💥Zolf J. Kimbley's Feral Goth Wife 💥

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: