f#2: deceit and lies
FIRST POST! Okay,technicallysecond,butstill!
Notes: I blame maybesane. She used recycled porn on me. It's Edvy and I was kind of pissed off when I wrote it ^^;; so poor Ed's been rather brutally treated. Listen to me, this trash is all OOC, absolutely OOC all the way, for both characters. Please to not be be judging how I compensated for IC-ness with my ~*~*imagination*~*~
Also, bear in mind that it switches POVs and has a non-linear timeline. It's also too serious/angsty/dramatic/boring for such an awesome ship. I should write them bickering about having sex in the Tardis or something some other time. Anyhow I'll stfu now.
It's not a series, but it kind of is. Okay, it's not. But if it was the first part would be here:
f#1: appearances
I'd dig under your skin
It's dark and warm, heated emptiness, except for the press of his metal palm against my cheek, tender despite the cold hardness of the automail.
"Are you nervous?" I ask and his grip on me, the flesh hand wound in my hair tightens and I can tell he's glaring even though I can't see him and I'm not looking at him. When he does respond, it's a second later, his voice hoarse and sharp as if he's been yelling for a while.
"Don't... embarrass me, you jerk."
I shrug, even though I know it's too dark to see, but maybe he can feel it, what with how tightly he's gripping me. "I know I am."
"You are?"
The bastard. He sounds so surprised. I decide I don't like this and that he's too coherent for me to like him. Not that I ever like him. Not even remotely. Of course not. Those are simpler things, those are human feelings. And I'm not--
"Ow! What is- are you crazy?!" He cries, and I realize that I might've drawn blood.
Tch. What's one more scar? I tell him that. He doesn't say anything. I don't care enough to pursue his trail of thoughts.
~
I'd fix your shattered bones
Some days I don't want to accept that this is something I've grown used to.
It used to be I couldn't stand the sight of him anywhere nearby. I literally felt myself tensing up every time he was around, and I all but snarled and began transmuting everything in my vicinity to some manner of weapon just to... I don't know what anymore.
Now I leave the window to my room open. Now I read a book to pretend I'm occupied. Now I wait for the time he'll show up every evening and if he doesn't I wonder what's wrong, I go to sleep feeling slightly disappointed. Now I leave an extra towel out in the morning.
Except, he never stays that long, of course. He has a pattern of random, abstract reactions to me. Which is interesting.
Except, I never wanted to get used to it. I never wanted to know someone like him.
He wants me to want him, but he doesn't want me to be able to tell. He wants the security of falling asleep in my bed, beside me without me aware that I'm offering him that. He wants because he can't have and he can't understand even if I do give it to him, because once it crosses the point of it being something he wants and changes into something he has, it's not what he wants anymore and-- it can only be pity. It can't be anything else.
And it's not anything but pity. Of course it's not.
~
If it remained unclear between the two of us
The taste of metal against my tongue is more... comforting. It's familiar. It's acrid and bitter and cold-- like those blood-red stones.
This time is not like the first time. Nothing is like the first time of anything. But it doesn't get old with him and a part of me wants to curse him, while a smaller, more insignificant part of me wants to be grateful, but I can't stand that. It makes me angry and that's just exhausting.
As it is, I think even he's beginning to get uncomfortable with the fact that I've gone from tracing the scars along his thigh to tasting his automail. I can sense his hesitation, his bewilderment, even though he's in far more vulnerable a situation than I am. Legs spread, sprawled unclothed before me, eyes half-shut, looking practically delirious with lust, the very picture of delightful obscenity. I'd describe him better, maybe call him "the picture of decadence" but those are foolish, decorative words for something so stark and carnal. Somehow, something about how he doesn't ask me to hurry or move reminds me of the very first time this mistake was made.
He reaches out for me then, metal arm beckoning me, open, palm facing upwards and it's like the weight of his metal limbs bring me crashing back to now.
"Wait..." he whispers, looking torn.
"Really?" I ask and he doesn't reply.
He never does. He likes to believe he attempted to refuse me, but he couldn't. But I don't like that. I'm not going to let him get out of this by pretending to have been noble. He's just as dirty, as lewd and perverted, as fallen as he believes I am. That. Will never change. And it's proof lies in all the times I sought confirmation and he let the silence spur us on.
Half-displeased, I resume my ministrations, my mouth covering flesh, and it tastes odd, it tastes warm and heavy and like salt, but slightly sweeter, except I'm hardly sampling textures and tastes here. Why would I? It's much more fun to listen to him cry and gasp brokenly, the sounds muffled as he covers his mouth and tries to keep from being heard.
We never talk much during these things, but if we did, I'd tell him that I loved the sound of his screams.
~
Which one would be the one to break the other's heart
It had been after a fight again, this time.
He had said something stupid, again. I don't even know why I bother anymore. This... is what's sick about what we share. It's not about who gains what anymore. It's more about lying desperately to hide from what we're too afraid to accept. And I understand that.
But it doesn't mean that I think it's alright.
"What, you're tired or something?"
I always wake up like this. Sometimes it's all moments caught in blurs of other moments, now, back then, fantasies I might've had, sometimes it's things that don't even make sense. The contrast doesn't cease to startle me. If his lips and mouth and tongue can lift me up and drown the noise out and free me so easily, how is it that the sound of his voice brings me to such a grinding halt?
"Not particularly." I say, watching in some amazement as he rolls his eyes and gets off me, the predatory gleam in his gaze all but lost.
He stands by my window, looking out as if he can't imagine why he's here. "You're looking at me like that again."
"Am I?"
"Don't." He says sharply, turning to look at me, one hand on his hip, the other swiping his hair back. "It's sickening, it pisses me off. Just who the hell do you think you are? What makes you think you have the right to look at me... pityingly?"
He does return later that night, to wake me from my sleep, his touches rougher, harsher, colder than before. It's alright, though, I think, holding him as he breaks apart, comes undone and gives in to need. It's alright, because even if he keeps up a feverish, fervent chant of, "I hate you," low, and almost soundless in my ear, angry and sad and envious, he's just being who he is. It's alright, because even if he cries a little and swears it was sweat or blood, he's not human...
And yet I so unforgivably am.
~
The only fault I'll take from you is how to run from what you wish to keep
I don't care enough to pursue his trail of thoughts. What I do care about is that I'm angry and this is clumsy and fast and-- too easy, too heady, too painfully good for me.
Human flesh is such a delightfully strange thing. Battered skin, versus virginal, untouched, untarnished skin. Loss against innocence. Brutal reality against the stuff that fantasies are made of. He's such a meshing of stark contrasts, drawn together like odds and ends, packed and molded into the compact, destructible being that he is.
He's more vocal than I am, though and I wonder idly if it's because he gains greater pleasure from this than I do. No, I decide as he shivers under my touch, glazed eyes watching me guardedly, "Just like a leashed dog," I laugh and earn a radiant glare from him. He's got wonderful eyes, bright, fiery, alive.
"Shut up." He snaps and his hand descends on my head, cradling it, pushing me lower, guiding me purposefully towards him.
"You're quite eager today," I jeer, moving my fingers in slow caresses from the scars where his automail bites into his shoulder to thumb the more sensitive flesh... it hardens almost immediately as if answering a command I'd given and I smirk, rewarding his body with more, covering his skin with my mouth, to taste and touch and lave at.
He sucks in a gasp when I do, swearing under his breath. And around a few hurried moments later, when I'm steadying him, taking the wait of his automail leg wound around my hip and his automail arm resting across my shoulder, and his flesh limbs quivering, shaking, clammy in obvious anticipation and nervousness.
"Are you alright?" I ask blankly, kissing his slightly swollen lips once.
His face colors some more and he squawks indignantly. "Stop asking me that, goddamnit!"
He's so small and awkward and uncomfortable. He's so easy to soil and tarnish and dirty. It just feels like... it feels like a sin. And goddamn it all, I feel selfish for once, I feel like I'm taking advantage of him-- and since when did I have a conscience?
And just like that I'm spilling a secret, telling him things he has no need to ever know.
"I can't stand the fact that you're different."
"What?" he asks, bewildered.
That- just breaks it. It breaks whatever control I'd managed to reign in, though why I should've bothered in the first place is beyond me. I know I hurt him then, I know I continue to hurt him and it must've been horrible, given that the first time he'd allowed someone to touch him intimately, he'd had his skin broken and he was bleeding and filthy, like a mutt in a ditch. And the imagery, it comforts me. It makes me feel better because... we're alike. We're pitiable, foolish, horrible children.
And we've been too close to death for far too long. We've been holding the curse of a gift in our hands and running through our veins even before we knew what it meant.
It's more like letting off steam, more like venting pressure, more like letting a weight fall off me than say, a release of any form. I didn't see stars, it didn't feel fantastic. In fact, by the time I was done, I was sick of the touch of his skin, of sweat mingling in rivulets between us, of the blood... because he had bled and not just because of my inexperience and clumsiness, but because I'd wanted to hurt him. That's when I realized my cheeks were damp and that he wasn't letting go of me even though I was rather obstinately pushing him away.
"Are you kidding me? You're actually crying--"
"I'm sorry."
I stop then. It's the sound of his voice. It's so full of pity, it breaks with it. But in that... I can sort of tell he's apologizing for understanding and apologizing for not understanding, apologizing for being different and apologizing because we're the same.
"I'm so sorry... Envy... I'm sorry..." And he doesn't stop after that.
What a child. He cries himself to sleep, apologizing profusely for things he had no way of knowing or doing. It sated me, somewhat. I needed to hear those words. But it frightened me so much more. The shame, the humiliation of being something so petty, of being something so foolish, of submitting to a rage born of jealousy as an inherent part of my nature was bad enough on it's own. And now someone knew.
That's when I realized it was a mistake. It was too late, though.
It was a mistake I couldn't stop making.
Notes: I blame maybesane. She used recycled porn on me. It's Edvy and I was kind of pissed off when I wrote it ^^;; so poor Ed's been rather brutally treated. Listen to me, this trash is all OOC, absolutely OOC all the way, for both characters. Please to not be be judging how I compensated for IC-ness with my ~*~*imagination*~*~
Also, bear in mind that it switches POVs and has a non-linear timeline. It's also too serious/angsty/dramatic/boring for such an awesome ship. I should write them bickering about having sex in the Tardis or something some other time. Anyhow I'll stfu now.
It's not a series, but it kind of is. Okay, it's not. But if it was the first part would be here:
f#1: appearances
I'd dig under your skin
It's dark and warm, heated emptiness, except for the press of his metal palm against my cheek, tender despite the cold hardness of the automail.
"Are you nervous?" I ask and his grip on me, the flesh hand wound in my hair tightens and I can tell he's glaring even though I can't see him and I'm not looking at him. When he does respond, it's a second later, his voice hoarse and sharp as if he's been yelling for a while.
"Don't... embarrass me, you jerk."
I shrug, even though I know it's too dark to see, but maybe he can feel it, what with how tightly he's gripping me. "I know I am."
"You are?"
The bastard. He sounds so surprised. I decide I don't like this and that he's too coherent for me to like him. Not that I ever like him. Not even remotely. Of course not. Those are simpler things, those are human feelings. And I'm not--
"Ow! What is- are you crazy?!" He cries, and I realize that I might've drawn blood.
Tch. What's one more scar? I tell him that. He doesn't say anything. I don't care enough to pursue his trail of thoughts.
~
I'd fix your shattered bones
Some days I don't want to accept that this is something I've grown used to.
It used to be I couldn't stand the sight of him anywhere nearby. I literally felt myself tensing up every time he was around, and I all but snarled and began transmuting everything in my vicinity to some manner of weapon just to... I don't know what anymore.
Now I leave the window to my room open. Now I read a book to pretend I'm occupied. Now I wait for the time he'll show up every evening and if he doesn't I wonder what's wrong, I go to sleep feeling slightly disappointed. Now I leave an extra towel out in the morning.
Except, he never stays that long, of course. He has a pattern of random, abstract reactions to me. Which is interesting.
Except, I never wanted to get used to it. I never wanted to know someone like him.
He wants me to want him, but he doesn't want me to be able to tell. He wants the security of falling asleep in my bed, beside me without me aware that I'm offering him that. He wants because he can't have and he can't understand even if I do give it to him, because once it crosses the point of it being something he wants and changes into something he has, it's not what he wants anymore and-- it can only be pity. It can't be anything else.
And it's not anything but pity. Of course it's not.
~
If it remained unclear between the two of us
The taste of metal against my tongue is more... comforting. It's familiar. It's acrid and bitter and cold-- like those blood-red stones.
This time is not like the first time. Nothing is like the first time of anything. But it doesn't get old with him and a part of me wants to curse him, while a smaller, more insignificant part of me wants to be grateful, but I can't stand that. It makes me angry and that's just exhausting.
As it is, I think even he's beginning to get uncomfortable with the fact that I've gone from tracing the scars along his thigh to tasting his automail. I can sense his hesitation, his bewilderment, even though he's in far more vulnerable a situation than I am. Legs spread, sprawled unclothed before me, eyes half-shut, looking practically delirious with lust, the very picture of delightful obscenity. I'd describe him better, maybe call him "the picture of decadence" but those are foolish, decorative words for something so stark and carnal. Somehow, something about how he doesn't ask me to hurry or move reminds me of the very first time this mistake was made.
He reaches out for me then, metal arm beckoning me, open, palm facing upwards and it's like the weight of his metal limbs bring me crashing back to now.
"Wait..." he whispers, looking torn.
"Really?" I ask and he doesn't reply.
He never does. He likes to believe he attempted to refuse me, but he couldn't. But I don't like that. I'm not going to let him get out of this by pretending to have been noble. He's just as dirty, as lewd and perverted, as fallen as he believes I am. That. Will never change. And it's proof lies in all the times I sought confirmation and he let the silence spur us on.
Half-displeased, I resume my ministrations, my mouth covering flesh, and it tastes odd, it tastes warm and heavy and like salt, but slightly sweeter, except I'm hardly sampling textures and tastes here. Why would I? It's much more fun to listen to him cry and gasp brokenly, the sounds muffled as he covers his mouth and tries to keep from being heard.
We never talk much during these things, but if we did, I'd tell him that I loved the sound of his screams.
~
Which one would be the one to break the other's heart
It had been after a fight again, this time.
He had said something stupid, again. I don't even know why I bother anymore. This... is what's sick about what we share. It's not about who gains what anymore. It's more about lying desperately to hide from what we're too afraid to accept. And I understand that.
But it doesn't mean that I think it's alright.
"What, you're tired or something?"
I always wake up like this. Sometimes it's all moments caught in blurs of other moments, now, back then, fantasies I might've had, sometimes it's things that don't even make sense. The contrast doesn't cease to startle me. If his lips and mouth and tongue can lift me up and drown the noise out and free me so easily, how is it that the sound of his voice brings me to such a grinding halt?
"Not particularly." I say, watching in some amazement as he rolls his eyes and gets off me, the predatory gleam in his gaze all but lost.
He stands by my window, looking out as if he can't imagine why he's here. "You're looking at me like that again."
"Am I?"
"Don't." He says sharply, turning to look at me, one hand on his hip, the other swiping his hair back. "It's sickening, it pisses me off. Just who the hell do you think you are? What makes you think you have the right to look at me... pityingly?"
He does return later that night, to wake me from my sleep, his touches rougher, harsher, colder than before. It's alright, though, I think, holding him as he breaks apart, comes undone and gives in to need. It's alright, because even if he keeps up a feverish, fervent chant of, "I hate you," low, and almost soundless in my ear, angry and sad and envious, he's just being who he is. It's alright, because even if he cries a little and swears it was sweat or blood, he's not human...
And yet I so unforgivably am.
~
The only fault I'll take from you is how to run from what you wish to keep
I don't care enough to pursue his trail of thoughts. What I do care about is that I'm angry and this is clumsy and fast and-- too easy, too heady, too painfully good for me.
Human flesh is such a delightfully strange thing. Battered skin, versus virginal, untouched, untarnished skin. Loss against innocence. Brutal reality against the stuff that fantasies are made of. He's such a meshing of stark contrasts, drawn together like odds and ends, packed and molded into the compact, destructible being that he is.
He's more vocal than I am, though and I wonder idly if it's because he gains greater pleasure from this than I do. No, I decide as he shivers under my touch, glazed eyes watching me guardedly, "Just like a leashed dog," I laugh and earn a radiant glare from him. He's got wonderful eyes, bright, fiery, alive.
"Shut up." He snaps and his hand descends on my head, cradling it, pushing me lower, guiding me purposefully towards him.
"You're quite eager today," I jeer, moving my fingers in slow caresses from the scars where his automail bites into his shoulder to thumb the more sensitive flesh... it hardens almost immediately as if answering a command I'd given and I smirk, rewarding his body with more, covering his skin with my mouth, to taste and touch and lave at.
He sucks in a gasp when I do, swearing under his breath. And around a few hurried moments later, when I'm steadying him, taking the wait of his automail leg wound around my hip and his automail arm resting across my shoulder, and his flesh limbs quivering, shaking, clammy in obvious anticipation and nervousness.
"Are you alright?" I ask blankly, kissing his slightly swollen lips once.
His face colors some more and he squawks indignantly. "Stop asking me that, goddamnit!"
He's so small and awkward and uncomfortable. He's so easy to soil and tarnish and dirty. It just feels like... it feels like a sin. And goddamn it all, I feel selfish for once, I feel like I'm taking advantage of him-- and since when did I have a conscience?
And just like that I'm spilling a secret, telling him things he has no need to ever know.
"I can't stand the fact that you're different."
"What?" he asks, bewildered.
That- just breaks it. It breaks whatever control I'd managed to reign in, though why I should've bothered in the first place is beyond me. I know I hurt him then, I know I continue to hurt him and it must've been horrible, given that the first time he'd allowed someone to touch him intimately, he'd had his skin broken and he was bleeding and filthy, like a mutt in a ditch. And the imagery, it comforts me. It makes me feel better because... we're alike. We're pitiable, foolish, horrible children.
And we've been too close to death for far too long. We've been holding the curse of a gift in our hands and running through our veins even before we knew what it meant.
It's more like letting off steam, more like venting pressure, more like letting a weight fall off me than say, a release of any form. I didn't see stars, it didn't feel fantastic. In fact, by the time I was done, I was sick of the touch of his skin, of sweat mingling in rivulets between us, of the blood... because he had bled and not just because of my inexperience and clumsiness, but because I'd wanted to hurt him. That's when I realized my cheeks were damp and that he wasn't letting go of me even though I was rather obstinately pushing him away.
"Are you kidding me? You're actually crying--"
"I'm sorry."
I stop then. It's the sound of his voice. It's so full of pity, it breaks with it. But in that... I can sort of tell he's apologizing for understanding and apologizing for not understanding, apologizing for being different and apologizing because we're the same.
"I'm so sorry... Envy... I'm sorry..." And he doesn't stop after that.
What a child. He cries himself to sleep, apologizing profusely for things he had no way of knowing or doing. It sated me, somewhat. I needed to hear those words. But it frightened me so much more. The shame, the humiliation of being something so petty, of being something so foolish, of submitting to a rage born of jealousy as an inherent part of my nature was bad enough on it's own. And now someone knew.
That's when I realized it was a mistake. It was too late, though.
It was a mistake I couldn't stop making.