"Pop Top"

Written By: Asymphototropic

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam wing.

Author: Asymphototropic (attracted toward the light, but never quite arrives there)

Email: asymphototropic@aol.com

Rating: NC 17

Pairings: 3x4, 5x6, 1x2, hopeful 3x2x4, 5x2, 6x2

Warnings: Innuendo, fantasies, lemon/lime, fluff

Summary: Each of the pilots reveals their own fantasy for seducing Duo into their beds.


" Pop Top"

"Damn Une anyway!" Quatre's perfect complexion flushed under the influence of his fourth bottle of Camelbrau in less than an hour. It was a pretty harsh invective for him.

"I'm fairly certain it's against Preventers regulations to damn your commanding officer," Wufei stated, before taking a long swallow of his Quingdao beer.

"Why the hostility?" Zechs wondered, popping the top on his next Budweiser. [author's note: he felt like slumming, see?]

Trowa paused with his Big Top Brew half way to his lips. He tongued the wide mouth of the bottle reflectively. "Une kept Duo late at work, so he had to cancel with us. A major provocation."

Heero silently quirked an inquisitive eyebrow. He had already polished off his six pack of Kirin Ichiban and had begun sharing Zechs' case of Bud.

"We had plans, Barton and I," Quatre grumbled.

In the excitement of this revelation, Chang lost his philosophical 'drink-til-I-spout-haiku' _expression. "With Duo? What sort of plans?"

"Get him tipsy and then top him," Barton stated succinctly.

"Trowa!" Winner complained.

"And you were all right with that?" Wufei voiced his surprise.

"Threesome," Winner explained.

Zechs moaned at the mental image. "Well, bad luck then. So Maxwell is top of your 'want to pop' list, too, eh?"

Wufei scanned the inebriated group of red hot studs. "Just for the record. Has anyone here ever had his wicked way with Maxwell?" He noted the universal forlorn head shaking. "Anyone here have a better seduction plan than merely getting Duo drunk and pliant? Ha. I thought not." As punctuation, he took another lengthy gulp of his ethanolic beverage.

"Well," Zechs cleared his throat. "Ahem. I had thought perhaps music. Find out what Duo prefers and obtain concert tickets. Perfect seats. Entertain him.
Wine and dine him. Champagne, caviar, and then silk sheets. Hypothetically." His mild laughter rippled his platinum fall of glittering tresses.

Barton winked with his one visible emerald eye, temporarily blinding himself thereby. "And then?"

"Oh, ah. Yes. Drape Duo across a luxuriously wide mattress. Slowly undress him, button by button. Expose every inch of that pale flesh to view. Devour him with my eyes, and then with my lips and tongue. Run my fingers through his flame-kissed hair. Turn him, nude, over a plush pillow. Spread those delectable buttocks wide."

"Tongue that rosy tight hole," Barton took up the tale.

Winner whimpered. "Duo would writhe at that, but we would hold him firmly."

"Damn Une," Trowa reiterated.

"You don't suppose," Wufei pondered. "That she's sneaking a little of that Maxwell hip action for herself, keeping him after hours, do you?"

"Heavens forfend," Merquise shuddered. "What an horrific notion. Black leather and chains. A studded quirt in her gloved hands. Argh."

"Maybe she'd want Maxwell holding the whip?" Chang theorized.

And they all suddenly took large swigs of their respective beers for medicinal purposes.

"What about you?" Zechs nudged Wufei. Somehow, the couch cushions had subsided such that the two of them were sinking gradually closer together,
gravity on planet Earth being what it was.

Chang replied contemplatively. "Hmm. I believe I would challenge Maxwell to a round of traditional Greco-Roman wrestling. Best of five falls in the ring.
Meet him, warrior to warrior. He would be wearing those scant gray fleece sweatshorts of his."

"Do tell," Barton smirked.

"And nothing else. His exposed skin would be gleaming with fragrant oil. As I tumbled him, pinned him firmly to the mat, my face pressed between his shoulders, they would be trembling with unexpended strength, damp from striving. I would inhale his aroma."

"Lift that heavy weight of braid aside, nuzzling sensitive skin, newly exposed," Quatre suggested.

"Feel his heart pounding against you as he reluctantly but thoroughly yielded to your skillful mastery," Merquise added.

Barton licked his lips. "You would lower those clinging shorts down slender yet muscular thighs. Only to reveal perfect gluteal curves, framed in the tightest black jock strap."

"I specified he was wearing only the shorts," Chang protested the proposed perversion of his fantasy. "But I'll grant you the athletic supporter, strictly on the basis of artistic merit. The contrast of midnight and ivory, fabric against flesh." He offered his slightest exotic smile to the group, shaded onyx eyes glinting. "However, if you insist on imaginative details, I suggest you use your own scenario."

Barton's voice echoed into the depths of his wide mouth bottle. "Hmm. Yeah. Duo spread sandwich."

"Maxwell in the middle." Winner's sweet carnelian lips parted to reveal sharp canines in a predatory chuckle. "The three of us, collapsed in a sweating heap.
On an inflatable raft, high and dry on a deserted beach."

"Our salt laden clothes, turned ragged from overexposure, would tear away easily," Trowa proposed.

"Mmm. Yes," Quatre agreed. He sipped his beer. "After a careful search of our bodies..."

"Which would involve considerable mutual patting and stroking."

"We would discover our sole supply, a large tube of luscious cocoa butter."

"Which we would have to apply to every single millimeter of exposed flesh."

"In order to obviate the risk of sunstroke."

"Taking into consideration Maxwell's extreme pallor, we would start applying the ointment to his skin. I would take his back, and Winner, his front."

After a moment's contemplation of the comparative merits of Duo's ventral and dorsal surface, Quatre queried, "who gets his ears?"

Barton reflected upon the cunning curves of the L2 Kid's helix, the delectable softness of the cute lobes. "You take the right ear, and I'll get the left."

"Fair enough."

"Likewise, his balls."

Merquise groaned aloud. "Unfortunately its all strictly unreal."

"Totally imaginary."

"And extremely unlikely at that."

Silence settled upon them, interrupted by only one stifled belch.

"I'll get Maxwell," Yuy suddenly declared.

They all stared.

"Care to wager on that?" Merquise raised an elegant eyebrow at his former rival turned colleague.

"Certainly."

"Bravo. Two hundred credits says that you can't seduce Duo."

"You're on."

"What's your plan?" Quatre laughed at Heero's abrupt shift to mission-mode.

"Watch and learn," Yuy stated emphatically. He opened his ever-present laptop and clicked up an email transmission screen.

Merquise read the evolving message aloud over Heero's shoulder. "Maxwell. I want to have sex with you. Come to my apartment after you get off work.
Yuy." Zechs chortled. "Sheer romanticism, if ever I saw it. Who knew the perfect soldier was also the perfect poet?"

Shrugging, Heero returned to his beer can.

Ten minutes later, his remote com sounded on his belt. He popped it open. "Yuy here. Maxwell? Are we on for tonight? Very well. I'll see you in twenty minutes. Yuy, out."

"Damn!" Barton exclaimed as Heero headed for the exit.

Winner's aqua eyes popped. "I can't believe that actually worked."

"The simplest strategy being none at all," Wufei settled closer to Merquise.

"I'm out a fast two hundred credits. Alas," Merquise mourned.

Chang touched his sculpted thigh in a gesture intended to comfort. Or something.

"I guess you could say, Yuy has a way with words," Barton muttered, shaking his head.

"I told you beer would work," Winner scrunched closer to him.

"It was supposed to work on Maxwell, not Yuy."

"Maxwell. Yuy. Whichever." Six pilots divided equally into twos. An equitable arrangement.

As Barton sighed softly, Quatre popped the top off another Camelbrau.

~ * ~

 

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