Any Other Name
- Text Size +

Story Notes:

This is an ugly story with very graphic depictions of abuse and predatory sexual behavior. If you are sensitive to topics of this nature, please do not proceed.

“Working late again?”

The adolescent boy in blue coveralls looked up from the partially-assembled cockpit of the Gundam Heavyarms. On the catwalk above, Trowa Barton leaned on the rail and grinned.

“You’re aware no one gets paid for overtime, right?”

The boy turned back to his task. “I wanted to finish making adjustments to the hand controllers tonight,” he said, “that way the electrical engineers can test them first thing tomorrow. If any further adjustments need to be made, I can have them completed before noon.”

Trowa squinted. “Have you always been this efficient, No-Name, or are you just a workaholic?”

There was no response, naturally—personal questions were always met with silence or ambiguous gestures.

Trowa sighed and shook his head. “You know, you’d be a lot more bearable if you had a personality. I know this is serious business, but even the Doktor appreciates a joke every now and then.” He arched a brow mischievously. “I bet you’re pretty good-looking when you smile. You’ve probably got a laugh like sunshine, too. What a shame.”

No-Name didn’t look up. “If my personality doesn’t suit you, Mr Barton, you’re welcome to find company elsewhere.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Chrissakes, kid, you’ve known me for four months. You can call me by my first name.”

“None of the other workers call you Trowa.”

“That’s because I’m their boss. And before you say anything, yeah, I’m your boss too, but I was also hoping I could be your friend.”

“I have no need for friends.”

“Bullshit,” Trowa grunted, slipping under the rail and landing on the scaffolding. “Everyone needs friends, one or two close ones at least. Are you telling me you don’t have a single friend in the whole wide world?”

No-Name wordlessly dug a ratchet out of his toolbox and began reattaching the housing to the left-hand control column.

Trowa leaned against the Gundam. “I read your file. I know about the incident in 190, when you were with the rebel forces on Earth. That must’ve been pretty hard, being forced to kill your old comrades. I can understand you not wanting to get close to people after something like that.”

“What makes you think I was forced?”

Trowa frowned, silent for a few moments. “You mean killed them because you wanted to?”

“I killed them because it’s what I was trained to do. They had become my enemies, and I’m supposed to destroy my enemies.” No-Name tightened the last bolt and began to gather his tools, returning them to their box.

“I really admire you, kid,” said Trowa softly. “I hate being betrayed, but I don’t know if I could have done what you did. I mean . . . you didn’t feel anything? Remorse? Anger? Sadness?”

No-Name picked up the tool box and climbed out of the cockpit. “I’m a soldier, Mr Barton. My feelings are irrelevant.”

“But you still have them, right?”

The boy didn’t acknowledge the comment; he began to walk away.

It was more than Trowa’s pride could stand. He reached out and grabbed No-Name’s shoulder, turning him and pinning him to the side of the Gundam. He leaned in close, his voice rough and his blue eyes blazing with indignation.

“God damn it, I asked you a question, you little shit, now answer me!”

A look of uncertainty passed across No-Name’s features, vague and fleeting but nonetheless an expression. Trowa’s anger went out like a candle.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared.”

“But you felt something. Right?” Trowa raised his hand and gently grasped the boy’s neck, his fingers pressing the soft, smooth skin beneath the angle of his jaw. A smile came to his face. “Your heart is pounding. I can feel it.”

No-Name swallowed, his green eyes steady and unblinking.

“You’ve been driving me crazy for months,” Trowa uttered. “You’re like a puzzle I just can’t figure out. I want to know who you are, No-Name. I need to know if you can feel anything. I have to know if there’s anything alive in there. ‘Cause if there is, I bet it’s beautiful. If you would just . . . let it out . . .”

The hand on his throat rose to cup his cheek, and Trowa leaned forward, pressing his mouth to No-Name’s and kissing him deeply. The boy shut his eyes, neither resisting nor complying—simply enduring. Trowa’s other hand touched his side and slid down to his hip, grasping his haunch through the coveralls. He pressed closer, chest to chest now, and broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Show it to me, No-Name. I know it’s there. Show me . . .”

Trowa’s lips descended again, earnestly. He wrapped his arm around No-Name’s slim waist, hugging him close, wanting the boy to feel his need. Maybe that would wake him up, make him understand . . . no. No, subtleties were useless with this kid. He needed something more direct—something raw and forceful.

Trowa pawed at No-Name’s collar, searching for the zipper. He found it and pulled it down to the belt. He slipped his hand inside the warm coveralls, searching for bare skin. He found it beneath a soft white shirt, and spread his hand against the smooth flesh. His thumb brushed across the fleshy nub of a nipple.

There came a short, surprised gasp—and the toolbox slammed to the scaffolding. A hesitant hand rose up to touch Trowa’s shoulder, fingers awkwardly clutching the sleeve. The lips beneath his began to move, the unresponsive tongue coming to life.

Trowa squeezed No-Name victoriously.

Yes. It felt so good to get what he wanted.

Heavyarms was beginning to look like a Gundam.

The optical components, mass balance controls, and operating system were up and running and undergoing the final calibrations. Most of the armaments were installed and the suit itself was finally in one piece. Though unpainted and missing a few weapon components, its 16-meter carapace nevertheless inspired awe.

Just the sight of it was enough to put Trowa in a good mood. He spent more and more time on the floor with the engineers, making sure that everything was customized and adjusted according to his specifications. It was always the same thing: more power, more weapons, more magazine capacity. The engineers protested, relented, did what they could. This thing was going to be a walking arsenal.

Trowa’s increasing presence in the hangar also meant more interaction with the technicians. Especially No-Name. He was much friendlier with the boy than any of the other workers, slinging an arm around his shoulder as he went over the latest modifications, complimenting his efficiency and skill, making one-sided smalltalk. It was an annoying but innocuous occurrence, and no one seemed to think much of it—probably just Trowa’s patronizing attempt at being nice. The man was as imperious as they come and as oblivious as they went.

But maybe it was good for No-Name, all this special attention, even if it was coming from a man who had a long history of being an arrogant prick. The boy was an orphan, no home or friends to speak of, and always seemed rather sullen. Perhaps Trowa wasn’t such a prick after all, if he was so moved by compassion as to spend some of his limited time befriending those less fortunate. Maybe this would do them both some good.

So the crew ignored the favoritism, tolerated the inconvenience of No-Name’s occasional absence during work hours, and minded their own business.

At first the smallest things had satisfied him: a lingering hand, stolen caresses under the scaffolding, a few feverish minutes of heavy petting in the hangar shadows. But soon it wasn’t enough. As with his Gundam, Trowa wanted more. More time. More power. More control.

He wanted it all.

No-Name was strangely modest, demure to the point of extreme shyness. It was a charming trait, one that drove Trowa wild. And he was determined to cure him of it.

When he’d first tried to get No-Name out of his coveralls, the boy had intercepted his hands with a pleading, breathy “No.”

Trowa had smiled and nuzzled No-Name’s nose. “Aw, c’mon,” he chuckled, gently prying away the hands that blocked his progress. “I bet you’re gorgeous. I’d like to see for myself. If you look just half as good as you feel . . .”

He kissed him tenderly, and the tight muscles gradually relaxed, yielding. Trowa prided himself on knowing how to talk to people, putting them at ease while at the same time getting what he wanted. A few compliments and promises, some meaningful eye contact with a heartfelt expression , and the deal was clinched. It was a tactic that had worked for him at university, getting him into the panties of even the most frigid ice queens. Alcohol sometimes helped with the tougher cases, but Trowa would never get a girl drunk just so she’d sleep with him—he had to at least know who she was. He was a gentleman.

He undid No-Name’s belt with a quiet click, peeled the coveralls down to his waist and slipped his hands underneath the shirt, guiding it up and over the boy’s head. For a brief second both of those green eyes were revealed, aroused but nervous, before No-Name’s brown hair fell back into place.

“Just as I thought,” said Trowa, brushing his lips against a bare clavicle. “You’re beautiful. More than that—you’re perfect.” He lightly kissed his way up to the open lips, plunging inside, grasping the back of No-Name’s neck and holding him in place.

“You taste so good,” he panted, breaking away for air. The hand tightened. “Wanna taste all of you.”

“I—” started No-Name, but lost his words as Trowa began to mouth his way down his chest.

“So fucking hot,” he muttered against the smooth, flat belly. “Can’t get enough of you . . .”

In no time at all, No-Name was standing with his underpants around his knees and his hands in Trowa’s blond hair, gasping as the man sucked and fondled and stroked him and sent him over the edge to the tune of a low, quavering moan.

“Come for me, gorgeous,” Trowa uttered, his arm wrapped around No-Name’s jerking hips as the boy ejaculated in his hand. “That’s it, baby, just like that.”

Trowa didn’t know when exactly it was that his tastes had shifted to include men. He never gave it much thought; just considered himself to be an aesthete of both sexes, an admirer of the human form and all its erotic, sensual mysteries. No-Name was certainly the youngest of his conquests, but he seemed very mature and intelligent for his age, so that made it alright in Trowa’s mind. Besides, No-Name probably would have lost his cherry to some dried up old hooker or gotten gang-raped before too long. Poor kid didn’t know how lucky he was.

Trowa rose, wiped his hand with a shop rag, and leaned in to kiss No-Name’s trembling lips. “You were great,” he said. “How did it feel? Did you like it?”

No-Name nodded, his eyes still distant and dark.

Trowa smiled. “I thought you would.”

“What about you?” No-Name murmured, his gaze falling to the tent in Trowa’s coveralls.

“Oh, heh. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself. This was about you,” said Trowa graciously. “I wanted to make you feel good. Maybe sometime later on you can return the favor. How does that sound, No-Name? Would you like that? Making me feel good, the way I made you feel?”

The boy shut his eyes tightly and nodded.

“Great,” Trowa murmured. He kissed No-Name’s forehead, ruffled his hair, and pulled away. “I gotta get back now. See you around, gorgeous.”

And he walked out of the storage room, shutting the door behind him.

No-Name stood there for a few stunned moments, his briefs still stretched between his thighs and his shirt lying crumpled on the crate behind him. The last ten minutes had been a fiery black blur of embarrassment, fear, and arousal so overwhelming it made him dizzy. He felt disgusted, euphoric, and terribly, terribly confused.

He sank to the concrete, exhausted physically and emotionally, and pressed himself against the crate’s rough wooden exterior. He buried his face in his hands, in the dark and smell of Trowa’s hair, and moaned.

There were two Quonset huts on base that served as barracks for mechanics, welders, technicians, and other low-level laborers. Engineers and other important staff were housed in nearby apartments, unless they had prior arrangements or didn’t mind sharing quarters with dozens of other men—accommodations came out of one’s paycheck, so some opted for the humbler lodging to boost their bottom line.

To a homeless soldier like No-Name, the huts were palatial, better than anywhere he’d ever stayed. He got his own cot in a private cubicle, clean bed linens every week, and a real foam mattress pad. He hadn’t slept this well in his entire life.

Trowa, of course, had the VIP suite at the apartments, and it was here that he brought No-Name one Saturday night—and many nights thereafter.

The memories of the first time were blurry and surreal to No-Name, probably from the liquor. Whisky, vodka, a shot or two of tequila, he didn’t remember everything he’d drunk; simply accepted what he was offered. He was no stranger to alcohol, but this was the real stuff, not the vile shit brewed in a still made out of mobile suit scraps. It went down smooth, warm, and easy.

And quickly.

Next thing he knew, he was sprawled naked on Trowa’s bed, watching Trowa unroll a condom over his thick red penis and wondering stupidly what he was going to do with it.

He would learn in a few minutes.

Trowa crawled onto the bed and stretched himself against No-Name, petting and reassuring him, placing hot wet kisses on the boy’s neck and stroking his flaccid penis until it hardened in his hand. He murmured in his ear—No-Name couldn’t remember what he said, but it sounded nice—his prickly jaw scraping against the boy’s cheek as he squeezed a glob of lubricant onto his fingers.

No-Name jumped when he felt the cold gel on his anus, but Trowa soothed him and pushed his finger inside. It felt slippery and horrible and gross and No-Name shut his eyes and bit his lip, his body trying to back away from the invader. Trowa continued to caress him as he drilled slowly in and out, then added a second finger. They spread and twisted, stretching the resistant ring of muscle and coating it with the lube. No-Name moaned for him to stop, please, he didn’t want this anymore, it was humil—

Then Trowa touched something in him that made everything disappear; the discomfort, the room, sanity, even Trowa’s own sweaty face with its dark blue eyes and blond hair and spreading grin. All the sexy feelings flooded back into his groin, and he ceased struggling. Anything that felt good couldn’t be bad—Trowa had explained this to him earlier and it seemed to make sense—but No-Name couldn’t decide what it was he felt. Everything was so, so far away right now.

Trowa chuckled, said “I think you’re ready for me,” and pulled his fingers out.

What did that mean? No-Name tried to think but everything was spinning. He was hot and confused. His face burned with intoxication, shame, arousal. He pressed his hands to his cheeks to cool them as Trowa sat back on his legs before him, grabbed him by his thighs, and pulled his lower body onto his lap. No-Name was too out of it to realize what was coming. A lightning bolt of panic slashed through him when he felt the press of Trowa’s cock, but by then it was too late—and Trowa was holding him too tightly for him to escape.

He pushed in smoothly with a groan of “Oh God, kid,” and No-Name clenched everything—the covers, his teeth, his ass, magnifying the man’s largeness—and let out a scream.

Trowa clamped a hand over his mouth. “Shh, relax, baby. Just hang on. It’ll get better, you’ll see.” He pulled out and slid back in, beginning a rhythm.

Tears squeezed from No-Name’s tightly-shut eyes as he rocked in time with the man’s thrusts. He pawed numbly at the heavy hand over his mouth, moaning behind it and sucking air through his nostrils.

The expression of agony melted from No-Name’s face when Trowa found his prostate again. And again. And again. He relaxed, his shuddering muscles going slack, and the hand was lifted away.

“See, baby?” Trowa murmured, his smile sharp and white in the semidarkness. “I told you it’d get better. Heh, yeah, that’s it. Soak it up, sweetheart. Don’t I feel good?”

No-Name moaned wordlessly in agreement, his mind spinning with sensation. Yes, he did feel good. Trowa had been right after all. He should have trusted him more. Trowa wouldn’t hurt him. Trowa knew best.

He didn’t come until Trowa was fucking him for the third time that night, on his knees with his face buried in the sheets, shoulders aching in the man’s fierce grip. There would be bruises the next day—and hickies, and teeth marks, and soreness, and raw red skin, and the worst hangover of his life—but it wasn’t anything No-Name couldn’t handle. He had sustained far worse injuries as a soldier. This was merely discomfort, caused by how much Trowa liked him.

And Trowa did like him, No-Name was certain; why else would the man spend the next two months hovering over his shoulder, watching him and praising him for his beauty and masculinity, calling him sweet names, trying to pleasure him in so many ways? As it went, No-Name never developed feelings for Trowa himself, but he liked the feelings he experienced when the man was around. He made No-Name feel attractive, desired, special. Emotions he’d never felt before.

It wasn’t until after Trowa slumped to the scaffolding with a bullet in his spine in February 195 that the scales fell from No-Names eyes, and he finally saw Trowa Barton for who he really was: a desperately sick man enslaved by his sexual appetites, promiscuous and perverse, a narcissist and a predator. Still, he had been the closest thing to a friend No-Name ever had. And, in his own confused way, No-Name missed him.

Several weeks later, a fifteen-year-old boy in a gold and gray Gundam surrendered to him at the Corsica Airbase, and Trowa Barton—a newer, younger Trowa Barton—at last learned what friendship was.

Enter the security code shown below: