Descent

Chapter Fourteen

Short chapter, sorry, but I wasn't on the computer all weekend and only got started tonight, but I figured that you hopefully wouldn't mind a short chapter, as long as it hurried the Hell up and published itself already. ;)

Oh, by the way, we're sadly nearing the end of this book. I estimate somewhere between twenty-five to thirty chapters left to go, not including the epilogue that may or may not follow, depending on if I can be bothered writing what I have planned out for it in my head. But, anyway, enjoy that nasty little cliffhanger I've left for you at the end. (LizKordell, I told you I'd do it, didn't I? Everyone, blame the cliffhanger on her. Mwahahahahahahahaha)

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The blood.

The blood.

All of the beautiful red blood.

It coated the walls of the small bedroom, staining it forever. It would never be washed away. That was good. The smell of it was intoxicating, like fuel to his fire. It helped in his motivation to do what he was doing, it was like a harvest, a harvest of blood that was going wasted through the harvester's carelessness. But he didn't care, he didn't care about the blood he was spilling, nor how much of it he spilled. The amount didn't bother him. If he killed his victim tonight, he would not be lose any sleep over the loss. Not that it was his intention for the victim to die, no he would much rather the child stay alive, alive to feel the pain another day, but if he did die, well...accidents happen, after all. He was good at what he did, he'd been doing it for a while now, so he knew how to hide things. How to twist the evidence into something completely false, something that pointed away from himself.

The child screamed under him, the noise soothing him, like a lullaby.

He knew he was twisted, knew that he could be deemed the devil himself for what he was doing, for what he was doing had no purpose other than his own sick desires, his own bloodlust and his own preference and need for total dominance. He raked his sharpened nails across the child's already lacerated cheek, and the poor soul screamed again, unable to tolerate the pain any longer. He repeated the action, again and again, until there was no visible skin on the young boy's right cheek left. Just red flesh, torn and bleeding down his face, and still the screams continued. Another rake across the cheek, and, as the boy beneath him failed at halting his own pained scream, he continued raking down the neck, over his shoulder, down his naked side, over his prominent ribs and down his hip, stopping at the hem of the boxer shorts that was all the kid had left on him.

He smiled, and the child's eyes, shadowed in the dim light, glared back up at him defiantly, as though daring the older man to continue. As though he held the power to stop him, if he so chose to rake further downwards.

But, as it was, he had no interest in that field.

He was not a raping man. That type of sex held no appeal to him. What did, however, was beating the boy beneath him until he could no longer stand. He loved making the child feel weak, and worthless. He loved showing the boy who was the master, and who was the slave. It always felt so right, showing the boy how much nothing he was. How powerless he was. And how powerful he was. His obsession with the child invaded his thoughts at all times of the night and day, and it had begun to affect his work, but that was of no consequence; it was easy to hand his work down to his inferiors when he was no longer capable of completing it himself. All that mattered now was the boy who he controlled, in every possible way. He'd shown the boy who was physically and mentally superior, he had cut off all communications with his family members, and now he had even managed to get the child living under his very own roof.

He no less than owned Edward Elric at this point.

Mustang raked his nails back upwards and across, crossing over several old burns, across Edward's abdomen, back up towards his other shoulder. Edward grunted in pain as Roy's sharp nails crossed over his burns, and Roy laughed at his pain. He had missed this, this feeling of twisted pleasure as he dominated the boy. He had missed the way he could hurt Edward in every possible way, and the former alchemist wouldn't even try to fight back. He would just lay there, screaming, as he was torn apart from the outside in. He had been sincere, at first, when he had apologized to Edward for everything he had done. He had honestly regretted his actions, honestly believed that he deserved to rot in Hell for eternity over the things he had put the young man through. He had never lied.