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"Event Horizon"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: Rape/Non Con, Dark, AU - Canon Divergence,
Defection, Prisoner of War Pairings: 3x5x4 Summary: A year after two of his comrades betrayed the resistance, Quatre comes face to face with the enemy for the first time and discovers that the price he must pay is far too steep. Companion piece to Moreena's Winning a War, posted with her blessing. AN: Hi there! So as the description says, this is a companion fic to Moreena's Winning a War. This is a more detailed perspective of the first night that the events in her story took place. I highly recommend you read her fic first before reading this. As the archive warning and tags say, there are major triggers in this fic, including prisoner of war themes, torture, and rape/noncon so please heed those warnings. This is a dark AU featuring two of the pilots as traitors to the rebellion and they are not nice people so heed that too. I tried to stick very close to the elements of her universe so I hope I did a good job of that. Thank you, dear, for sharing your worlds with us and letting us be a part of them.
"Event Horizon" Quatre’s hands were icy and numb. So numb that he was beginning to think he didn't even have hands. After an eternity of being restrained above his head, the blood had long since drained away, taking the sensation of pins and needles right along with it. As painful as it was, at least he’d been able to feel them. The numbness eventually spread to his forearms, paralyzing him all the way down to his elbows. He tried to curl his fingers, but it was impossible to tell if he was successful. There were no clocks in view and because he was in space, he couldn’t use the sun to determine what time it was. It had been hours since he’d been cuffed to this bed. He knew that much, but the question was, how many hours? Long enough for the semen that still clung to his skin to have dried. It felt tight and itchy against the flesh of his belly, groin, and inner thighs and still lingered, cool and gummy around his sore opening. His captors hadn’t bothered to clean him before leaving him alone to attend to more formal matters and he cursed them under his breath, a thousand - no, a million hexes upon their heads. It had taken him a while to scrounge up the wherewithal to finally close his legs. He didn’t much care in the wake of his attack. At the peak of humility, there wasn’t anything they hadn’t already seen, or taken so there wasn’t much point in upholding any pretense of modesty. Aside from his useless arms, his body ached with pain and fatigue after using up its supply of adrenaline fighting to ward off his attackers. His efforts had been in vain, but at least he could say he’d tried. He was no match for either of them individually. Working together, they were unstoppable. Their captive having the physical disadvantage and being cuffed to boot, they easily overpowered him and forced him down onto the bed without breaking a sweat while they mocked his attempts to free himself. They shoved his flailing limbs away as if swatting a pestering fly and pulled hard on the synthetic fabric of his spacesuit until the material began to tear. They made quick work of removing the garment, gleefully delighted by the prospect of conquest, their ears deaf to his shouts of protest. Once they had torn away most of the suit, leaving only scraps of it wound around his ankle and upper arm, the darker of the two men pinned his cuffed wrists down against the bed and held them fast in his iron grip. The other had already wedged his body between the prisoner’s thighs, preventing him from gaining enough momentum to kick his attacker off. A virgin Quatre may have been, but he knew enough about the situation to understand what was about to happen and he steeled his resolve, determined not to show weakness in the face of the unspeakable. With enough mental encouragement, he was finally able to coax his body lax. Tensing up would do him more harm than good and he was going to do whatever it took to get through this as unscathed as possible. Fingers, wet with spit, pushed inside him, curling and wiggling to loosen the muscles along the way. Quatre clenched his teeth and breathed steadily through his nose, trying like hell to keep his reactions to a minimum. The act was not intended to give pleasure. His captors simply did not want him to tear during the rape which was undoubtedly motivated by selfishness, rather than concern for their victim’s wellbeing. After all, where was the fun in playing with a broken toy? The fingering was aggressive and uncomfortable and went on for a good five minutes before the auburn haired general withdrew them and fumbled with the fly of his uniform trousers. Quatre turned his gaze towards the curved ceiling, using the warm glow of one of the recessed lights as a focal point to keep himself grounded. He would not scream, cry, or beg, he was too proud for that. Death was preferable to groveling. When the tip of his captor’s cock nudged his opening and moved past the protective ring, he involuntarily sucked in a sharp breath, not as prepared for the intrusion as he thought he’d been. He swallowed down a cry of pain as hot, salty tears stung the backs of his eyes, but he managed to get himself back under control before he lost his tenuous grasp. Once upon a time, he had fantasized about doing this very same thing with this very same man. On more than one occasion, he’d wanked to that fantasy, whispering his dream lover’s name into the stagnant air of his cabin the moment he reached the pinnacle of orgasm. But that was before he’d discovered the real man concealed behind a carefully constructed facade. A facade that had not only duped him, but everyone else who’d gotten close to him. Trowa Barton was a man who’d spent most of his life masquerading as a tortured soul, flawlessly playing the role of the unloved war orphan searching for a purpose. The war orphan bit was actually true, but his experiences growing up had been the catalyst that created the monster he was today. The cruelty and neglect he’d endured as a child had twisted his mind and as a means of self-preservation, he’d developed a predatory, ‘eat, or be eaten’ approach to life. In other words, no one could hurt him if he hurt them first. And the more he did it, the more sadistic he became. The suffering of others was addictive to witness and being the cause of that suffering was the most blissful of highs. He reveled in the pain he inflicted, drinking the tears of his victims and baptizing himself in their blood. It made him feel powerful, invincible. It made him feel alive. The boy who’d grown up without so much as a name had become one of the most respected and feared warlords in recorded history and it was not by accident. He’d carried out each premeditated step with measured precision and calculated patience, using his natural gift of manipulation and deceit to set his plan in motion. And he’d done it right under their noses. Not even Heero, or himself with their impeccable powers of observation were able to detect foul play and that was a feat in of itself. A year to the day after Trowa’s official defection, the now infamous warlord had taken Quatre’s virginity the same way he took everything else he wanted: with vicious brutality and a staggering lack of remorse. The fantasies that Quatre had nurtured for years, his dreams of losing his innocence to the man he loved - complete with declarations of undying devotion and cheesy romantic gestures - were shattered as he lay nude and pinned beneath his enemies with their laughter ringing in his ears. The only silver lining was that they’d been careful not to seriously injure him. They knew exactly how much force to use and skillfully skirted that fine line while remaining mindful not to cross it. They’d been just rough enough to drive the point home that this was not an act of love, or affection. It was an act of dominance and control and Quatre had received the message loud and clear. He was not an equal in their eyes. He never had been and he never would be. He was a silea, a mahaziya, something to be owned and exploited. He was a bonafide genie in a bottle. They’d shown him under no uncertain terms what he was worth to them and that hurt far worse than the throbbing ache between his thighs. Even after Trowa climaxed and withdrew, Quatre knew his torment was only just beginning, but he wasn't able to summon the energy to renew his struggles when his second captor moved into the space created by the splayed ‘v’ of his legs. He accepted it with the resigned lassitude of someone who knew damned well they were fucked. Literally and figuratively. He approached with the same cocky arrogance Quatre had come to know so well and his heart sank from the familiar - and once so endearing - demeanor of the boy he’d considered a friend and brother. Wufei carried himself with the confidence and prowess of a man born of status. A man who now held the entire world in the palm of his hand and if given enough reason, would happily crush it without a shred of mercy within his decayed and blackened heart. Like Trowa, one too many betrayals had warped his young mind and hardened him against the cruel realities of the world. Wufei’s logic was, if you couldn’t beat them, join them. Climb your way to the top and then beat them. When he took his turn, he was equally rough, tightly gripping the tender flesh behind Quatre’s knees and pinning them down against the mattress mere inches from his shoulders. The position canted the prisoner's hips back, exposing more of his backside, and forced his legs wider apart until the muscles and tendons were strained to their limits. He plundered the blond's body with ruthless thrusts and deep growls while his comrade and lover degraded him further with obscene taunts crooned against his ear. If what Trowa said was true, they had both been lusting after him since the moment they’d laid eyes on him. They were fascinated by his soft, willowy frame and angelic face which made him look like someone who’d unwittingly stumbled into the wrong parallel universe. His kind personality and gentle mannerisms only solidified their determination to claim those uncharted waters and quench their ardent thirst for violence and tyranny. Unbeknownst to Quatre, they had bonded over their shared proclivity while taking refuge at the circus and - he was certain - their eerily similar dark secret as well. He had no doubt that they’d begun the planning stages of their defection during that time, agreeing that it was mutually beneficial to work together rather than become adversaries. From what he could gather, they had intended to persuade him into joining their side, but circumstances were never favorable enough for them to take the risk. As time wore on, it became abundantly clear to them that the object of their desire would sooner die than join the ranks of the colonies’ oppressors. They were forced to scrap that plan and contemplate other options, most of which leaned more towards moral ambiguity. Luring him to an isolated location in order to apprehend him without having to deal with the inconvenience of fending off the two remaining pilots was the preferred alternative and the one with the best chance of success. Quatre was stunned - and strangely a little flattered - by their tenacity. The lengths they were willing to go to gain possession of him. But instead of making their pursuit more difficult, he’d walked right into the lion’s den as if he were a sacrificial lamb hell-bent on martyrdom. He may as well have handed himself over on a silver platter with a giant red ribbon tied around his head. But now it was far too late to lament his mistakes. Regret wouldn't get him anywhere. What was done was done and there was no going back. At least that’s what he tried to tell himself when he heard the soft hiss of the hydraulic door sliding open. Dread settled in the pit of his belly and expanded like a black hole until its inescapable gravity threatened to consume him and every other wretched soul who ventured too close. As the two generals crossed in front of his line of sight, he could only pray that it wouldn’t be too long before he disappeared beyond the event horizon. ~ * ~ Notes: If you've already read Moreena's story, then you know what happened was only a dream, but I wanted to play with the idea that it wasn't a dream. However, I really loved the end of her story with Quatre relaying the dream to his amused lovers, too. ^^ Silea - Commodity
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