perfect poison
. helium lost .

Author's Notes: For three years, I've been trying to write this fic, but I was never able to be able to until today. By "this fic", I mean a torture scene between Feitan and the Owl; I had difficulty in the beginning trying to make it graphic enough, and I never attempted the challenge again until now, although I always thought about it. So, in short, I'm glad that I'm finally able to have written it, and if it disgusts you, then I know that my job is done ;D

Warning: There is blatant, graphic torture up ahead, so if you're not up to that kind of stuff, I'd suggest not continuing. That said, don't say I didn't warn you ;)

Theme: #18: "say ahh…." (「アーン？」)

Date: 8/13/2006

He looks at the Owl, who is blindfolded with a hopelessly opaque black cloth and hanging from the ceiling like a cut of meat, strung up with his arms above his head, shoulders out of their sockets, blood flowing in tiny rivulets from the empty, fleshy pads where his fingernails used to be. Cuts meander over his chest, and Feitan's eyes take in every one, savoring them.

It's not often that he gets to do this kind of torture for pleasure. He doesn't pull people off the streets for the purpose because their wills break too easily—a few minutes and he has them screaming for mercy, begging to be killed, as his skillful hands continue to mark cut after cut on them, wrench fingernail after fingernail from them. Hardened criminals, especially members of gangs and underground organizations, are the ones he really enjoys—they're trained not to give information no matter what the circumstance, and they staunchly bare their bodies to him, knowing that he won't even get a whisper from them.

He's blindfolded the Owl not to cut him off from visual input and alienate him, but rather, to cover those annoying eyes of his, big and jutting out, as if two cue balls had been shoved into his eye sockets. Feitan idly licks the wounds on the Owl's chest, savoring the metallic taste of blood as it drips down his tongue and into his throat. He probes his tongue into the cut wounds, prying the inch-deep wound apart even further with his tongue, running it over the smooth muscle.

The Owl doesn't say a word. Feitan would have believed him dead if not for the fact that his body is shaking erratically, in time to his breathing, a melody that he'll play until he's dead.

He trails his tongue up the Owl's chest, noticing how smooth his skin is and how hairless it is. In truth, he doesn't have to do this kind of torture—if the victim is obstinate enough and doesn't break after hours, days even, all Feitan has to do is kill him and question the body. But he likes to torture them instead, seeing how questioning the body takes too much time and energy, and, well, it's just not fun to have those bodies put up no resistance to him, their wills already gone.

"You can end this," Feitan whispers into the Owl's ears, trailing his fingers down the side of his chest and making him shiver noticeably. The offer is enticing, he's sure—four days have already passed with this kind of ongoing torment, first with the water, then with the fingernails, then with the shoulders… But the Owl's lips remain firmly pressed against each other, and he turns his head to the side as much as he can with the head restraint holding his head in a single gaze forward.

Feitan resists the urge to sigh and show the Owl any sign of fatigue on his behalf. He walks over to the dark, wooden table and picks up a curvy and round metal object from the tray, then goes back to the Owl.

"Say ahh…" he murmurs, amused, but, of course, the Owl doesn't comply. Feitan, smirking, raises himself to the Owl's face and, on impulse, presses his lips to the Owl's, tongue still lingering with the scent of blood prying the Owl's lips apart and entering, touching the Owl's tongue and exploring the rest of his mouth. He tastes the faint smell of cigarette smoke and grimaces slightly, right as the Owl brings his teeth down on his tongue.

Feitan, instead of crying out, groans with pleasure—a deep, throaty groan, almost animalistic—as he feels the blood oozing from his tongue. The Owl lets go when he feels the blood running into his mouth, and Feitan seizes the opportunity to shove the pear into the Owl's mouth and turn its key. Immediately, it severs into four parts and explodes outward, like a bird of prey suddenly unclenching its talons, and smoothly rips out from the flesh of his cheeks, the metal blades glittering in the candlelight as the blood drips from them and falls to the floor with a pitter-patter sound.

He stands just breathing for a moment before he reaches up and rips off the blindfold, noticing how the Owl's eyes are dull now. Their eyes meet for a moment, his narrow golden ones with the Owl's wide black ones, before Feitan, in a single, swift movement, reaches up and yanks both eyeballs out, noticing how they try to swivel wildly, the optical nerve still attached and hanging loosely as the Owl, shocked, blinks and closes his eyelids onto the nerves.

Then, in another swift movement, Feitan crushes both of them in his hands, noticing how the jelly inside squeezes and oozes through his fingers. When he opens his hands again, he notices that the eyes aren't at all that big, really.

The Owl is biting his lip so hard that it bleeds as he tries to contain his scream. Feitan smirks—he likes it when his victims try not to scream; he finds their struggle and heaving much finer and more erotic than mindless screaming that tears their throat apart and hurts his ears.

Feitan lets go of the eyeballs and lets them dangle from the Owl's face, like two crushed Christmas ornaments. He idly scratches at the Owl's chest with his left hand, then pulls from his belt with his right a blade with a ragged edge. He lightly stabs the Owl's stomach, then makes a few smooth cuts, the ragged edge of the blade pulling sinewy chunks of flesh as it breaks him open. Feitan pulls back the cover of flesh, as if he's opening a door, then gazes at what's inside: the Owl's stomach, and yards and yards of glistening, gray intestines.

Feitan pulls and tugs at the intestines, drawing them out foot by foot and stringing them up around him like tinsel, as the Owl writhes and convulses wildly, trying to brace himself from the pain, separate himself from it.

"Just let it all go," Feitan murmurs, panting with the hot desire that coils itself around his body at seeing the Owl buckle and strain, and the Owl gives in and screams and screams and screams. Feitan then goes back and jabs the knife into the Owl's stomach, letting the acid run over his skin and other organs, the blood spurting out and staining the floor red.

He then pulls up a chair and sits in it, propping his head up on one hand, as he watches the Owl die over the span of twenty minutes.

When the Owl is finally limp, his uneven breathing stopped, Feitan lets himself sigh a long sigh before closing in, hand glowing, to question the body.

Phinx is sitting in a chair in one of the other rooms, idly flipping through the newspaper, a lit cigarette in one hand, when Feitan walks in, bloodstained and flushed. Phinx looks up and gives him a casual wave.

"Yo."

Phinx barely has time to react before Feitan is on him, tearing off his jacket and touching the flesh of Phinx's chest, warm and covered with the shining white marks of scars healed over. Feitan snatches the cigarette from Phinx's hand and plants it on Phinx's chest, smelling with satisfaction the scent of burnt flesh as Phinx hisses between his teeth. Feitan then tosses aside the cigarette and presses his lips to Phinx's, gently biting at Phinx's lower lip as Phinx complies, letting him lead.

Phinx breaks off from the kiss a moment later, panting, a smirk on his face, newspaper lying crumpled on the floor. "Frisky today, aren't we?" he says slyly, and Feitan pins him with his gaze.

"Shut up and get on with it already," Feitan breathes, his hips grinding against Phinx's urgently, and Phinx laughs, planting another kiss on Feitan's lips.

"Whatever you want," he whispers, and they kiss again; the kiss between them tastes like blood and cigarette smoke, but Feitan doesn't grimace at all.

Author's Notes: Feed a starving author and give feedback! Constructive criticism is her favorite :D