Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Silent Revolution ❯ Chapter 8
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: gundam06serenity 
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Shounen / Angst / Romance / Action | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 08.12.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 3.3K | Visits: 287 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Shounen / Angst / Romance / Action | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 08.12.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 3.3K | Visits: 287 | Status: Completed
Silent Revolution:
Authors Notes: I will try to make this quick;
One, my thanks for the reviews and the support. It was awesome to see so many positive reviews ._. I was more than a little shocked.
Two, for the person who so bravely reviewed anonymously on gundamwinguniverse, saying that I was just seeking attention and that they had found no flames in the reviews on that site. My I just point out that this is my secondary posting site, fanfiction dot net being my primary, mediaminer dot org being my third. You would have realised this is you had paid attention. In addition to this, reviews on fanfiction dot net, as a few have done – my thanks – can check for themselves for the remaining flames amongst the reviews.
Thirdly, I would like to make this clear; I write what I love, when I like, for myself. If I did not do this, it would be unlikely that I would be applying for a popular fiction writing course for my university course. The main question, however, was whether or not I continued to share my work with people online. In my mind, this fic has long been planned and completed, the sequel already half-done.
I would like to thank reviewers. I know my writing can be odd, it can be dark, it can seem as though it has gone off on a tangent. However, I aim to build a character-their background, their personality, the reason for each of their actions, through the various flashbacks, their reactions to situations, their thoughts, through everything. I cannot express how happy it has made me to learn that my new, improved style is working. Even a quick ‘update please’ is appreciated, although I admit I love the larger reviews left.
Now that that is done with, I would like to mention; I finally got my laptop! It took a lot of saving, but this means I can now start typing up updates whilst out or away from my main computer. More updates of various fics! Woot xD
More updates – rants = happy readers? : )
Thank-you again
(any gaiaonline users – feel free to talk to me on there xD Username: ladyshi )
Chapter Eight: No Hope I
CHAPTER WARNING!
FF dot NET READERS: this chapter has been heavily edited for your viewing. Please go to gundam-wing-universe dot net for the full, unedited version
GUNDAMWINGUNIVERSE READERS: This will be R/Nc17 at points. These are clearly indicated. For the edited version, go to fanfiction dot net. The scene that has been labelled as R to Nc17 is due to a potentially graphic rape scene. which may be offensive to people. Please skip this clearly-labelled scene if you may find them offensive or are not of age.
No Hope I:
Six weeks. It had taken six weeks for it to happen. That’s forty two days. One thousand and eight hours. Sixty thousand four hundred and eight minutes. Three million six hundred and twenty eight thousand eight hundred seconds. For Duo Maxwell to break.
He had suffered through hell for six weeks. Six. Fucking. Weeks.
His injuries, both those he had obtained before his capture, and those he had acquired during his stay in the wonderful establishment that his oh so hospitable captors had provided for him.
He had been ‘acquiring’ injuries since shortly before the guards first ‘session’ with him. They had only decided to give him treatment because he had lost consciousness. Due to blood loss. They would have done nothing at all, which, in retrospect, would have been better for the braided pilot.
Flashback
Tap Tap Tap Tap
Ssssssh
“Put him over here” A voice-male, requested with a sigh.
Two soldiers in full uniform dragged the unconscious teen between them, each holding an arm with a firm, bruising grip. His hands were still firmly secured behind his back.
“And just who have we got here today, gentlemen?” the same man asked.
He could hear him faintly, groggily, as though listening to a conversation in another room whilst underwater.
He was manhandled unceremoniously up onto the examination table. It was cold. He couldn’t muster the energy to make the slightest move, twitch the tiniest bit.
“unconfirmed Doctor.”
Violet orbs cracked open. He watched through blood encrusted eyelashes as the doctor-young, in his mid to late twenties, of Euroasian decent from what he could see, wearing the typical long white coat over a relatively smart outfit. He had short, messy dark hair and clear, light eyes.
He gave the soldiers a sharp look over small, rectangular wire-rimmed glasses, perched precariously on his nose
“oh?” he asked, tone friendly but clipped, a hint of steel underlying in his soft, melodious voice.
“he was captured in the, ah, incident at our base near L-4 earlier this week, Sir” One of the two soldiers supplied.
One neatly kept eyebrow raised in disbelief as he took a step back from the bed, allowing the guards to continue with their jobs. “and you have yet to discern her-his? Identity?” He peered down at Duo’s chest, brushing the fabric to one side in order to confirm his sex. “and how, may I ask, did he acquire so many injuries in such a short space of time? Wait, no- I do not want to know. It’s just my job to fix him”
He gave the guards a warm smile, motioning for them to leave, now that the prisoner come patient was securely chained to the bed.
He turned cool, calculated eyes on the prone teenagers’ body. “I don’t care who you are, or what you do. As long as you can pay for my services.”
End of Flashback
When he had been taken, drifting in and out of consciousness, by the soldiers to the nearest medical bay, he had been sporting various injuries.
His shoulder had been dislocated, bullet wounds still having the bullets in them, his ankle was still swollen, dark and resembling a grapefruit in size, his wrist still sending shooting pains continuously up and down through his arms, his hand virtually useless. His chest burned, cracked and broken ribs shifting with each woozy breath in and out, in and out. Infection had started setting in, each of his wounds and grazes oozing and inflamed. He felt thirsty all the time, no doubt suffering from dehydration, and weak, his head pounding with what he would guess was a serious concussion.
The Dear Doctor, after clearing out the medical bay-an easy task, as he was short-handed and the soldiers guarding their favourite little prisoner had no interest in watching too closely, whilst the doctor was around, unable to have their usual fun in his presence, safe in the knowledge that, once cuffed spread-eagled to the metal bed, he would be going nowhere.
He had done the bare minimum to treat him. Pumping enough antibiotics into his system to keep the infection at bay for days, a week at most, to ensure his return. A little support for his ribs-tape, and a quick tug at his wrist. He had found, after much probing, that it had clicked out of place, contributing to its poor condition. The only wounds that had truly been paid much attention to were those on his face.
The guards had been careful when it came to his face, but a nasty gash had still made its way onto his temple, his lips swollen and bruised from repeated, brutal use. The skin was still mottled and grimy. His lips, once full and glossy, now cracked and sore. It was a miracle that all of his teeth had remained undamaged.
The Doctor had, however, expected payment for his services, as he had said. Prisoners, especially those whose identities had yet to be disconcerted, were not exactly allowed access to cash or credit cards. Payment was taken via other means
Flashback –
~ FANFICTION dot NET READERS – This scene has been edited out for you. Please go to gundam-wing-universe dot net for the unedited version ~
Warning – M/R/Nc17; Rape Scene. Please go to fanfiction dot net for edited version, or skip down to the ‘END OF FLASHBACK’ which ends the potential R/Nc17-ness
Glazed violet-indigo began to clear slowly. He could still feel the relentless pounding behind his eyes. He felt groggy, and floaty, in the oddest way.
It reminded him of the first time he had been shot on earth, not far from the sweepers. By the time he had made it safely to Howard’s ship, infection had set into the wound in his upper thigh. The medication that Howard had given him, after finding him, barely conscious and bleeding out all over the bathroom floor attached to the room they had given him, as he attempted to treat his own wounds, had not reacted well with his immune system. These particular meds, when interacting with his own already altered immune system, from the mixture of chemicals and drugs G had pumped into him to ‘improve’ him during his training, had left him feeling sick and distanced from his body for less than an hour. Then had come an almost full-body paralysis, accompanied by heightened sensitivity of his skin and nerves.
Each touch of the softest sheets Howard had used to keep him covered and warm had caused a searing pain to shoot through his skin.
“I’m still in the floaty stages...at least that’s something” He thought, slowly and disjointed.
He could feel a faint chill. He could not get the muscles in his face to cooperate as he attempted to frown. He could feel a faint...tickling pressure, like that of a butterfly, drifting slowly...slowly...down his-bare?-leg.
‘Wha? My...trousers...how?...’ He tried, desperately, to move his head, to look down, to see what was happening to him
“And now, there is the little matter...”
He could hear the voice more clearly now. It was as with a camera, coming into focus. Previously blurry sights, sounds, smells, slowly began to righten themselves.
“...Of...”
He still could not move. The butterfly touches left him, replaced with nothingness.
“...my...”
He could feel the remains of his shirt-no, the lose material of a new shirt, unbuttoned, allowing the cool medical bay air to caress his badly abused flesh. He knew it barely touched his skin, and yet it still felt as though it pressed at him, causing sparks of pain, no worse than a small static shock one may experience, through his upper body. Faint shocks soon turned to pulsing, jagged needles, pressing into the soft flesh of his chest, back and ankles.
“...Payment...”
In his mind, he cried out at the sudden shock on pain. Two large, uncomfortably warm, soft hands took a hold of his face. The touch, under normal circumstances, may have been considered gentle, but firm. To him, it was pure agony.
The warm, tan hands repositioned his head on a stack of tall, plump pillows, allowing him a better view, down his body.
Still unable to move physically, mentally he was stunned. The pain in his ankles now made sense.
His legs were elevated, each ankle strapped wide apart and raised by what appeared to be stirrups, as used to give a woman her cervical check-up.
He could see the shirt-a pale, sky blue, open as he had thought, revealing the tap covering his chest-far too loose for his liking.
He could not see his arms. He assumed that they had been left, cuffed, as he had been semi-aware of them being done when he first came in.
He could see his own flaccid member, small and limp, left or placed on his thigh, he didn’t know which. It, too, looked worse for wear. Purpled but not from prolonged arousal, dirty from weeks upon weeks of soiling himself. He was only allowed to the bathroom for excrement, not urinating. God knew what it-what he must smell like.
Pain. Pain. Pain. Shock. Pain. Surged through him-his eyes rolled. He looked shakily down again. The doctor stood between his raised spread legs. One hand rested on his lower stomach, the muscles previously there having wasted away, the other lower, between spread cheeks. Two ungloved, thick fingers penetrated him, spearing his already brutally torn, inflamed, abused hole.
“A little looser than I usually prefer” He said softly, pressing deeper, twisting his fingers. He slowly felt around. He found it with a soft, small smirk of a smile.
A wheeze of breath silently escaped battered lips where a cry of pain should have fallen.
He had been hurt too badly, used far too many times for the slightest hint of pleasure to come from the slightest of pressures on his sweet spot, let along the firm, persistent touch being used.
It hurt, not only physically, but mentally. So much more than the first time. Who would have thought anything could feel worse than a dray-thrust after barely a fingers worth of preparation to his virginal hole? It must have hurt that first man almost as much. A sado-masicist, he would have guessed.
Double penetration had hurt more. Two thick, engorged cocks rubbing at his swollen, enflamed entrance, causing skin to slowly tear and wear away. The relief of one withdrawing never able to last, as the other surged forward, going deeper, stretching wider, moving with more and more force as their excitement grew, their speed picked up, their pleasure spiralling higher and higher.
They never used protection. Sick. They never cleaned him out, not the shit, the blood, the cum. They just continued to use him.
“But still so beautiful. Even like this.” Unbearably hot hands cupped soft, bruised balls, playing with them for a short time.
“If I had the time...”
Bliss. hands left him. No direct skin-on-skin contact. Nothing. He watched as the doctor moved up the bed once again. Hands, wiped on a tissue with speed. They moved to his braid, dishevelled but still intact, barely. It was a wonder that no soldier had thought to cut it off yet.
He stroked it reverently, losing the tie with nimble fingers.
“But, alas, I do not. Not this time, at least.” He turned, returning to his position between his legs. “There is always next time” He smiled at him warmly, as he reached into his pocket. He opened the small foil square with one hand, unzipping his fitted, dark slacks with the other.
He was already hard, his shaft purpling, weeping precome from the slit. He took the time to palm himself, allowing one, two slow, steady strokes. His eyes slipped closed as he cupped his balls, rolling them with gentle, sure fingers. With one last tug, he rolled the thin plastic protection, covering his length.
It was more for his own safety than out of consideration for his patient. Who knew what he could have picked up during his stay.
“Yessssssssss” He hissed in pleasure as he sank into the warm, tight sheath. Looser than he usually liked, but still with a firm grip on his cock.
He played with the limp, shrivelled member in front of him, as he pumped in and out, in and out, to no avail.
“This will never do. Next time-next time, I’ll have something to fix this-and to make you tighter.” He stroked the limp cock one final time, punctuating each word with another thrust.
He looked up. Calm, pleasure clouded eyes met anguished violet, tears leaking from still bloodshot, blood encrusted eyes. They locked gazes.
“So...beautiful” He lost control with his thrusts, rhythm forgotten.
At that moment in time, Duo would have given anything to have turned his head, to have avoided watching what was being done to him, to his body. The gods would never listen to one of deaths children’s pleas.
End of Flashback END OF POTENTIAL R-SCENE
The Doctor had advised the soldiers to bring him in regularly if they were to continue their current activities. They had chosen to listen to his advice.
With up to six sessions a day with anywhere between two to eight guards at a time, they had little choice but to seek medical treatment for him. Add to that interrogation sessions, the usual pure-torture one would expect, with far less food that was needed to aid his recovery, days without sleep, the few stolen hours plagued with nightmares, no warmth to speak of, hardly helped by the long, think shirt-now his only clothing, and only the freezing, metal floor of his cell for comfort.
The Doctor had been forced to put him on a drip during his time in the medbay, to feed and sedate him. It hadn’t lasted.
Duo Maxwell, unsurprisingly, was well and truly broken, in body and in mind. He never cried out, never begged, never pleaded, not after that first, unforgiving time.
His gaze became blank, hollow. His eyes, dead. His masks had cracked, had caved in, had crumbled, and this was all that was left.
The guards, at first, thinking that his lack of speech was the last of the boy’s defiance shining through, were enraged. They remembered the little hellcat that they had first had so much fun with. They wanted the kicking, the screaming, the begging and the pleading back. It was much more enjoyable when their little fucktoy wasn’t playing at being a corpse.
They tried their hardest to force the smallest sob, the quietest whimper, so much as a breathy gasp from his lips. After much grumbling and complaining, they had finally convinced one of their number to approach the good doctor with their complaints.
He had brushed them off, saying it was to be expected whilst he was healing. They should be thankful that he was behaving and quiet, rather than hallucinating and throwing up. That had finally silenced them.
Not once did it occur to them that, with what they were forcing upon him, in order to protect himself, he had blocked it all out, that he had forgotten how, that he was now unable to speak.
They had kept him for six weeks of fruitless questioning, after which they received orders to transfer him to an Earth facility. They still had not a clue as to his name, age, rank, or why he had been at the base.
The doctor had, of course, protested strongly against the movement of his patient, let alone a transfer of such a distance. It could be damaging to his health, to his recovery-to their chances of retrieving the information that they sought. His words had fallen silent quickly. No-one wanted to risk a closer inspection. They could not afford it.
The harsh, sullen words of two soldiers, getting ‘what they could whilst they still could’ had penetrated his shell.
The slightest spark of hope had re-entered hollow, haunted eyes upon hearing the talk of his transfer. Maybe...maybe the other pilots would come for him then, or, at the very least, perhaps the soldiers and the doctors at the new base would treat him differently.
“Either way...things cannot get worse...”
To Be Continued.
Authors Notes: I will try to make this quick;
One, my thanks for the reviews and the support. It was awesome to see so many positive reviews ._. I was more than a little shocked.
Two, for the person who so bravely reviewed anonymously on gundamwinguniverse, saying that I was just seeking attention and that they had found no flames in the reviews on that site. My I just point out that this is my secondary posting site, fanfiction dot net being my primary, mediaminer dot org being my third. You would have realised this is you had paid attention. In addition to this, reviews on fanfiction dot net, as a few have done – my thanks – can check for themselves for the remaining flames amongst the reviews.
Thirdly, I would like to make this clear; I write what I love, when I like, for myself. If I did not do this, it would be unlikely that I would be applying for a popular fiction writing course for my university course. The main question, however, was whether or not I continued to share my work with people online. In my mind, this fic has long been planned and completed, the sequel already half-done.
I would like to thank reviewers. I know my writing can be odd, it can be dark, it can seem as though it has gone off on a tangent. However, I aim to build a character-their background, their personality, the reason for each of their actions, through the various flashbacks, their reactions to situations, their thoughts, through everything. I cannot express how happy it has made me to learn that my new, improved style is working. Even a quick ‘update please’ is appreciated, although I admit I love the larger reviews left.
Now that that is done with, I would like to mention; I finally got my laptop! It took a lot of saving, but this means I can now start typing up updates whilst out or away from my main computer. More updates of various fics! Woot xD
More updates – rants = happy readers? : )
Thank-you again
(any gaiaonline users – feel free to talk to me on there xD Username: ladyshi )
Chapter Eight: No Hope I
CHAPTER WARNING!
FF dot NET READERS: this chapter has been heavily edited for your viewing. Please go to gundam-wing-universe dot net for the full, unedited version
GUNDAMWINGUNIVERSE READERS: This will be R/Nc17 at points. These are clearly indicated. For the edited version, go to fanfiction dot net. The scene that has been labelled as R to Nc17 is due to a potentially graphic rape scene. which may be offensive to people. Please skip this clearly-labelled scene if you may find them offensive or are not of age.
No Hope I:
Six weeks. It had taken six weeks for it to happen. That’s forty two days. One thousand and eight hours. Sixty thousand four hundred and eight minutes. Three million six hundred and twenty eight thousand eight hundred seconds. For Duo Maxwell to break.
He had suffered through hell for six weeks. Six. Fucking. Weeks.
His injuries, both those he had obtained before his capture, and those he had acquired during his stay in the wonderful establishment that his oh so hospitable captors had provided for him.
He had been ‘acquiring’ injuries since shortly before the guards first ‘session’ with him. They had only decided to give him treatment because he had lost consciousness. Due to blood loss. They would have done nothing at all, which, in retrospect, would have been better for the braided pilot.
Flashback
Tap Tap Tap Tap
Ssssssh
“Put him over here” A voice-male, requested with a sigh.
Two soldiers in full uniform dragged the unconscious teen between them, each holding an arm with a firm, bruising grip. His hands were still firmly secured behind his back.
“And just who have we got here today, gentlemen?” the same man asked.
He could hear him faintly, groggily, as though listening to a conversation in another room whilst underwater.
He was manhandled unceremoniously up onto the examination table. It was cold. He couldn’t muster the energy to make the slightest move, twitch the tiniest bit.
“unconfirmed Doctor.”
Violet orbs cracked open. He watched through blood encrusted eyelashes as the doctor-young, in his mid to late twenties, of Euroasian decent from what he could see, wearing the typical long white coat over a relatively smart outfit. He had short, messy dark hair and clear, light eyes.
He gave the soldiers a sharp look over small, rectangular wire-rimmed glasses, perched precariously on his nose
“oh?” he asked, tone friendly but clipped, a hint of steel underlying in his soft, melodious voice.
“he was captured in the, ah, incident at our base near L-4 earlier this week, Sir” One of the two soldiers supplied.
One neatly kept eyebrow raised in disbelief as he took a step back from the bed, allowing the guards to continue with their jobs. “and you have yet to discern her-his? Identity?” He peered down at Duo’s chest, brushing the fabric to one side in order to confirm his sex. “and how, may I ask, did he acquire so many injuries in such a short space of time? Wait, no- I do not want to know. It’s just my job to fix him”
He gave the guards a warm smile, motioning for them to leave, now that the prisoner come patient was securely chained to the bed.
He turned cool, calculated eyes on the prone teenagers’ body. “I don’t care who you are, or what you do. As long as you can pay for my services.”
End of Flashback
When he had been taken, drifting in and out of consciousness, by the soldiers to the nearest medical bay, he had been sporting various injuries.
His shoulder had been dislocated, bullet wounds still having the bullets in them, his ankle was still swollen, dark and resembling a grapefruit in size, his wrist still sending shooting pains continuously up and down through his arms, his hand virtually useless. His chest burned, cracked and broken ribs shifting with each woozy breath in and out, in and out. Infection had started setting in, each of his wounds and grazes oozing and inflamed. He felt thirsty all the time, no doubt suffering from dehydration, and weak, his head pounding with what he would guess was a serious concussion.
The Dear Doctor, after clearing out the medical bay-an easy task, as he was short-handed and the soldiers guarding their favourite little prisoner had no interest in watching too closely, whilst the doctor was around, unable to have their usual fun in his presence, safe in the knowledge that, once cuffed spread-eagled to the metal bed, he would be going nowhere.
He had done the bare minimum to treat him. Pumping enough antibiotics into his system to keep the infection at bay for days, a week at most, to ensure his return. A little support for his ribs-tape, and a quick tug at his wrist. He had found, after much probing, that it had clicked out of place, contributing to its poor condition. The only wounds that had truly been paid much attention to were those on his face.
The guards had been careful when it came to his face, but a nasty gash had still made its way onto his temple, his lips swollen and bruised from repeated, brutal use. The skin was still mottled and grimy. His lips, once full and glossy, now cracked and sore. It was a miracle that all of his teeth had remained undamaged.
The Doctor had, however, expected payment for his services, as he had said. Prisoners, especially those whose identities had yet to be disconcerted, were not exactly allowed access to cash or credit cards. Payment was taken via other means
Flashback –
~ FANFICTION dot NET READERS – This scene has been edited out for you. Please go to gundam-wing-universe dot net for the unedited version ~
Warning – M/R/Nc17; Rape Scene. Please go to fanfiction dot net for edited version, or skip down to the ‘END OF FLASHBACK’ which ends the potential R/Nc17-ness
Glazed violet-indigo began to clear slowly. He could still feel the relentless pounding behind his eyes. He felt groggy, and floaty, in the oddest way.
It reminded him of the first time he had been shot on earth, not far from the sweepers. By the time he had made it safely to Howard’s ship, infection had set into the wound in his upper thigh. The medication that Howard had given him, after finding him, barely conscious and bleeding out all over the bathroom floor attached to the room they had given him, as he attempted to treat his own wounds, had not reacted well with his immune system. These particular meds, when interacting with his own already altered immune system, from the mixture of chemicals and drugs G had pumped into him to ‘improve’ him during his training, had left him feeling sick and distanced from his body for less than an hour. Then had come an almost full-body paralysis, accompanied by heightened sensitivity of his skin and nerves.
Each touch of the softest sheets Howard had used to keep him covered and warm had caused a searing pain to shoot through his skin.
“I’m still in the floaty stages...at least that’s something” He thought, slowly and disjointed.
He could feel a faint chill. He could not get the muscles in his face to cooperate as he attempted to frown. He could feel a faint...tickling pressure, like that of a butterfly, drifting slowly...slowly...down his-bare?-leg.
‘Wha? My...trousers...how?...’ He tried, desperately, to move his head, to look down, to see what was happening to him
“And now, there is the little matter...”
He could hear the voice more clearly now. It was as with a camera, coming into focus. Previously blurry sights, sounds, smells, slowly began to righten themselves.
“...Of...”
He still could not move. The butterfly touches left him, replaced with nothingness.
“...my...”
He could feel the remains of his shirt-no, the lose material of a new shirt, unbuttoned, allowing the cool medical bay air to caress his badly abused flesh. He knew it barely touched his skin, and yet it still felt as though it pressed at him, causing sparks of pain, no worse than a small static shock one may experience, through his upper body. Faint shocks soon turned to pulsing, jagged needles, pressing into the soft flesh of his chest, back and ankles.
“...Payment...”
In his mind, he cried out at the sudden shock on pain. Two large, uncomfortably warm, soft hands took a hold of his face. The touch, under normal circumstances, may have been considered gentle, but firm. To him, it was pure agony.
The warm, tan hands repositioned his head on a stack of tall, plump pillows, allowing him a better view, down his body.
Still unable to move physically, mentally he was stunned. The pain in his ankles now made sense.
His legs were elevated, each ankle strapped wide apart and raised by what appeared to be stirrups, as used to give a woman her cervical check-up.
He could see the shirt-a pale, sky blue, open as he had thought, revealing the tap covering his chest-far too loose for his liking.
He could not see his arms. He assumed that they had been left, cuffed, as he had been semi-aware of them being done when he first came in.
He could see his own flaccid member, small and limp, left or placed on his thigh, he didn’t know which. It, too, looked worse for wear. Purpled but not from prolonged arousal, dirty from weeks upon weeks of soiling himself. He was only allowed to the bathroom for excrement, not urinating. God knew what it-what he must smell like.
Pain. Pain. Pain. Shock. Pain. Surged through him-his eyes rolled. He looked shakily down again. The doctor stood between his raised spread legs. One hand rested on his lower stomach, the muscles previously there having wasted away, the other lower, between spread cheeks. Two ungloved, thick fingers penetrated him, spearing his already brutally torn, inflamed, abused hole.
“A little looser than I usually prefer” He said softly, pressing deeper, twisting his fingers. He slowly felt around. He found it with a soft, small smirk of a smile.
A wheeze of breath silently escaped battered lips where a cry of pain should have fallen.
He had been hurt too badly, used far too many times for the slightest hint of pleasure to come from the slightest of pressures on his sweet spot, let along the firm, persistent touch being used.
It hurt, not only physically, but mentally. So much more than the first time. Who would have thought anything could feel worse than a dray-thrust after barely a fingers worth of preparation to his virginal hole? It must have hurt that first man almost as much. A sado-masicist, he would have guessed.
Double penetration had hurt more. Two thick, engorged cocks rubbing at his swollen, enflamed entrance, causing skin to slowly tear and wear away. The relief of one withdrawing never able to last, as the other surged forward, going deeper, stretching wider, moving with more and more force as their excitement grew, their speed picked up, their pleasure spiralling higher and higher.
They never used protection. Sick. They never cleaned him out, not the shit, the blood, the cum. They just continued to use him.
“But still so beautiful. Even like this.” Unbearably hot hands cupped soft, bruised balls, playing with them for a short time.
“If I had the time...”
Bliss. hands left him. No direct skin-on-skin contact. Nothing. He watched as the doctor moved up the bed once again. Hands, wiped on a tissue with speed. They moved to his braid, dishevelled but still intact, barely. It was a wonder that no soldier had thought to cut it off yet.
He stroked it reverently, losing the tie with nimble fingers.
“But, alas, I do not. Not this time, at least.” He turned, returning to his position between his legs. “There is always next time” He smiled at him warmly, as he reached into his pocket. He opened the small foil square with one hand, unzipping his fitted, dark slacks with the other.
He was already hard, his shaft purpling, weeping precome from the slit. He took the time to palm himself, allowing one, two slow, steady strokes. His eyes slipped closed as he cupped his balls, rolling them with gentle, sure fingers. With one last tug, he rolled the thin plastic protection, covering his length.
It was more for his own safety than out of consideration for his patient. Who knew what he could have picked up during his stay.
“Yessssssssss” He hissed in pleasure as he sank into the warm, tight sheath. Looser than he usually liked, but still with a firm grip on his cock.
He played with the limp, shrivelled member in front of him, as he pumped in and out, in and out, to no avail.
“This will never do. Next time-next time, I’ll have something to fix this-and to make you tighter.” He stroked the limp cock one final time, punctuating each word with another thrust.
He looked up. Calm, pleasure clouded eyes met anguished violet, tears leaking from still bloodshot, blood encrusted eyes. They locked gazes.
“So...beautiful” He lost control with his thrusts, rhythm forgotten.
At that moment in time, Duo would have given anything to have turned his head, to have avoided watching what was being done to him, to his body. The gods would never listen to one of deaths children’s pleas.
End of Flashback END OF POTENTIAL R-SCENE
The Doctor had advised the soldiers to bring him in regularly if they were to continue their current activities. They had chosen to listen to his advice.
With up to six sessions a day with anywhere between two to eight guards at a time, they had little choice but to seek medical treatment for him. Add to that interrogation sessions, the usual pure-torture one would expect, with far less food that was needed to aid his recovery, days without sleep, the few stolen hours plagued with nightmares, no warmth to speak of, hardly helped by the long, think shirt-now his only clothing, and only the freezing, metal floor of his cell for comfort.
The Doctor had been forced to put him on a drip during his time in the medbay, to feed and sedate him. It hadn’t lasted.
Duo Maxwell, unsurprisingly, was well and truly broken, in body and in mind. He never cried out, never begged, never pleaded, not after that first, unforgiving time.
His gaze became blank, hollow. His eyes, dead. His masks had cracked, had caved in, had crumbled, and this was all that was left.
The guards, at first, thinking that his lack of speech was the last of the boy’s defiance shining through, were enraged. They remembered the little hellcat that they had first had so much fun with. They wanted the kicking, the screaming, the begging and the pleading back. It was much more enjoyable when their little fucktoy wasn’t playing at being a corpse.
They tried their hardest to force the smallest sob, the quietest whimper, so much as a breathy gasp from his lips. After much grumbling and complaining, they had finally convinced one of their number to approach the good doctor with their complaints.
He had brushed them off, saying it was to be expected whilst he was healing. They should be thankful that he was behaving and quiet, rather than hallucinating and throwing up. That had finally silenced them.
Not once did it occur to them that, with what they were forcing upon him, in order to protect himself, he had blocked it all out, that he had forgotten how, that he was now unable to speak.
They had kept him for six weeks of fruitless questioning, after which they received orders to transfer him to an Earth facility. They still had not a clue as to his name, age, rank, or why he had been at the base.
The doctor had, of course, protested strongly against the movement of his patient, let alone a transfer of such a distance. It could be damaging to his health, to his recovery-to their chances of retrieving the information that they sought. His words had fallen silent quickly. No-one wanted to risk a closer inspection. They could not afford it.
The harsh, sullen words of two soldiers, getting ‘what they could whilst they still could’ had penetrated his shell.
The slightest spark of hope had re-entered hollow, haunted eyes upon hearing the talk of his transfer. Maybe...maybe the other pilots would come for him then, or, at the very least, perhaps the soldiers and the doctors at the new base would treat him differently.
“Either way...things cannot get worse...”
To Be Continued.