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Tweak says, "WHAT!?"

Reikanishy (reikanishy) wrote,
@ 2007-11-24 12:56:00

Current mood:	'the hell did I just write?
Current music:	Die, Die My Darling - Metallica
Entry tags:	fanfiction

SICKO

Title: Sicko

Author: Reikanishy

Genre: Drama, Tragedy

Rating: NC-17, at the very least a hard R

Word Count: 1818

Warnings: Envy’s twisted POV, torture, rape, character death, adult situations, swearing (Heh heh). Oh, and Envy kinda doesn’t like Al. But it’s certainly not character bashing. >.<

Disclaimer: FMA isn’t owned by me, thank God. Imagine the trouble I would get in with the PC Folk?

Summary: Flesh is squeezed and stretched so easily, like taffy so soft and tasty, so it wouldn’t be hard to create something to tear him apart.

Author’s Notes: Written for the

envy_x_ed asylum, who I joined a little while ago, and was given this lovely prompt “All things return to their elements” – thanks

kuchehexe - that had me immediately running for Word. That said, this is my first Envy x Ed fic ( die-hard Elricest fan), so please be gentle. Unlike Envy. >.>

And yay for the somewhat end of the writing block!

…:::s.i.c.k.o:::…

I’ve always admired young Edward, no matter how publicly I denounced him, how mercilessly I chased him. His flesh so easy to carve and paint with words and actions, his mind fragile and so sweet to bend and sway. Enough times I’ve seen the edge of his true despair, and how addictive it was to try, to punch and kick and push him towards that edge.

The thing is, little Ed has always suffered so damn well. His buttons so shiny and displayed so neatly, his eyes always furious and molten. I remember, and I’m talking remembrance like sweat and blood and tears, how my eyes used to be so like his. But still so different. Who had a cause worth fighting for, even back then? War may have fostered this strange situation, and moulded me into this twisted creature that I so adore, but it had never licked at my heels like I do his, never forced me wide open, vulnerable and easy to fuck with until there’s nothing left. All of him is under my sway, now, and it’s a war with no ending in sight.

See, I did crack his shell, finally. I ripped his brothers sweet tin-can body apart so easily it was like cracking walnuts by the fireside, and I watched him shatter into his own little shards as I shredded that sweet little voice until it was all gone. Oh, blood is blood, and mercy is in the hands of God, bah. Alphonse had always annoyed me more so than his determined older brother; fuck, how that kid used to fucking whine.

Stupid tin can. I used the steel to bolt him to the bed frame, and left him lying in the remnants for days and days. God, the look on his face when I finally came back to feed the little joy. He looked so very delectable, sniffling and screaming and glaring so.

Just one swift kick, and he’ll be all mine.

I could break that body apart, too, return him to the earth, spill his blood so I can bathe in it the way I’ve always wanted to. Nature would take him in like She does, just like He takes the power of their last breaths and spins it into that stupid alchemy. But that would be no fitting end. He’s caused me so much trouble, you know; it’s only fair he can see how much I’ve become accustomed to him.

She gave me to him, Mother – she had no use for pawns when her flesh is as ethereal and beautiful as the stars, fragile and perfect and new. I never believed truly that I would regain my share of life. Her kisses used to bite more than comfort, after all. So I gain him. I might use him again, and again, bring that flesh back and back until all it does is return as its elements. Because all things return to their elements, you see – oh, but I ramble so, and he lies there waiting, waiting.

I’d lie if I said I'd mind fucking him. Flesh is squeezed and stretched so easily, like taffy so soft and tasty, so it wouldn’t be hard to create something to tear him apart. Or I could comfort him with it. Some of the last parts of him are so untouched, because he was a god damned man on a mission, so fucking pious, so fucking hateable. To expose him to the last of that terrible light would probably redeem him. It would at the very least certainly entertain me.

I can see it now, so easily, so very easily. His eyes so like mine, tracking me warily, widening slightly as I climb onto his chest with the gracefulness of a feline. That first sweet huff, that surprise he would try to hide as I nuzzled him. My skin is so soft it would hurt him. And then he’d start to wriggle, try to push me away, but he can’t do that. He’s mine now. Maybe one day he’ll finally understand how much of him I own.

I could definitely own that too.

He’d squeeze his eyes shut when my tongue would come out to play, gently lapping at that sweaty, unwashed skin. Tasting that prescience which infuriates me so. Then I’d slap him, so hard his head will rock back and all the air would escape his lungs. He’d cringe, I can see it, cringe back when my hands caress those sweetly chubby cheeks as I soothe the blow. He wouldn’t cry, I don’t think. He’s always left that for Alphonse.

And that thought would incense me, so I’d rip away all his layers, that soft red coat and those sexy pants. Leave him naked and trembling, and then protesting as I settle heavily on his crotch, my cock against his, and he’s still be so clueless, the little dork. But maybe I won’t have a cock. I can tell he’s dreamed about girls, about their soft mounds and creamy skin and secretive inner warmth. That slickness would surprise him, maybe, even though biology is sort of a requisite when you want to bring Mama back. Maybe he fantasised about her, about fucking his own mother when she crawled out of that circle, when he was reading those blessed books. That would be sweet to sever, again and again, until his love is as twisted as mine. Mother used to make me do so many pleasurable things…

But maybe not. So angelic, after all, the hypocritical asshole. Maybe I’d just force those thighs apart, kick the metal leg out the way until I settle between them. God, the look I can imagine on his face is heating me up already, things colliding inside, red water showing in the way my skin crawls. He’d be confused at first, as I knead the flesh of those extraordinarily hard muscles; and then that horror, that knowledge, would fill him to the brim and I could lap it all up just the way I’ve always wanted to.

I’ve seen him naked before. Nearly hairless and petite, perfect for pushing against a wall and abusing until he falls to his knees, shaking and exhausted. Maybe his precious colonel has enlightened him already; what I would have given to see that spectacle! The man’s always struck me as the sort who would hunger for the flesh of soft little boys. Then again, who am I to judge? I’ve got three centuries plus on the runt and now I’m panting just from the sheer thought of taking him.

I’d wait until he was truly panicked, pushing against me, twisting away and white showing all the way around those golden suns he calls eyes. And then I’d hit him again, and again, until they’re swollen shut and dark and he’s mewling, muscles twitching with adrenaline. Then I would taste him, just a little, take that soft flesh into my mouth and stretching my throat until it’s just a rippling column around his dick. He’d get hard, he’s sixteen, and it’s a requisite. And then when he is hard, blood pumping freely under and inside the surface, heartbeat in the slick taste…maybe then I’d hurt him some more.

Oooh, maybe I’d do something really drastic.

Mother had dossiers on the two since they were born, seething over Ho-Ho’s betrayal and such. Following them every step of the way, watching them grow from babies into little children. I never know what she used to poison their mother, when Ho-Ho left to chase cures for that little problem they have with their skin, but I imagine it was something very slow and painful. She always was a very sadistic whore. She’s have men take pictures; six and five, nine and eight, and eleven and ten…

I could ripple into a small little body, with soft caramel hair and bright amber eyes and soft pouting lips. I would watch him see; see and know, and the knowledge would start to do what no one else could ever do – maybe not even me. It would finally, thank God, finally destroy him. Because that would be the ultimate sacrilege, wouldn’t you agree? Walk on holy ground, have an image of your little brother rape you, same thing.

Because I fucking would. I’d alight into that oh-so-unfamiliar form, and I’d be all teary eyed and scared and wondering. He’d see that pathetic loser in the lines of my face, arching away and screaming as my flesh slowly settled onto his, until I forced his slick cock up and into and --ohhhh. Oh yes, that would be sweet. Have him scream and scream until he’s so hoarse all that will leave his throat are whispers I can’t hear.

Then I would turn again – perhaps his colonel, definitely that Mayes man. Shift into the blonde woman, into his soldier friends, into Scar and Lust and everybody that’s ever hurt him or saved him. But I would flicker back to me, to me God damn it, because I own him now and it’s my mercy to save him from that total consummation. I’d scratch red lines down his heaving chest. Lick the tears that would surely come, because he’s always been like that around little Al, and having that would be sweeter because then it would be mine too. Because once you despair there’s no going back. I’ve learnt that lesson a thousand times, and it’s never changed for any situation.

I’d bring him close, until his body twitched into mine with its own betrayal, and then I’d hurt him, again and again until he’s flaccid inside me. Over and over I’d bring him back, rock him against the sweet spot of every form I take, until I can’t take it anymore and settle in for real, myself and my flesh, thighs squeezing his. I’d rear above him, palms over his bitten and torn nipples, subject him to the image of my own satisfaction until he’s repulsed by the very thought of anyone’s flesh touching his again, and all this before he can even imagine orgasming. I imagine coming like that would be earth shattering, mind-blowing; exciting at the very least. Just the thought has me rutting into the wall, watching him between the crack of the metal door and solid stone. I do it until the pulse; gasping and swearing and grinning so wide it hurts, that strange, false heart beat that squirts me red and dripping onto the porous stone, seeping in and staining it forever.

Just like I’m going to stain him forever

Maybe I would let him come, after all’s said and done and I vomit red stones down his throat to shut his horrified screaming up. But then again, I have always admired little Edward, and leaving him panting and terrified and hating himself for wanting me would be a very sweet thing indeed.

..:::e.n.d:::…

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