Greed/Wrath, animeverse. The similarities between a child’s nightmares and an adult’s memories.
The first night Wrath comes to Greed’s bed and arms with his child-nightmares, Greed can’t help his claws from forming, from stroking the boy’s slender neck a little too defensively, predatorily, and tries to block out the child’s wet fearful language, memories of the Gate, of the darkness and cold, of the hunger eating him alive from the inside out always chewing biting gnashing and his own skull grinning from the sky.
His talons caress the boy’s frail vertebrae and thinks of all times on the field Wrath lost it at the opportune moment because of some brat’s wailing or whining, and makes a mental note to let the kid kill as many as he wants to, have as much as he wants to, if that’ll help the darkness go away.
There was a reason monsters came from the darkness, and that was because the darkness was no place to stay.
Attention, for wiccat
Greed/Dante/Envy. The lengths you go to for attention. Series spoilers.
Greed knows what he’s doing, but the fucking asshole’s far too amused to call Envy on it and doesn’t stop smirking at Envy over Dante’s shoulder as he sucks gently on her ear, taking care with his teeth like he doesn’t when he’s with Envy or with any of his whores and sluts, taking care not to bruise Dante-sama’s body or rough her up more than she wants, strangely attentive and gentle for someone so damn greedy.
Envy’s new body (he hopes to god she doesn’t know it’s him, that she won’t figure it out, he prays to a god he knows doesn’t exist and hopes like hell she can’t taste the Stone in his sweat or smell it in his hair, hopes he finally comes across as completely totally human and alive) is handsomer than Greed’s, sharper, darker, a hundred times more elegant and human, but it’s Greed’s hands and body that she pushes more and more against, leaving him out of the threesome, and one more time Envy’s the odd man out with another smirking asshole grinning at him over his mother’s shoulder.
Contracting, for forgottenlover
Dorchette/Hawkeye, the Ishbal dunes and freedom.
In the closed in, caged in twisted darkness of the cells, Dorchette huddles in on himself cradling his scars and missing flesh and thinks of the scathing desert winds and sand, of the copper sky and wide open velvet night stretching farther than his mind could open.
She’d been cool in uniform and chilling with a weapon, sharp and brisk with orders and her smile had been like a ghost in a storm when her unit had been dismissed from Ishbal, before the night fell and contracted like a monster’s stomach.
Dorchette had loved watching that woman move, her blond hair stable in the wind, but he doesn’t know if he should envy her for getting out in time or be thankful she did.