Categories > Anime/Manga > Full Metal Alchemist
Lest They Forget
If love turned to loathing has a scent, it's what surrounds them now: the mingled rot and sweat of stolen bodies. (PWP, and probably the ickiest sex scene I've ever written. Just a warning.)
?Blocked
The smell of rotting flesh hangs heavy in the air, wafting off both of them. They can taste it when their lips meet. When his fingers graze her skin, it flakes away, revealing the putrescence beneath. It doesn't stop him. He's become used to it.
"Are fresh bodies becoming harder to come by, my dear?" His tone is mild, as is his expression, but they know each other too well. She draws one dagger-sharp nail across his cheek, opening the skin. The smell of rot increases. Most people would find it difficult to breathe.
"You're hardly one to talk, beloved." There's venom in her voice and in her smile, but she strokes his injured cheek with something that is almost tenderness. They are, for better or worse, used to each other.
He takes his time exploring her latest body. Over the centuries, he's learned to overlook the inevitable rot, and the differences in the forms she chooses intrigue him. His bodies have always been of a type, but the only constant in her choices are youth and beauty. This one, for instance, is willowy and fair. Her hair would have been beautiful when the body was new, golden and hanging to her waist. He imagines it would have felt like silk, but now it is dry and brittle in his hands. Her skin tastes of violets and rotting meat, and he sinks his teeth into her throat to better taste the corruption lurking beneath.
The body may be delicate, but the way she moves beneath him is familiar, as are the noises she makes, sounds of lust and rage. Also familiar, the way sex turns to violence with her, his hands moving to her arms and tightening to keep her from tearing at him with nails he suspects she keeps sharp for this very purpose. There are reasons they are only drawn together when their bodies are on the edge of ruin.
If love turned to loathing has a scent, it's what surrounds them now: the mingled rot and sweat of stolen bodies. If it has a texture, it's the brittleness of their hair, the pulpy softness of putrefying flesh.
He reflects, as he thrusts into her, that this is why he comes back. He loathes her, and she both loves and hates him, even now. But this, between them, is an honest thing. Love becomes violence, beauty becomes ruin. When it ends, their orgasms within moments of each other, it's as much pain as pleasure, as much of an added burden as it is a release. Yet they keep coming together. They know each other.
These times remind them, more than anything else can, of what they have become, stripping away the illusions they both cherish. Lest they forget.
"Are fresh bodies becoming harder to come by, my dear?" His tone is mild, as is his expression, but they know each other too well. She draws one dagger-sharp nail across his cheek, opening the skin. The smell of rot increases. Most people would find it difficult to breathe.
"You're hardly one to talk, beloved." There's venom in her voice and in her smile, but she strokes his injured cheek with something that is almost tenderness. They are, for better or worse, used to each other.
He takes his time exploring her latest body. Over the centuries, he's learned to overlook the inevitable rot, and the differences in the forms she chooses intrigue him. His bodies have always been of a type, but the only constant in her choices are youth and beauty. This one, for instance, is willowy and fair. Her hair would have been beautiful when the body was new, golden and hanging to her waist. He imagines it would have felt like silk, but now it is dry and brittle in his hands. Her skin tastes of violets and rotting meat, and he sinks his teeth into her throat to better taste the corruption lurking beneath.
The body may be delicate, but the way she moves beneath him is familiar, as are the noises she makes, sounds of lust and rage. Also familiar, the way sex turns to violence with her, his hands moving to her arms and tightening to keep her from tearing at him with nails he suspects she keeps sharp for this very purpose. There are reasons they are only drawn together when their bodies are on the edge of ruin.
If love turned to loathing has a scent, it's what surrounds them now: the mingled rot and sweat of stolen bodies. If it has a texture, it's the brittleness of their hair, the pulpy softness of putrefying flesh.
He reflects, as he thrusts into her, that this is why he comes back. He loathes her, and she both loves and hates him, even now. But this, between them, is an honest thing. Love becomes violence, beauty becomes ruin. When it ends, their orgasms within moments of each other, it's as much pain as pleasure, as much of an added burden as it is a release. Yet they keep coming together. They know each other.
These times remind them, more than anything else can, of what they have become, stripping away the illusions they both cherish. Lest they forget.
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