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    Summary

    For someone who is, quite literally, a flaming ball of necrotic ooze, physical stimuli tends to register more often than not.

    It's not just things like blinding pain and scorching heat, either. The taste of food both familiar and foreign lingers on a phantom palate. Scents tickle nonexistent olfactory nerves, from the rotting-sweet stench of a corpse to a salty sea breeze. His lifeless heart has taken to performing backflips whenever inky black eyes, and their barely-visible earth-brown irises, smile fondly at him.

    All these certainly fall among things that any corpse being piloted by a homunculus shouldn’t be experiencing, but somehow he can.

    It’s not worth the headache trying to figure out the logistics of literally any of that crap on top of everything else he has to deal with. But more recently, he can’t help but find himself grateful that this aspect of whatever humanity he has left has been miraculously preserved.

    For newest to his recollection of sensory-based knowhow is the familiar rhythms of two willing bodies, getting down and dirty with one another.

    Series
    Language:
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