A Scattering of Leaves and Dust

fiction, sum of the whole, pilots

Sat, 16 Jun 2007 09:17:43 GMT

For gw500 again. "Marker" was the challenge.

Title: Sum of the Whole
Author: debrismachine
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Heero/Duo hints
Wordcount: 500
Warning: Some angst.
Summary: Having been genetically engineered, Heero's body is breaking down.

They are, each of them, somber faced. Gravity tugs at the corners of their mouths. Hours of wakefulness draw shadows beneath eyes that have lost their focus. Duo breaks the waiting room pall, saying what's foremost in everyone's mind: "There's nothing they can do."

Quatre makes a fist. His hand, resting above his knee, is pale and mapped with veins. Bones thrust up beneath the skin, and he imagines if he tightens his hand any further, they'll burst through, his knuckles turned to knives, suitable for slamming into the smiling faces of three-month old magazines.

He wants to say shut up. To scream as loud as he can that of any of them, Duo should be the one holding out hope. What comes out of his mouth is a faint, "Don't say that," which isn't strong enough to override Duo's pessimism.

No one looks at him.

"Maybe there's a way we can find out what was engineered," Trowa says. He rolls up the magazine he's been pretending to read and tosses it away. "Knowing which markers were inserted means we know what's responsible for the deterioration, right?"

Duo's eyes harden. He drops his head, props his elbows on his knees to lace his fingers behind his neck. He sighs, but he glances up again, hope hidden in the lines of his forehead. "In time?"

Footsteps at the hallway attract everyone's attention, and Quatre's heart lodges in his throat until he recognizes Wufei's purposeful stride. Unclipping his ID badge from his front pocket, Wufei nods in greeting. He looks as tired as the rest of them. "Une will be out momentarily. She plans to advise us on the feasibility of that course of action."

Quatre watches Wufei slide his ID into his pocket and wonders what that means. If he's just off the clock or if the way things might go meant that official channels have been exhausted. No one, not even colonists like his own family who utilized test tube technology, liked to hear about genetic engineering, and for there to be living proof….

"If necessary, Winner medical facilities can guarantee Heero's privacy and care."

"It isn't," Wufei replies sharply.

"Consider it a standing offer," Quatre says, aiming his words towards Duo.

The waiting room goes quiet again, the only sounds being the tick of the clock, the mix of their breathing, and the uncomfortable rustle of clothing against vinyl seating.

Quatre sits back and stares at the ceiling with its water stains that look like spilled coffee. His chest aches, a mild burn that he knows isn't indigestion from the food he'd choked down earlier in the hospital's café. Rooms away he can feel Heero's struggling, the fight against a body tearing itself apart.

Duo might be right, and the Preventer experts in there buzzing around one of their top agents could be helpless, but the important thing is what Quatre feels around him: four hearts burning hotter than the sun, none of them willing to give up.

fiction: made to be broken, gw, trowa/quatre

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 08:20:24 GMT

Another gw500 fic written just under the deadline. "Vow" is the challenge.

Title: Made to be Broken
Author: debrismachine
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Trowa/Quatre
Wordcount: 400
Warnings: BDSM and Daddy kink.

"Do you promise to be good? To do what I tell you?" Trowa asks, and Quatre always, always, says yes.

The lie tastes good when he tells it, salt on the rim of a margarita glass, lime on the mouth of a beer.

It tastes better when he's caught, discovered in the bathroom with a hand down his pants and his cock pinched between his fingers. He nearly comes from the way Trowa looks at him, brows drawn tight and mouth turned down, but his eyes hungry and thrill-glitter bright.

"You weren't supposed to touch yourself," Trowa says, his normally soft voice turning stern. He undoes the buckle of his belt, strips it off and holds it loose in one hand. "You were supposed to wait."

"I couldn't help myself," Quatre says, and he squirms, spreads his knees wider and wonders if Trowa plans to belt him.

"You're such a bad boy," Trowa says. He taps the tongue of his belt lightly against his palm, even so gentle a slap making the promise of a strike echo through the room and tighten Quatre's muscles. As he stands there the waist of his pants slide down until they cling to his hips, the elastic of his briefs pristine and white next to the tanned stretch of his stomach.

"I didn't mean to," Quatre pleads. He starts to draw his hand out of his pants, but Trowa stops him.

"Finish what you started, you dirty little boy," Trowa says. His erection is swelling, angled along his leg. Quatre's mouth begins to water.

"But daddy," Quatre says, and the shiver that makes him tremble isn't of his own making.

"Open your pants and finish," Trowa says, stepping forward. "Or daddy is going to have to do it for you."

Moaning, hardly able to keep quiet as he pushes his pants down and takes hold of his cock, Quatre feels tears well at the corners of his eyes. He uses them to effect, looking up at Trowa before they spill picture-perfect down his cheeks. He's so close he can hardly move his hand, and the knowledge of everything that would happen after—the bath, the kisses, the curl of their bodies—makes his chest tighten until he can hardly breathe.

"Promise not to punish me, daddy?" he asks.

"Yes," Trowa says, and Quatre comes, blissed and sticky, unsure whether or not he was lying.

fiction: law of averages, gw, quatre

Sat, 23 Dec 2006 07:47:21 GMT

Another fic for gw500. This is one for the "law" challenge.

Title: Law of Averages
Author: debrismachine
Rating: PG-13
Character: Quatre
Wordcount: 833
Warnings: Depression.
Summary: Buried guilt rises to the surface and Quatre distances himself from everything.

Throw enough men into a war and most of the survivors will learn to move on. Quatre wished to every god he could think of that he were one of them.

It was the screaming dark that undid him with its threats to drag him down into a black hole he'd never escape. He'd been all right for a few years, diligently telling himself the past was in the past and had even fooled himself into believing it. But then came the nightmares. They ripped him apart and he couldn't tell if his voyeuristic window into lives that ended over and over again in the same white-hot flare of a beam cannon had any grounds in reality. They'd feel so real, and he experienced each person's hopes and dreams as if they were his own up until that final moment. He'd always been able to feel certain things in a way that couldn't be explained in rational scientific terms, and maybe, just maybe, he was tapping into some telepathic feedback, some dark psychic fingerprint he'd left in the universe like the smudged-ash outlines of victims destroyed by a nuclear blast.

Or maybe, and this was what that dark little voice inside him whispered when the dreams left him curled small and fetal, it wasn't worth trying to explain away in any terms other than the supernatural: he was haunted by the ghosts of the men, women, and children he'd killed, and it would go on and on until he was driven completely mad.

Somehow, each time after night faded to day he would rearrange all the shattered parts of himself and crawl out of his sweat-soaked bed, get showered and dressed, brush his teeth and comb his hair, put on a smile and gear up for another round of conferences or photo ops. And he always, always did his best to not wonder what would happen when he stopped remembering how to put the pieces back together again.

Every year by some miracle named Heero Yuy, Relena managed to hunt them all down no matter which end of the colonies they were lodging in and send them invitations to a holiday party. She took pains to keep it intimate, just a few dozen of them, those who'd been instrumental in one or both of the wars. Quatre attended the first few years, smiling and pleased to see each of the others, but after that, he begged off with excuses, thankful that his position with WEI made it easy to find a graceful way to duck out of the occasion.

He might have been able to continue attending if it hadn't been so intimate. If he'd been able to just mix and mingle with the sort of crowd that he'd known how to handle the moment he'd been old enough to attend charity banquets, it would have been fine. God knew he managed enough of the same throughout the rest of the year. But seeing each of the other gundam pilots only once a year was too difficult, far too much like a knife piercing his side when the span of months made it crystal clear that each of them were moving on, loosening up and growing into their lives.

Quatre felt like his own was just...fading. He often felt like a ghost himself, pale and see-thru as he went through motions so mechanical he tossed about the idea of routing a few hundred million into the company's robotics research division just to find out if anyone would notice if he wasn't himself anymore. If it worked, he could just stay home and never again face all those people who expected so much of him.

He stared at the newest invitation in which Relena had hand-written a brief note beneath the gold foil stamped lettering. We miss you, it said. Quatre swallowed bitterly. He missed himself. He remembered Heero's smile from the last time he'd attended and felt cold inside, colder still remembering how laughter had followed, and then Heero had joined Duo for a twirling dance on the small rug in front of Relena's fireplace. When Trowa had swooped in and stolen Duo away, gracefully ducking a mock punch, Quatre had to excuse himself, feigning an upset stomach from the wine.

How long ago had that been? Three years? Four? What were they like now? He'd gotten letters, more than a few phone calls, but even those had dwindled until they were, like Relena's invitation, only an annual event that he could put off answering. He didn't know why they bothered, unless like him they clung to a gambler's fallacy and thought that surely, this time things would be different.

He set the letter aside with a small note attached that said, "be sure to write maybe next year would be better", and walked with heavy steps towards his bedroom, wondering who he'd see die this time and what kind of life they would have led if he hadn't cut it short.

fiction: red, gw, trowa/quatre

Mon, 18 Dec 2006 05:31:59 GMT

A fic written for the gw500 challenge "cherry".

Title: Red
Author: debrismachine
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Trowa/Quatre
Wordcount: 1043
Warnings: BDSM.
Summary: Trowa is slowly learning how to give Quatre what he needs.

Trowa's shirt brushed against the bare skin of Quatre's back. Reaching around, he pushed a cherry red ball gag into Quatre's mouth and held the hard rubber in position firmly with his forefingers. He quickly fastened the straps, tightening them until they indented flesh. Quatre had gone still, unnaturally so, and Trowa felt no stirring of breath as he finished his task and tested his work. Running his fingertips down Quatre's throat didn't elicit even the slightest quiver.

"Okay?" Trowa asked. His hand splayed over Quatre's chest and as he tapped out the simple pattern for 'too much' and 'stop', Quatre began to breathe again. Quatre nodded once, sharp and curt, and the game was on.

Gently, Trowa tugged Quatre's hair free from under the gag's strap. He combed newly formed tangles free with his fingers, smoothing the strands down to cover the slash of black fitting snug against the back of Quatre's skull. Without any warning, Trowa took a fistful of fine golden hair, creating new tangles that would need to be properly combed away afterwards when things were quiet and slow.

"How are you going to please me?" he asked, wrenching Quatre's head back as he leaned in so close his lips just barely touched the delicate ridges of Quatre's ear. His unoccupied hand ran down the outside of Quatre's slender arm possessively until he found the short chain between the handcuffs encircling Quatre's wrists. They were real, no panic-catches on them, and Trowa twisted the chain around his fingers until the metal dug into his flesh too. "You can't use your mouth and can't use your hands, what can a useless little cunt like you do?"

He heard Quatre suck in a harsh breath, a whine building in the back of his throat that would have become something like, "Please, Sir, I'll find a way. I swear I'll make you feel good, Sir," if Trowa had waited on the gag.

"I don't know if you have what it takes, slave," Trowa said. He stepped back, skin tingling when the radiant heat of Quatre's body was gone. "Maybe I should go find someone else, someone who's more man than you are."

At times, his throat threatened to close on the words, not because they rang false since lies were easy to throw around like this, but because Quatre looked so beautifully lost when the barbs hit so close to home. He watched a shiver ripple across Quatre's pale skin, and the tension in his shoulders made the muscles of his back catch both light and shadow.

Mouth like cotton and blood pounding, Trowa seated himself wide-legged on the edge of an armless chair. "Show me what you can do," he said, and permitted Quatre to move.

Quatre didn't disappoint; he rarely did. He dropped down to the carpeted floor, inching close on his knees, and stopped on a dime when Trowa barked an order just to enjoy the way he looked. During the day Quatre was always dressed to the nines, shirt firmly pressed, tie snug at his throat, and his hair falling perfectly across his forehead. Now he was naked, and the welts and bruises from their last session were mapped across his skin. His cock slowly thickened, and when Trowa praised him for it, Quatre got harder yet.

"You may move again," Trowa said, and Quatre lunged forward awkwardly. He shoved his gagged mouth eagerly into Trowa's crotch to nuzzle at the fabric covering Trowa's own erection. Breathing roughly through his nose, Quatre struggled to prove how good he could please his master by the press of his face and the look in his eyes alone.

When finally it was too much for Trowa to stave off the need that swelled in his groin, he urged Quatre to stand and drew him into his lap. Quatre whimpered as Trowa arranged his sub's pliable legs over his own, pulling him close with a growing sense of anticipation until Quatre's naked cock was pinned between them and sparks erupted inside Trowa's guts.

"You want to come?" Trowa asked. He fought to stay calm, and rubbed a thumb over Quatre's taut lip, smearing the spit dripping from the corner of Quatre's mouth.

Quatre nodded, his legs squeezing tight to say yes, and please, and hurry.

"You'll moan for it? Prove you want my cock like a good little slut?"

Quatre's legs squeezed tight again, and Trowa felt a flood of heat against his stomach, his shirt suddenly sticking to his skin. He glanced down, but Quatre hadn't orgasmed. He'd been close enough though that a rush of watery precome was spread across Trowa's shirt. This time he wasn't really in the right frame of mind, too eager to just fuck instead of give orders, but next time, Trowa planned to remember to punish Quatre for that.

"I fuck your ass, I want you loud," he ordered, and released the gag with one hand as he fumbled to get his cock out with the other.

So normally quiet in bed, as soon as the gag was free, Quatre let loose with a moan straight in Trowa's ear. Shuddering with lust, Trowa pushed him back to see his mouth. Blood had rushed back into Quatre's lips and made them swollen nearly as bright red as the gag.

Afterwards, when they were both dizzy with release and had abandoned the chair to lie together on the floor, Trowa loosened the cuffs. They'd been too tight, he realized, and Quatre offered no resistance when Trowa lifted his arm into the light to find his wrist ringed with raw flesh.

Acid ate into the hazy pleasure of the moment and Trowa choked back the words that no matter how he phrased them would be too harsh for Quatre right now. He was getting better at knowing what Quatre needed each time they did a scene and what he needed to do to make sure Quatre didn't give too much of himself, but this wasn't like scarves and candles. This was something Quatre needed so bad he shook when it was over. A thousand things on his tongue waiting to be said, Trowa kept quiet as he massaged Quatre's wrists one after the other, and pulled him closer.