Title: Wonderful to be Broken

Author's Note: More Lust angst…I'm sorry Lust…I love you…but I love writing angst for you more! I have never written a Lust/Envy before…and I would have to say that this is the first story that I have written with him in character…this came from me thinking about the similarities between Lust and Elaide from D. Gray-Man…I don't get how I got this from that train of thought though…

Yes, I admit it, I'm weird…and done with the pointless author's note about inspiration!

Summary: Dolls are only made to be broken. When Lust first awakens as a homunculi she still has a few lingering feelings of shame…and another is glad to fix that. Lust-centric

Disclaimer: If I owned FMA Envy would be mine! Mine I say! *cough* ok, read and ignore the insane author.

…

…

She knows what he sees. (she recognizes that hungry look in his eyes. She's seen it too many times to not)

Legs that go on for miles, the finest wire fashioning their shape. Wide birthing hips, ballooned out in a kiln in just the right way, swaying deliciously with each and every step that she takes. Eyes, slanted perfectly, painted on with precision, promising a good time. Lips just made to be swollen with kisses, the deepest shades of red saved for them. Skin as pale as pale as porcelain. Black yarn on the delicate doll's head, waiting to be pulled out in the midst of ecstasy. A bust more than a handful, crafted by a master and just asking to be touched. (and these are all facts, not her bragging)She finds herself rather revolting, if you really must know (but most don't care about a word that comes out of her mouth unless it is a moan)

Her lips open, and words oiled in want pour out and stain the ground forever, leaving the spot black and rotted for generations to see (because she's so dirty)

(so damn dirty)

Lust feels it, she feels the push, the pull, the want, the need. (she can't help herself) She feels it all. No longer the blushing virgin…no, she had never really been that in the first place. Because she's always been so damn dirty.

On the inside of thighs she can imagine bruises from repeated placing of fingers, gripping too hard, but not nearly enough. It's always like that. So hard that she wants to break down and cry, hoping that the salt will cleanse her. It's always too soft, though. She needs it harder, rougher, she needs her porcelain skin to be cracked just a little bit more.

(make me so broken that I won't be able to think)

A spot on her head is tender from where ink black is pulled, making her pour out blood that is no longer red. The crimson is smudged on her lips, and only the faintest outline is able to be seen from how messily lips are placed over hers in the desperation of want.

(make me unrecognizable)

Her eyes are aching for the sleep that she never gets because they never stay. She tries, oh she tries to fall into the abyss that is called unconsciousness. But she can't. Simply can't. Watching with half-lidded eyes as they pull the teeth of their pants up she gently traces the indent on the bed next to her. Sometimes there is a faint awkward murmur of goodbye, others there is a toss of paper bills (which she burns. She is not a common street whore, and will not be treated as one) some a nervous look and then sweeping out the door.

(stay with me. Hold my body close to yours after the Lust is sated)

(and even with all of this they do not break her as much as she wants to be broken. If she breaks then she won't have to think, and if she does not think she will not realize what she is doing…howfuckingfilthy she makes herself.)

And there he is, with his biting words. Eyes that are made of hate, hair that is slicked with the push, the pull, the want, and the need to have what others own. (he is so much like her. Just needing to be broken )

Which is why he accepts her in his bed.

He breaks her over his knee, knocks down the pedestal that she has been worshipped on. (goddess no longer)

She's falling…falls…fell.

When she hit's the ground a spider's web appears on her skin, and she is shattered into a million pieces. Lips are all over her, and no longer can she see the crimson of her own. Strand after strand is plucked from her head, and she bleeds black so much that it is a wonder that she does not die (but she can't really because she's a filthy little girl, and filthy little girls never really die).

And he laughs as she weeps over how filthy and damned she is, at how she yearns to be more than a placing of fingers that crush her thighs too hard. (the tears aren't as cleansing as she would have thought)

The grin on his face won't disappear, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight and amongst the dirtied sheets. (he was glad to be the one that finally broke her)

And with a smile she thanks him, and picks up her clothing off the floor. Now she is the one to zip up the teeth, to say an awkward goodbye.

But she does not utter a goodbye, and there is no hesitance in her voice that stains the bedroom floor. (because broken things don't need to think about howfuckingfilthy they are)

"Envy, being broken is a wonderful sensation."

…

…

That night she sleeps for the first time.