Categories > Anime/Manga > Full Metal Alchemist
Unsatisfied
by Melissa the Sheep
Date: March 25-26, April 7-12, 2005
Summary: Greed has something Kimbley wants. Greed/Kimbley.
Warning: Smut and explosive gore
Disclaimer: Arakawa-sensei, SquareEnix, Funimation, etc. I make no profit and I intend no infringement.
Notes follow.
The one with the dark glasses and fur-trimmed vest breaks away from the others and moves toward him, and it's then that Kimbley sees that red tattoo on the man's hand. He knows he's seen that before, long ago when he'd still been able to study--before Ishbal where he had no time for reading, before that dark prison cell where he had nothing but the information already in his head--but he can't quite remember what it's supposed to mean.
"There's something about you," the tattooed man murmurs, head cocked, squinting quizzically over the top of his glasses as he looks Kimbley in the eye.
Nobody has looked him in the eye for years, not since he developed a reputation. Even when he was in shackles, far away from red stones, his alchemy crippled, they were still always afraid.
This man stares as if he doesn't know any of that--and reaches forward and touches him. There's something possessive in that touch, something searching, like opening a gift to see what's inside. Kimbley tenses as those hands grasp at his shoulders, and he breaks away when they touch his chest.
"Don't," he says, backing away. In just two steps he feels the corridor's stone wall come up cold against his back.
The man move toward him again, with a hungry, sharp-toothed smile. It reminds him of the wild jackals howling at night in the desert. Kimbley claps, throws his hands against the man's chest, and--
He stops, stunned by what he feels, puzzled for a moment before recognition floods over him. The years had distorted his memory of this, and the red water in the lab hadn't been the same at all. The real thing is even better than he remembered. It's right here under his palms, coursing through this man's veins, concentrated in two points near the collarbone. It's good, so good, and for a moment he's afraid it might be too good to be real.
His whole body shakes, his hands quivering with want like he'd never felt before he laid eyes on Marcoh's vials. "You feel like--" If he says it, will this man tell him that he's wrong? That he's suffering some delusion?
The tattooed man looks at him, head cocked again, smiling still. "Like what?"
And this man wouldn't be the first person to call him mad, so Kimbley says it anyway: "You feel like a red stone."
The man laughs, plucks one of Kimbley's hands off of his chest, stares at the array there. "And you feel like a pretty badass alchemist. That's what it is about you."
"Greed," one of the others says, and the tattooed man looks away for a moment.
"We need to keep moving, boss."
Greed sighs, and drops a kiss on Kimbley's palm. "I think we'll get along fine, alchemist."
Kimbley lets himself be led away, Greed's arm around his shoulder.
The woman--Martel, he thinks she was called--broke into one of the military's trucks near the lab, and now they're heading south. Martel is behind the wheel, and when the other chimeras piled into the back earlier, Greed pulled him along into the cab.
They've been driving for hours, and Kimbley can't remember any moment since their meeting that Greed hasn't been touching him. There's always been an arm around his waist, or a thigh pressed against his, or a hand resting on his arm. Right now, Greed has both arms wrapped around him, head resting on his shoulder, pressing their bodies together as well as can be managed when they're side by side on the truck's bench seat.
Greed reminds him of a mangy gray tabby cat that followed him around Central for weeks as he was preparing for his certification exam. Whenever he looked its way, it would give a sharp, demanding meow, showing a mouth with half the teeth gone. He never touched it or said a word to it until the night before the practical exam, when he lured it into his room with the promise of leftover chicken scraps.
If Greed ever asks to have his chin scratched, Kimbley decides, he'll blow the man's fucking head off.
"So tell me, darling," Greed says, "did you guys sign up for that lab?"
"Hell no," Martel snorts. "The army just wanted to shut us up after the war started."
"Oh, there was a war?"
Kimbley raises an eyebrow. "You look old enough that you should remember."
Greed shrugs against him. "Eh. It's been over a century since I've had a newspaper."
The truck swerves briefly before Martel overcomes her surprise. "A--a hundred years?"
"A hundred thirty-six, I think. It was hard to keep track, though."
Kimbley just smiles. He remembers now about the mark on Greed's hand. The stones, his age, those odd purple eyes--it all makes perfect sense.
"Sealed, were you?" he asks casually, and Greed stiffens for just a moment, as if surprised by the question. That's all the answer Kimbley needs.
He reaches up to stroke Greed's chest, feeling the stones' power under his fingers. He tries to remember whether homunculi could give up a stone or two by choice. He tries to decide whether Greed would ever choose to do that.
He feels the burn of being watched, as he's running fingers along Greed's jaw. Martel is looking at him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed slightly. When he catches her eye, she continues glaring at him several seconds more before finally turning her attention back to the road.
The cat had purred as he carried it in his arms to Central Headquarters. It complained loudly when he set it down on the ground, but it didn't seem to notice what he did when, with his inked palm, he stroked its back one last time.
Under his fingers, Greed hums appreciatively, so starved for a kind touch that he can't--or doesn't want to--feel how savage Kimbley's tenderness is.
The hotel is beyond seedy. That was clear enough when the clerk asked no questions about Kimbley's prison uniform, or the stolen military truck, or the way that Greed insisted on constantly showing those inhuman teeth. The clientele must consist mostly of thieves, whores, and fugitives like them.
In the hall, Kimbley feels the hand fall away from the small of his back, and he turns to see what caused Greed to finally break contact. Greed is leaning toward Martel, marked hand on her shoulder, and they're speaking just too low for Kimbley to make out their words.
Greed pulls back. " . . . can take care of myself," he says, and stifles Martel's protest with a kiss. "Check in on Dorochet, would you, darling? He said something about the scents here being overwhelming."
He knows Martel is watching, venomous as the next snake, as Greed nudges him down the hallway and into one of the rooms they've rented for the night.
Greed shuts the door behind them. He reaches around Kimbley's body from behind, running his thumbs under the prison uniform's waistband. "What do you think, alchemist?"
"I think you overpaid," Kimbley says as he surveys the room. The carpet is threadbare and grimy. The bed was clearly not changed since the last guests--the spread is rumpled, not even completely pulled over the sheets.
"I paid for them not to ask questions," says Greed. One hand brushes his long hair over his shoulder, and Greed's nose and chin and lips move against the nape of his neck in a caress. "Considering all the questions we don't want to answer, I think it was a bargain."
The other hand slides down over the front of his prison trousers. Kimbley leans back against Greed, and lets out a moan in spite of himself. He can feel Greed's erection pressing against him through their clothes.
"I want you," Greed whispers, hand stroking Kimbley's cock, rocking his hips in time. "I want you on your hands and knees under me. I want your cock in my mouth. I want your legs around my shoulders. I want you to moan for me, and come for me. I want--"
"Everything." Kimbley twists around in Greed's arms. He presses his lips to Greed's, flicks his tongue over Greed's teeth, nips at Greed's lip.
"Yes," Greed murmurs into his mouth, voice as desperate and needy as those grasping hands. "Everything."
He breaks away from Greed, and reaches for the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head. Without physical contact, Greed seems to snap back to attention, shrugging off his vest, stepping out of his pants, and reaching to slide Kimbley's pants down as well.
"What's this?" Kimbley asks, running his hands up Greed's coal-black torso. It's warm like flesh, but hard as steel and too sleek. Several points are marked on it in red--near his collarbone where Kimbley first felt the stones concentrated, and over his hips as well.
Greed laughs. "So you don't know everything about me. It's my shield."
Kimbley watches, fascinated, as the black surface creeps slowly down Greed's arms. Hands still on Greed's chest, he can feel the stones' power surging as they work to produce the transformation.
"It's impenetrable, and I can cover my whole body with it," Greed says, stretching one arm and smiling as the shield moves over his fingers and turns the tips into claws. And in an instant Greed's shield is gone, leaving pale skin in its place. "But I think I'm much more attractive without."
"You are," says Kimbley, and that's true enough. Without the shield on his chest, Greed looks less like a monster. The stones' power is latent now that the shield is down, reduced to a hum that he can barely feel even as he touches the caches still marked on Greed's torso, and his head feels clearer now.
With a hand on his arm, Greed nudges him toward the bed. Kimbley pushes back, backing Greed up to the wall instead, and Greed seems happy with this idea too.
Kimbley licks his lips and sinks to his knees. Greed purrs at the first swipe of his tongue, rocks into his mouth, clutches at his shoulders, moans like the warmth of Kimbley's mouth is the best feeling in the world.
Orgasm leaves Greed vulnerable for a moment, slumped against the wall, panting, grinning, happy enough that he can be taken by surprise. Kimbley spits hastily onto the floor, and presses his hands together as he scrambles to his feet.
Palms to Greed's chest, he tears sulfur from amino acids, leeches oxygen from blood, blends it all together with carbon and nitrogen and potassium as Greed's eyes dilate in shock or pain. Greed grasps frantically at his wrists, pulling his hands away, but it's too late and Greed's heart detonates a moment later. Blood and gore spatter on Kimbley's face and chest.
The body falls to the floor, pulling Kimbley with it before he can twist free of the still-clutching hands. He reaches forward, groping through the remnants of Greed's shattered torso, hunting for the stones he can still feel but can't see amidst the gore. Greed's lungs are knitting back together already, and Kimbley hurries, trying to find the cache by Greed's heart.
The tip of one finger finally brushes against the hot power of a stone, when Greed grasps his wrist again.
"Mine," Greed hisses.
He struggles as Greed drags him up and pushes him onto the bed, pinning him with a knee to his solar plexus. With his free hand, he scrabbles desperately at the newly repaired skin on Greed's chest, trying to get at the stones he still feels under the surface, his nails opening shallow wounds that heal almost instantly. He stops only when he feels Greed's claws sharp against his throat, just breaking the skin.
Greed leans forward and nips at his earlobe. "No more of that, darling."
"You seemed," he pants, "like someone who would like the rush of dying." And judging by the renewed erection brushing against his stomach, Greed did like it.
Greed glares at him. "I'm not a fool, Kimbley. I know what you were trying to do, and it's useless for you to try it again."
"Give me just one. Just one." The needy pitch of his voice surprises him. He licks his lip, tasting the faint bitterness of the stone in Greed's blood. It's enough to feel on his tongue for just a moment--not nearly enough to give him the power he remembers.
Greed releases his hand, but keeps the claws at his throat. When Greed spits twice into his own palm, Kimbley closes his eyes and spreads his legs, resigned to giving everything and gaining nothing. Of course Greed would be the only one of them to get what he wants.
He opens his eyes again when he feels Greed's hand sliding wet over his cock. Greed releases his throat, shifts to straddle him, and, with a moan, sinks down.
"I can't give you what you want, darling," Greed murmurs.
He lays his hands on Greed's hips as Greed begins to move. It's maddening to feel the stones there under his palms.
"Please," he begs. "Just one."
"I can't," Greed repeats. He sounds genuinely sorry, this soulless monster, as if he expects Kimbley to forgive him.
But it's as if Greed also expects this to be enough--thinks that fucking should make up for being denied the only thing he's ever wanted this badly. And that's something Kimbley can't forgive, because shouldn't Greed understand how it hurts to be deprived? He wants only one . . .
He thrusts up into Greed anyway, trying to focus on this, hoping that lust can dull his ache for the stones. Greed comes quickly, without either of them touching him, head tipped back, grin wide as ever, semen spattering warm on Kimbley's chest. Kimbley has barely started to breathe hard.
And even as Kimbley does come, crying out and arching up into Greed's body, he only feels more hollow than before.
His arms fall limp to his sides as he lies there panting. Greed drops onto the bed beside him, wraps an arm around him, nuzzles his throat--so obviously pleased. He can still feel the faint power of the stones in Greed's body, allowing Greed to borrow life and this almost-human form.
The monster's blood and come are drying tight against his skin, and Kimbley has never known envy like this.
He is silent as Greed drifts to sleep whispering sweet nothings.
[ End ]
Rambly li'l notes:
Greed x floor = OTP
Poor kitty cat. I feel so mean for writing that. (And yet I have no issues with Kimbley fishing around in the squelchy remains of Greed's torso? Um . . . )
Much love to swordage, who loaned me ideas about the distribution of stone in Greed's body. And probably other ideas too, but I don't remember.
Much love also to pinstripesuit for being such a nice sounding board and helping me keep Greed focused on the task at hand.
by Melissa the Sheep
Date: March 25-26, April 7-12, 2005
Summary: Greed has something Kimbley wants. Greed/Kimbley.
Warning: Smut and explosive gore
Disclaimer: Arakawa-sensei, SquareEnix, Funimation, etc. I make no profit and I intend no infringement.
Notes follow.
The one with the dark glasses and fur-trimmed vest breaks away from the others and moves toward him, and it's then that Kimbley sees that red tattoo on the man's hand. He knows he's seen that before, long ago when he'd still been able to study--before Ishbal where he had no time for reading, before that dark prison cell where he had nothing but the information already in his head--but he can't quite remember what it's supposed to mean.
"There's something about you," the tattooed man murmurs, head cocked, squinting quizzically over the top of his glasses as he looks Kimbley in the eye.
Nobody has looked him in the eye for years, not since he developed a reputation. Even when he was in shackles, far away from red stones, his alchemy crippled, they were still always afraid.
This man stares as if he doesn't know any of that--and reaches forward and touches him. There's something possessive in that touch, something searching, like opening a gift to see what's inside. Kimbley tenses as those hands grasp at his shoulders, and he breaks away when they touch his chest.
"Don't," he says, backing away. In just two steps he feels the corridor's stone wall come up cold against his back.
The man move toward him again, with a hungry, sharp-toothed smile. It reminds him of the wild jackals howling at night in the desert. Kimbley claps, throws his hands against the man's chest, and--
He stops, stunned by what he feels, puzzled for a moment before recognition floods over him. The years had distorted his memory of this, and the red water in the lab hadn't been the same at all. The real thing is even better than he remembered. It's right here under his palms, coursing through this man's veins, concentrated in two points near the collarbone. It's good, so good, and for a moment he's afraid it might be too good to be real.
His whole body shakes, his hands quivering with want like he'd never felt before he laid eyes on Marcoh's vials. "You feel like--" If he says it, will this man tell him that he's wrong? That he's suffering some delusion?
The tattooed man looks at him, head cocked again, smiling still. "Like what?"
And this man wouldn't be the first person to call him mad, so Kimbley says it anyway: "You feel like a red stone."
The man laughs, plucks one of Kimbley's hands off of his chest, stares at the array there. "And you feel like a pretty badass alchemist. That's what it is about you."
"Greed," one of the others says, and the tattooed man looks away for a moment.
"We need to keep moving, boss."
Greed sighs, and drops a kiss on Kimbley's palm. "I think we'll get along fine, alchemist."
Kimbley lets himself be led away, Greed's arm around his shoulder.
The woman--Martel, he thinks she was called--broke into one of the military's trucks near the lab, and now they're heading south. Martel is behind the wheel, and when the other chimeras piled into the back earlier, Greed pulled him along into the cab.
They've been driving for hours, and Kimbley can't remember any moment since their meeting that Greed hasn't been touching him. There's always been an arm around his waist, or a thigh pressed against his, or a hand resting on his arm. Right now, Greed has both arms wrapped around him, head resting on his shoulder, pressing their bodies together as well as can be managed when they're side by side on the truck's bench seat.
Greed reminds him of a mangy gray tabby cat that followed him around Central for weeks as he was preparing for his certification exam. Whenever he looked its way, it would give a sharp, demanding meow, showing a mouth with half the teeth gone. He never touched it or said a word to it until the night before the practical exam, when he lured it into his room with the promise of leftover chicken scraps.
If Greed ever asks to have his chin scratched, Kimbley decides, he'll blow the man's fucking head off.
"So tell me, darling," Greed says, "did you guys sign up for that lab?"
"Hell no," Martel snorts. "The army just wanted to shut us up after the war started."
"Oh, there was a war?"
Kimbley raises an eyebrow. "You look old enough that you should remember."
Greed shrugs against him. "Eh. It's been over a century since I've had a newspaper."
The truck swerves briefly before Martel overcomes her surprise. "A--a hundred years?"
"A hundred thirty-six, I think. It was hard to keep track, though."
Kimbley just smiles. He remembers now about the mark on Greed's hand. The stones, his age, those odd purple eyes--it all makes perfect sense.
"Sealed, were you?" he asks casually, and Greed stiffens for just a moment, as if surprised by the question. That's all the answer Kimbley needs.
He reaches up to stroke Greed's chest, feeling the stones' power under his fingers. He tries to remember whether homunculi could give up a stone or two by choice. He tries to decide whether Greed would ever choose to do that.
He feels the burn of being watched, as he's running fingers along Greed's jaw. Martel is looking at him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed slightly. When he catches her eye, she continues glaring at him several seconds more before finally turning her attention back to the road.
The cat had purred as he carried it in his arms to Central Headquarters. It complained loudly when he set it down on the ground, but it didn't seem to notice what he did when, with his inked palm, he stroked its back one last time.
Under his fingers, Greed hums appreciatively, so starved for a kind touch that he can't--or doesn't want to--feel how savage Kimbley's tenderness is.
The hotel is beyond seedy. That was clear enough when the clerk asked no questions about Kimbley's prison uniform, or the stolen military truck, or the way that Greed insisted on constantly showing those inhuman teeth. The clientele must consist mostly of thieves, whores, and fugitives like them.
In the hall, Kimbley feels the hand fall away from the small of his back, and he turns to see what caused Greed to finally break contact. Greed is leaning toward Martel, marked hand on her shoulder, and they're speaking just too low for Kimbley to make out their words.
Greed pulls back. " . . . can take care of myself," he says, and stifles Martel's protest with a kiss. "Check in on Dorochet, would you, darling? He said something about the scents here being overwhelming."
He knows Martel is watching, venomous as the next snake, as Greed nudges him down the hallway and into one of the rooms they've rented for the night.
Greed shuts the door behind them. He reaches around Kimbley's body from behind, running his thumbs under the prison uniform's waistband. "What do you think, alchemist?"
"I think you overpaid," Kimbley says as he surveys the room. The carpet is threadbare and grimy. The bed was clearly not changed since the last guests--the spread is rumpled, not even completely pulled over the sheets.
"I paid for them not to ask questions," says Greed. One hand brushes his long hair over his shoulder, and Greed's nose and chin and lips move against the nape of his neck in a caress. "Considering all the questions we don't want to answer, I think it was a bargain."
The other hand slides down over the front of his prison trousers. Kimbley leans back against Greed, and lets out a moan in spite of himself. He can feel Greed's erection pressing against him through their clothes.
"I want you," Greed whispers, hand stroking Kimbley's cock, rocking his hips in time. "I want you on your hands and knees under me. I want your cock in my mouth. I want your legs around my shoulders. I want you to moan for me, and come for me. I want--"
"Everything." Kimbley twists around in Greed's arms. He presses his lips to Greed's, flicks his tongue over Greed's teeth, nips at Greed's lip.
"Yes," Greed murmurs into his mouth, voice as desperate and needy as those grasping hands. "Everything."
He breaks away from Greed, and reaches for the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head. Without physical contact, Greed seems to snap back to attention, shrugging off his vest, stepping out of his pants, and reaching to slide Kimbley's pants down as well.
"What's this?" Kimbley asks, running his hands up Greed's coal-black torso. It's warm like flesh, but hard as steel and too sleek. Several points are marked on it in red--near his collarbone where Kimbley first felt the stones concentrated, and over his hips as well.
Greed laughs. "So you don't know everything about me. It's my shield."
Kimbley watches, fascinated, as the black surface creeps slowly down Greed's arms. Hands still on Greed's chest, he can feel the stones' power surging as they work to produce the transformation.
"It's impenetrable, and I can cover my whole body with it," Greed says, stretching one arm and smiling as the shield moves over his fingers and turns the tips into claws. And in an instant Greed's shield is gone, leaving pale skin in its place. "But I think I'm much more attractive without."
"You are," says Kimbley, and that's true enough. Without the shield on his chest, Greed looks less like a monster. The stones' power is latent now that the shield is down, reduced to a hum that he can barely feel even as he touches the caches still marked on Greed's torso, and his head feels clearer now.
With a hand on his arm, Greed nudges him toward the bed. Kimbley pushes back, backing Greed up to the wall instead, and Greed seems happy with this idea too.
Kimbley licks his lips and sinks to his knees. Greed purrs at the first swipe of his tongue, rocks into his mouth, clutches at his shoulders, moans like the warmth of Kimbley's mouth is the best feeling in the world.
Orgasm leaves Greed vulnerable for a moment, slumped against the wall, panting, grinning, happy enough that he can be taken by surprise. Kimbley spits hastily onto the floor, and presses his hands together as he scrambles to his feet.
Palms to Greed's chest, he tears sulfur from amino acids, leeches oxygen from blood, blends it all together with carbon and nitrogen and potassium as Greed's eyes dilate in shock or pain. Greed grasps frantically at his wrists, pulling his hands away, but it's too late and Greed's heart detonates a moment later. Blood and gore spatter on Kimbley's face and chest.
The body falls to the floor, pulling Kimbley with it before he can twist free of the still-clutching hands. He reaches forward, groping through the remnants of Greed's shattered torso, hunting for the stones he can still feel but can't see amidst the gore. Greed's lungs are knitting back together already, and Kimbley hurries, trying to find the cache by Greed's heart.
The tip of one finger finally brushes against the hot power of a stone, when Greed grasps his wrist again.
"Mine," Greed hisses.
He struggles as Greed drags him up and pushes him onto the bed, pinning him with a knee to his solar plexus. With his free hand, he scrabbles desperately at the newly repaired skin on Greed's chest, trying to get at the stones he still feels under the surface, his nails opening shallow wounds that heal almost instantly. He stops only when he feels Greed's claws sharp against his throat, just breaking the skin.
Greed leans forward and nips at his earlobe. "No more of that, darling."
"You seemed," he pants, "like someone who would like the rush of dying." And judging by the renewed erection brushing against his stomach, Greed did like it.
Greed glares at him. "I'm not a fool, Kimbley. I know what you were trying to do, and it's useless for you to try it again."
"Give me just one. Just one." The needy pitch of his voice surprises him. He licks his lip, tasting the faint bitterness of the stone in Greed's blood. It's enough to feel on his tongue for just a moment--not nearly enough to give him the power he remembers.
Greed releases his hand, but keeps the claws at his throat. When Greed spits twice into his own palm, Kimbley closes his eyes and spreads his legs, resigned to giving everything and gaining nothing. Of course Greed would be the only one of them to get what he wants.
He opens his eyes again when he feels Greed's hand sliding wet over his cock. Greed releases his throat, shifts to straddle him, and, with a moan, sinks down.
"I can't give you what you want, darling," Greed murmurs.
He lays his hands on Greed's hips as Greed begins to move. It's maddening to feel the stones there under his palms.
"Please," he begs. "Just one."
"I can't," Greed repeats. He sounds genuinely sorry, this soulless monster, as if he expects Kimbley to forgive him.
But it's as if Greed also expects this to be enough--thinks that fucking should make up for being denied the only thing he's ever wanted this badly. And that's something Kimbley can't forgive, because shouldn't Greed understand how it hurts to be deprived? He wants only one . . .
He thrusts up into Greed anyway, trying to focus on this, hoping that lust can dull his ache for the stones. Greed comes quickly, without either of them touching him, head tipped back, grin wide as ever, semen spattering warm on Kimbley's chest. Kimbley has barely started to breathe hard.
And even as Kimbley does come, crying out and arching up into Greed's body, he only feels more hollow than before.
His arms fall limp to his sides as he lies there panting. Greed drops onto the bed beside him, wraps an arm around him, nuzzles his throat--so obviously pleased. He can still feel the faint power of the stones in Greed's body, allowing Greed to borrow life and this almost-human form.
The monster's blood and come are drying tight against his skin, and Kimbley has never known envy like this.
He is silent as Greed drifts to sleep whispering sweet nothings.
[ End ]
Rambly li'l notes:
Greed x floor = OTP
Poor kitty cat. I feel so mean for writing that. (And yet I have no issues with Kimbley fishing around in the squelchy remains of Greed's torso? Um . . . )
Much love to swordage, who loaned me ideas about the distribution of stone in Greed's body. And probably other ideas too, but I don't remember.
Much love also to pinstripesuit for being such a nice sounding board and helping me keep Greed focused on the task at hand.
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