.

“Flawed.” You remind him, breathless. He starts on your belt again.

“Tell me.”

“Less flawed than the first,” You pull the tie from his hair, let it fall free around his face. When you pull at the root, his moan hisses into your collarbone, “It said we were all made up of two elements, working together – or against. Depending on the person. The brain. They govern us. The unconscious and the conscious. The instinct and the rational. Did you read that one?”

“When it was published.” The buckle of your belt clicks open, hitting your thigh, “I believe, at the time, a third element was hypothesised?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “The middle of the two. The moral compass. They can all work in tandem, together, or-”

You lose your train of thought as he lifts you, arms beneath your legs as he kicks the door open. All you can do is cling to him, vain hope, as his fingers press into the small of your back and his teeth tease against your ear.

“Carry on.” He says, then drops you onto the bed. You ignore the command, rising instead to push his coat from his shoulders. His shirt creases beneath your hands, and he bats them impatiently away.

“Come on.” You rest your cheek on his sternum, and he yanks you back by your hair.

“Carry on. Or?”

You realise, after a few seconds, that its where you left off.

“Or they oppose,” You finish, and hook your fingers beneath your waistband. He works his buttons open casually, a vast contract to your speed in kicking off your trousers, “But I don’t see it like that.”

He hums again, and lets his shirt drop to the floor. You let yourself fall back onto your elbows as he sets a knee between your legs. His weight against you is encompassing, compressing. The end stage of a cycle.

“I don’t think of it- it’s a binary star, to me. The two sides of a soul orbiting a central mass.”

“By central mass, you mean the person?”

“No, the moral. A binary of the conscious and unconscious, trapped, circling. Always opposing.” His hands flit across your thighs, pale moths exploring, “Like Nemesis.”

“Back to our hypothetical?” You can hear his amusement. One finger slides into you, and you sink your nails into his shoulder.

“Always.”

As a reward, he pushes in another finger. You gasp, and his smile widens.

“Tell me again?”

As if he needs to ask.

“Nemesis,” Kimblee’s body rests atop yours, a neuron of weight, “is a star thought to exist in a binary with Earth. Both of us, circling the sun, on opposite sides. Hidden from each other. And every so often…”

He likes this part; you brace yourself for impact.

“Every so often, the Earth undergoes a periodic mass extinction. And the theory blames Nemesis. As it collapses, as it gains weight and gravity… As it…”

His fingers rock in and out of you, a slow, never-ending drag of friction. Your leg twists over his hips, and he bites at your neck.

“As it collapses, it pulls,” You find your words with great difficulty, as heat winds tight and low in your stomach. His fingers keep that steady, slow pace, “Pulls in comets to kill us all.”

“Incredible. Should it exist.”

For that, you dig your heel into his spine. He hisses. His eyes, dark, reflect the moonlight.

“It exists.”

“Is that so?” His fingers stop inside you. You can feel them there, crooked gently but doing no more.

“Don’t be an ass.”

His smile could light fires.

so basically, i've been writing a novel. the idea hit me over the head around christmastime and has consumed almost every waking thought since then. and when i say every waking thought, i mean i have written 250,000 words since January 23rd - the novel's first draft, part of the follow-up while I let it rest, and then 2/3 of the novel's SECOND draft. I won't bore y'all with the details (unless... you want me to...) but rest assured it's a romance about fucked up people being horrible to each other, as is my way. HOWEVER because this has been my first piece of original fiction in about four years, i wanted to stick with it, which meant no distractions. when i write fanfic, i like to align my portrayal of characters as close to canon as possible (which i hope comes through!) so i usually just... consume the canon media on a loop... but bc my brain is a sneaky beast, i knew that if i touched anything FMA related, i'd pitch right back into obsession with THAT, and my novel would be abandoned. which i didn't want to happen. but because of that, i haven't been able to confidently continue my fanworks for... a while.

that being said. as i stand rn, i have 6 chapters left of the novel to redraft, then all i need to do is a reread before it gets sent to my beta readers (read: my book club lol). while it's being read, i HOPE to be able to return to my fanfics - Ricochet, mainly, but others i have been working on in the background too !! i'm estimating these chapters will take me two weeks, max. so please be patient with me until then !!

this brings me to the big thorn in my side, though: the Ricochet problem. when i started uploading my original Envy pieces, i hadn't written in about 18 months; it was an impulse decision, and i'm so glad i did it bcus otherwise i genuinely think i would have never got back into writing. HOWEVER. usually, i reread my longer works if i've left them alone for a while, to refresh myself on the characters, story, details, ect, and i find it genuinely hard to go back over Ricochet. i can tell i was rusty, i've put a lot of work into my style since i started it, and i can't even lie the whole thing is Not something i'm particularly proud of anymore. tbqf what i actually want to do is rewrite it from the start, now i'm no longer rusty and struggling, and turn it into something i do properly enjoy. but that also feels like a selfish choice because of all the people who DO like it and would probably prefer a New Chapter instead of a couple of months rehashing the Same Shit But Written Nicer lol. idk. i got a couple weeks to decide.

You stare at the river in front of you. You could try to form the dirt into a bridge, but you don’t trust its stability or, moreover, the amount you have to work with. Knowing your alchemy, you’ll try to make one and end up widening the gap into something truly uncrossable. So you turn your attention to the creature beside you instead.

“Why don’t you transform?”

“Huh?” Envy says, sounding truly perplexed by the notion.

You wave your hand at the river, “Turn into a horse or something. Then I can get on your back, and you can jump over-”

Envy is already shaking their head, scoffing at your apparent ignorance, “Who do you think you are? I’d never let a human ride me, do you know how-”

“You’ve let me ride you plenty before,” You can’t resist quipping. They roll their eyes but they can’t suppress their grin.

“Come on, Envy, You wheedle, laying it on thick, “You’re a super-powerful super-human. You must be able to get us across a river.”

It works. Envy comes to stand beside you, head tilted. They regard the rushing water with obvious frustration as you wait, trying to think of more encouragement for them. This is a trick you’ll have to use sparingly; the last thing you want is them realising you’re using their ego to manipulate them. Then you’ll lose your best tool to get Envy to behave and they’ll stop believing you even when you’re actually being sincere. You purse your lips, and watch them thinking.

“Got it.” Envy says eventually.

“Go on th-”

You don’t have time to finish, as Envy picks you up and hurls you bodily over the water. You scream as you go. Luckily for you (and for them, you think, rubbing the back of your skull) you miss a tree by inches.

“Not funny!” You call over the sound of the water.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You watch Envy back up a few paces, before taking a running jump. It’s a close call; they stagger on the bank of the river and, as payback for the throw, you let them teeter for a few seconds before you reach out a hand to help. As soon as they’re on solid ground, Envy pushes you away, “I’m fine.”

“Drown, then.” You say.

You keep bickering back and forth as you set off again, you pausing occasionally to check the map. As inconvenient as the river was, at least it’s helped you get your bearings. You can pinpoint quite accurately, now, where you are, and (as you smugly show Envy), you’ve carved a good chunk off your trip already. Not to mention, you’re quite enjoying the forest. It feels like spring childhoods: the fresh scent in the air, the birds and squirrels in the trees, the green buds coming up through the rotted leaves. You pick a snowdrop to show Envy, announcing “Winter is truly over!” before tucking it behind their ear. They shove you away, but keep the snowdrop. The small, white bloom breaks up their colour scheme, and it makes you feel like you’re glowing every time you catch sight of it. The second time they catch you grinning at the flower, they pull a tree branch as you walk underneath it, showering you with half-melted snow, and laughing as you fail to shake yourself dry. But they still don’t remove the flower.

The downside to your woodland stroll reveals itself when the sun starts setting. Visibility vanishes much quicker under the trees than out on the road, and before long you’re clinging to Envy’s arm as you struggle to forge a path through the darkness.

“Maybe we should stop?” You suggest, out of breath from the struggle.

“Where would you prefer? The nettles, the brambles, or- oh, look, this patch has a bit of both!”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” You sniff, one hand extended in front of your face while the other holds onto Envy. You’ve moved yourself a little behind them, not so subtly using them as a battering ram through the undergrowth that seems to get thicker the darker it gets. If they’ve noticed, they certainly don’t care, “We’ll need to find a place soon, though. My feet hurt.”

“You’re so flimsy.”

“I am?”

“All humans,” Envy relents, shoving you so you’re properly behind them, “First you can’t get across a river, now you can’t see five feet in front of you-”

“Are you trying to say you can see in the dark?”

That, for the moment, stumps them. Then they start again, “No, idiot, I’m saying that I don’t have to be scared of not being able to see, because I’m the scariest thing in this stupid place. Get it?”

“You must be fun at parties. ‘Look, I’m Envy and I’m so terrifying. Watch me turn into a bat’,” You pause, “Could you turn into something scary? Like, properly scary?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, I don’t know, a skeleton or something. Or the undead wizard from that fairy tale, the one with the magic horse. You know the one.”

Envy stays quiet. Your footsteps are awfully loud in the dark.

“You do know the story, right?”

“How should I know?” Envy says, very fast, “I must have read hundreds of stories.”

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“It’s probably some Drachman shit I wouldn’t know anyway. Written for people stupid enough to live in the middle of nowhere.”

“Probably,” You agree, doing your best to keep your voice neutral, “My father used to read them to me before I went to sleep.”

You never knew it was possible for Envy to hold their tongue.

“Did your Father read to you? I’d love to hear Amestrian-”

A branch hits you in the face.

You splutter through a mouthful of pine needles, nose on fire from taking the brunt of the hit. Your eyes smart with tears from the pain.

“Whoops,” Envy sing-songs, “Let go too soon. Sorry”

“I bet you are,” You mutter venomously, “All you needed to say was ‘My dad didn’t read to me.’”

“You talk a lot of shit.”

“Then that makes two of us! And at least I don’t shove branches in your face.”

“I didn’t shove it,” Envy says, indignant, “I dropped it. It’s not my fault you’ve been walking on my heels since the sun set. Since you’re too frail to get through yourself.”

“God, you’re a dick. I was just trying to make conversation, you don’t need to be such a baby about it.”

“A baby-”

Something howls. You both freeze.

“Oh, good. Wolves,” You say, “What was that about being the scariest thing in here?”

“I am the scariest thing in here.”

You decide to stop for the night even so. You build a small campfire with the driest wood you can find, bracing yourself for heckles about how the stupid Flame Alchemist would just click his Godlike fingers and make a fire just like that. They never come. Instead, Envy helps you find kindling, and watches with interest as you show them how to start a fire without matches or a lighter. Or Alchemy. When you’re finally done, and a little warmer than you were, you portion out a serving of your rations and make short work of them as Envy ‘maps the perimeter’ – whatever that means. When they return, they let you collapse back into them, back against their warm chest as their legs bracket you in and their chin rubs softly against your hair, back and forth and back and forth on top of your head. Their hands slip under your coat to draw small, slow circles over your sweatered chest. Warmth trickles through you, sweet and comforting as hot chocolate.

“We should have brought cards.” You bemoan to them.

“Why? So you can put yourself in even more debt?”

“You’re not seriously going to hold me to that, are you?”

Envy squeezes you and, for a second, you remember the last time they gripped you like that, when you felt all the air vanish from your lungs, and couldn’t take in any more. But their embrace is gentle, and breath comes easy.

“Every penny. You shouldn’t gamble if you can’t face the consequences.”

“Whatever,” You stare into the fire, leaning the rest of your weight back on Envy. If they notice, it doesn’t bother them, “Envy?”

“What?”

“Will you be annoyed if I fall asleep here?”

You can almost hear their eyes roll, “I thought that was what you were doing.”

“Oh,” You smile, “Okay. Goodnight.”

“Shut up and sleep.” They say.

Their hands keep drawing their circles, and you let your eyes flutter closed. As exhaustion sweeps over you, you feel something soft press against your skull, something that could (it’s so warm) maybe be (and you’re so tired)… Maybe be a…

Their ears flush, “I needed fuel, and it was right there. If it were up to me, we’d have just kept going but this car has shit fuel economy. Probably your fault. You must have messed it up when you changed it.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” You snark back, “Who saw you?”

“No one saw me. They saw your boss.”

“My boss?”

“I remembered his face,” Envy explains smugly, and you have to admire their resourcefulness, if nothing else, “Are you gonna eat that?”

It proves a harder task than expected. With no cutlery, you resort to tearing a chunk off the bread and dipping it into the jam, then chase it with bites from an apple. You eat sparingly; God knows when you’ll next find a town, and you’re down to your last few banknotes. You don’t know much about fuel expenditure, but you do know that it’s expensive. And you know you’d far prefer to drive across the Eastern desert than walk it.

While you eat, Envy vanishes again. Ten minutes later, they reappear with a steaming take-out cup in each hand, and an even more self-satisfied expression on their face. Warily, you watch them approach.

“Coffee.” They explain, and laugh when you make grabby hands at yours. You haven’t had caffeine in about 17 hours which, for you, is a new record. No wonder you have a headache. No wonder you and Envy were sniping at each other last night. You breathe in the rich, heavy scent, and let out a sigh – then almost spill the steaming liquid all over you when Envy stalls the engine.

“Please say you used the right kind of fuel.”

“Shut up, you hag! Fuel is fuel.”

Thankfully, they seem to be right. Before long, you’re tearing down the road again, passing around the outskirts of a town before speeding off into nowhere once again. The roads are still thin, but in the safety of sunlight, Envy seems to have no issue with going as fast as the car will let them. You cling to your coffee as it shakes in your hand, and watch the landscape form one sparkling white blur as you stampede through it.

“Did you at least buy a map?” You ask.

“No.”

“A compass?”

“I know where I’m going!”

You find that hard to believe. You yourself have no clue whereabouts you are. When you came up here, it was by train, the first and only train you’ve ever been on, and you were far to preoccupied checking and rechecking your bag, keeping an eye on the stones you’d stolen and your grandfather’s notebooks, to bother looking out of the window. Every time you tried, another panicked thought would cloud your mind with smoke darker than that being belched out by the steam engine. For someone who’s lived in Drachma all your life, you know very little about your home country. You do, however, have more knowledge than Envy.

“How?” You ask, “How do you know where you’re going?”

“I just need to go South-East. It’s not that hard.”

You glance up to the sky, “We’re driving away from the sun.”

“So?”

“So, the sun is rising, Envy,” You put on your most sickly-sweet teacher voice, purely to wind them up, “Can you tell me what direction the sun rises from?”

Envy leans forward to look themselves, then whips around to glower at you. You smile back, “What side does the sun rise on, Envy?”

“You fucking drive then!”

“I can’t!”

“Exactly.” Envy says, as if that wins them any points. You groan.

“What I’m saying is, we’re driving away from the East! So unless you plan to loop round into-”

Envy slams their hands on the wheel, and even that brief lack of contact is enough for the car to skid on the ice. You clutch your coffee tighter, “I know! You find me a road that takes us East, and I’ll fucking take it. Until then-”

“So we’re going to cross the desert by driving away from it, are we?”

“Eat shit.” Envy says, “I’m going to make you get out and walk. Then we’ll see who goes East.”

You consider, “Probably me. Since I’m the only one who knows which way East is.”

“And you can starve to death in the desert for all I care.”

You laugh, leaning back into your seat. It’s not exactly comfortable, but watching the world streak by in blue and white blends is certainly something new.

*

You manage well enough for the next few days, though road-tripping isn’t all that you wanted it to be. As nice as it is to drive across the icy wasteland of your home country, warm and safe inside your ugly car, there’s only so long you can stare at the same barren landscapes until you get bored. Envy shows no sign of slowing down or passing out at the wheel, your two major concerns, but if being cooped up with them inside a four room cottage was bad, then this is… intolerable. You get into an argument over the car radio (“It drains the battery!” Envy insists, as you argue back, “But I’m bored!”). You try to play a game of I Spy, which soon becomes a game of Envy picking out all of your insecurities, and you pretending it doesn’t bother you: “I spy something beginning with B.”

“You’ve already done breakouts, Envy.”

When you mumble your retaliation – “I spy a tiny, freaky, worm-looking thing just pretending to be human,” – it takes an hour of apologising before they’ll speak to you again. They take their real revenge much later, just as you’re trying to sleep: every time you come close to dropping off, the car lurches, or they stall changing gears, or they just shake you. By the time the sun rises again, you’re tense and irritable and you still haven’t slept. Envy, in contrast, is the brightest you’ve seen them since you hit the road. When they eventually let you sleep, you’re out for almost thirteen hours, and Envy reports that it was the best part of the trip so far.

You’re finally heading East now, which is another blessing. The last of your money was spent on a map and food in the last village you saw, though it was Envy who you sent into the shop. You stayed put in the car, ducked low just in case they’d started printing Wanted posters yet. Though, thinking on it, you’re not sure if anyone actually knows what you look like; the soldiers who saw you are surely all dead, and if any photographs of you exist, you don’t remember them being taken. A few weeks ago, you’d think the people of your village would have your back enough to give an inaccurate description of you to the MPs, but after the shit you pulled on your escape, you’re not so sure anymore. There was nothing like terrible driving to turn the people of a small village against you. Envy never mentions posters though, and you don’t ask. Since the first day, you haven’t seen any military cars, but you still direct Envy to drive down back roads, and steer clear of society unless you need to refuel. You don’t know where Envy’s getting the petrol money from, and you don’t ask.

From your estimates, you should be getting close to Xing by now. At first, you’d thought Envy had gotten better at driving on ice, but in reality, the roads have just got less and less icy as you approach the Eastern boarder. It’s still cold, but not the ‘frostbite and freeze to death’ cold you’ve become used to; this is instead a brisk cold, one that still freezes your fingers and whisks away your breath, but one you can tolerate for longer than a few hours, and have your face out in without worrying about losing your nose. Envy, naturally, never seems to feel it at all. They’ve still not slept the entire time you’ve been driving, have never complained of tiredness, aches or pains, cold. In fact, the only thing they seem to complain about is you. You try not to think about it too much. They always complained about you; this makes no difference, really. But sometimes, you forget how cruel they can be.

“Again?” They mock when you ask them to pull over.

“Yes. I’ve got cramp, I need the bathroom, and it’s been eight hours since we last stopped. Surely you could do with a stretch too.”

Envy just snorts. You kick at them again.

“Bitch!”

“Pull over then!”

Envy locks eyes with you, and pushes their foot down. The car picks up speed.

“Are you naturally this awful? Or do you put effort into it?” You ask, trying to sound unbothered by the escalation of things. Envy just presses their foot down further. Beyond the window, the forest you’re driving through is becoming a green and brown blur, broken occasionally by the white of melting snow. You’re going so fast you can feel it in your stomach, an anxious bubbling you’d usually associate with looking in Envy’s eyes.

“Envy,” You say, “Slow down.”

“We’re never going to get anywhere if you keep making us stop all the time!”

“We’re also not going to get anywhere if you crash into a tree! Or,” You add, “If I piss myself on the seat. Pull the fuck over.”

“No.”

“Pull over, Envy, or I swear to God-”

Envy laughs, “You swear you’ll what? What could you possibly do that-”

They never find out.

A loud bang comes from beneath you, and you scream as Envy spits out the most vile combination of curses you’ve ever heard, “What did you do?”

“It wasn’t me!” You yell, clinging to your knees as the car judders alarmingly, listing to the left as Envy wrestles for control. The wheel obviously wants nothing to do with them. You can’t blame it.

Envy limps the car to the side of the trail with a non-stop string of expletives. Most of them are directed at the car; some of them are at you. When they eventually park, you both get out to assess the damage, and what is there puts a hole in your stomach.

The tire has blown.

“Well?” Envy says.

“Well, what?”

Envy kicks the side of the car, which can hardly help matters, “Fix it!”

“That’s not happening.”

“What?”

You sigh, “I can’t make material from nothing. If I fix the tire, I’ll have to use rubber from the rest of the wheel, and I don’t know how much I can take before the tire gets too thin. Knowing my luck, we’ll get a hundred meters down the road, and then it’ll wear through. Or, I’ll only take from one section and then the whole car will be unbalanced. I can’t do it, Envy.”

They kick the car again, “You are the most useless Alchemist I’ve ever met.”

“I know,” You say, staring at the car, the only thing that has gone right this whole journey, “Trust me, I know.”

*

You have no choice. You scrabble around inside to grab the meagre things you’ve brought on this trip, then let Envy take over. They shove the car into the underbrush as you load the pockets of your coat with everything you can carry, patting yourself down as you go through your list: food, water, map, food, water, map, food, water, map. You know you’ve grabbed everything but, as the car disappears into the depths of moss and weeds, you have to check one last time.

Envy gives the hood one final kick, then rejoins you on the road. You look at each other.

“Do you want me to just hand myself in?” You say finally. With so much stuff in your pockets, your hands barely fit.

“Huh?”

“Hand myself over to the military,” You explain, “I mean, you can probably move faster than me, and I’ll need to keep stopping to eat and sleep and stuff. If you want to just go, I don’t mind.”

It’s a lie, but you try not to show it.

Envy shakes their head, “Just when I thought you couldn’t get more annoying. Come on.”

When you don’t move, they lock their hand around your wrist and drag you until your feet start to move.

“Envy. I’m going to slow you down.”

“You’re an idiot.”

You decide to shut up.

Though losing your car is going to suck in the long run, you can’t help but enjoy this. The air is cool on your skin, freshness unfogging your stale thoughts and chasing away the headache that’s been stalking your steps for the past couple of days. You never realised how much you missed the noise of the forest until this point: the sound of the birds in the trees, fluttering from branch to branch and calling to each other as they go; the crackle of dry leaves underfoot; the echo of a melting river rushing somewhere you can’t see. As little fondness as you have for your family home, you can’t forget the forests that surrounded you, that kept you safe and gave you somewhere to hunt, somewhere to hide. The forests that taught you so much that you take for granted.

You pause, “Stop a second.”

Envy groans, “Don’t make me change my mind.”

You ignore them, digging the map from your pocket and unfolding it. Envy takes it without question, holding the paper open and leaning their head around to see what you’re doing as you inspect the green-and-beige of your location.

“Thought so,” You say eventually, “There’s a quicker way.”

“Where?”

You point, and Envy follows your finger, “I was only looking at roads before. But look, see, if we follow this road, we’ll have to go all the way around the outskirts of this forest. But if we go through it-”

“You can’t be serious.”

You grin, “Oh, I forget. You were raised in the city, right? What’s wrong, scared of the trees?”

“No. I just don’t trust you to navigate.”

“All we need to do is keep going East. And we’ll be sheltered, and a lot less noticeable. Unless you want to be a sitting duck every night when I sleep. Right by the road. For anyone to see.”

Envy stares at you. You grin back, taking the map and folding it up, “Come on, Envy. We’ll be in there a couple of days, max. Then we’ll reach the desert, and you can take the lead again. Just a few days. Trust me.”

Envy drags a hand down their face. “Fine. Fine. But don’t blame me if we’re still stuck in there two years later.”

2. Disruption.

They follow Dolcetto’s nose through the streets, Bido crawling along the walls to sight what’s ahead as Greed chases his dog’s tail through the cramped back alleys of his home. He owns this city, has owned it ever since he crash-landed here; Greed knows the layout like he knows the symbol on the back of his hand. He knows the people and the families, which patrons are just passing through and which are here to stay. His memory glows within him, for the things he owns if nothing else. But Dolcetto has scented something new, and something new on his streets must be investigated. So they follow the scent until even Greed’s nose can pick up the iron-and-meat smell of blood. He’s hot on Dolcetto’s bare heels as they round a corner into an alley. And there you are. Placed like you were meant for him to find, wild eyed and lost, flat palms pressed to the wall as they approach. Greed sets his hand on Dolcetto’s shoulder, pushing him back. Because you are in his city, and that makes you his.

They take you home, of course, draped over Dolcetto’s back as Greed leads the way. You look human, but Greed can’t be confused. There’s animal on your skin. There’s animal under your skin, aching to burst free. He wants to know what it is, what you are now you’ve been turned into something new, and what brought you, bleeding, to his streets. Like the rest of his gang once did, you still wear Amestris blue, and the sight of it sets his teeth on edge. As soon as they get you back to the Devil’s Nest, he sets Martel off to cut you out of it, sends Bido for water and a wash-cloth as Dolcetto tears off to roam the streets again. Just in case. Greed wouldn’t put it past his Father to lay you out like a trap, to draw him out like a rat to capture, or to pinpoint his location and burn him and his gang out. Roa mans the bar, though it’s barren this early in the afternoon, and Greed stands watch as Martel searches out your wounds. You regard them both with flickering, wary eyes, pulling back as Greed squats to hold your gaze. He smiles with sharp teeth, and you withdraw further.

“Who are you?” You manage eventually, and Greed smiles at the reassurance. He’s seen failed chimeras before, more animal than human, baring the ‘botched’ part of experiment. You’ve kept the faculty of speech, at least.

“I should ask you the same question.” He purrs, and you frown. You offer your name and rank like the words are heavy on your tongue, then shake your head, “Not that it really…”

Martel glances at Greed over your head, and he gives a small nod. Over a fried sandwich and a pint of watered-down beer (Greed rises his margins where he can) you tell them a story of experimentation as the bar beneath gets busier and the sun begins to set at the horizon.

“And now…” You say, heavier still, and move your hand to press it against your shoulder blades.

“What did they mix you with?” Roa asks, relieved now from the bar. Dolcetto returned an hour ago, with no reports of unfamiliarity, and took over with a wag of his tail and without a word of complaint. Greed loves dogs; if the military could mix all of their unwilling participants with dogs, he would probably find a modicum more satisfaction with life.

The look you give Roa is filthier than the cellar floor. Greed laughs, and claps you on the back. Right over your shoulder blade.

“How do you feel about a deal?” He asks. And you meet his eyes and click your neck. And you say:

“What kind of deal?”

3. Curiosity.

You learn quickly. You learn to pull a good pint and change a barrel, learn to free-pour whiskey and gin, learn which customers tip and which do not. You learn how to use your (pleasing) looks to your advantage, leaning over the bar to smile at a customer just so he’ll buy you a drink. You learn to listen to Greed, following his orders and playing up to his customers, you learn his quirks and whims and routine. You learn to run with the pack, seamlessly falling into play as if you were in Greed’s gang all along. And when your shift finishes, late at night on another busy Friday, you stay downstairs with the gang to drink and talk until the sun rises, Greed holding court like a merry king surrounded by his parliament. His chimeras bite and snap, like the creatures they are: Dolcetto quick and meaningless, Roa bellowing and defensive, Ulchi fast and cruel, Martel snide and quiet, and Bido behind the back. But you stay strum throughout, fast eyes darting around the table to take in every detail while offering nothing yourself. And always, your eyes find their way back to Greed. Watching him watch you.

He never looks away. Why should Greed avert his gaze? You agreed to belong to him when you took the job in the Devil’s Nest, nails scratching the back of his hand as you shook on the deal, and accepted your place as underling in return for work and food and shelter. He hasn’t seen you transform yet, not properly, but he knows the nocturnal hunter that hides beneath your skin even so, pleading to be freed every evening. It makes you perfect for his business, he thinks. A resident of the night, always alert and on guard even as others fall to the draw of sleep. Sure, you sleep most of the day away, roosted up high in your attic bedroom, but what does it matter? You have your uses, a little blessing made just for him. As the world should be.

And, surely, you were made just for him. You fill a gap he never quite noticed until he slotted you into it; you have an easy-going acceptance that lets you take things as they come; you have a figure he wants to run his hands down until he has it memorised, and a brain he could pick for days on end before he gets his fill. You follow orders like the well-trained soldier you once were, and you laugh every time Bido whips his tail across your knees to stop you marching. You let Martel clamber on your back until you have no choice but to let your stance droop into a slouch, and you complain about dirty tricks every time you spar with Roa, until he reminds you that military rules aren’t real here in the sticks. So the next time you tussle, Greed watches you drag your fingernails over Roa’s stomach to emulate scratching, stamp your foot down on his instep and dart away as the bigger man roars his complaint. Roa’s horns burst forth, unbidden, but your animal traits stay locked away inside as you square your stance for the next attack.

“What do you reckon?” Dolcetto asks, appearing beside Greed. He’s bright-eyed, alert, ready to follow a scent or chase his tail until he tires out. Greed folds his arms, so he doesn’t rub his subordinate’s head.

“They’re mine.” He says, though he doesn’t particularly need to. Anyone who’s stayed this long is Greed’s. Everyone will be Greed’s, eventually, if he keeps lying low, keeps counting his cards and digging for change. If he can keep the itch beneath his skin at bay long enough.

Roa grabs you, pressing you down to the stone of the yard in a sparrer’s version of a throw. You struggle, briefly, then realise it’s useless to try and escape.

Dolcetto scoffs, “I know that.”

Just for that, Greed cuffs him around the ears. He whines, and Greed imagines his tail wrapping around his legs, sulking and apologetic.

“They fit in,” Greed says, “They’re like the rest of you. They broke the mould, just like you did.”

“Like you did?” Dolcetto asks.

“They didn’t use a mould when they made me. I’m one of a fucking kind.”

Dolcetto ducks his head, abashed, and Greed takes the opportunity to return his gaze to you. You’ve accepted Roa’s help up, hands clasped like a show of manly affection, and, as he watches, you twist your head 180 degrees to look right back at him. To watch him watch you.

Greed offers you a raised eyebrow, “You can do better than that.”

“Maybe,” You agree. Then you turn your head back, “We go again?”

You go again. Against Roa, you really have no chance, and yet you challenge him again and again. And Roa thrashes you time and time again across the courtyard.

Maybe Greed should start hosting fights. It would be a nice little money-maker, and an excuse to sit and watch you wrestle in the dirt, skin glowing with sweat and alive with adrenaline. Wiping your nose with the back of your hand, brushing dirt from your clothes as, time and time again, you get knocked down. On your knees when it finally ends, face tilted up to the waning sun, chest heaving with exertion, lips smiling from endorphins. But he never really needs an excuse to admire what’s his.

4. Assimilation.

Beauty, overwhelming. Greed watches you watch him watch you, as you conduct from behind the bar. The Devil’s Nest is busy this Friday, full of men welcoming in the weekend, and women looking to join them or spur them, depending on the faces they see. Greed himself has one such woman tucked beneath his arm, although her face and figure don’t fascinate him as yours does. But, as much as you watch him watch you, he has never got close to the contact he wants. He’s leaving you alone for now, letting you settle in good and proper before he makes his move. Letting you relax into your new position, become something new once more before he lays the groundwork for what he truly wants. And what does he truly want?

Greed throws back his whiskey, the rocks hitting his teeth with a clatter, and pulls his girl closer. He’s had her before, he’ll have her again, he wants something new, something strange and enticing and alluring to occupy his hands. And yet he’s learning restraint, tying his own hands behind his back so he doesn’t frighten you away. He likes the place you’ve taken. He likes the seamless fit of you in his gang. He knows how to keep people now, and he wants to keep you. He wants to hold all of his chimeras to his chest so they can never wiggle free. He wants you all to live forever with him, by his side, and one day he will find a way how.

5. Aggrandization.

“What do you want?” Greed asks.

It’s just the two of you tonight, drinking whiskey on either side of an empty bar. The scant customers are long gone, to their wives and beds and tomorrow’s hangovers, leaving you to clean and Greed to watch as you do so. Such tasks are beneath him, always have been and always will be. Father was an idiot, trying to keep him trapped in the basement, amongst the mundanity of dank pipes and prickling darkness, guarding a great nothing nobody ever sought to find. Father misused him and mistreated him, as he misuses and mistreats all of his children. Will he have reached the pinnacle seven yet, Greed sometimes wonders. It’s not something he needs to know anymore, and yet he still longs to know, the desire for knowledge burning through him like every time he opens a book. It’s easier to put it from his mind for now, to focus on you and your charming smile and easy grace behind his bar, unscrewing each ale nozzle into a glass already filled with fizzing liquid. Each one splashes as it makes contact. He can hear your footsteps, the stripping sound every time your foot leaves the beer-soaked floor. Your shoes sticking to lino, never properly cleaned. It no longer slows you down.

You turn your head 180 degrees to look at him, “What?”

“What do you want?” Greed repeats, as the last nozzle splashes into your glass. You tuck it beneath the taps, between clean drip trays, and turn to face him properly. In the low light, hip leant against his bar, little finger caught between your back teeth, you look blessed and divine, a far cry from the bloody thing he discovered so long ago on his streets. You worry the finger between your teeth, hunter’s eyes flicking between him and the clock. It’s late – but that shouldn’t matter to you. You are his night owl, his guardian during the darkness. You never sleep when the moon is up.

“I don’t think it really matters what I want.” You say eventually, around your finger. Greed wants to take it from your mouth and place it in his own, roll his tongue over the skin to feel the whorls and commit them to memory. He wants to feel your fingers on his skin and in his hair, he wants you to stand over him like a goddess with his face pressed between your palms. He wants to remind you who you belong to, he wants to bend you over his bar and fuck you until the only word you know is his name. He wants to bite your tongue and pull your hair, he wants to see your wings unfurl and pull out the feathers, one by one, until you can never leave him.

“What do you want?” He says again.

6. Delineation.

Greed kisses you so he can know what it tastes like. You accept his kiss with the kind of noise he craves, back pressed against the cold stone of the back alley as he trails his fingers up your stomach. You giggle, suddenly, and he pushes back from you as if stung.

“Ticklish.” You explain, abashed, and he runs a hand through his hair. When he licks his lips, they taste of vanilla lipgloss and blood, rich and warming, and he leans back in for a second taste. You pull him closer with an arm around his neck, and he doesn’t know whether to accept the gesture or not. It is not for you to tell him, your boss, your sun, the centre of your galaxy, what to do. And yet he wants to do what you want him to do, press in deeper until he merges you into his unbreakable skin. He wants to keep you closer than anything else, to hold this moment in his hands even as it trickles away. And then you pull away.

“Shouldn’t I get back to work? Boss.” You add, as an afterthought, and he grins down at you and pulls his hand along the sensitive skin of your stomach again, just to see you giggle.

7. Pervasion.

He never brings his chimeras to his rooms. He always visits them in theirs, even if it means abiding the cold of the basement, or climbing the servants steps of the old building they occupy to reach them. And, for you, he hikes up and up and up, ducking to avoid the roof slats as he enters your attic bedroom. Your curtains are open, the dusty light of sunrise illuminating the mess of blankets and pillows in which you rest. Your hair sprawls out over you, and he reaches a hand down to stroke through the soft strands. You murmur, shift in your cocoon, and conflict rises deep within him. He shouldn’t rouse you at this time, and yet this is what he wants. Greed always gets what he wants, in the end.

“’S’matter, boss?” You mumble, tongue thick with sleep, and he laughs fondly as you burrow your way out of your sheets.

“Darling.” He coos, and you accept his kiss with sleepy eagerness he delights in. At this time of day, you taste sour with sleep and hangover, and he follows your body down to the mattress, one hand fumbling with his belt as the other traces over the figure he so craves. You moan your approval, letting him push you back against your bed as he sets a knee either side of your thighs. Exhausted and beautiful, eager and willing, and so needy for him, He loves it, he takes it in with an avaricious desperation as you wrap that familiar arm around his neck and drag him deeper into you. He pushes aside your nightclothes, and you aid his efforts, kicking aside your sleep shorts as you welcome your lord and master into your bed. When he reaches down, he finds you wet already, and you moan as his fingers skim the sensitive skin waiting for him there. He maps you out with his fingers, grinning at the way you groan beneath him, the answering push of your hips as you seek out more. As if you’ve been waiting for this moment, for Greed to dart in and take what’s his. You moan, unabashed, as he sinks a finger into you, testing the waters and finding them warm and ready. But still he luxuriates in them.

“Please,” You manage, fingers closing around his wrist, “Greed, please.”

And who is he to resist a cry so sweet?

8. Resentment.

As much as he loves, there is so much Greed hates.

He hates how you pander to his customers, even though he knows it is all for him at the end. He hates the way other people look at you, admiring what is his and wishing it for their own. He hates the way others can lay their hands on you, so casually, as if they aren’t gracing his property with their filthy fingertips, and trying to take away what is his by right. Every inch, every cell, every atom belongs to him; the dust has no right to be made up by you without asking for his permission first. And yet, he also hates the way he looks at you himself, like a belonging, like an item to be won or bought or achieved somehow. He hates how much he still wants you, even when he’s already had you moaning and desperate beneath him. He hates how easily you have got beneath his diamond skin, how easily you have wormed your way into his existential heart and made your twig-home there. He fucks other people, men and women lining up to be his next, and makes sure you can smell it on his skin when he returns the next evening. He tells you about the others he’s fucked when he’s fucking you, tells you you’re nothing special even when the lie tastes black and bitter on his tongue. He tells you how good it felt with others, so he doesn’t have to tell you how sex with you far outstrips anything else. He cums deep inside of you and hopes every person who comes close can smell his scent on you.

But, most of all, he hates his Father. He hates him for making him like this, for making Greed greedy and making him become what he has become. He hates him for placing all of his foolish longing into one body, for pushing it out of himself and into Greed, so Greed must suffer while Father remains clean and unmarred by this sour desperation he feels, for money and power and bodies and wealth, always digging downwards but never quite finding mantle. He wants to crack Father’s skull so he knows what it feels like to fall apart, wants to chain him down and starve him until he’s desperate, so he can know this longing and regret ever giving it to Greed. So Greed bides his time and counts his cards, collects his change and keeps his chimeras close as he builds himself and builds himself, reaching towards an impossible greatness so he can finally fill the hole aching within himself.

9. Separation.

“No.” You say.

You stand in your doorway, framed like an angel by the morning light, and Greed half wants to fall to his knees before your glory. Your knees are red and bruised, your arms are strong and firm, your face is set and still – and you deny him entry into your holy abode, though your skin is graced with goosebumps beneath his palms.

Greed frowns.

“No,” You say again, and remove his hands from your waist, “I can’t. It hurts too much.”

“I would never hurt you.” Greed says, honey dripping from every sweetened word, and you shake your head again.

“You do. You talk about others you’ve had as if this all means nothing to you. It means nothing to you.”

It’s not true, he knows it’s not true. You mean as much to him as everything he longs for does; you are everything he is desperate for, right now, and that makes you his little universe. And yet you still stand there, steadfast tin soldier, with your hands by your sides and your knees blocking the doorway, your back straight and your shoulders up by your ears. And Greed could push, because he knows you’d crack to him. He could say any number of things to you, that would convince you otherwise for just this once, so he could take what he wants like he has become so used to doing.

Instead, he slinks back downstairs and drinks himself stupid with stock meant for the bar, ignoring the noise above as Dolcetto brews coffee and fries bacon, and Martel hollers for tofu and Ulchi hollers back that meat is the only way to go. And when he clenches his fist, he still feels your goose-pimples flesh on his unbreakable, needy hands. And he feels the ice of your gaze upon himself, and he looks away from each mirror he passes, for he cannot face the face one such as you would reject.

10. Degradation.

He didn’t chose to be this way.

11. Annihilation.

He watches you watch him watch you. It’s like nothing has changed at all, in that way. He watches you serve drinks, talking with his patrons and laughing with his gang, your divine carcass glowing beneath the low bar lights, and you watch him make out with a man all too ready to accept him, watch another woman’s hands trace down his torso, watch someone bite his ears and trace their teeth down his neck, because this is Greed’s world and he’ll do what he pleases. Yet he finds himself finding your eyes again and again, rubbing salt in the wound as he wishes you’d come crawling back to him. Crawling, yes, as you should. Bowed down for your king, on your knees for your God. But he feels your gaze and his skin prickles with discomfort, and he pushes his companions away time and time again, because the fingerprints he feels aren’t the ones he wants on his skin. You laugh at something Bido says, and his ears prick up at the sound.

And when your shift finishes, you all stay downstairs to drink, knocking back wine opened too long ago to serve, cheering when Greed brings out a bottle from beneath the bar to split. You cheers his glass with a smile, and he runs his tongue over his teeth.

They retire one by one: Roa first, denying accusations of age as he retreats back up the stairs, then Bido, then Martel. Ulchi locks the door, after Dolcetto takes one last, paranoid run of the perimeter, and then it’s just you and Greed left in the bar, two nocturnal creatures waiting the other out. Greed tops up your glass, a wordless order to stay. And you always do as you’re told.

“I adore you in this light.” Greed says, having finally had enough alcohol to loosen his tongue.

You smile, lifting your glass to your lips, “You adore everyone in this light.”

“No, I don’t.”

You raise your eyebrows daring him. And who is Greed to turn down a challenge?

“I understand beauty,” He tells you, “I like beautiful things. I want beautiful things. Money, women, fame, riches, I want what I want, and I want to get what I want.”

You nod along, understanding so far, drinking more of his alcohol as you listen to his speech.

“I want you.”

“It didn’t sound like it.” You say, quiet against the reluctant silence of the bar.

“Then I’ve misled you.” Greed admits readily, eagerly, apologetic and honest.

“It didn’t sound like it,” You repeat, spinning you glass. The ice clicks against the crystal sides, and he lifts the bottle again. You smile, and accept the refill, “You know I love you. We all do.”

Greed tilts his head in acknowledgement. All his chimeras love him. He would accept nothing less, asks for nothing more. Love me, worship me, and I will be your slave. Though he never will follow anothers’ command again.

“I love you, Greed,” You say, and your eyes spark with nothing but pure, drunken honesty, “And that’s why I… can’t. It hurts too much, to see you with other people. And I can’t ask you to not be with other people.”

“Why not?” Greed asks, refilling his own glass too. He extends it again, and you smile as you clink it, once again, against yours.

“Surely I should be serving you,” You murmur, “Serving the boss as I do every other customer.”

“Even Jesus washed the feet of his disciples.” Greed says, and basks in the loveliness of your laugh. He wants you, so desperately it itches beneath your skin. Not just to fuck, but to hold too, a mouth and an ear and a body and a soul. A heart still beating a human lifespan in your chest. He reaches down to lace your fingers together. And you sigh, and close your eyes, eyelashes thick and black against your cheeks. And yet you don’t pull away.

12. Desolation.

He finds his way to your room again. You wait for him on top of the blankets, chest heaving and skin flushed with anticipation, and this time it’s Greed who finds his back pressed against your mattress as you climb on top of him. Your calves are on either side of his chest, soles of your feet pointing skyward as you run your fingers down the hard muscles of his chest. He lies still, letting you do as you wish, proving himself though there is nothing to prove. He will run and wander, that will always be certain. What Greed needs to be certain of, though, is that you will still be there when he gets back again. Because he knows now, deep in his cavity of a chest, that he will always come back to you, a dog tied to a tether, a hawk flying back to a familiar arm. An owl refinding the same nesting territory, again and again every single year.

Your face is still and set as your fingers wander his skin. He loves the feeling of them, longs for them even as they trace over him. His hands come up to grasp your wrists, and your eyes flicker up to meet his.

“Is this okay?” You say, soft and quiet, and so, so willing.

A smile slides over his face, his fingers tightening on your wrists, “It will always be okay.”

You nod, strict and confined. And you carry on your exploration.

By the time he’s naked, Greed is hot and panting, aching with the effort of staying still for you. He wants to set his hands beneath your thighs, flip you over and take what he wants – but this is a show of trust, and he won’t break it. He wants to control himself, so he will control himself. He breathes out, heavy, through his nose, and you catch his eye with just a flicker of a smile.

“This must be torture, to you.” You say, rubbing your hand along the side of your neck. He bruised it, once, but those have long since faded. But he can renew them, again and again, breaking the fragile human skin to let something new bloom there. You bend your head lower, mouthing at his ear as your hair tickles at his shoulder. And Greed holds himself still, though he burns to surge up and take what you both know is his.

“Stay still.” You whisper in his ear. And then you lean back, and his ears catch slick sounds and your soft sighs, and he can’t help but lift his head to watch you push two fingers into yourself, still knelt over his body. He wets his lips as your other hand sinks into the mattress by his shoulder. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth as you muffle a moan, and Greed can already see the shine of your wetness, slipping down your hand in the moonlight. He wants to take your fingers into his mouth, taste you off your own skin, lap up everything you’ll give and more beside.

“Greed,” You say, breathless, and he whines out an encouragement, “Greed.”

“Yeah?” His voice is rough, good God, and self-restraint is eating up everything within him. He wants, he wants, he wants, he wants. He’s never wanted anything more.

“Can I fuck you?” You ask, and he groans, reaches up to grab your hips in a response to animal to control.

“Please.”

You let his transgression slide. When you slide your fingers from your centre, he goes to grab your wrist – but you know his thoughts better than he does. You extend your hand to his face, and he reaches the rest of the way, taking them into his mouth and lapping off whatever you’ll give him. He holds your eyes as he does, and you still have the gall to flush, even after everything he’s done to you, and everything you do to him. As if you still don’t understand the otherworldly effect you have.

You slip back, cunt sliding, slick, over his cock, and Greed hisses between his teeth. You smile at him, suddenly monstrous in your human skin, and rock back and forth again, as if Greed isn’t already hard and aching between your legs.

“Do not,” Greed snarls, “Tease me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You say, innocent to all sins. And then you lift yourself up, and angle Greed’s cock with the hand that was once in his mouth (oh, so long ago it already feels) and slowly sink your body down.

It’s everything he was craving and more, tight and hot and wet, and he can’t help but thrust up into you to take all he can get and more beside. Your breathing comes in staccato bursts as he stretches you open, until you’ve taken all he can give. There you sit, flush, together, and you rock against him as you adapt to his size, and Greed traces his tongue over his teeth and forces himself still so he doesn’t go to hard, too heavy, for what he wants. And you meet his eyes with a heavy-lidded gaze, and slowly lift your hips up before sinking back down again. And if there is a heaven, Greed surely must be in it. You test the waters, twisting your hips with each downward spiral as Greed helps you along with his hands on your ass, breaths heavy until they become moans and sighs, noises that Greed commits to his unknowable memory so he can play them whenever he wishes. You begin to pick up the pace, and Greed matches your every thrust with power you obviously didn’t expect, if your gasps of pleasure are anything to go by.

“Come on,” He grunts, moving a hand to your clit. Your breathing thickens, “Come on.”

You’re close, he knows; he remembers the noises you made from before, he seeks them out, dragging them from your throat and lungs as your head lolls back on your neck and your hands press harder against his chest. You tighten around him as you cum, and Greed holds his eyes open so he can take in the divine vision and commit that to memory too. And, when you slump against him, he finally ends his exile.

Greed grabs your thighs, flipping your bodies so seamlessly he doesn’t slide out of your warm and welcoming heat. And, face to face, you look up to meet his eyes.

“My turn.” He tells you, smiling a sharp-toothed smile. And you grin back, face flushed and eyes shining, and say: