|
"25 Days of Gundam Wing"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: sexually suggestive themes and language,
humor Pairings: Trowa/Quatre, Heero/Relena. Summary: Dorothy learns the hard way that her long-time rival doesn’t get mad, he gets even. Prompt: Christmasgram "25 Days of Gundam Wing " Chapter 20: Christmasgram
She stepped over to the bar in stocking clad feet and fixed herself a strong Manhattan. Dropping two olives into the glass, she walked into the kitchen with her cocktail and pushed the play button on her answering machine. She skimmed through the stack of mail on the counter while the tape whirred, dropping the credit card bills into her ‘Don’t Give A Fuck’ box and setting aside the new arrival of hate mail to savor for later. *beep* "Yes, uh...Ms. Catalonia, while I appreciate the gesture of a holiday gift, I do not appreciate receiving a bottle of Astroglide with a card that reads, "To make pulling the stick out of your ass a little easier." Adding Merry Christmas on the end of it doesn't make it any better. In the future, I'd ask that you refrain from sending me a gift altogether. Thank you." She smirked as Chang Wufei’s clipped voice bid her goodbye and leaned over the counter with her chin on her hand. *beep* "Well, Dorothy, I hope you're proud of yourself. A sex swing? Really? You know, when you said you wanted to get Quatre and I a "couple's" gift, I didn't think it would be quite so...skeezy. Then again, we're talking about you, so I really shouldn't be all that surprised." Barton paused to let out a heavy sigh, sounding as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Dorothy snorted, knowing full well that was not the case. She had no doubt the perv had been imagining all the ways in which he could...utilize the gift from the first second he laid eyes on it. Men. "Anyway, now I have to try to find a way to convince Quat to come out of our bedroom. He’s so embarrassed, he barricaded himself in there and won’t even speak to me. Thanks a lot." She dipped her knees, curtsied, and smugly sipped her drink. “Don’t tell me I sent him back into the closet,” she snarked and tipped her head back with a loud cackle. *beep* "Honestly, Dorothy! I expected better from you! I cannot believe you got Heero a blow up doll! And the card? "Maybe you'll actually get some now"? I'll have you know I am not a prude. Heero is actually quite happy in the bedroom if I do say - wait. You did this just so I would call you and admit - Goddamn it, Dorothy!" She smiled and flipped her hair over his shoulder. “Too easy.” *beep* "Hey. S’up, D. Thanks for the handcuffs. I owe you one." She blinked at the machine, mouth turning down in distaste. “Could have at least wished me a Merry Christmas, you degenerate.” *beep* "Dorothy, this is Heero. Just wanted to say thanks...for the gift. Just - just don't tell Relena I thanked you. She's pretty pissed." "Jesus, Yuy. TMI." *beep* "Dorothy, this is Quat. Trowa thinks I'm hiding in here because I'm embarrassed. I don't have much time because he's trying to pick the lock. Okay, fine. I'll admit you're good. But I do have another ace up my sleeve. Merry Christmas, Dorothy. I hope you're presentable..." She paused with her glass pressed against her lips, confused by Winner’s cryptic message. Now, what the hell could that possibly mean? A moment later, there was a loud banging on the door which caused her to jump out of her skin and spill vodka all over her custom Valentino dress. She cursed vehemently and reached for a hand towel to dab the liquid away. “Goddamnit! This is dry clean only, you prick! What the fu -” *BANG BANG BANG* “Alright! I’m coming, Jesus Christ. And I’m sending your sorry ass my dry cleaning bill, whoever you are.” She walked to the door and peered through the peephole, hackles rising when she realized whoever it was had their hand over it. "Who is it?" She demanded. "Christmasgram," replied a gruff voice. "...Christmasgram, the hell?" She unhooked the lock and swung the door open, jaw dropping in shock. “What the fuck?” Duo Maxwell stood on the other side, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He was clad in only a pair of tight red, sequined briefs, a green feather boa, and a Santa hat. He twirled the handcuffs she'd sent him on one finger and clutched the handle of a boombox with his other hand. She stood frozen, stunned, her mind desperately trying to make sense of this garish sight. I hope you’re presentable... Her mouth snapped shut as realization metaphorically smacked her across the face and she narrowed her eyes at the cheekily grinning man. "Oh, no. No, he didn't." That little blond shit wasn't that devious, was he? "Oh yes, he did,” Maxwell informed her with a nod of his head and bent down to hit 'play' on the boombox. Ear-shattering techno music blasted out of the speakers, shaking the walls of the apartment building with the rhythmic thud thud thud of subwoofers. She stared in abject horror as he began dancing, numb shock freezing her in place despite the tiny part of her brain that was desperately screaming at her to slam the door and call security. He thrust his hips forward and then turned in the opposite direction, gyrating his scrawny, sequined ass against her. “C’mon, girl,” he goaded. “Let’s get this party started.” He spun back around, pulled the feather boa from around his shoulders, and wrapped it around her neck, singing along with the music. “What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me...don’t hurt me...no more. Sing it, girl!” He slid the tickling polyester boa from left to right as he shimmied and shook, his upper lip curling in a way that would make Elvis green with envy. Down the hall, apartment doors were opening as curious neighbors stuck their heads out to see what the commotion was. She knew what was coming next and groaned in defeat when cell phones inevitably appeared in their hands. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this would be smeared all over the tabloids by tomorrow morning and gleefully began to plot the untimely demise of the man responsible. "Okay, Winner. This is war."
~ * ~ |
