28-Jul-2003
Title: Exposé 1/5
Author: WingNut (wingnut629@yahoo.ca)
Archive: Gundam Wing Addiction; anywhere else, please ask
Category: fluff, humour, lemon-lime
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: gratuitous lemons and limes, silliness, some pilot
stereotyping
Spoilers: none
Blurb: A gossip columnist has Quatre in his sights.
Notes: Spring 2002 - Summer 2003. Yes, I am that slow.
Disclaimers: I don't own the characters from Gundam Wing;
Bandai, Sunrise and Sotsu do. This is a work of non-profit
fanfiction.
The lobby of the San Francisco Starley Hotel buzzed with activity. The opening banquet for the Earth Sphere Trade Conference would be getting underway in just a few minutes, and the delegates were already mingling in the atrium.
Reporters from every news agency in the Earth Sphere jostled for position and tidbits from the notables present. The reward for getting a juicy story could range from instant fame to fat bonuses; the penalty for coming up empty - or worse, insipid - were poverty and obscurity.
The competition was fierce.
Up in suite 3469, Quatre Raberba Winner snorted as he tightened his bow tie. "Some holiday this is going to be! It's bad enough that our week off together got pre-empted by this conference, but the press are like piranhas out there! There are reporters and photographers swarming everywhere downstairs, and Heero disabled three listening devices and a video feed in this suite alone..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
He adjusted his cummerbund, then reached for his tuxedo jacket. Strong arms wrapped around him from behind, warm hands pulling up his formal shirt and sliding underneath. "Perhaps," a soft tenor voice purred in his ear, "they were hoping to see something naughty."
"Ahhh! Trowa!" he gasped as gentle teeth found sensitive spots on the side of his neck.
"Mmm-hmm?" his lover murmured, continuing to nuzzle and nip.
"Trowa-ah-ahhhhhhh, that's not fair! S-s-stop! I'm already late!"
"Only fashionably so," Trowa mumbled around one of Quatre's earlobes.
Quatre moaned, but pulled himself out of the taller man's embrace. He looked down at himself ruefully, tucking in his shirt and straightening his sash.
"That is *not* the kind of fashion statement I want to make," he said, indicating the obvious bulge in his trousers. "But I don't have time to deal with it the way I'd really li..."
Quatre broke off, his knees wobbling, as a familiar hand unzipped his trousers and slipped inside, stroking him to complete hardness with clever fingers. A moment later, his erection was firmly confined against his belly, held in place by the wide cummerbund around his waist. His formal pants were just loose enough that the hard ridge wasn't obvious.
Quatre shifted slightly and tried to ignore how the fabric rubbed against the sensitive head of his bound arousal. He felt flushed and flustered - it really wasn't fair how immaculate and unruffled Trowa looked in his own formal attire.
He just had time to note the sly little grin on his lover's face before he was towed out of the room and into the hallway. Trowa knew exactly what he was doing.
"Trowa!" Quatre hissed, dodging around a chambermaid's cart. "The cummerbund is too tight!" Walking twitched his erection back and forth slightly under the confining cloth. He would be lucky to make it to the elevator without embarrassing himself.
"Well, you can't very well loosen it now," Trowa said in an undertone, green eyes glinting. "You just have to get to the dinner table, Quatre. Once you stop moving, things will go down, and the tablecloth will hide any... floppage."
"*Floppage!??!*" Quatre was pink with stifled snickers and frustrated desire all the way to the banquet hall, where the seating was immediate, and the tablecloths gratifyingly long.
The Factual Truth - The Lowdown on the Upper Crust, Online
FAT QUAT
Quatre Winner (19), CEO of Winner Enterprises, was overheard whining about the tightness of his waistband at the reception dinner for the Earth Sphere Trade Conference. Since Mr. Winner is certainly rich enough to afford proper tailoring, one wonders if overindulgence is the cause of the complaint. Tut, tut, Mr. Winner - have you been feeding at the trough a little too often?
Trowa's lips twitched.
Quatre glared as he pulled off his clothing. "It's easy for you to be amused - you didn't have to spend the day listening to everybody and their dog making the same oh-so-humorous comments about flabby billionaires..."
Slowly, a smile made its way over Trowa's face, though he was obviously fighting it valiantly.
"...not to mention having to fend off who knows how many old dowagers over dinner giving you advice about moderation. Even *Sally* was teasing me - she asked if I needed help working out a diet!"
Trowa covered his mouth with one hand.
"And Madame Folletete actually *pinched* my stomach, and then had the gall to ask if I were wearing a girdle!!"
Stifled snickers erupted between Trowa's fingers.
Quatre looked mournfully at the red mark still visible on his abdomen. "She doesn't have fingernails, Trowa, she has talons."
"Oh, love, I'm sorry," Trowa said, his grin somewhat ruining the apology, "but it's just ridiculous. Anyone with half an eye can see..." he slid from his chair onto the floor, "..that you're trim..." he wrapped his arms around Quatre's hips and nuzzled the flat belly, "and fit..." he kissed the red pinch mark, "...and utterly delicious."
Quatre rolled on top of his tall lover, tenderly brushing the long bangs out of the way so he could look deeply into those amazing green eyes. Making love always relieved his worries and pushed the idiocies of daily life far, far away.
"Thanks, love," he said softly. "I really needed tha-" he broke off in surprise as Trowa began to gasp.
"Can't... breathe!" Trowa wheezed, "You're... too fat!" His false distress degenerated into helpless laughter as Quatre glared at him.
Of course, pillow fights were a good way to relieve stress, too.
Trowa lay sprawled across the bed, trying to catch his breath. God, he felt good - a touch sore perhaps, and smugly grateful for his natural flexibility, but very, *very* good. The pillow fight had been fun, but the activity it had led into had been even better.
He looked over at his personal blond dynamo, letting his eyes roam freely over the flushed skin, the handsome face, the contented sleepy smile, the nicely-muscled torso tapering to slender hips, and that lovely, rounded, pert... upturned... ass.
Trowa swallowed, hard. Damn... Wonder if he's up for another round?
Quatre squirmed away from yet another wet spot. "Oh, this is ridiculous!"
Trowa, who had somehow managed to stretch out on the only dry area on the bed, smirked as Quatre hit the audio-only call switch.
"Hello, housekeeping? I'm terribly sorry to call so late at night, but could you possibly send someone up to suite 3469 with a change of bed linens? Ours are... wet. You could? Oh, thank you!"
The Factual Truth - The Lowdown on the Upper Crust, Online
THERE'S NOTHING WORSE THAN A WET QUAT
The shifts of political power and the losses of life during the recent wars have led to a younger generation of executives, derisively nicknamed 'the Diaper Brigade.' How apt is the appellation? Well, last night a certain young CEO attending the Earth Sphere Trade Conference woke the housekeeping staff at the Starley Hotel in order to replace his wet bedsheets. On behalf of laundry workers everywhere, this reporter feels compelled to point out that excessive weight around the belly can lead to impaired bladder function. That embarrassing nocturnal problem might disappear with a little self-control.
Quatre groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Each individual statement is true, it's just that put together, it all sounds so..."
"Damning," Trowa supplied, from where he lingered over coffee at the breakfast table. He smiled slightly. "The ironic thing is that we *could* avoid wet sheets with a little more self- control." He let his gaze linger on the attractive body being alternately revealed and covered as his lover stalked around the room, dressing for another day of conference meetings. "Not that I *want* you to be more controlled..." the acrobat murmured under his breath.
"Mmm? What was that?" Quatre finished buttoning his shirt and reached for his suit jacket.
"I said I didn't want you to be more controlled," Trowa said a trifle absently, watching the way the blond's shoulders flexed as he shrugged on the jacket.
"No?" The softly exhaled question snapped Trowa's attention back to Quatre's face. The big blue eyes were open wide in an expression of hurt inquiry, the tempting lips curved in a slight pout. "So, after I secretly packed the scarves and all your favourite toys, now you don't want me to be controlled?"
Trowa's belly tightened and his breath stuttered to a halt. They'd only tried that game once before, but the results had been nothing less than amazing. Before he could stammer out an eager acceptance of the offer, his love had sauntered to the door.
"I'll leave you to contemplate that for the day," Quatre said, smirking. "I'll be in meetings until the banquet this evening. We should be able to make our escape after the dinner."
"Wha- Quatre, you can't just leave after a suggestion like that!"
Quatre raised an eyebrow. "Why not? I'm anticipating a thoroughly miserable day, thanks to that e-rag, and you know that misery loves company. At least now we'll have something fun to look forward to tonight." With a final wicked smile, Quatre left the suite.
Trowa stared at the closed door, his thoughts jumbled. Slowly he lowered his gaze to the urgent erection straining the front of his pants. Damnit! With the prospect of a willing and submissive Quatre ahead of him, he didn't want to waste any of his energy or hormones on his own hand. He'd just have to wait it out.
And while he was waiting, perhaps he would spend a few moments planning exactly what he would do with his saucy slave this evening...
TBC
(:./wingnut/expose1)
