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"Incendiary"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: Yaoi, wrongful imprisonment, Newtypes,
internment camps, eventual rape/noncon Pairings: 3x4, 1x2, 5xS Summary: A group of wealthy college kids are murdered.
There are no witnesses, but there is a suspect. From within the simmering
sludge of irrational fear and prejudice, conspiracy theories are born
and innocent people pay the price. "Incendiary" Quatre stood in front of the bedroom mirror, fluffing his hair with giddy pleasure. Trowa had called that morning, only a half hour after he left, and gleefully told him that he'd cut Mrs. Seigried loose. Quatre had to exercise monumental self-restraint to keep himself from squealing in a most unmanly manner. It'd been all he could do to keep himself focused on his work for the rest of the day. It hadn't been easy, but he'd managed to quell his excitement enough to deal with their clients and complete the necessary paperwork. Of course, he'd called Duo back almost immediately and together, they'd yelped and crowed in triumph over the phone. A neighbor walking by might have thought he and Trowa were housing exotic animals for all the noise they made. Trowa had three more clients to meet with that day, but now, he should be on his way home. They were going to celebrate by heading out to their favorite club. Put on your sexiest little number, Trowa had said, and Quatre felt his loins give an excited twitch at the thought of a romantic dinner, and some heady dancing. The feel of his husband's powerful arms wrapped tightly around him, the rub of his body, hot breath, laced with expensive whisky, the pounding of his heart, the bright, flashing lights, the deafening beat of the music, and the musky scent of sweat and cologne. This time, he did squeal. Loudly. He flopped down onto the bed, bouncing the springs beneath his back. He sighed, elated. Not even the unnerving news of the murders from last night and the possible repercussions of what it could mean for Newtypes, could spoil his mood. His body buzzed with renewed energy and he briefly entertained the thought of touching himself. The beginnings of an erection making itself known between his legs. He decided against it, feeling that getting himself off now, without Trowa present, would cheapen their special night. He ignored it, a little reluctantly, but the anticipation of getting fucked later eased the disappointment. He heaved himself off the bed, righting his clothes, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. He checked his reflection in the mirror, a wave of unsolicited uncertainty churned in his stomach. He really didn't know what Trowa saw in him. He was small, skinny, with a baby face that he never really grew out of. They were such polar opposites. Sometimes, those little seeds of doubt he tried so hard to rid himself of, made their way into his mind. He wavered on his feet, chiding himself for his weakness. He knew how Trowa felt because he'd felt it many, many times. The passion, the ardor, the love that emanated off of him in waves should've been enough to convince him that his husband wasn't going anywhere. So, why did that little voice, that little person in his head still whisper those unwanted words to him? The little voice that said, You're not good enough and you know it. No matter what he did, what Trowa did, it would not completely go away and it frustrated him. Okay, Quatre, knock it off, he chided himself. You know damn well that Trowa thinks you're good enough. He loves you and he wants you and he adores you so just...stop. The uneasiness faded, for now, and he looked himself over thoroughly. Black trousers, fitting perfectly against his curves, and the form hugging silk shirt that Trowa had gotten him for Christmas that brought out the blue in his eyes. It was as good as he was going to get. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes and reached for the cologne Trowa favored on him. He spritzed a little behind his ears, onto the exposed skin of his chest where the top two buttons of his shirt were open, and then on each wrist. He set the bottle back down on the dressing table, and rubbed his wrists together as he walked to the closet. He slipped his feet into a pair of black loafers and headed downstairs. Halfway down the steps, the deadbolt lock on the front door flipped, and Quatre paused, one foot on the step below him. The knob turned and Trowa stepped in, briefcase under his arm, hair ruffled from the wind. Quatre's breath caught in his chest at the sight of his husband, so strikingly handsome. How did he get so lucky? He waited until Trowa shut the door, not yet noticing him on the stairs, then he launched himself at him. He collided with his chest, Trowa emitting an "oof" in surprise as he found his arms full of bouncy, fluffy blond. "Hello to you, too," he chuckled as Quatre kissed his neck that was exposed over the stiff collar of his dress shirt. He happily accepted the kiss as Quatre reached his mouth, slipping his tongue past the plush lips, tasting the mint of his toothpaste. "How was your day?" Quatre slid the suit jacket off Trowa's shoulders, reaching up to loosen the knot of his tie. "Grueling. I had to follow this dipshit all over the city. I thought I had him. Thought I'd found the drug house he was occupying, but it turned out to be a dead end. I kept losing him." He shook his head, stepping over to the bench beside the door, depositing his jacket and briefcase. "Mmmm...you look and smell good enough to eat," he husked, burying his face in Quatre's neck, lips catching at the soft skin. Quatre's pride swelled at Trowa's attention and he couldn't have wiped the grin off his face if his life depended on it. He flushed, giggling shyly. "You'll get your chance later." Trowa pulled back, face full of serious inquiry. "What if I don't want to wait?" He wrapped his arms around his husband's waist, sliding down, cupping the blond's buttocks in big hands. Quatre's breath hitched, arousal sparking in his veins, knees weakening. If Trowa wanted it now, Quatre would be unable to resist. There was no question. He stood in Trowa's arms, on the cusp of acquiescence, and he raised his eyes, beseeching his husband, ready for whatever the night threw at him. Trowa's eyes were dark, hungry, and Quatre shivered as the searing gaze was directed right at him. Him and only him. He felt the arousal though the heat of his husband's skin. The dominating power behind the muscular body. He reached out, mentally, the tendrils of telepathy brushing against Trowa's mind and he caught a glimpse of the thoughts behind those fiery green eyes. He saw himself, naked on the floor, right there in the entry way, his legs wrapped around his husband's narrow waist as Trowa drove into him again and again. There were no words. Quatre understood. He nodded, eyes wide, pulse pounding, and stepped back. He reached up with trembling fingers and popped the buttons of his shirt open, sliding it off his shoulders. Trowa's eyes gleamed with an inner light as he watched the blond strip down before him. Quatre had seen what was in his mind and Trowa's body flared with the heady feeling of power as Quatre obeyed without hesitation. He stood before Trowa, stripped of everything, erection bowing up in front of him, and waited for his husband's next move. Trowa pounced then, bringing them both down to the rug and covered Quatre's body with his own. He kissed and nipped and devoured the hot skin beneath him as Quatre cried out in surrender. Quatre hummed as he fixed himself up again in front of the mirror. His body was relaxed, languid, from the vigorous lovemaking, though the skin of his back and ass was sporting a rather impressive rug burn. He leaned forward, looking at himself closely. Good grief, am I glowing? I may as well tattoo "I just got fucked" on my forehead. People would know the second they looked at him. Strangely, instead of flushing with embarrassment at the thought, he felt a huge swell of pride, as the man who fucked him was likely the wet dream of everyone he came across. Quatre had the feeling he'd be the recipient of many jealous stares tonight. He grinned at his reflection as he fluffed his hair and spritzed more cologne on himself. Trowa came out of the shower with a towel around his waist and Quatre admired the view through the mirror. Trowa met his eyes and smiled. "Feel good?" "Amazing," Quatre gushed, sounding like an infatuated school girl. Trowa nodded, satisfied. "Good." He went to the closet and pulled out a pair of pants and a shirt, dropped them onto the bed, and fetched a pair of underwear from the dresser. The towel fell away and Quatre was content to watch as Trowa got dressed. The large cock that had just been inside him rested between his husband's powerful thighs. Quatre hoped he'd get another round of it later that night. Trowa slid on a silk shirt, similar to Quatre's, but was instead a deep green. He buttoned it, turning towards the mirror, and ran his fingers through his damp, brown hair. He swiped his wallet, phone, and keys from the top of the dresser, stuffing them into his pockets, and held out his hand to Quatre. "Ready?" "Sure am." Quatre took his husband's hand and they headed down the stairs and out to the car. It was summer in London and the air was warm, slightly humid. They rode through the city with the windows down, wind blowing through their hair. Quatre kept his hand on his husband's leg as Trowa drove them to the trendy French restaurant Quatre loved. He could practically feel the hearts in his eyes as it seemed this day couldn't get any better. Trowa's fingers brushed against his own before weaving them together and holding on tight. "Penny for your thoughts." "Hm? Oh," Quatre swung his head away from the window to face his husband. Trowa kept his eyes on the road, but Quatre could feel his attention focus on him. "I was just thinking about how this day started out so bad, but is ending so wonderfully." Trowa brought their joined hands up to his mouth, pressing his lips to Quatre's knuckles. His eyes slid from the road for a brief second to glance at the blond, smiling warmly. "It's not over yet." Quatre grinned and looked back out the window. He felt new, reborn almost. It reminded him of their first date, only better. He'd been so excited. Back then, their feelings were so strong, but they didn't really know what to do with them. They'd both been so immersed in the war, never really having the time, or opportunity for romance, even though the interest was there. The attraction undeniable. It felt like they were constantly skirting on thin ice. In the end, Trowa had fled, too overwhelmed by his feelings to know how to act on them. It was six months before Quatre saw him again. The reunion had been awkward and they'd parted ways after a quick kiss and a rough fumbling of hands and teeth. This pattern continued where Quatre didn't see Trowa, or hear from him, for months on end. That was, until seven years ago, when Trowa showed up on Quatre's doorstep. Quatre had been exhausted after spending the better part of twenty four hours fighting with representatives of the Earth Sphere over budget cuts for colony reconstruction. He hadn't slept, barely had time to eat a few bites. He'd been prepared to tell whoever was at the door to fuck off. He was mildly surprised to find his wayward lover standing there with a contrite look on his face and a bouquet of red roses in his hand. But Quatre was far beyond his threshold of dealing with this roller coaster ride of a relationship. He almost slammed the door in Trowa's face. A booted foot wedged itself into the doorjamb and Trowa stuck the hand holding the flowers in through the gap with a, "Quatre, can we talk?" He'd reluctantly let him in, not really in the mood to discuss the status of their love affair, such as it was. He took the flowers and picked at the leaves as Trowa poured his heart out to him. He'd told him how he'd been so afraid to address his feelings, afraid of screwing up what they had, but that he was ready. Ready to have the life he knew they both had wanted since the beginning. In the end, Quatre had slapped him, overcome with emotion, tears streaming from his eyes. They'd kissed for a long time in the small entryway of Quatre's apartment, clothes falling away and dropping onto the floor as years worth of pent up love, passion, and frustration reached its boiling point. They fucked on the leather couch in the living room, and Quatre wept from the sensory overload of feelings as Trowa let him into his heart and mind. Quatre woke up that morning, prepared to face an empty bed, an empty life. But Trowa was there, curled around his back, strong arms holding him against a warm chest. In the months that followed, Trowa barely left his side, promising Quatre with his words, his mind, his body, that he wasn't going anywhere. It hadn't been perfect. Of course, nothing was, but they'd made it work. Their love, their devotion to each other getting them through the rough patches, and they always emerged from the other side with their bond stronger than ever. The car slowed as the traffic began to back up. There was a blare of horns as the jam came to a complete stop. Trowa cursed, craning his neck, sticking his head out the window to see what the problem was. "Accident?" "I can't tell," Trowa said. Quatre could hear shouting now and he leaned out his window. Up ahead, about fifty meters, or so, he could see a crowd of pedestrians. He spotted a few signs. The shouting grew louder as the group advanced towards them, blocking traffic. As they got closer, Quatre recognized it as chanting. "What the hell is this?" Trowa pressed his hand on the horn. Dread formed in the pit of Quatre's stomach, uncurling and spreading through his limbs. "It's a protest." One sign caught his eye as it bobbed above the crowd and he knew he would be seeing that sign, burned onto the back of his eyelids for days, weeks to come. Newtypes burn in Hell!
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