Lifestyles of the over-educated and under-entertained.

Title: The Passion
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Yes.
Notes: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what's happening in my brain. This is messed up even for me. My seminary education is showing. Blatant religious symbolism, taken extremely out of context.
(Actually, I could write a several several-page essays on the religious symbolism in FMA...but I’m prolly not gonna unless a lot of people really want me to.)
Warnings: BDSM kink/bondage, blood fetishism, pseudo-noncon



All that exists is this one moment. Undisturbed by anyone or anything else in this insane world, I move against him, my mouth savoring sweet sweat slicked over flushed skin, my pale limbs stroking his heated flesh. Silver and gold, sulphur and mercury, darkness and light-- we flow together, our own alchemical process. Hate becomes love; pain becomes pleasure; we fulfill one another in every way. Touch subverts everything, pulling it inside out, exposing every raw nerve and tender emotion, setting everything on edge and jumbling countering points and contrasting spirits into a wild kaleidoscope of being.

Alchemy, the science of turning lead into gold, was never about actual, physical transmutation.

It was allegorical, metaphysical. Alchemy was a metaphor for two polar opposite pieces joining and becoming a single cohesive whole.

For immortality and utter perfection.

His unwillingness melts away, the energy redirecting, and he opens like a rose to the light of the full moon. We both reach outside our own realm, seeking a freedom neither of us can ever fully possess, but only graze the edges of in moments like this. Sacred space, sacred time. I press close and capture his lips with mine; sharp flavor bursts in my mouth as my teeth cut him, and I sigh in pleasure, tasting for the first time the Elixir of his vital, vigorous life.

The Philosopher's Stone, the red waters of immortality… I worry the slit skin, drinking in the tangy metallic flavor, and he moans beneath me, writhing against the rough wood of the cross. I tilt my head and I can see the ropes cutting into his wrists; they, too, sip the water of life. I lap at his swollen lips, grazing my mouth against his in a Judas' kiss.

How he fought me! Every inch of the way, though I wasn't trying to take him any further than to the edge of enlightenment, to the brink of his own epiphany, to the place he most needed to be. No, he forced me to carry him, kicking and screaming, like a child throwing a tantrum. He fought, snarling and cursing, even as he regained consciousness and found himself helplessly flat on his back, tied securely to a four hundred pound cross.

He didn't understand, blinded by his own pride and arrogance, that in order to receive revelations, he needed to be humbled. That being made complete always meant being broken down into component parts first.

There is no easy way to do this. I wouldn't have gone easy on him even if there had been another way; this was my pleasure as much as his pain as much as our mutual profit. His suffering was more than his own path to bliss-- it was our path. In the end, he would thank me.

I work my tongue over his face, drawing his blood, sweat, and tears into me...making him a part of me, and everything that he is. I reach up and turn his face against mine, and he lets his head roll easily with a soft noise like a hoarse, angry choked sob. I trail down to the moist pink shell of his ear and stroke his golden hair tenderly.

"Soft, soft, my sweet," I say, smiling, and he makes that miserable noise again at the razor's edge in my voice. "You are doing so well."

I emphasize my point by rocking my groin against his. His sex is painfully hard, and the teasing friction of my arousal against his makes him gasp and arch up off the cross needily. Tears spill from his tightly closed eyes like rivulets of liquid crystal.

I bite into the soft vulnerability of his neck; my teeth shear through his flesh, and he cries out, bucking underneath me. The savory taste of him floods my mouth, and I revel in his human flavor. He is both Holy Grail and Immortal Elixir; I lift his cup to my lips and swallow repeatedly.

He breathes hard into my dark hair, pulling at the bonds that restrain him, and it seems that I can almost feel the pleasure singing agony in his veins. My lips brush over the wound; my tongue traces the shredded skin. Pain jags through him like white lightning, and I feel him strain upward again, grinding against me.

Black and white, pale and dusky, violet and amber, ancient and young, human and homunculus... The old covenant and the new are incarnated within us: the crucified serpent and the crucified Son of Man.

We combine, separate, and recombine; we suffer, die, and are reborn, coming together to form something new and beautiful.


(After some thought and encouragement, this has been cross-posted over at fma_yaoi. My apologies to those who see it twice.)