Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/223726.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fullmetal_Alchemist
  Relationship:
      Greed/Wrath
  Character:
      Greed_(Fullmetal_Alchemist), Wrath_(Child)
  Additional Tags:
      What-If, Xeno, Feeding, Homunculus_Powers, Seduction
  Stats:
      Published: 2006-07-14 Words: 2773
****** Care and Feeding ******
by Laylah
Summary
     The boy stares at his hand in fascination, then reaches out to touch
     the red oroborous on the back. “I have one of those, too,” he says.
“Boss?” Dorochet says from the doorway, sounding a little nervous. Greed looks
up.
Dorochet’s standing there with Martel, silhouetted against the bright light of
the street behind them, and between them is a kid with wild black hair and
hand-me-down clothes, hanging on to their hands for dear life.
“This is our little prodigy, then?” Greed tries to keep his smile from turning
too sharp, too predatory. The kid looks scared enough already.
“Yeah,” Martel says, taking a step forward, coaxing the kid along with her. “We
found him in town, running away from the Fullmetal Alchemist.”
“He tried to take me apart,” the boy adds, his blue eyes wide.
Greed hums sympathetically as his chimeras lead the boy over to him. “How
terrible,” he says. “We’ll keep you safe from him here.”
“He said,” the boy continues, like it has him very worried, “he said that my
arm and leg belonged to him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Greed says firmly, setting his drink down on the table and
reaching out to encourage the kid to sit down next to him on the couch. “I
mean, I’m a very greedy man, but even I wouldn’t go around trying to take away
other people’s arms and legs.”
The boy smiles a little at that, sitting down beside Greed, all tangled mane
and bare limbs and big nervous eyes.
“With people,” Greed continues, looking at Martel and Dorochet, “either they’re
yours or they’re not. No bits and pieces.” He drapes an arm over the back of
the couch, not quite around the boy’s shoulders, and looks down at him. “And
you don’t belong to Edward Elric, do you?”
“No,” the boy says with an angry little frown.
“I didn’t think so,” Greed tells him. “You’re much too clever for that.
“I’m Greed,” he continues, offering his free hand — his left hand — to his
guest. “And you are?”
The boy stares at his hand in fascination, then reaches out to touch the red
oroborous on the back. “I have one of those, too,” he says. “But mine is here.”
He holds up his right foot so Greed can see the matching symbol there.
“You certainly do,” Greed says, capturing that little foot in his hand, his
thumb stroking over the ball, tracing the pattern of the winged snake. “That
means we’re alike, you and I.”
“They said I was like them,” the boy says thoughtfully.
“I’m not surprised. You’re very special, after all.” He lets his hand slide
down the back of the couch to rest on the boy’s thin shoulder. “But they wanted
to take things away from you, and I just want to give you things.” He pulls
gently, and the boy leans into him. “You still haven’t told me your name, you
know.”
“I don’t have one,” the boy says, looking ashamed of the fact.
Greed smiles: even better. “Well, I’ll have to give you one then, won’t I?”
“Thank you?” the kid says, like he thinks it’s the right answer but isn’t sure.
“You’re very welcome,” Greed tells him. He lets go of the kid’s foot and pulls
him closer, into his lap. “Will you come upstairs with me? I have something
very important to give you.” When the boy nods hesitantly, Greed wraps both
arms around him and stands up, lifting him easily, pleased by the way the kid
wraps arms around his neck and legs around his waist immediately.
“Greed,” Martel says, “what the hell are you doing?”
“He’s just a kid!” Dorochet adds.
“I know what he is better than you do,” Greed tells them. “And he needs
something that only I can give him.”
Martel looks about to argue, but Dorochet puts a hand on her arm to stop her,
and she contents herself with, “Don’t you fucking dare hurt him.”
“I won’t,” Greed says, meeting her eyes calmly, holding the kid in one strong
arm. “I promise, that’s the last thing I want to do.” The little arms around
his neck tighten when he says that, and he pets the kid absently.
Martel sighs angrily and looks down. “I need a fucking drink.”
“Then I leave you in Dorochet’s capable hands,” Greed tells her, and carries
his prize upstairs.
He sets the kid down on his bed, and smiles at him. “I’ll be right back,” he
says, “so don’t go anywhere, okay? I have something to give you, and I think
you’re going to like it.” He waits for the boy to nod, then turns away.
The kid’s going to need a name, he thinks as he ducks into the bathroom. Sloth
wouldn’t fit — the kid couldn’t hold still to save his life. Lust wouldn’t suit
him, and besides, the old bitch liked Lust; she’s probably made a new one by
now.
Greed braces his hands on the sink and takes a deep breath. He hates the idea
of doing this, but he doesn’t have another supply on hand, and what he told the
chimeras was true: the kid needs this. He closes his eyes, concentrates on the
power he can feel inside him, animating him, and pushes.
The sharp copper taste of blood and power fills his mouth, and he spits into
the sink, hearing the rattle of stone against porcelain. He looks down: half a
dozen red stones, part of his own precious cache, lie glittering wet with spit
and blood in the sink. They call to him — the desire to have them back is so
fierce it almost makes him sick.
But he can get more, he reminds himself. Hell, with this kid as a full-fledged
homunculus, on his side, that should be easier. He rinses them clean under the
water — the first time, at least, the kid won’t want them if they’re bloody —
and pockets them, heading back out to the bedroom.
The boy’s eyes widen, fixing on his mouth. “Are you okay?”
Greed wipes his mouth, and his hand comes away smeared red. “Fine,” he says.
“Thanks.” He sits down beside the boy, reaching out to him. “Now come here. I
have a present for you.”
The boy crawls into his lap, and Greed slides an arm around him, ready to
restrain him if necessary — he remembers the first time the old bitch fed the
thing that would become Gluttony, remembers how it thrashed and screamed. This
child is already more self-aware than Gluttony ever became, but it can’t hurt
to be prepared.
He takes the first red stone from his pocket and holds it up, presses it gently
to the boy’s lips. The boy opens his mouth obediently, and Greed slips the
stone inside, laying it on his tongue.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then the boy’s eyes squeeze shut as his whole body tenses, a low keening sound
rising in his throat and a look of pure fury coming over his face. Greed holds
him punishingly tight, covering the boy’s mouth with his other hand as the
boy’s eyes snap back open violet and slitted.
“Your name,” Greed hisses as the little body trembles in his arms, “is Wrath.
And you are mine.”
Wrath bites at his fingers, drawing blood, struggling, gasping. “More,” he
demands when Greed pulls the bitten hand away. “Give me more.”
Greed laughs, holding Wrath tight, meeting his eyes, matching their wildness
with his own strength. “Ask me nicely.”
“More,” Wrath says again, plaintively. “Please, more, now.”
“Very good,” Greed says, pulling another stone from his pocket and holding it
up. Wrath lunges for it, sucking it from his fingers, pink tongue lapping at
the blood smears on his hand. Greed purrs, and pushes two fingers into Wrath’s
mouth, stroking his tongue as the red stone dissolves on it, rubbing his sharp
little teeth.
“Mmm, so very much alike,” Greed says. Wrath bites him again, but it’s not
vicious this time — it’s almost pleading, almost sweet; Wrath chews on his
fingers like a hungry kitten.
“More,” Wrath pleads, his voice breathy and desperate. “I want more.”
“You and me both, little one.” Greed holds Wrath tight to him with both hands,
breathing him in, murmuring in his ear. “That’s my life I’m feeding you.” Wrath
stiffens, whimpers, and he continues, “and that makes you mine. Always.”
“Y-yours?” Wrath says nervously.
“Mine,” Greed repeats. He tightens his grip possessively, one hand on Wrath’s
shoulder and the other on his thigh, looking him in the eyes. “It’s nothing to
be afraid of. I’ll take very good care of you. I promise.”
Wrath fists both hands in the front of Greed’s vest, burying his face in the
furry collar, squirming like he wants to burrow right into Greed’s body.
“Please,” he says.
“Yes,” Greed says, and Wrath smells so good, like sunlight and green growing
things, and he feels so tempting, like need and chaos — like freedom.
Greed leans down and licks the pale skin of Wrath’s neck, tasting him, pressing
slow open-mouthed kisses to his throat. There’s a spot just under his ear that
makes him shiver and squirm, so Greed lingers there, licking and sucking, until
Wrath throws back his head and moans.
“Why?” Wrath gasps out, his whole little body arched and taut like a bow.
“Because I want to,” Greed breathes into the warm hollow of his throat. “It
feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Y-yes.” Hesitant.
“You want more of this, too.”
Wrath nods, and when he says “Yes,” again, it’s a hiss of need.
“Good,” Greed purrs. “I’m going to give you more.” His hand slides up Wrath’s
thigh. “I want to taste you all over.” He bites at the base of Wrath’s throat.
“I want to feel you move.”
Wrath whines hungrily, writhing, and his clothes sink into his skin, absorbed
by his body, and he arches naked in Greed’s lap as he pleads, “Touch me.”
And God, that’s beautiful and strange, and Greed lays Wrath out on the bed,
dropping his shield as he leans down to lick at Wrath’s bared chest. Wrath
whimpers when Greed’s teeth graze his collarbone, arches his back when Greed’s
lips close on his nipple, shivers when Greed’s tongue traces a line down from
his breastbone to his navel.
“So lovely,” Greed murmurs, pressing Wrath’s legs apart, stroking gently up the
insides of his thighs. “Such a pretty little thing, and so wild.” He rests his
hands on Wrath’s hips, stroking the arches of bone there, and slides further
down the bed so he can lick his way up Wrath’s thighs.
Halfway up, he discovers something fascinating: Wrath’s left thigh changes
color, a sharp line marking the place where the faint tan of his leg changes to
the bone white of the rest of him. The mark — the scar, it feels lightly
textured under his tongue — is sensitive, making Wrath hiss and shiver
helplessly, clenching small fists in the sheets.
“Stop it,” Wrath pleads eventually. “Stop it. Not there.”
Greed fights down the curiosity with an effort, humming soft agreement and
moving further up instead. “Like this?” he asks, biting delicately at a spot
higher up, nudging Wrath’s legs spread.
The noise Wrath makes is pure animal instinct, need on the edge of pain. Greed
looks up at him, sees his eyes squeezed shut and his chest heaving with fast,
shallow breaths — and leans back down to lick at his balls, sucking them each
in turn, as Wrath rocks and shudders for him.
It’s just too tempting to resist, even if he wanted to. Greed lifts Wrath’s
legs with strong, steady hands, licking further back, probing, opening Wrath up
with his tongue.
“Oh,” Wrath says, and “aah,” and “please.” Greed doesn’t stop, thrusting in,
Wrath’s legs hooked over his shoulders, his fingers tracing little meaningless
patterns on Wrath’s hips.
“Hhn, mm….” Wrath shakes, writhes as Greed’s tongue moves inside him. “M-
more….”
Greed purrs — that’s the magic word. “More?” He nuzzles Wrath’s thigh, reaching
down to unbutton his trousers. “You want more of me inside you?”
Wrath squirms, whimpers, gasps out, “Y-yesss….”
Smiling, Greed pulls another red stone from his pocket and slips it in his
mouth. He can’t suppress a moan at the taste of it, the heady, almost-sweet
tang, but he makes himself not swallow, letting it dissolve on his tongue until
he has a mouthful of slippery red fluid.
He spits into his hand and slicks the stuff over his cock — and it tingles with
power, so hot and tantalizing that he smears the rest of it between the cheeks
of Wrath’s ass, rubbing it into the tender skin, just to feel him respond.
Wrath is desperate for it by now, tossing his head, eyes rolling as he shivers
like an animal in pain. “Please,” he says.
“Your body can do anything you need it to do,” Greed says as he lifts Wrath’s
hips, “because you’re a homunculus, like me. And right now,” he lines himself
up, “you need to open up and let me in.”
Wrath nods frantically, and Greed pushes forward, and oh God nothing has ever
felt quite like this. There’s something deeply inhuman about the way Wrath’s
body yields to him, clings to him, melts around him, almost like Wrath is
entirely liquid inside — and then it changes, he feels Wrath’s body absorbing
him, melding with his cock, and a part of him wants to throw up his shield in a
panic, but most of him just wants to moan.
When he does, Wrath moans back, flexing under him, fusing their bodies more
closely together. And it’s wrong, so wrong, like nothing he’s ever felt before,
and he wants “More, fuck, more,” reaching under Wrath’s body to pull him close,
sitting up with Wrath in his lap.
Wrath wraps his legs around Greed’s waist and they stick there, melting; he
reaches up and pushes his hands right into Greed’s chest — and God, there
aren’t even words for that. “I want,” Wrath breathes. “I want.”
“Yes,” Greed hisses. “Me too.” He rocks his hips experimentally. There’s no
give at all, like he’s just being completely consumed by that little body, like
they’re becoming a single creature, just one writhing moaning flex of unfocused
need. “Let go just a little,” he says, petting Wrath possessively, smoothing
tangled hair. “Let go of my cock enough for me to move.”
“Like this?” Wrath asks, something inside him shifting, sliding over and around
Greed’s cock, humming with power.
“Aah, yes — aah — just like that.” Greed thrusts again, and this time it’s
perfect, hot and clutching and slippery, sparking and shuddering with energy,
like fucking the Stone itself — and Greed knows all at once that Wrath is the
most valuable thing he’s ever laid hands on, the most precious possession he’s
ever had — “Yes,” he moans, “mine, oh, mine,” thrusting hard, Wrath’s cock
rubbing against his stomach, and Wrath bites down on his chest hard enough to
draw blood, whimpering — and he feels Wrath’s come splatter across his stomach,
feels Wrath shiver around his cock, inside his chest — and there’s never been
anything quite like that — and then it’s more than he can stand, hot and
strange and wild, and he sounds just as feral as Wrath as he shudders, moans,
comes harder than he has in centuries.
He looks down, meeting Wrath’s eyes, as Wrath pulls back slowly, his mouth
smeared crimson. The wound closes seamlessly, and Wrath licks his lips.
“Wipe your face,” Greed tells him. “You won’t get all of it like that.”
So Wrath pulls one hand slowly out of Greed’s chest — and that feels just as
exquisite as it did going in — and wipes Greed’s blood from his face with small
white fingers. “That was good,” Wrath says.
“Mmm,” Greed agrees, “it was.”
“We’ll do it again?” Wrath bares his teeth, making it more a demand than a
simple question.
Greed smiles, baring sharp teeth of his own. “In a bit,” he says. “Right now,
we pull out of each other and go get a shower. Sound good?” He reaches up and
works a hand into Wrath’s hair, massaging his scalp, scratching him behind the
ears like he’s an especially psychotic kitten.
“Mmm,” Wrath says, “okay.” He leans back, pulling his other hand out of Greed’s
chest, and Greed wraps both hands around his waist, lifting up. Wrath sighs
with what sounds like regret as their flesh separates. “Feels good inside you.”
“Thank you,” Greed says, picking Wrath up to carry him to the shower. “It feels
good inside you, too.”
Wrath twines his arms around Greed’s neck, holding on tight. “Next time, can I
be all the way inside?”
Greed shivers, unable to contain the smile. He’s created a monster. “I’ll think
about it.”
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