It was as if he'd known. Seen with those cat eyes into the thoughts that Hughes hid from everybody, from Gracia, Roy, god and himself. Found him out, him and his forbidden flashes of unbound golden hair loose across a pillow, small strong hand fisting in the sheets, scars and rivets and the hard tan expanses of untouched skin, eyes half-lidden, clear face flushed, that half-cracked voice murmuring, gasping.
It was wrong. He was the genius child, untouchable. But a man could not stop from dreaming.
But when a devil sees dreams--?
He'd not wanted inked green circles and crescents ghosting over vulnerable skin, flesh of sodium and water and the raw mix of nitroglycerin. He'd not wanted blood staining that childish curve of the lips, harsh cries leaking even when he tried to bite them back, red marks and cracked skin from the beating all down his ribs, the Crimson Alchemist like a bony, grinning rag of a man between mismatched legs, thrashing strong but helpless.
For once he'd cursed the fact that he wasn't an alchemist. That he could be rendered helpless himself by a mere pair of shackles, properly placed and secured. That he couldn't scratch an array somewhere, even leaving his fingernails bloody, and transmute. But he could do nothing. Kimberly had stripped him naked before chaining him to the chair, and he shivered a little, legs drawn close, glasses askew with no way to fix them. His knives were stabbed useless into the wall. He'd even taken his wedding ring. It had never left his finger 'til now; it glinted on the floor next to the uncoupled automail. He'd left him just his glasses, so he could watch.
"You're next, Hughes," Kimberly had hissed with a grin. "You and then everyone else that bastard Mustang depends upon."
He wouldn't have to touch him, Hughes thought. Touching him would be a relief after this. Rape would be easy--it was just another form of torture, physical brutality. He was trained in Intelligence, he could handle such things. But this, this would give him nightmares, this would make him sick, this would have Gracia wondering what was possibly, possibly wrong--and how could he tell her?
Ed screamed when Kimberly forced his way into him at last, beating golden head helpless against the pillow, stump of his leg pathetic against the long naked line of Kimberly's thigh--and then Kimberly turned to him, the smile that could freeze hell spreading over his hawkish face, and just looked at him as he tried not to cry with impotent rage. As if the bastard, the mad monster, known.
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no subject
Date: Sep. 18th, 2005 02:36 am (UTC)*chucks the timeline out the window*
TWT, baby!
*
It was as if he'd known. Seen with those cat eyes into the thoughts that Hughes hid from everybody, from Gracia, Roy, god and himself. Found him out, him and his forbidden flashes of unbound golden hair loose across a pillow, small strong hand fisting in the sheets, scars and rivets and the hard tan expanses of untouched skin, eyes half-lidden, clear face flushed, that half-cracked voice murmuring, gasping.
It was wrong. He was the genius child, untouchable. But a man could not stop from dreaming.
But when a devil sees dreams--?
He'd not wanted inked green circles and crescents ghosting over vulnerable skin, flesh of sodium and water and the raw mix of nitroglycerin. He'd not wanted blood staining that childish curve of the lips, harsh cries leaking even when he tried to bite them back, red marks and cracked skin from the beating all down his ribs, the Crimson Alchemist like a bony, grinning rag of a man between mismatched legs, thrashing strong but helpless.
For once he'd cursed the fact that he wasn't an alchemist. That he could be rendered helpless himself by a mere pair of shackles, properly placed and secured. That he couldn't scratch an array somewhere, even leaving his fingernails bloody, and transmute. But he could do nothing. Kimberly had stripped him naked before chaining him to the chair, and he shivered a little, legs drawn close, glasses askew with no way to fix them. His knives were stabbed useless into the wall. He'd even taken his wedding ring. It had never left his finger 'til now; it glinted on the floor next to the uncoupled automail. He'd left him just his glasses, so he could watch.
"You're next, Hughes," Kimberly had hissed with a grin. "You and then everyone else that bastard Mustang depends upon."
He wouldn't have to touch him, Hughes thought. Touching him would be a relief after this. Rape would be easy--it was just another form of torture, physical brutality. He was trained in Intelligence, he could handle such things. But this, this would give him nightmares, this would make him sick, this would have Gracia wondering what was possibly, possibly wrong--and how could he tell her?
Ed screamed when Kimberly forced his way into him at last, beating golden head helpless against the pillow, stump of his leg pathetic against the long naked line of Kimberly's thigh--and then Kimberly turned to him, the smile that could freeze hell spreading over his hawkish face, and just looked at him as he tried not to cry with impotent rage. As if the bastard, the mad monster, known.