Cut Bodies, Cut Love - SCP Foundation

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Explicit depiction of sexual acts.

Features non-consensual sexual acts.

Depiction of severe mistreatment of children

Depiction of self-harm

Depiction of suicide

Depiction of torture

Flesh crafting references

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Trans love never dies. It just takes on new forms.

——

My name is Nemeth Istvan. I am 167 years of age. I have existed for longer than many countries. I have seen empires fall, I have seen an empire rise. I have hidden in the shadows of hundreds of countries. I have plied my trade in the dead of night, in the darkest alleys known to humankind and other, more ancient races. I have explored the reaches of my art, sustaining myself with the magic of the flesh.

What am I?

What am I, to the huddled, screaming masses, who yearn for something more?

What am I, to the fool with enough money they can buy a person in their entirety?

What am I, to the tender, beaten soul, who desires to be their truest, perfect self?

To all of these, I am redemption.

To all of them, I am a goal.

And to those I love the most, I am a treasure.

A scenic, almost artistic view of Oregon forestry sweeps ahead of them, arguably the prettiest view in the entire state. Standing on this porch in all his glory, is Nemeth Istvan, 167, fleshcrafter of former Nälkäns allegiance. His body is, to put it bluntly, exquisitely perfect intersect between the male and female beauty. A sharp chin, enough to cut diamonds. A soft face, exquisitely circular and symmetrical. Almond-shaped eyes kiss the landscape, taking in every centimeter of its beauty. Below the face, a body composed by a master smith, thighs that are soft but firm, biceps curled and coiled from hundreds of instances of near misses and combat, trim and delectable triceps crossed under a finely-tuned and engineered chest, containing a treasure of muscle and improved organs. Finally, in this tableau of the purest form of beauty, lies the hands the only tool a fleshcrafter will ever need.

Calloused and muscled, these hands are a treasure to many people. They can shape fat and flesh, bones and muscle. The nails have been shaved to the bone, exposing as much of the ancient fingertips as possible. At the fingertips, the carvings begin. Deep, crimson glyphs are carved into the skin, loops and whirls of Nälkän magic covering their skin. At the knuckles, impaled into the joints, are Nälkän crafter nails, composed of the four conductive metals. Each finger is a special blend, each knuckle the augmented focus for the spells this expert uses in their life. Gold, copper, zinc, and silver rods are slotted between each knuckle, causing them to bulge slightly when flexed. These hands can shape anyone that goes through the proper channels, the proper rituals, the proper appreciation. These hands are the tools of an expert in their craft, covered in small cuts and burns. They are weathered, and will never be made new. Their age is what makes them unique, their weathering is what makes them special. They are Nemeth Istvan’s hands, and he is proud of them.

Across the field, the farms lie, further tools of the trade oinking, bleating, and buzzing. Mangalica pigs wander around a vast field of green, squealing at one another, cavorting in the light spring breeze. The creatures, that others do not see as living, are alive, and their joy is clear as it rings through Nemeth’s ears. The fatty, jubilant swine are the main source of shifting fat, the main ingredient in creating new breasts, thighs, and asses. Goats, filled with milk, are perfect for reinforcing and elongating bones. Oxen graze, a perfect source of excellent muscle sitting furry and happy. A small collection of these beasts bleat and snort, snacking on the fresh emerald grass. Overseeing it all, Nemeth sighs heavily, joy swelling within their heart. Something that was missing, some integral puzzle piece, slides into place for Nemeth.

Within the ancient sewers of Hungary, a cult arose and became a thing. A thing of some importance to the world, a thing of worship and hierarchy. Within this group arose a person of some prominence, with influence on the groups politics and whims. When a major decision arose, she was bought in for her keen grasp of the human world and its antics. When inner debate ravaged the community, she stepped forward and cut through the confusion like a knife.

This being is the primordial unfinished form of Nemeth Istvan, then going by a wide variety of pseudonyms, as all of her kinsfolk did. Paula Holderman when inside the beer-soaked borders of the Germanic kinsfolk. Lucile Frère when among the cheese-encrusted borders of the French. Xinta Nóvoa when within the constantly shifting borders of Austria. She is a creature of habit, able to disguise herself expertly to become the most average looking face across a wide variety of locations at will. Her alters were many, and she embraced them happily for their purpose.

But underneath it all, a sickening wrongness of self that spikes her mind into spirals. The single person that helped them out of this haze, a man of recent recruitment to their group, knows exactly how she feels. The two grow close, learning each other’s edges and folds, committing devious human crimes together for the glory of their group. Then, one day, they commit a sin of middling importance to their group, but still a sin. The shaping of the self can be done, but the old heads of this group held tightly to certain obfuscated and conservative ideals. These two commit this act, one doing so to each other, and then flee. Written upon their spleens, is a singular pledge to one another. To one day meet again. In whatever form they take.

Nemeth grins as a small, beaten-up sedan pulls into their farmland, the exhaust creating crackling snaps that echo across the field. The door opens, and out steps a person. She searches the emerald fields, and finds Nemeth with her eyes. She grins, waving happily, and begins to run up the road, leaving the door open on her vehicle, not caring about anything but the goal. Nemeth grins widely, laughing happily, and walks off the porch to meet the approaching person.

Between them, small insects march along scent trails, finding food to feed their hives. Grass glitters with morning dew, and within that dew miniscule microbes float. Between the fences, farm animals graze peacefully, observing the coupling of two people. Nemeth and the person, hug, tears flowing down their faces.

“Nem! I missed you so fucking much!”

Nemeth cries, happily leaning into his old partners shoulders.

“Sammy… I’m so happy to… you look so…”

Sammy is a beautiful, fully-engineered person, their body attuned to Nemeth’s in a way only two old lovers have. A full chest, highlighted by a lacy bra and low cut shirt encircling a neck covered in necklaces, pentagrams and crystals, all of it jingling with every delicate movement. Her face is feminine, magnificent, a perfect composition. Soft features are complimented by high cheekbones and eyebrows, the nose a cute button to complete the look. The golden rule does not even begin to cover the expertly crafted beauty of her body, and the face is a further expression of this expertise of the human form. With a glance, she could pull someone in and wrap them around her finger. A temptress, a dominatrix, an expert in their craft to rival Nemeth. Boot-cut jeans over hiking boots complete her outfit, the jingling of keychains are heard with every movement of her hips as the loops of the jeans are used as decoration instead of simple belt-holding. They eye each other, hungrily, lustfully, lovingly.

Their arms meet at the small of each other’s backs. Their eyes meet and swim together. Tears fall down each other’s cheeks as they kiss, deeply, passionately.

“Sammy… you look so beautiful as yourself…”

“Nem… you look exactly like how you always appeared in my head…”

Once again they couple, lips meeting in blissful acceptance of one another, hands drifting like hungry jellyfish. Their bodies press, their pieces clicking together in an old rhythm now reversed. Nemeth reaches down, picking up Sammy, and carrying her over the threshold of his home. It is a somewhat archaic ritual, but the bringing of one into your abode, of sharing it with them, is still necessary. Nemeth allows Sammy to stand, eyes still shimmering with tears, and looks her in the eyes.

“Like I said back then, what’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. Forever, Sammy. This can be ours now… no more running. Just us.”

“Of course I remember, Nem. I couldn’t stop thinking on the ride over, I couldn’t help but feel our pledge inside… should we do it? Can we, please?”

Nemeth nods. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Thank you. I thought of you every day.”

“I thought of you every night, sweetie.”

Nemeth blushes. “We are whores for each other, it seems.”

“Let’s finish what we planned, and then the whoring can begin.”

They both kneel in front of the other, legs touching horizontally. They begin dual incantations, the words burned into their memories and coming easily. Samuel goes first, ripping their shirt and reaching into the polished abdominals of their former lover, grasping a small polished silicon box. The flesh squelches as it returns to form, their spleen returning to normal function. Nemeth mimics this action, tears beginning to form in the cusp of their eyes. They both crack their respective boxes, revealing silver half clasps in the shape of tadpoles. Made of sterling silver, each half has two diamonds embedded where eyes would be. The clasps each have two hooks, meant to slide around the bone and flesh. The two join hands, the right arms touching, forearms meeting.

“Nemeth Istvan, do you take me, Sammy Yashenkov, as your wife, as your lover, and as your partner, forever and ever, until we dissipate into mist and return to whence we came?”

Crying, Nemeth responds. “I do! Of course I do!”

Samuel grins, hand glowing as they slides the hooks into Nemeth’s ring finger, slipping them around the bone and joining them together to create a complete ring, silver tadpoles curled around each other. The curved talons bite into the flesh, and when joined, curl around the bone of the finger, creating a bond that can only be removed by bloodshed.

“Sammy Yashenkov, do you take me, Nemeth Istvan, as your husband, as your lover, and as your partner, forever and ever, un-”

“Yes! It was yes the moment our eyes met, it was yes the moment we did this to one another, it was yes when I was apart from you! It was always yes!”

Nemeth sobs, joining the clasp halves together in their partner’s finger. Then they hold each other, crying as decades of pent up depression, loneliness, and angst wells up, overflowing. They lie on the floor, kissing, crying, finding each other once again, seeing their lover expressed in their ideal form, and remembering the old times.

The abandoned farm in the wilderness of Washington. Within a ruined farmhouse, lies a broken person. Nemeth Istvan cries, a hungry act of need and hatred. Hundreds of miles away, his lover Samuel sits in the abandoned warehouse of a German slum, tears streaming down his face, sobbing hard. Her stomach hurts, the pain a distraction from the rusty dagger protruding from his shoulder. With a simple incantation and movement of painted fingers, the dagger is removed, the area cleansed of rust and infection. She tosses the dagger away.

The dagger was a remnant of running, of fleeing from an old Nälkän hideout, a faction that would be listed as “Proto-Sarkicism” in the Three-Arrows logbooks, many years in the future. The reason she fled is simple- her and another broke a cardinal rule, a rule they both believed was foolish, that they both believed could be overturned. But no. It was, apparently, not to be. All Sammy can think of in this moment, as she hears the heavy stomp of boots around a warring nation, is whether Nemeth escaped, whether the boat took him somewhere safe.

Sammy Yashenkov grins, feeling the carved flesh of their spleen, resisting the temptation to reach within it and retrieve the hidden box. For whatever reason, she is thankful that bodily storage did not constitute another violation of their old laws. It would seem like another violation would be pointless, and she knows she will slowly break away from those idiotic traditions soon.

All it was going to take is a push, a shove. Something. Whatever it is, Sammy knows she’ll do anything to see Nemeth again. He fled almost as soon as he awoke, and they barely got to see each other after the ceremonies. Sammy holds in her mind, in the crisp and clear memory they are famous for, the shape of Nemeth’s face, how his powerful thighs carried him quickly away from the dingy warehouse, how his face looked back with mixed glee and anger, how their biceps curled and slammed into those that were once their allies. All of it has been struck into Sammy’s mind, indelibly stuck with the soft and loving liquid of feminine affection.

Sammy cries. Sammy stands up, full of herself, hands glowing, and begins to shape the faces of her former friends, turning them into monstrous beasts, knowing it’s the only way to buy some time. She steals away, hopping on a train to go further into the continent, hopefully away from her Klavigar, and into the night, to freedom.

It will be 54 years until she sees Nemeth again.

[

Located approximately three miles under the Earth’s crust, 45 years before Nemeth and Sammy were to rejoin each other, another joining was taking place, one of far less romantic magnitudes. Two massive organizations sit across from each other, heads in collective hands, attempting to reach a peaceful agreement. This collective shit show of bureaucratic posturing has been going on for the past eleven days, a terrible start for their 2022.

A man stands, slamming down papers. “Look at what you fucking morons did in the Middle East! Do you really think we’d trust you with the resources of Ptolemy division!”

The man with a three arrowed-emblem on his faded lab coat throws a clipboard in response.

“You let a fucking metro suburb get eaten up by a fucking tube worm with metaphysical death powers you utter clods! That’s what happens when you try to kill a Peruvian death worm with meta-”

“Really?! Do we need to bring up how you Fuckdation imbeciles attempted to kill the Noospheric concept of loud static noises?”

“We were trying to help the world, G-O-C-K sucker!”

A slam from a gavel that sounds louder than a gunshot, making some of the more sensitive members of the collective wince in agony. Standing at the head of all, shrouded in cosmic shade, sits D.C. al Fine, and the Thirteen Members of the O5 council. All are showing various states of remorse, regret, and reminiscence, all of which is hidden to the executives seated before them. O5-4 stands up, clearing their throat.

“Lads, gals, and nonbinary pals, it is clear that you are all idiots of the highest order, that much has been established by your childish and indolent actions here for the past year. It is so miserable that we have decided to wait another month before our next meeting. Please do try to disregard your monstrous antipathy towards one another, or we, the O5’s and the wonderful al Fine, will be forced to take drastic measures. And none of us want that.”

A collective murmuring runs through the collected administrators, assistants, recorders, site heads, division leaders, and MTF squadron leaders. Under threat of terrible, unknowable punishment, they finally reconsider their hatred for one another.

The two lovers fall unto one another, powerful hands stripping away each others clothing, ripping and tearing. For this day, the workers on the farm were sent home, given a full paid vacation day. The only witnesses will be bugs, and insects. Nemeth stands, muscled and glorious, longer hair shimmering in the light breeze of the open door, and wipes away his tears, the first real smile in hhalf a century alighting upon their features. Sammy spreads her legs, showing the beautiful flower Nemeth created for her long ago, a piece of art gifted to a lover. Nemeth strips away the last of his clothing, revealing the aesthetically and sensually pleasing cock that rests between their legs, the shape made to fit into every possible space within Sammy. The two begin to breath in sync, and Nemeth gently goes to his knees over Sammy, his hands taking her hands and holding them above her.

She’s already ready, moaning at his touch, hips hungry and lips open for the lover she held forefront in her mind for the last fifty years of her life, and the next fifty. Nemeth, with the grace of a dancer, gently slides inside, both releasing ecstatic moans of pleasure, their tattoos glowing, the outpouring of lust collecting as power they could harness if necessary. Both knows that won’t be needed. They are both, in their entirety, perfect, composed exactly how their lover made them so many years ago, and Sammy claps her legs around the hips of a long lost memory, and doesn’t let go.

Nemeth lets loose an animalistic moan of desire and need, hips responding to the touch of the soft, but firmly gripping flower he composed all that time ago, and begins the actions that flew across his mind during sweaty, needy nights alone. The floorboards creak, crack, and eventually break, highlighting the names of the two that are screamed, beseeching each other to never stop, never let it end, never pull out, to go until they feel their bodies breaking, then to repair them and go again and again.

——-

Hours later, every piece of furniture in the house has been smashed to bits. The walls are dented by elbows and knees. Every piece of fabric they touched has been soaked with sweat, spit, and cum. They lie on the ruins of their bed, hand in hand, staring through the skylight at the shimmering stars, in the after-glorious moments of their mutual meeting. They turn to each other and speak the exact same thing at the same time.

“I think it’s going to be okay now.”

They laugh, both for the first time in ages, and hug each other tightly.