Summary: There was a thrill in what he was doing, a thrill he hadn’t felt since his young-love days with Elma.
Word Count: 460
Spoilers: For the second fullmetal alchemist game.
He looked at the golem, and a small smile curved his lips as his eyes scanned up and down the new body he had designed for the mud monster.The same eyes, face, and body of a young alchemist that Crowley had been seeing recently. Despite all of the accidental meetings, the Silver Bullet Alchemist didn’t know why the young boy seemed to appear wherever the golems were. He had surprised Crowley with his skillful use of alchemy and had memorized the man with his golden colored eyes. Eyes identical in sharpness to that of Crowley’s, and eyes that were clearly hiding something.
Crowley wanted to know what.
Despite Crowley being able to recreate the boy’s body from memory, the Golem lacked the most important features. The mud couldn’t bring out the eyes Crowley so craved to see, and when Crowley leaned down to press his lips against the golem’s childish ones there was no warmth or moisture. The kiss was dead.
However, Crowley was determined, and he didn’t pull away. His tongue inched out, and felt and memorized the shape of those lips. His hand reached up to cup the small chin, and he pressed his body closer to the alchemist's smaller frame.
He was determined to figure out what this boy was about…
There was a thrill in what he was doing, a thrill he hadn’t felt since his young-love days with Elma. The thrill was lovely, as it exploded in his gut.
The thrill was addictive, and his other hand had reached down to memorize the shape of the boy’s butt, when Elma--his sweet Elma, who had been watching the entire display and making confused, cooing noises--seemed to have had enough.
She marched up and roughly shoved her lover away from the clay doll, shoving the golem just as hard away from her lover.
Crowley stumbled back, and the golem fell against the wall and smashed into a million clumped pieces, losing its form completely.
Without the golem occupying his mouth, Crowley realized how out of breath he was. He tired to regain his breathing and compose himself as he stared sadly at the muddy mess that he had (only moments ago) been groping.
But he didn’t feel sadness. Why would he? It wasn’t the real thing. The alchemist was gone forever…
Elma began rubbing her scaly body against him in apology, cooing again and making whimpering noises.
She wanted all that attention; she wanted to be the object of his want.
He complied to her needs for now by stroking her long and thick hair. She purred and buried her face in his neck. “I’m not mad at you darling, there there…” he assured, and she purred more in response. “I’m not mad…” he repeated.
“I can always make more…”