1.

Zealous fingers curled inward.

Filaments of tiny golden white streaks pressed between the crevices of his hot fingers— that unyielding coil of hair lying across the other boy's forehead and touching the outer dip of his eyebrow. He remembered staring at it up close, close enough to kiss, unable to move his fixation from the younger.

Where this had all gotten started . . .?

A simple tousle of hair— no more than light and brief— escorted by a friendly and close-lipped smirk which had made his perceptive companion smile back at. Meant to be playful, a joke between two dear friends.

His indecisive hand spent several seconds tangled in cropped strands of blonde, flattening the cowlicks before softly tracing downwards around the ring of his left ear and coming down to rest on his reddening cheek.

. . . a joke?

No one was laughing.

Somewhere in the process of trying to pull away, embarrassment in all its glory shining in pale, twin-cherubic cheeks; a fistful of white blonde was caught. The Winner heir yelped quietly only to be silenced with a strained seal of a kiss. Pure electricity radiated from the very top of his head to the end of his digits, trembling, they closed around the nearest object within reach.

The rusty stands in the structure they occupied, a deserted shuttle garage used as shelter for what was left of their Gundams, shuddered weakly as they jolted dangerously up against the weight of two bodies.

"It…can't hold….."

He managed to gasp this after Trowa Barton's mouth decided to attach itself instead to the blossoming red skin beneath his pastel pink, starched collar. The older excruciatingly slowed his actions to further antagonize his victim, permitting his teeth to gently graze the bump of his throat, thoroughly satisfied at the feel of a moan breaking.

Very much a turn-on.

Trowa's delicately constructed hands sketched the shape of Quatre's waist on the downward route to his slim hips as if carefully engraving the memory of the feel into his senses, with such slow and liquid motions. His hands buried into the fabric of beige trousers and tugged unconsciously as a pre-wave of arousal stole him.

Turquoise shot open wide with momentary panic.

Could he really . . .?

Anxiety dissolved, thawing out into bliss once more as the stiff clench on him slackened and Trowa's hands began making small circles soothingly into his sides. Almost as if the other boy could taste the fear and doubt secreting from him, veiled somewhere in the climax they were building together, and tried his best to calm the poor racing heartbeat while steadfast on passion.

Acting more bravely then he truly felt, Quatre moved deeper into the kiss, crying out softly at the sensation of his chest being caressed. Purely going on his instincts, he grabbed the shoulders of Trowa's turtleneck sweater, clawing obsessively into cotton—air was becoming a dire concern—

That's when they felt it happen.

The rusty old stands. Moving.

On their own.

With difficulty, the circus performer moved away from his prize, staring off in the direction from where peculiar noises were coming from not far off, leaving the other male to shake the desire from blurring the rest of his vision.

"Sh…Shimatta—!"

Lustful hisses and wet smacking echoed in the garage—the hollow belch of metal being gripped at great force—and the very audible rip of clothing. "Just like— aaah!"

Another voice groaned in response to the slick sound of a tongue making trails across skin, gasping sharply. "Oh my go— Heeeeroooo!"

"Ahhhh!"

The second set of boys lurched away from each other as the first stumbled upon them, one still dangling slightly on his toes, the fold of his shirt tucked behind his head and knuckles bone-white from hanging on the bar right above his head. The other with the thigh-length braid flushed an ugly strobe of white and red upon noticing the newcomers.

Absolutely mortified and raw silence— four equally crafty but stunned minds began to register the situation thrust upon them.

Quatre removed his thin hand from clapping over his tightly drawn and heavily bruised mouth to squeak, "Heero . . . Duo? What are you doing here!?"

With his one hand that was keeping him elevated, the first teen in the green sleeveless dropped crouching to the floor, rearranging his top with a dignified fashion but incapable of hiding the scarlet inching over his neck.

The second coughed uncomfortably, unlike the first, not observing the obvious disarray of the additional pair. "What are you two doing here?"

"I believe Quatre asked first." Trowa noted, quietly eyeing the boy still knelt giving a silent snarl before righting himself.

"I…" Duo grimaced at the crack in his low pitch.

Heero fell into position beside him, Prussian blue eyes flashing, sending out a clear message to dark green. You hold no power over me. I know you weren't here for innocent means either Pilot 3.

"Then I guess we have nothing to discuss." Trowa said, walking right up to the Japanese boy to pinch his cheek brutally, "Now do we?"

He slapped the same cheek, unceremoniously turning around to drag a very shocked Quatre out of the area by the elbow. Thus turning his potentially vulnerable backside to the now gun-wielding L1 pilot struggling in the beefy arms of the unnerved American, shouting something nonsensical (mostly in his native language) about empty bullet chambers and circus freaks.

As the screams faded off into a dull roar, the first couple stopped back at their original place. The blonde Arab tilted his head shrewdly as the taller boy calmly scrutinized their surroundings.

"He may end up killing you. I hope you realize this."

Trowa brushed off the warning and looked back at his companion, dark green eyes flickering suggestively, "Now, which one?"

Quatre blinked.

Uhh. . . .?

"Which one — what?"

That smirk, mysterious and cunning, reemerged, "Never mind. You'll get the idea."


2.

Quatre Raberba Winner was very…very confused to say the least.

But.

He did like where this was going. If Trowa was the one doing the leading, anything that had to deal with Trowa had to possess some benefits. The blonde blushed pink slightly as the grasp on his elbow slipped to his bare hand and squeezed lightly.

"This way."

Within a matter of minutes, and a couple of sharp turns, they were sitting on top of Heavyarms sited on the cold rock ground. The strong warm hand around his squeezed again accompanied by that delicious smirk, "Get in."

Quatre obeyed without question to the mellow command, nevertheless bemused, and placed himself into the cockpit seat without touching the belt restraints. Despite how progressively more interesting this was becoming…he still wanted answers. His pale cheeks stained themselves deep pink and he gasped breathily when the circus boy strategically encased the other boy's abdomen between his long limber legs.

"There's not a lot of room but," he released a chuckle that Quatre found desperately sexy, especially being combined with that hungry gaze, "I think that's the whole point."

The light bulb went on over his head.

'Cockpit sex?!'

Teasing, precise lips began nibbling the space between his neck and collarbone, the hot pressure of an expert muscle making his vision spin both gray and colorful behind his trembling eyelids.

Mmm . . . .cockpit sex. . .

Disappointed when the pressure stopped, he reopened his eyes to find emerald green directly in front of him, the point of a nose pressed urgently into his own, "I'm going to have my way with you."

Trowa spoke very informatively, as if they were discussing the matter in their Sunday finest and over a cup of tea. Somehow the thought of them making made love in oversized loose white silk shirts and untied black ties turned him on more than was his male limit. His fantasy was interrupted by the feel of fingers poking underneath his purple waistcoat and working on the clasps, "We'll take this as slow as you want. . ."

"I want this."

Fingers froze at the shameless rasp. Turquoise half-lid, the blonde growled sensually, "I've always wanted this. And don't even think about stopping. . ."

A sexually frustrated Quatre. That was new. But definitely not a turn-off.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

With the practiced gesture of tapping several buttons, the cockpit entrance shut itself and low-lit lights flipped on. Positioned beneath the older, the Winner heir squirmed delightfully along with the friction of their torsos rubbing.

Lovely noises increased in volume with the occasional gnaw of naked chest and trade off of licking each precious rosebud nipple. Trowa fingered them almost cautiously, testing how far pleasure would come before pain. With one hand, he massaged the cramped right calf of his prey and with the other, set to work belt buckles.

This was probably the MOST awkward thing Quatre ever experienced; he couldn't move his crooked legs (a big part of it may have been the fact that they were tangled with another pair), his neck craned over the top of the rubbery upholstery, and the hidden framework (regardless of being exceedingly padded) dug into the rigid planes of his muscled back. He was going to be sore, so very sore in more ways the one, but by Allah, he was nearing Heaven.

Suddenly, his world burst into throbbing white pain.

He flinched against the prod of initial penetration. Trowa hesitated somewhat concerned a moment coating his fingers with saliva and stretching him to inquire, "I'm supposing you don't carry around condoms?"

"If you haven't noticed by now. . ." The blonde let out a hoarse groan straight from his diaphragm, damn him . . . why did he stop, "I'm a virgin. Yourself?"

"Clean."

That's all he got out of him. That was good enough; at least he could be honest.

Quatre didn't understand why Trowa felt like taking his time, he was dying— he needed—

His mouth snapped open to form a silent cry of surprise as the L3 pilot propelled forward inside of him, not fully understanding how much it hurt. To surprise him more, the brunette smiled, reaching forward and wiping the sweat from his brow almost motherly in fashion, "Are you doing alright Quatre?"

"I-I'll be fine . . . just give me a moment."

The blonde sucked in a whistling breath through his gritted teeth as the latter shifted. Trowa bowed forward to embrace mouths, whispering reassuringly into him, "I promise you this gets better. Give it time."

He kept his word as Quatre's body began to react positively to the continued awareness of thrusts that picked up speed. There came an instant where the spot was hit, and to hear his Trowa lose control of his stoic nature to succumb to half-dead moans, only brought back a deep last burning in the core of his stomach.

When the older boy altered the pace and maneuvered faster, a string of curses and praises in a language foreign to Trowa's ears surfaced from the blonde. Quatre seized his own hair, exclaiming in English almost angrily, "That's . . . YES . . . just—ah!"

Body shuddering wildly, fervor spent, the taller let loose his hot fluids, gasping huskily into the blonde's left ear. Quatre followed in suit, as a skillful hand eased him. Stomachs touching, sticky and perspiring, Trowa buried his hands into his lover's hair to mold their lips together.

Thank goodness for last minute decisions.

Quatre's entire backside would become one giant bruise give or take a day but damn it he never felt so good.

He wondered why no one had thought of cockpit sex before . . .

The restricted leg room was understandable.


3.

Hell, he could concentrate.

Losing that sharp focus he acquired over age, a nonchalant determination when it came too close to unexpressed emotion; not something so easily lost when it came down to business.

No, not even being straddled like a fucking whore between two warm muscular thighs — to add onto the tension — an aching erection complaining faintly underneath his leather prison.

On top of him, weighting next to nothing, (damn it all if he had to force food down his stubborn throat); the infamous Heero Yuy fought with teeth. Scraping the dull white edges across naked nipples, certainly to create a few skinny bruises along the pathway. The second was nearly undressed now, too consumed by desire to properly undo the front of his buttoned shirt.

Before the impatient teenager could reach up to tear away the persistent bastards, with unnatural patience Duo helped with the remaining few.

Something about being trapped between Heero's legs, the hot skin on Duo's back making loud sucking noises against the leather of the couch they adjusted themselves on— screw the meeting they were supposed to be attending — but having this act committed right under the noses of Relena's people (the door was wide open for any passerby to the cramped office they were in) and fighting off his own primal cravings; which once had been low murmurs now turned vulgar and shrill thumping in his veins, felt fantastic.

Duo had taken his dear sweet time about slipping each little button out of place, purposely grazing alert fingertips against tanned skin in a slow tormenting motion and ducking a questionable smile, thinking that the wearer would never notice but indeed the other boy stifled a shallow intake by sternly biting on his lower lip.

By now Heero was done with foreplay; the callous young man took the opportunity to catch him off guard as the former distracted him with feathered kisses into his ear canal. Pinned, their fingers wrapped around each other in a way that was similiarly challenging and needy. The Japanese descendant crushed his hungry mouth to lips below.

Duo grunted in genuine shock when a strong cool hand placed itself possessively just over his bellybutton, the sexual dance of their tongues intoxicatingly raw. Released from his prison, his last physical piece of integrity, Duo hitched a breath when their hips rolled. Yes . . . a personal dance, it would not bring itself to end even as his vibrating world split apart by the very drive, a fluttering in his chest. . .

Heero tried his best to look as if it didn't take every lingering bit of strength he could conjure up to hike up his pants, somehow finding it impossible in his mind that after the fifth time on the loveseat…they could keep going straight until the hours of the evening melted into wasted paradise. Shaking off the moisture clinging to his bangs with the slight jerk of his head, he stretched himself out over his nude lover silently.

With a forgetful gesture, the shorter-haired brunette fanned his right hand over the space of stomach in front of him, the muscles shivering violently upon contact. Raising an eyebrow, he prodded the muscle again only this time getting swatted at.

"Do you mind?" Cobalt violet held a semi-glare with glassy blue.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

A dust of pink littering his features, the L2 pilot grumbled slightly at the uninterested tone, "Feels funny . . . let it alone, will ya?"

Shrugging, Heero rested his head back down on his source of heat as a deep groan of a voice asked, "Is there a day off in OZ—or something?"

He shot a calculating look over his shoulder to the empty doorway, body almost sprung up for battle. One glance at his revolver on the coffee table not even a foot from them confirmed that it would take no less then two seconds for him to precisely kill whoever would enter the room.

Retrieving no answer, Duo sighed, throwing his long arms around the form curled almost like a cat in-between his legs. When the other boy slackened against the unusually tender hold, he laced his fingers clumsily around him and shut his eyes. Despite having the many urges of throttling his best friend (using many different reasons), he couldn't bring himself to attack by means of any impulses. . . .

. .when there was cuddling involved.

Duo frowned. He did really need him….didn't he?

"Where do ya think Quat and Tro went?" Violet tried its best to perk up once more.

A monotonue issued lazily through two lethargic lips.

"Probably having their own session."

What he remembered, Duo last caught up with them in the warehouse, now that he thought about it they were looking pretty guilty of 'fooling around', "But where…?"A sinister smile crossed his face. Hey . . .

He knew those two were smart for a reason.

"Heero, how do you feel about restricted leg room?"

End.


GW belongs to its original creators; I make no profit except for reviews which are my chocolate cherry-flavored crack (remember that before you backbutton –winkwink-). This was made last year and has been sitting in my drive since then, so it's not my best work because I didn't get to mess around with it as much as I would have liked to. This also didn't really have a plot per say…it was mostly a request by VladBride and Cassand an early birthday present for Cass. I've been yelled at constantly for not putting this up sooner…so I'm obeying orders. You happy, you rapid 3x4 shippers? This isn't beta-read simply because the two who requested this had strict rules. Hope you enjoyed!