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"Fractured"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Mystery, Weirdness, Psychological, thrills
and chills, Dark, Horror Pairings: Duo Maxwell, Quatre Raberba Winner,
Trowa Barton, Heero Yuy, Chang Wufei Summary: They are lovers with a deadly purpose. Masters of the game, they will kill without conscience, or remorse. Lovers, drifters, professional killers on the lamb, they seduce their victims with ease and then move on to the next. Their hearts, though blacker than coal, will only beat for each other. So I have no idea where this came from, but my brain was like, "Bitch, write this." So I did. xP It's a serial killer AU, very dark, violent, and sadistic. Think Bonnie and Clyde, or The Devil's Rejects (sans the creepy incest vibe). There are elements of rape/noncon in this, but not in the conventional way, and well...it's complicated. Tl;dr: If you are in anyway uncomfortable with any aspects of noncon, this is not for you. If you are squeamish about violence and sadism, this is not for you. Otherwise, enjoy!
"Chapter 3: The Wanted " The motel room was not what you’d call five stars. It was dingy, outdated, and smelled like stale vomit with traces of whiskey, cigarette smoke, and an underlying odor that made Quatre think of a brothel despite the fact that he’d never stepped foot in one. It was the kind of room you wanted to hose down with disinfectant, or better yet, a five gallon drum of gasoline. Strike a match, make a wish, and watch it burn, baby, burn. Still, it was better than the back of the stolen pickup they’d been camping in for the better part of a week. While sleeping under the stars had its perks, the days had begun to turn cool with the arrival of mid fall. The nights were downright freezing, even when safe and snug in his love’s arms. They’d paid cash for the room with the money stolen from their latest victim’s wallet, stripped the questionable bedspread away, and collapsed like they hadn’t slept in months. Not even the raunchy stench of cheap beer and even cheaper sex could sabotage the warmth and coziness of the lumpy mattress, or the amenities of hot, running water. Quatre had yanked up the dial on the wall heater the night before. What the hell, he wasn’t footing the bill. The tiny room was now nice and toasty, maybe even a little warmer than he typically preferred. He rolled onto his back and kicked the blankets off his legs, staring up at the ceiling. It looked as though it suffered a leaking problem that had been sloppily patched over one too many times. The sun tried its best to seep through the gaudy, disco era drapes and Quatre estimated it to be around nine in the morning. Sleeping in was a luxury they hadn’t been able to afford lately and it was wonderful to just languish in bed beside his man. Before long, they would be on the run again so they had to enjoy these perks every chance they got. “You been awake long?” He turned his head at his lover’s gruff morning voice and smiled at the adorably tousled brown hair and drowsy green eyes. “No. Not long. Did I wake you?” Trowa turned his face into the pillow to smother his yawn. “No,” he mumbled. “Even if you did, it’s the only way I’d want to be wakened.” Quatre flicked the tip of his nose. “Flatterer.” “What time is it?” He rolled over and glanced at the digital alarm clock. “Nine eighteen. There’s a little diner down the road. Pretty divey, but I’ll bet they make a killer breakfast.” Muscular arms curled around him and he grinned as he was pulled into his love’s powerful chest. “In case it escaped your notice, this isn’t exactly the Ritz,” Trowa murmured into his hair. He chuckled and brought one of Trowa’s hands to his mouth, pressing kisses into the dry palm. “What was your first clue? The tacky decor, the seedy ambiance, or the rancid smell?” “You know I hate multiple choice questions,” Trowa teased wrapping his hand around Quatre’s throat. It was a gentle touch, but Quatre read the message clearly. He turned his head to capture his lover’s lips and moaned into the kiss when Trowa ground his erection against his bare ass. “Where’s the lube?” He scoffed and pointed towards the floor. “Where it always is. My bag, the little inside pocket. Hurry up and get it.” “My, you’re impatient this morning.” Trowa rolled off the bed and swiped the bag off the floor. “Forgive me for being eager to get fucked in an actual bed for once.” “Even a seedy motel bed?” Quatre flipped over onto his back and opened his legs, reaching down to fondle himself for his lover’s benefit. “I’m getting lonely over here, love. If you don’t hurry, I just might have to take care of business myself.” Trowa growled and triumphantly yanked the tube of lubricant out. His gait was a definitive swagger as he stepped back to the bed, crawling across the mattress and pulling Quatre’s hand away from his groin. “Not on my watch, baby,” he rasped and lowered his head to suck his lover’s cock into his mouth. Quatre’s retort was lost in a gravelly moan. He arched his back, pushing his length deeper into the hot, wet suction, his fingers tangling into Trowa’s silky brown hair. “Mmm...don’t make me wait, baby. I want you inside me.”
***
They walked to the diner just after eleven. It was a warmer day than it had been recently. An Indian Summer as it was called and the sun felt good on their backs as they walked down the road, opting against taking the truck in favor of fresh air and exercise. Trowa rifled through his wallet as they crossed the parking lot, his brows drawn low in a deep frown. Something Quatre knew was never good news. “How much cash do we have left?” “About seventy. It’ll cost a good forty to fill up the tank before we hit the road and we’ll need to eat later, too.” “Obviously,” Quatre drawled. “Maybe we’ll find a john here with an equitable amount.” “This is a trucker’s dive, babe. Of course there’s a qualifying john here. Probably several of them. I’ll bet more than a few of them are pretty hard up, too.” Quatre tossed his blond hair and slipped his sunglasses over his head. “Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I wore my Sunday best,” he winked. Their MO was simple, but also laughably effective. The delicate, blond pretty boy and his roughneck boyfriend. They played off each other beautifully with Quatre luring their victims in with his flirty wiles. Trowa would pretend to be oblivious, keeping his distance, though he always remained close enough to intersect if something went wrong. He was the silent shadow, seemingly indifferent and when the deal was sealed, he trailed his lover and their victim when they ultimately sought someplace a bit more private. Quatre would wait until he’d been stripped bare and lay pinned beneath the Neanderthal’s weight before he began to protest the pawing hands and amorous kisses. His inevitable shout for help was Trowa’s cue to intervene which would lead to a confrontation between himself and their victim and end with Trowa’s signature hunting knife slicing their throats open. Killing was a drug neither of them could escape. A high unlike no other. The monkey on their backs that drove them to it again and again and again. They fucked in the aftermath of their kills. Raw, carnal, and violent with Trowa sweeping him into his arms and forcing his way inside his pliant body. He growled like a savage into Quatre’s neck, relishing the blunt nails that dragged up his back, drawing blood, and the clench of thighs around his waist as he ruthlessly thrust to a heart-stopping completion. After a shared smoke, they would wrap the body and dispose of it in a remote location. Then, they would move onto the next town, spending the stolen money until it dwindled and they were forced to find another sacrificial lamb. They had eluded the authorities for nearly two years. Constantly on the move and careful not to leave any traces of their involvement behind. Most of their victims still had yet to be found. Only one was located, but by the time the police got to it, it was so badly decomposed and ravaged by wildlife, there was nothing left linking it back to them. The feigned attempted rape was their only defense in the event they were ever caught. They’d rehearsed it enough times that it was simply second nature now. Quatre’s performance was Oscar-worthy right down to the flowing tears and the quivering lips. With a face like his, there was no way a jury would convict. The blond wore his trademark outfit, the textbook definition of a pretty twink with his gloriously rounded backside stretching the back of his denim cutoffs. Propping up that ass that wouldn’t quit were deliciously curved, creamy thighs. Above the shorts, he wore a t-shirt tight enough to show off his lithe frame and slender shoulders, in pastel colors for an air of purity and innocence. His thick blond waves were meticulously styled, curling around his ears, the back of his neck, and fetchingly tousled over his forehead. His face was almost pixie like, feminine in appearance, but with enough masculinity in the line of his jaw and chin to convince any onlookers that this was indeed a man. His eyes were like a blue sky on a summer day, bright and sunny with a hint of mischief and jovial flirtation. He was sin incarnate. Especially when he swayed those hips and spun one of those Tootsie Pops he was so fond of between his lascivious lips. Cherry, of course, which stained the plump flesh of his mouth like glossy rouge. Not even the saints themselves could resist such temptation. He played their victims like the fools they were. Luring them in with a saucy wink and coquettish compliment. He would often play the role of a helpless damsel, requiring assistance with a flat tire, “And who better than a big, strong man like you?” He played the game unerringly well, at first pretending to be a pillar of virtue and then shyly confessing with a bat of his inhumanly long eyelashes, that he’d always wanted to lose his virginity to a perfect specimen of power and masculinity such as themselves. A real man. One who knew how to fuck. One who knew how to put him in his place. He would stick the tip of his finger between those luscious lips, drawing the eyes and predictably, the mind to the pleasure that mouth could invoke if given the chance. It worked every time. Sometimes, they would simply retreat to the cabin of the victims' trucks and Quatre would play the blushing virgin, ducking his head with soft giggles as the meaty hands peeled his clothing from his body and touched places only one man was allowed access to. Other times, they found a room at a nearby motel and once Quatre’s nude body was exposed to their ravenous gazes, the lust became too much. He would find himself thrown onto the bed, restrained by a heavy weight that often smelled of stale cigars, Old Spice, and far too many nights of sexual gratification at their own hands. He endured the hungry mouths that latched onto the delicate skin of his throat and the scratchiness of their six o’clock shadows. The push of their groins into the inviting space between his thighs and the hands that groped and pawed at his flesh. It was then he feigned his second thoughts. Once they were desperate to fuck and too far gone to stop. His token resistance egged them on and they growled and snarled, empowered in the throes of sexual dominance, pinning his slender arms above his head and going for broke. The only thing on their minds was the promise of ecstasy inside his body. And Trowa...Trowa was always nearby. Out of sight until he heard the cry. Quatre would wait until the rape was almost imminent, but always before they could penetrate him. With their dicks out, questing between his thighs, seeking the opening that would allow them a glimpse of Heaven, Quatre would give the signal and Trowa, waiting outside, would kick the door in and come to the rescue. The sex that came in the aftermath was always Quatre’s favorite. It was when Trowa was at his most primitive. A fucking machine, operating solely on the heady fumes of adrenaline, rage, and his need for possession. He would pin Quatre against the wall and fuck up into him as if his life depended on it, hissing covetous declarations of ownership against the shell of his ear. He was obsessed with reclaiming what was rightfully his. Cleansing the filth of the men who’d dared to lay hands upon his love. As if they'd ever had a snowball’s chance in hell to experience the rapture of fucking Quatre. It was absurd and unbelievably gratifying to take those overconfident slobs down a few pegs. They were not worthy and they never would be.
***
They reached the diner and Trowa held the door open for him with a murmured, “Look for a wedding band.” He winked one turquoise eye at his lover as he passed. “Don’t I always?” The place was rather busy being that it was Sunday and brunch was in full swing. It was noisy and hectic which suited them perfectly. Distracting situations worked in their favor. The more chaotic, the better. It muddied the memories of any potential witnesses and with so much going on, no one could really ever be sure exactly what they saw. Quatre spotted the perfect candidate while they waited for a table to clear. The first step was to make eye contact which happened pretty quickly. Now, the trick was to maintain it. Make the man want to look back again and again. He flushed prettily and glanced away, paused, and then made contact again, this time with a shy smile curling up the corners of his mouth. The man was definitely a trucker. An out-of-towner sitting alone in one of the booths. After the second contact was made, Quatre feigned disinterest, though he was keenly aware that the man was looking back at him, could see him in his peripheral vision. Now that Quatre had caught his interest, his job was to dig his hooks in deep enough to convince the man that he could make it worth his while. Married men were surprisingly easy to get and they were often hornier than a jackrabbit on a date. They typically carried more cash and credit cards on their persons as well which was why they were a favorable target. Turning on the charm came like second nature to him. He flirted with the man at a distance while Trowa pretended to be oblivious. In reality, he knew exactly what was happening at all times. He always did, an expert at observation and slippery as an eel. They enjoyed their meal and made relative small talk with Trowa giving Quatre opportunities to continue subtly flirting with the john by occasionally looking away. Quatre batted his lashes and twisted yellow curls around his fingers and watched with sadistic glee as the man shifted, becoming visibly flustered. It was almost too easy. When Trowa left for the bathroom, that was Quatre’s cue to move onto the next phase. He turned the charm up full throttle, his alluring presence wrapping around his victim like wisps of smoke and prompting him to rise from his seat. He propped his chin on his hand and tracked the man's approach, his gait a little awkward as he hoisted his low hanging jeans back up over nonexistent hips. A flutter of excitement flailed around in Quatre's belly, hopelessly addicted and he shivered with anticipation of what was to come. His senses were on high, keen and ready. Arousal flared through his body at the thought of those big hands pulling and tugging at his clothing, squeezing the soft cheeks of his ass. The breath laced with coffee, bacon, and eggs as he sought a taste of Quatre's mouth and ultimately, the press of his weight and the hardness of his groin against his thigh, rubbing hot friction over his skin. The man would be stopped before he ever had a chance to fuck him and Quatre would bask in the breathtaking sight of watching his lover cut him down, his pupils dilating with adrenaline and covetous arousal. Damn, but Trowa was most beautiful like that. His eyes feral, his teeth gnashed beneath a curled lip. There was no mercy. There never was. And then he would turn to his lover, breathing hard, bulging muscles even harder. The blood spatter on his beautiful face was brutally erotic. Power, dominance, and possessiveness would ooze from his very pores, rendering Quatre helpless to his seductive aura and begging to be taken. He would strip out of his bloody clothes and pounce, his cock seeking delicious entry which Quatre eagerly surrendered, their moans harmonizing in perfect pitch of their victim's death rattle. "Hey...I uh...I couldn't help but notice the way you looked at me. Is that other guy - is he your boyfriend?" Quatre graced him with a beatific smile and waved a delicate hand. "Only when it suits me. What's your name, stud?" The man blushed furiously and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, thrusting the other at Quatre. "It's...it's uh, Steve." He reached out and took the hand, shaking it amicably. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, uh Steve." He glanced around and then shot the man a pointed look. "It's quite crowded in here and I'm pretty sure you're not interested in small talk, are you, uh Steve?" The man laughed and shook his head, obviously feeling self-conscious. "Yeah, sorry. It's just Steve. I'm just passing through on my way to Phoenix. I drive a rig for a living. Not exactly glamorous." "Don't sell yourself short, Steve. Rigs are sexy. Rugged. The heady fumes of diesel and freedom never fail to excite me. There's nothing better than the open road." Steve's face lit up, genuinely flattered. Quatre almost felt sorry for his inevitable untimely demise. He jerked a thumb behind him and said, "You want I can show you? I can give you a quick spin on the ol' gal if you'd like." "You just said the magic words, Steve, my man." He slid out of the booth and linked their arms together. "Lead the way." He hesitated, glancing back towards the restrooms. "What about your boyfriend?" "Oh, he'll be fine. He knows I like to proposition truckers for a ride. You're not planning on murdering little old me and dumping my remains in the desert, are you?" He asked with a playful wink. Steve laughed, a little embarrassed. "No, nothin' like that. I promise I'll bring you right back after I give you a spin. How's that sound?" "Works for me, big guy. Let's see what you got." He cast one last glance over his shoulder and met Trowa's dark gaze as he exited the restroom. His lover dipped his head in an approving nod, their unspoken communication traveling across the diner, as old and familiar as the Earth itself. He thanked Steve when he held the door open and stepped out into the sunlight, knowing Trowa would be trailing behind, tracking their every move. With any luck, they'd be on their way to Nevada by midnight with a nice reserve of money in their pockets. At least enough to get them over the border within two days. Steve gestured towards his rig and offered his arm again which Quatre accepted with a toothy smile, all cheery sunshine and tempting innocence. Though in the back of his mind, he was anticipating the blood, death, and sex to come with a sinister twist of giddiness in his belly. Let the games begin...
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