by Anne Olsen
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise and Sotsu Agency. I promise to return the characters in one piece, more or less, when I'm finished, but hold no liability for any physical injury or psychological trauma sustained by them in my fiction.
Thanks to: The beta reading team: haraamis, Misanagi, Shadow and Ruth.
Trowa opened his eyes slowly, only to be met by darkness. Attempting to reach out in front of him brought with it the realisation that he couldn't move his hands, because they were secured above his head.
Mentally cursing himself, he thought back to the last thing that he remembered. Acting on Lady Une's orders, he had been sent to the Moon to retrieve the captured Gundam pilot with the intention of delivering him to her on Earth. Upon reaching the pilot's cell, Trowa had discovered the two guards unconscious, and their captive nowhere to been seen.
Then someone had grabbed him from behind and darkness had descended.
"I see that you're awake." The cool voice was a light, melodious tenor.
Trowa attempted to answer, but all that escaped his lips was a muffled groan. Feeling the soft cotton between his teeth, he realised that he'd been gagged. Testing his bonds, he tried to figure out to what degree he'd been restrained. He was gagged and blindfolded – that would explain the darkness – and the handcuffs were attached to something that felt like wood, while his legs were spread and fastened securely with rope, or something similar. Pushing down, he felt something soft and comfortable beneath him. What the hell?
Fighting momentary panic, Trowa forced himself to maintain an outer calm. Maybe the stories that he'd heard of Gundam pilots had been exaggerated. Logically, his mind told him that they had to be. After all, he was still alive, and that in itself was a good sign. Unless the pilot wanted to toy with him, play with him as a cat does with its prey before devouring it.
"Do you want to talk, OZ?" The voice spoke again; this time the pilot seemed amused. "I'll remove your gag if you promise not to call for help." There was a pause. "It would be a shame to have our fun interrupted, wouldn't it?"
Not missing a beat, even though still pondering the meaning of the words, Trowa nodded. "I won't call for help," he confirmed, once his gag had been removed.
"Good," the pilot replied. A callused finger stroked the side of Trowa's face before tracing the outline of his lips slowly. The finger felt damp, and Trowa was tempted to taste it, to draw it into his mouth, but it was removed before he could act.
"Who are you?" Trowa asked. If he could discover the identity of the pilot and blur the lines between anonymity and familiarity, it would be a step towards bargaining for his freedom.
"Who are you?" The question was put to Trowa in the same tone that he had used. Was this man amused by the situation? Trowa wriggled against his bonds, searching for possible weaknesses, but was unable to find any. "I assure you that there's no way to escape." The pilot sounded smug. "I had a very good teacher, and the handcuffs are the same that were used on me." He chuckled. "The irony of using your own restraints against you was too appealing to resist."
Coming to a decision, Trowa decided to feign co-operation. "You can call me Trowa," he replied.
"Trowa," the pilot repeated. "Hmm, I think I like that name. Now, what should I allow you to call me?" There was a moment's silence while he considered his options. "04 seems too detached; you may call me Quatre."
"Can I see you…Quatre?" Trowa asked the question in an even tone, but his mind was racing. He'd heard of Gundam pilot 04. Quatre Raberba Winner, son of a pacifist family, had a reputation for being compassionate, yet as hard as nails during a battle. He was a strategist, the leader of the pilots. If Trowa could find some way to convince this man to lower his defences, there was a chance of turning this situation to his advantage.
"You want to see me?" Quatre laughed. "I suppose that's fair, especially as I do have quite the advantage over you." Towa felt warm breath against his cheek as his head was gently turned to one side. The blindfold was removed, and Trowa blinked against the sudden invasion of light into the velvety blackness of his vision.
"So?" Quatre voice was almost sultry and definitely taunting. "Do you like what you see?"
Turning his head towards Quatre with a deliberate slowness, Trowa bit down on his lower lip to control his gasp. The man was gorgeous, the blond hair hanging over his eyes, slightly damp, as though he'd just emerged from a shower, or had been caught in a summer downfall. Expressive blue-green eyes met Trowa's with a hint of amusement.
Quatre was dressed in a close fitting flight suit, each inch of material clinging to his body in a way that left nothing to the imagination. A firm upper body, not overly muscular, but it was obvious that the blond was strong yet subtle. Quatre's muscles rippled under the suit as he stretched his arms up over his head before lacing his fingers together and crossing his arms in front of his chest. Trowa's eyes travelled lower, to the slim waist, and below.
Shifting against his bonds, Trowa became aware of the rest of the room, and a sudden warmth flooded through his body, totally unbidden.
This was someone's quarters, and he was tied to the bedposts of a king sized bed.
"You didn't answer my question," Quatre pouted. "Do you like what you see? I know that I certainly do, OZ pilot."
"My name is Trowa." Allowing his captor to see just how much Trowa appreciated the view could be dangerous and give Quatre the advantage in whatever game he was planning.
"If you wish." Quatre smiled, and Trowa shivered in spite of his earlier intentions. "Are you cold?" Quatre shook his head sadly. "I might have to turn up the heat if you are." He took a step closer to the bed and laid a cool hand on Trowa's forehead.
"Hmm," Quatre continued. "You don't feel cold." Slender fingers brushed Trowa's hair from his eyes. "You have beautiful eyes," Quatre murmured. "You shouldn't hide them."
Trowa didn't answer but was unable to prevent the moan escaping his lips. Quatre's touch was light, sensual, and with it came the scent of the ocean. Taking a deep breath, Trowa could feel it filling his senses, reminding him of a time he'd spent by the sea months ago.
No, he wouldn't think of that now. He couldn't afford to associate those memories with this. If he lowered his guard, all would be lost.
"So, you like me touching you?" Quatre smiled again, but his eyes were unfocused, his words spoken so softly that Trowa had to strain to hear them. "You're a very good looking man, but then I suppose others have told you that too."
"No," Trowa mumbled, closing his eyes.
"Don't close your eyes," Quatre ordered. "Didn't I just tell you I didn't want you to hide them?" Hot breath caressed Trowa's cheek, and his eyes snapped open as something wet trailed down his face. "I thought that might get your attention."
Quatre pulled away, but he was still only mere inches from Trowa. Slowly the blond licked his lips, his mouth slightly open, as his tongue explored firstly his upper lip and then his lower before poking it out and curling it. He then closed his mouth and gave Trowa a grin. "I've been told that I'm quite talented in some areas, and very flexible in others." Quatre leaned in closer; exploring Trowa's lips this time instead of his own. "Would you like me to show you?" he asked after breaking the kiss.
"If it's information you want, this isn't going to work," Trowa said, giving Quatre the best glare he could muster. He could still taste Quatre, and with every breath he took, he could smell the other man's cologne.
He bit down on his lip to avoid groaning, moving slightly to distract himself from his hardening erection. It was becoming all too easy to visualise Quatre lowering himself onto him, his scent permeating Trowa's skin as the blond rubbed up against his naked body.
"I won't tell you what you want to know," Trowa repeated. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, himself or Quatre.
"We'll see." Quatre smiled again, and this time, there was a definite smugness in it. He stretched, and the flight suit moved with him. "I shouldn't have turned up the heat."
"You didn't." Trowa hadn't seen him touch any environment controls, but Quatre was right; the room was definitely growing warmer.
"Are you implying that I'm a bad host?"
"Interesting term for it," Trowa muttered.
Quatre glared at him. "You're not being very polite, you know. I invite you into my bedroom, try to ensure that you are comfortable, and this is how you thank me? Tsk tsk. You're sadly lacking in manners, OZ pilot."
"Trowa." Trowa frowned. "What makes you think that I'm a pilot?"
"I have many sources of information. What exactly I reveal is entirely up to you." Quatre glanced around the room and sighed. "Excuse me, please. I'm going to fetch some refreshments. I expect you're somewhat thirsty by now. The air in here is quite dry."
There was a moment's silence, while Quatre waited for the reply that Trowa wasn't prepared to give.
"You may be stubborn and silent, but that will change." Quatre paused at the door before he left the room. "Before the night is out, you'll tell me everything I want to know, and more."
He closed the door quietly behind him, and Trowa was left alone.
"Everything and more." Trowa snorted. Quatre was very sure of himself; it would be interesting to see how he reacted when the tables were turned. Wriggling up the bed, Trowa twisted his body and attempted to free himself from the handcuffs. If he could just manoeuvre himself slightly more this way, he could bring his hands up and…
"Fuck." The chains were just that bit too short. He pulled at them again and cursed. Long enough to make him think that there was hope of escape, but not the length that he needed to make that hope a reality.
Maybe he could reach the lock-picks in the top of his boots?
Trowa groaned, noticing that his boots had been removed before he'd been tied to the bed. Quatre was nothing but thorough, he'd give him that.
"Trying to leave me?" Quatre shook his head sadly as he re-entered the room. He placed the tray with the jug of water and two glasses on the bedside table and poured himself a drink.
"Maybe you're not the perfect host you think you are," Trowa said, watching Quatre raising the glass to his lips.
The blond drank quickly, droplets of water dripping from the glass as he drained the remains of the liquid. Quatre traced the top of the glass with one finger and then walked over to the bed. "Open your mouth."
Turning his face away, Trowa ignored the order.
"You're not making this easy," Quatre pouted. "Do you want something to drink or not?"
"No…thank you."
"You're very dry," Quatre said. "It doesn't suit you." Soft footsteps were followed by the sound of water being poured into a glass. Trowa rolled his eyes, unimpressed by the implications that Quatre thought that he could get his own way so easily. Once he gave Quatre one victory, more would soon follow. And that wasn't about to happen.
"What the?" Trowa pulled away, but it was too late. He gasped, trying to catch his breath, as Quatre placed one hand on his chest to keep him still, and calmly began emptying the contents of the pitcher into his mouth.
"I told you that a dry look didn't suit you," Quatre reminded him. "Stop struggling, I assure you that I'm much stronger than I look." His voice was like steel, his tone suggesting that he expected to be obeyed.
"Bastard," Trowa spluttered in-between gulps of air.
"Oops," said Quatre innocently, shifting the position of the pitcher so that the rest of the water emptied over Trowa's chest. "My hand slipped."
"Like hell." Trowa glared at him. His uniform jacket and shirt clung to him, the saturated clothing seeping water down his body into his trousers.
"Oh dear, and it was ice water too." Moving the hand that he'd used to restrain Trowa, Quatre shook the water from it. He then undid the top button of Trowa's jacket and slipped a handful of ice through the gap. "Waste not, want not."
Although Trowa knew that he should be angry with Quatre, he couldn't help but react to the touch of the other man's hand against his bare skin; the shiver that he gave as Quatre leaned over him wasn't just from the cold. "What are you doing?"
"You're wet and cold." Quatre busied himself undoing the remainder of the buttons on Trowa's jacket. "I need to get you out of those clothes." He stroked one nipple through the thin material of Trowa's wet shirt, placing one finger on the tip and rubbing it in a circular motion. Trowa bit back a gasp, and Quatre stopped what he was doing. "Oh, I'm sorry. Don't you like me doing that?"
"It's…" Trowa's breath hitched. "I'm cold."
"Of course you are," Quatre nodded in understanding. "That's why your nipples are hard, how remiss of me not to notice. After all, it couldn't be from anything else, could it?" His voice hardened. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you, OZ? I don't like being lied to."
"I…" Trowa swallowed, noticing how the pupils of Quatre's eyes dilated and then slowly returned to normal. The man was gorgeous; Trowa brought one hand forward with the intention of running his fingers through that soft golden hair, only to be jerked back to reality by the handcuffs around his wrist.
"Body language is such an interesting thing; it's amazing how little control one has, given the right stimulation." Quatre chuckled and pulled the jacket away from Trowa's body, scowling when it refused to move past the handcuffs. "Should I cut it or not?" Quatre pondered aloud. "I doubt you have another, and your superiors wouldn't be impressed if I returned you with any obvious signs of damage." He took a step backwards and nodded slowly. "It's not that wet, and I'm sure the heat of your body will help to dry it. Your shirt, however, now that's another story."
Trowa edged up the bed; his head knocked against the headboard with a thud. "What are you planning to do with me?"
"With you?" Quatre purred. "What would you like me to do with you?" He crawled onto the bed and, placing on hand behind Trowa's head, brought his captive's head towards his own. His breath was hot, his lips wet as he pressed them against Trowa's. Unable to resist this time, Trowa slipped his tongue inside Quatre's mouth, exploring the moistness there, his heart speeding up as he lost himself in the damp heat. Quatre's tongue stroked his, both of them battling for dominance until Quatre broke the kiss and moved away.
Trowa groaned aloud, the heat in his groin causing him to shift on the bed, in an effort to hide his reaction. But it was too late to hide anything, too late to deny just how much Quatre was affecting him.
Round one might have gone to the Gundam pilot, but Trowa was determined not to give in any further.
One of Trowa's shirt buttons parted from the material to spiral through the air and land at the floor by the bed. The others soon followed it. Reaching behind his back, Quatre produced a slim knife and started to cut the remains of the shirt.
"I thought you weren't going to cut my uniform," Trowa protested.
"I said that I wouldn't cut your jacket," Quatre corrected. "Shirts are easily replaced, and this one is preventing me from gaining access to what I wish to acquire."
The knife soon made short work of Trowa's shirt, and Quatre sat back into a crouch to admire his handy work. "Very nice," he commented, "but it appears as though your trousers are wet too. What a shame."
"Stay away from me," Trowa warned.
"Or you'll what?" Quatre laughed. "I have you at an advantage, OZ pilot, and I fully intend to make the most of it." Nimble fingers loosened the belt around Trowa's waist and pulled it free. After edging the zipper down slowly, he ordered Trowa to raise his hips.
"No," Trowa protested. "I won't."
"And I can't make you?" Quatre frowned. "You're quite the stubborn one, aren't you? Surely, you're not scared of me? I'm quite…the perfect host once you get to know me. And I have every intention of getting to know you very intimately."
"I already know you as fully as I intend to," Trowa said coldly.
Quatre shook his head. "But you hardly know me at all. Playing hard to get isn't very polite. Your manners are shocking, but I'll forgive you your transgressions just this once."
"Very thoughtful of you, but really, there's no need."
"Oh, but there's every need." Quatre eased open Trowa's trousers and slid his hand down the front. Cool fingers explored the nest of curls at the base of Trowa's erection and he tensed. "I suppose you're wondering if I'm a natural blond," Quatre remarked casually. "Would you like to find out?"
"I don't need you to tell me," Trowa said, his thoughts suddenly focused on what Quatre would look like without his clothes. Pale skin, firm muscles responding to Trowa's touch, his hand travelling lower. He moaned aloud and bucked his hips.
"Thank you," Quatre said smugly, pulling down Trowa's trousers, before he had a chance to react.
"Sneaky little…" Trowa muttered, realising too late, that he'd been played to perfection.
"Oh, I'm anything but little," Quatre smirked, bringing the knife closer to Trowa's groin. Trowa cringed inwardly, watching the knife warily as Quatre used it to carefully cut the seams of the trousers along the crotch and then pooled the two pieces neatly around Trowa's ankles. "I don't want to return you all rumpled. Imagine what your superiors would say."
"I very much doubt that you're the least bit worried about that," Trowa noted, trying to think about anything but the fact that he was, to all intents and purposes, naked and tied to a bed. There was little doubt of his captor's intentions. Trowa tried to imagine a scenario to counteract the fact that Quatre was reaching for the zipper of his flight suit, but failed miserably.
The flight suit peeled away from Quatre's body painstakingly slowly, pale skin being revealed inch by inch, beginning with his shoulders. It was just as Trowa had imagined, taut nipples standing out against a chest dusted with hair a shade lighter than on Quatre's head; it was nearly invisible under the subdued lighting of the room. There were two scars on otherwise unmarked skin, one small oval one on his shoulder, and another further down, on his side above his hip bone, newer, but still faded by time. The second one was longer in length. Trowa fought the urge to try to reach out and caress it, by biting down on his lower lip.
Quatre paused, frowning, his flight suit hanging on his hips. He was flushed, beads of moisture clinging to his body to give him an almost ethereal appearance. "Trowa?"
Fighting the urge to smile, Trowa shook his head instead, cleared his throat and affected a bored tone. "You don't have to prove to me that you're a natural blond."
"Oh, I have nothing to prove to you," Quatre replied, "but everything to show you." He eased the flight suit down past his hips; he wasn't wearing anything underneath. Kicking it off, he stood for a moment and gave Trowa a grin. "So…OZ, do you like what you see?"
This time Trowa didn't attempt to deny the obvious. "Yes," he replied, in a husky voice. "I like what I see."
"So do I," Quatre breathed. "Very much so." He shook his head as though waking from a dream, and walked over to the side of the bed. Climbing onto it, he crawled over to Trowa and straddling him, kissed him firmly on the lips. Trowa leaned into the touch, his handcuffs rattling against the bedpost.
Each moment increased Trowa's desire; he'd given up trying to fight the inevitable. He wanted Quatre, wanted to feel every inch of him; a spark had been ignited that he couldn't dowse even if he'd wanted to.
"Patience," Quatre whispered. "Are you prepared to give me what I want, what I desire?" He moved down Trowa's body slowly, stopping at various intervals to nip at the bare skin and mark his claim. "I can stop. I can stop at any time. Do you want me to stop?"
"No," Trowa whispered. "Don't stop. Please." The information that he would give Quatre wouldn't be anything vital to the war; he could stop this at any time. In the meantime, if Quatre thought he was winning the battle, thought that he had control, Trowa could breach his defences and turn the tide. It was easier to change the direction of a moving object than of one that was standing still.
And Quatre was certainly moving.
Quatre paused, his eyes meeting Trowa's through a lust filled haze. Placing one hand under Trowa's cock, he lowered his mouth onto it, while arranging his other hand at the base of it. He blew gently over the tip, and Trowa gasped in pleasure. Quatre blew again, more firmly this time, while his fingers danced along Trowa's length.
He's playing me, Trowa realised, before his thought processes dissolved completely. The heat in his groin grew, and all he was aware of was his desire. "Oh, God," he moaned aloud.
"Do you want me, Trowa?" Quatre was breathing heavily, his eyes unfocused. "Do you want me enough to come screaming my name?"
"Yes, I want you." Just get on with it. I want you. I want you now, damn it.
The dancing changed from a sedate foxtrot to a mad tango. Faster. And faster.
Trowa pulled at his restraints, reaching out to grab Quatre's hair, frustrated that he couldn't. "Want you. Want you now!"
The water from the melted ice cubes dribbled further down Trowa's body to pool in his navel. Trowa yanked at his handcuffs again, groaning aloud; several drops of the liquid, freed from their temporary resting place, dripped onto his cock.
Quatre paused, smirked, and drank thirstily.
Crying out, Trowa felt his world dissolve into a shared oneness, reality and fantasy meshed, merged and separated. He opened his eyes to meet Quatre's smile. "I love you, Cat," he murmured.
"I love you too, Trowa."
"Untie me, and I'll help you in the same way you helped me," Trowa offered, his mouth turning up into a grin. Quatre was still hard, having put his own needs on hold while he'd played out Trowa's fantasy.
"You just want me to come screaming your name," Quatre returned the grin before giving him a kiss. "I'd ask you whether you enjoyed that, but I believe you've already answered my question." He paused. "All of my questions."
"No," Trowa shook his head. "I don't believe I did. The only information you got out of me was my name…Gundam pilot."
Quatre snorted. "Right. You would have told me anything, done anything." He wriggled up the bed, retrieved the key to the handcuffs from under the pillow, and waved it just out of Trowa's reach.
"No," Trowa said. "I wouldn't. I was perfectly in control the whole time."
"Sure you were…OZ." Quatre rolled his eyes and unlocked the cuffs, while Trowa pulled one foot, then the other, free of his restraints, shook off the material hanging off his ankles, and slipped back into his jacket. "I love you, Trowa Barton Winner, but you're no good at keeping secrets from me. We've been married far too long, and I know you too well." He looked smug. "I, on the other hand…hey, what the hell are you doing?"
Trowa rolled them over, grabbed the cuffs and snapped them securely around Quatre's wrists. "I've decided that as you seemed to enjoy your characterisation in this role play just a little too much, that we're going to try for round two." He paused. "If you're up to it. After all I don't want to wear you out."
Quatre grinned. "Oh, I'm definitely up to it." He pulled at the handcuffs and pouted. "At least you got to start off with clothes, this isn't fair."
"Who said anything's fair in love and war?" Trowa retorted, slipping off the bed. "You have information that I require…Gundam pilot."
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