Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Salt In Your Wounds ❯ Chapter 6

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

SALT IN YOUR WOUNDS

Warning: yaoi, 2x1 implied, violence

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise, Shotsu Agency, Bandai, Toys 'R Us, HMV, YTV...... and has been usurped and used without permission, purely for entertainment purposes and my evil intentions. Song "Regimental Cream" belongs to Deva109.

Author's notes: See previous chapter. Sorry this part took so long to get out, it was all written but lacking in something until it hit me, literally.

CHAPTER 6

Someone tried to make me go blind. I don't want to cry. I don't want to cry.

Someone said I'm losing my mind. I don't want to cry. Take a look at mine.

Love feels. Love cries. Love feels. Love dies.

People getting down to the depths of my soul. When your pride be bruised and there's nothing to lose.

Everybody's saying that I gotta get out. Everybody's saying gonna blow myself up.

Regimental cream packing heat like a wet dream.

Itching my bison with your cold frozen death scream.

************** FLASHBACK ******************

Dr. G rubbed his trembling hands across his face and peered down, for the fifth time, at the summary of his report. There had to be a way to work with this. Somehow. The boy was just too good to let go, just because....merely for.....there just had to be a way!

It had taken him at least an hour of verbal fencing around the psych profile results with his surprisingly reticent protégé before G had finally resorted to threats. Threats that the Deathscythe Gundam would go to someone else unless his questions were answered, his concerns about Duo's mental health addressed. The American had responded strongly to that. Very strongly. In fact, for the first time in a very long while, G actually feared for his life. The normally smiling teen had turned very quickly into a malefic young man, hissing death promises in a low, ice-laden voice. One that was carefully controlled and followed up by a smooth motion with lethal-looking knives that suddenly sprang out of nowhere.

That was unexpected. Not the knives, Duo's innate street sense and hair-trigger ability for instant self-defence were well known. No, it was the uncharacteristic change - a very fundamental change that came over the boy - that threw him. The awareness that lurked behind the dark, glittering eyes, seemed different. That was G's first introduction to Shinigami. It wasn't to be his last. And then, there were the others.

Diagnosis: Disassociative Identity Disorder

****************** END FLASHBACK***************

He preferred the silent seething Shinigami - it would be at least, a clean death. This, somehow, promised pain.

They'd left a thoroughly perplexed Zechs at the Engineering building and had returned to their dorm. Heero was sure that the OZ pilot would contact them sometime in the near future to sort out the details of the supposed duel that would take place between the almost restored Wing and Tallgeese.

The walk back left the Japanese pilot profoundly disturbed. The Duo that somehow wasn't Duo had kept a blistering pace across the dark campus. The odd light from the widely spaced light standards sent shadows skittering as the longhaired youth glided forward, his walk predatory and sensuous - and very different from his usual jaunty bounce. Heero was unsure how to process all that had happened. None of it made sense. His perceptions of his partner had been thrown into a mixer and spat out a jumbled mess.

Worse still, he could not fathom his own reactions. He had not been consciously aware of any attraction that he had for Duo. Why then had his body - one that had never betrayed him before - responded so strongly to the American?

<<Strong enough to cause two orgasms? >>

Mentally backtracking, he worked his memory to the moment where he had first recognised the braided body as Duo's clasped tightly to Zechs, their forms writhing through the computer lab window. When he had masturbated against the friction of the wall and....yes, when he had touched himself as well. Was it the sight of Duo engaging in such wanton behaviour with someone else that had spurred his reaction.? Jealousy, was that it? It certainly explained the tidal rage that swept him into the room only to be stopped by the sight of Shinigami throwing the OZ pilot across the tables. Jealousy. Because? Someone else, other than him, was touching Duo that way? It was the only logical explanation Heero could come up with. Logical, but not - at least to himself - rational. He simply did not have these feelings. They had never existed. It was not acceptable.

<<Duo - cheerful, joking, friendly, outgoing Gundam pilot. Duo - competent, professional, deadly Gundam pilot. Duo - lethal, unearthly, frightening God of Death. Duo - controlled, dominating, highly sexual Indigo. All in one Duo? Or what?>>

It wasn't until they had finally reached their room and Duo had casually tossed over his shoulder, "We're not finished yet, pet. I haven't had my release," that Heero realised things may have gone from bad to worse. There was a cruel light in the amethyst gaze of his partner, one he had not seen before.

One hand unconsciously fingering his returned belt, he vainly tried to remember if Duo had unpacked anything like....handcuffs.... or worse.

Someone tried to make me go blind. I don't want to cry. I don't want to cry.

Someone said I'm losing my mind. I don't want to cry. Take a look at mine.

Love feels. Love cries. Love feels. Love dies.

Stop saying things that make sense. I don't want to find. I don't want to find.

Creatures getting warm in the dark. I don't want to find. Take a look at mine.

The room was full, murmuring guests seated on coarse horse-hair chairs, pets reclining attentively at their feet. Anticipation floated in the air as did the smell of fear, which radiated strongly from the stripped male form lashed facedown on the upright X-frame in front of them. Though tonight's submissive had agreed to this scene, he had also agreed to no rules - and that meant anything goes; no safe-words to utter if he wanted things to stop...if the pain became too unbearable. Agreed because that was the only way He played....and he would do anything to have the honour, the privilege of being the pet, the toy of the one considered to be the Master of all masters. For just one hour with one named Indigo. An hour he might not even survive...hence the fear.

Unlike the usual private entertainment games that played out in rooms of The Pale Beyond - the most prestigious BDSM dungeon on L2 - tonight's scene was one to be shared with an audience, and only those wealthy select few chosen by invitation. A no-rules scene was extremely rare - dangerous and possibly even deadly if the dominant so chose. An appearance by the elusive Indigo was rarer still.

The voyeurs quietened when a slender androgynous figure seemed to materialise before their eyes in total silence. He was dressed in stygian leather that clung to his lean body like ink to flesh. A leather half-mask disguised his facial features leaving only sensual lips and delicate chin free. Rich, impossibly long mahogany hair poured down his back in a half-braid, the rest freely cascading in sensuous curls that swayed like tantalising fingers caressing his body. He exuded beauty, power, control, and sex. He seemed ageless, ethereal. And on one hand he wore a glove, the fingers tipped with gun-metal black claws.

He smiled at his audience, a smile of predation and cruelty. He walked around the bound man, stroking an admiring hand gently down the naked body until he positioned himself away from the guests, his black-clad form facing tonight's prey. Locking eyes with the pet, he brought the gloved hand around to the man's back and as he licked and bit his way down the sweating torso in front of him, the fingers scissored bits of flesh from the pallid back... blood began to flow and the whimpers quickly increased to screams....and his own mind gently disengaged itself from his body's actions.

He had survived a life of being a powerless victim, a child-slave chained to a bed and left to pleasure all and any who had the money and the taste for his young flesh. Survived and learned, using every form of skill and manipulation reach this point where no one could ever have dominance over his body again - except himself. This was survival, pure and simple, in the Miltonian hell he called his life. Where it was better to rule than to serve...

TBC