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Different DNA

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Freud's amber eyes dropped and he looked away from the clone striker. He was kept as a pet, kidnapped from Saint Kleio's Academy in the midst of the night. Obsession was there, he felt. Some sharp feeling of necessity for Freud's presence, and yet, it was not Freud he wanted.

Freud saw the striker's brown eyes linger on the older Freud clone, the striker Freud (always called Sigmund), and he knew he was only a replacement for Sigmund. He accepted it though. If he didn't, he would be killed. Not surprising.

It had been a month since he had been captured from the academy and his mannerisms were slowly mirroring Sigmund's. He had to be what the striker Napoleon wanted, call him by the name he wanted, preferring Dorian over Napoleon. Freud felt the weight of symbolism in that small word, the heavy utterance weighing on his tongue as he spoke the name.

Dorian claimed to be just one of many, never truly alive, only alive long enough to kill the rest of the clones the world over and then, himself. Freud would be the second-to-last to die...just before Dorian.

Dorian's hand slipped around Freud's waist and he jumped in surprise, the larger male silent in his steps. He kissed the back of Freud's neck softly, the silverette tensing and letting out a breathy "oh." He didn't do touch often, and the change of pace to acting like an affectionate lover was difficult. He didn't say it, refused to even think it, but every touch was positively thrilling.

He was so much bigger, so much stronger, shoulders broader, hair darker than his younger counterpart, rougher hands with more experience in the touch. It was hypnotizing, even as he wanted free, feeling a little claustrophobic. "Dorian," he greeted softly, turning his head to kiss a scruffy cheek.

"Sigmund," Dorian replied, kissing his little pet's neck once more just for the ghost of a sound he heard every time he did. Freud squirmed a touch, feeling uncomfortable with the cool stares of the other striker clones in the room.

The taller male kissed him once more before taking notice of the rest of the congregation and greeting them a full few minutes after he had slipped in the room. "Hey guys."

He sat on the couch and pulled Freud to sit in his lap, purring murmured words in the boy's ear and making his face flush. That was the correct reaction after all. Blushing. Always submissive, whimpering, loving.

There was no love. Love was merely the chemical reactions in a mind to create a bond meant to stabilize a relationship enough so that children would be brought up in a safe environment. What a lie. Freud learned that from Rasputin years ago, toyed with as an experiment for a paper and discarded, his young heart shredded by the calm Russian. There was no such thing as love.

Sigmund and Gregori sat close together, Gregori's hand intertwined in Sigmund's. Freud always avoided looking though. He refused to see the mockery of his past brought up in the present by these caricatures of himself and Rasputin.

Nightingale sat by Einstein, the blond's hair pulled back into a lazy approximation of a slicked back hairdo, but the curls intrinsic in the locks made it look more suave, strands free of the gel. Pizza was on the table in between them all, eaten ravenously by all of the clones. Cheap food was the only thing they needed, along with the shared beer. There was wine, too. Sigmund, though, carefully ate only the vegetable pizza, a small personal bought for him along with kosher wine next to the half eaten pieces.

Freud was careful to avoid all the meat as he ate the cheese pizza. He couldn't eat anything non-kosher. Dorian would not be pleased, and if Dorian was not happy, Freud would not be around for long. It was maddening, but the actions were easy to slip into, even if they were not yet habit. The button up and sweater vest were his own preferred style, at any rate. Though, he had to say that the glasses were not something he had to wear- though not, by extension from Sigmund, he did. He was careful to get a very low prescription, telling Dorian his eyes were "on the way to needing glasses full time" but were almost perfect as it was.

He was a devil, Freud decided as he ate the last bite of the pizza, watching Dorian interact with the other clone killers. "I'm telling you, a big fire would be awesome!"

"No, Dorian, we're not going to do that. It would make a mess, not to mention hard to control, as we've been told more than once," Nightingale said, irritated. Dorian almost pouted, going off in some long tangent. Something about electricity was mentioned, but Freud's mind was far away, absently staring at Dorian.

He could be an angel too though. A broken angel. He was loving -obsessive- and he tried his best to make Freud -Sigmund- happy, laving him with kisses -threats were all but gone- and giving -smothering- him with affection.

Dorian moved his hand and it ran up Freud's side, pulling up the shirt for just a moment; it was magnetizing, polarizing, incredible, the ghost of a touch making his cheeks dust with pink. Dorian didn't realize, never realized, simply continued. He rested a hand on Freud's lap, so close to his groin on accident, and Freud felt disconnected from his body as he attempted to keep calm, felt as if he were floating, his body glowing from contained libido. It was amazing -awful- and absolutely electrifying -burning-.

Dorian left with the majority of the strikers, leaving Freud and the Joan behind. Freud sipped at his water, the half eaten piece of pizza getting cold on the coffee table they had gathered around in couches. Normally, Freud would give the pizza to Napoleon- after all, he owed Napoleon his life, seeing as how one of Napoleon's original's descendents saved Freud's original and aided him in running from the Nazi regime. Napoleon could take anything from Freud and he would not complain. He got used to eating half as much as he used to when Napoleon learned this and took the opportunity to swipe his food, leaving Freud a thin, delicate boy with a soft appetite.

"You should be afraid," the long-haired Joan said softly, leaning forward as her platinum locks brushed the table. "He's dangerous."

"You're not like the others," Freud pointed out, pointing to her with the water bottle before opening and sipping at the liquid within. Dorian was Napoleon in the future, after all... A futuristic lover of the boy who had shared his bed at the academy. It was nothing new to be subjected to Napoleon.

She shrugged. "Different DNA, different phenotype. That's all I am."

Freud leaned back in his seat, crossing his knees. "They don't understand you, either. You're so very silent all the time. You only speak when it concerns how to go about the mission. I think... you don't want to kill us."

Her eyes flared and she sat straight. "You're from a different world, a different dimension, compared to us. Everything you do, the way you act, your words, they all open my eyes to the new generation. But it doesn't change anything."

Freud snorted and stood. "I'm ready to go. If you need a therapist, I'll be here when they are not."

Her words as the boy left, his affectionate facade faded into cold calculation now that Dorian was not around, were not heard. "Lead me into the light," she said to nobody, to God, perhaps, if such a thing existed. "Because I don't want to die."


"Ah! Ah! Ah!" Freud cried out as Dorian pounded into him deeply, legs locked around those beautifully pistoning hips, hands scratching at his back. "K-k-kiss me, please!" he begged, as Sigmund once cried out.

Freud's lips were captured by Dorian's, the mind destroying kiss reminding him of Napoleon's and mixing his thoughts up into an unrecognizable mess. The murmured words in Freud's ear were arousing, making Freud whimper. He felt infected, by Dorian's love, and when the older male cried out his final groan of "Sigmund!", Freud was filled with Dorian's poison.

Freud climaxed hard, making a white hot mess between them before Dorian collapsed on him. The weight was wonderful, the cock going soft in him making him feel full and sated. They were both panting, tired, but absolutely satisfied. Freud's arms encircled him after a short, content nap, scratching him softly to wake Dorian.

Dorian woke with a faintly stupid grunting sound, jerking and rising up. The weight and feel of his body was missed as he pulled out and Freud pulled him down for a deep kiss, mewling before his breathing began to shallow at the raw domination. He moved to whisper in the male's ear; "T-take me again..."

The air was soon filled again with lewd slapping sounds and gasping moans, almost shrieks on Freud's part as his eyes watered when his prostate was struck without mercy. He gave up escaping. He wanted to be a victim of Dorian's perverted love, he was ready for it, and he didn't even know it.


Reflecting on the past months, an unknown amount of time, really, Freud stared sightlessly at the psychological thriller he had been reading, mind moving sluggishly slow. Dorian was so different from Napoleon. Where Napoleon would be teasing and playful, pulling pranks on him just because he was stronger and could toss him about, Dorian was affectionate, lavishing him with gifts and kisses, his touches foreign to Freud's body, though he slowly got used to it, had to get used to it.

It was supernatural how quickly he felt himself pitying Dorian for his pathetic plight. In love with Sigmund who had left him for Gregori, he'd turned his love into an all-encompassing obsession for Freud as soon as he had seen him, plotting to capture him, make him into Sigmund. he had Sigmund- if Sigmund were a facade. Sometimes, Freud felt like he was such an outsider that he might as well be an extraterrestrial.


Freud watched Dorian play a game of baseball with the striker clones from inside. Sigmund did not do outdoors. Freud pulled the curtain aside a bit more to see better, his face expressionless and amber eyes calm. Dorian was quick- when he ran, he was supersonically fast. He watched Dorian's powerful thighs tense and relax as he sprinted to second base, the arms pumping to keep the speed going. He had a massive grin reminiscent of Napoleon and laughed when the Ikkyu tripped, reaching for the ball that rolled out of reach.

Freud's breathing shallowed just a touch when Dorian bent over to breathe, chest heaving and the mischievious smirk on his lips. The broad-shouldered man stood and stretched, then shook his head free of the accumulating sweat. The sun was light that day, but the head was oppressive, though Freud was at ease in the air conditioned room. Dorian however, felt the need to remove his shirt and wipe his brow with it, leaving his beautiful abs outlined in the setting sun's light, faint sheen of sweat making him glow in the red-hued atmosphere.

Freud's hand rose to touch the glass, his lungs fluttering, arguing with oxygen for the right to enter. He wanted to feel that powerful body atop of him again, felt lust sluggishly pump into his blood, warming him and making the heat rise in his body. He felt stunned by the dark brown eyes that flickered up to see Freud in the window, the silverette freezing in place. Dorian smirked up to him, waving.

Freud could almost feel Dorian behind him, the large hands on his hips as he would leisurely tease him, grinding against his ass with a throbbing erection confined by trousers, his cosmic kiss throwing Freud's mind out into the universe, far from his body and the sudden heat invading his body, making him tug at his collar. Dorian would reach lower, tug Freud's slacks down, letting them crumple to his ankles. Freud's other hand went to the windowsill to prevent himself from toppling forward, arousal tight in his underwear, but the last material restricting him would fall too, letting his member free only to be grasped by a strong hand, every move absolute magic until Freud couldn't handle it any longer and he'd come against the window, splattering the clear panes with milky white.

But he wasn't there. He was on the playing field, focusing as Einstein pitched to Mozart, the delicate musician more than a match for the pitch and sending it past the bases only to be scooped up by Ikkyu, passed to Nightingale who tagged him out halfway to first base. Freud swallowed hard, feeling as though something was lodged in his throat. As much as Dorian kept him around, whispered in his ear, Freud was wasn't one of them.

Joan was right. He was from a whole different world, a different dimension in St. Kleio's Academy. Dorian opened his eyes and he was ready to go down there, run to the taller and crush against that powerful chest, be petted softly and murmured to, lead into the light of their future. But there was no future with them.

This was transcendental, on a different level than St. Kleio. Here, the future was until their death, meticulously planned out, carefully excluding Freud from their plans. Freud was only a temporary.


The invasion was smooth, as expected. Kai was killed, another useless from the school. He was one of many, and in the end, the geneticist was expendable. Freud was with them, dressed in the high collared coat, straps from the paracute left on, and they were silent. Freud was right by Dorian, hand in the older male's hand and their fingers intertwined. Silently, they split up. They knew their paths. Dorian's, and Freud's, were right to Napoleon.

An explosion rocked the night, screams audible even at the distance while Dorian and Freud rushed to the scene, though from a side angle. Napoleon ran out into the night, his bright outfit and sharp shoes making him stumble over a step into the courtyard, hat falling to the ground a few feet in front of him. Dorian was there, in the archway, and picked up the hat, placing it on his own head with a wicked grin.

"Hey, me."

Freud stood behind an archway a ways away, looking over his shoulder when he heard panicked footsteps and whispers. A blond with curls darted past into the inner courtyard, bushes lining the path and hiding the striker Einstein. His younger counterpart didn't even notice Freud, freezing at the laughter and spinning, his jacket tails fluttering. Freud watched calmly and silently as striker Einstein's teeth shone in the light, the handgun in his hands rising to eye level. Another sharp bang and the younger Einstein jerked forward, falling to his knees before striking the ground hard, glasses falling and blood pouring.

Freud turned his attention away from them and back to Dorian and Napoleon. Dorian clearly had the upper hand, kicking Napoleon with a mocking laugh. Napoleon moved to stand slowly, eyes catching a vision of the silverette half hidden by the archway. His eyes widened and he gasped before he felt a surge of strength. With Freud there, he could do anything. Freud was his lucky star, his goal, his dream to forever chase.

He only wished that he could walk on the same wavelength as the intelligent boy. Dorian leveled a kick against Napoleon, flipping him over even as Napoleon's mind was still on Freud, a sword piercing his thigh and making him shriek in pain. He wanted to be there when Freud was a vibrating, crying mess, there to soothe him. For Freud, always for Freud. For Freud, he would risk it all.

He lunged at Dorian, tackling him as the gun went off, flying off a balcony. Freud gasped and ran out to gaze over the edge, leaning against crumbling stone rails, afraid he was hurt. Freud heard another gunshot, seeing the striker clone on top of Napoleon, and his heart soared. Dorian fell to the side, flipping to his back, blood falling from his lips as he said something to Napoleon, chuckling darkly before his eyes slipped closed.

Napoleon stood, eyes focused on the silent, watching silverette before his leg gave out on him, buckling as his mind also failed, woozy and bleary. He collapsed forward, probably driving his own sword deeper. Freud's eyes welled with frustrated tears as he saw the two Napoleons on the ground, wet drops falling to wet the stone. His first tears, true tears of sadness in years.

He didn't even know who he was crying over.