|
"Fight Club"Written By: Switchblade003
Warning(s): Lime. And we’re not talking fruit,
people… Rating: NC-17 Archive: www.wuffie.net Notes: All right! Step right up, folks! We’ve
got angst, counter-plots, citrus, and the cameo mention of a lovely
antagonist! I finally sat down and wrote something. Mono can’t
even keep me from my pretty, stolen charas. Thank you all for being
so patient, and reviews would be much appreciated!! This chapter is
extra-long, to tide you guys over. Review Raves: For those of you who reviewed the
last time I posted… +++ Fight Club "Knock it off!" With a slightly annoyed roll of teal eyes, Quatre pressed
his back to the frosted glass sliding door of the shower stall, but
a little smile took the corner of his flushed lips. It had taken nearly
fifteen minutes to fight his guardian out of the bathroom; Trowa had
been very insistent on helping him to rid his hair and skin of the
pesky field dirt which coated him, and while the blonde would have
loved nothing more than an energetic romp in the shower, he was actually
starting to feel a little reluctant about the prospect of bedding
his mate. His frustration was mounting, and he needed to move,
do something constructive… Trowa had made him give up cutting.
His eyes fell on the cold, glistening triple blades of the flimsy,
disposable razor that the man had left on the stall ledge that morning.
Could he get away with a slip-up in the shower? The blonde reached out and plucked the razor from its
perch, the stale water from that morning freezing as it trickled down
the shallow groove in the handle and onto his skin. He pursed his
lips in thought, twirling the object around easily before setting
it on the soap dish. Maybe later… Instead, Quatre picked up the bar of soap, frowning
in distaste at the slimy underside that stuck to the porcelain, and
began methodically lathering his slender frame. As his fingers grazed
over the raised scars that covered his arms, his sides, he winced.
The wounds were no longer physically painful, but the boy remembered
the origin of every one. His eyes narrowed in recurring anger as memories
of the brutal beatings his father had orchestrated flashed through
his mind. He even recalled the singular burn scar that marred his
inner left wrist, a relic from his relationship with Duo. The Arabian chewed his lower lip silently, rinsing the
suds away, wanting to see the blemishes that striped his pale skin.
He no longer thought of his father, not unless it was a fleeting memory
and even those he attempted to banish from his consciousness. But
the braided young man who had broken his heart… That was another
story entirely. Quatre missed the American, missed even their half-hearted
confrontations in the deserted hallways of his old high school. He
missed the fury that only he could spark in the star quarterback’s
luminous violet eyes with simple words. He knew that Trowa could never
replace his former friend, would probably never understand him quite
as well as Duo had… The age difference did matter, here. Trowa was a well-educated, disciplined adult, a responsible,
law-abiding citizen, and as hard as Quatre tried, he just couldn’t
see how the man could want him, love him the way he claimed to. He
had overheard the man’s conversation with his colleague the night
that he had decided to go active duty with the Navy. He knew what
Trowa’s peers thought of him, and he had to admit that their
accusations were not baseless. Why his guardian couldn’t see
the validity of their words, he wasn’t certain. Slim hands worked through flaxen locks with a frustrated
vigor. He had to consider the possibility that he was somehow part
of a veritable midlife crisis on the part of his impromptu caretaker.
Maybe Trowa hadn’t been pleased with the direction that his life
had taken, and he was looking for something to liven it up? The blonde
growled angrily, throwing back his mane of soap-laden hair and rinsing
the suds and dirt away. The wry, self-loathing part of his brain decided
to speak up, then. Or maybe he just wants to tackle something a little
more challenging than teaching International Relations. The youth’s frown deepened. Maybe Trowa had taken
him on as some kind of test; maybe the brunette wanted to know if
he really could handle being a parent. Yeah, Quat, but normal guys
don’t want to have sex with their sons. That was just your dad…
"This is ridiculous. I’m making this up! He
wants to be with me…" The Arabian opened cold blue eyes
and stared hard at the razor. I might not understand why, but I’m
sure he really does… "Quat?" Trowa’s soft tenor sounded muffled over the drone
of the shower, and the blonde turned the taps off, still scowling.
"What do you want?" he snapped, a bit harshly. The man just
beyond the pane of inch-thick glass paused, and Quatre could almost
see his beautiful green eyes blinking in confusion at the hostility
lacing his alto. He had asked the officer to let him alone while he
showered, but Trowa never listened to him. He supposed it was part
of the man’s charm. "S-Sorry," the former teacher stammered, leaving
as suddenly as he’d entered. The blue-eyed boy sighed heavily.
Great. Now I’ll have to deal with his sulking… +++ Twenty minutes later found the brunette laying tensely
atop his bed, arms crossed over his bare chest, bottle-green gaze
fixed on the television. It was a familiar habit of his, to stare
idly at the ‘idiot-box’ when agitated or worried, and Quatre
wasn’t surprised to find the man in front of its lure yet again. "Trowa," the blonde sighed, moving to stand
between the edge of the bed and the TV, a towel wrapped firmly about
his hips. "I’m sorry I yelled at you." The brunette
didn’t budge, however, and the teenager could feel the tension
in the room grow by considerable degrees. So a simple apology wouldn’t fix things. Quietly,
he moved onto the bed that they shared, crawling over to his guardian
and moving to straddle the taller male. "Trowa?" The naval
officer frowned at the sudden pressure against him and pointedly ignored
his companion. The Arabian growled quietly in frustration, leaning
forward and pressing his lips to his bedmate’s, caressing slowly,
with a gentleness rendered clumsy by inexperience. Trowa remained motionless, stoic against his ward’s
intimate assault at first, but as the teenager’s agile hands
ran up his bare sides and into his short-cut hair, he relented to
the boy’s carefully-controlled passion, returning his gesture
softly, eyes falling closed. As angry as he was with the Moslem for
shouting at him, the hostile emotions couldn’t hold out against
the desire that surged through him at the contact of those full lips.
Slowly, cautiously, he took Quatre’s narrow hips in his hands
and pulled the boy closer. The blonde smiled against his friend’s lips, sighing
contentedly. Maybe now the brunette would forgive him? A soft moan
was his only response, Trowa grinding up against him subtly, his mouth
slack as he panted silently into Quatre’s kisses. Maybe tonight
he would finally go through with that rain-check that he had given
the younger male back at his old apartment. Maybe tonight… With a deliberate twist of his hips, the teenager pressed
more urgently to his guardian. That was exactly what he wanted to
happen. He wanted to lose himself in Trowa’s touch, his body…
He could feel his own lithe form tense up at the direction his thoughts
were taking. Then maybe I can forget about the fact that he doesn’t
really love me. "Quat?" Characteristically melancholy teal
eyes slid open to find concerned hunter green staring up at him. The
brunette ran soothing hands along the smooth line of his back, his
fingertips running over the subtle bumps of his vertebrae. Trowa had
noticed him tense up, and he probably thought that he had done something
wrong. "I’m fine…" He ducked his head down
and buried his face in the man’s strong column of neck, sighing
explosively. "I want to concentrate on you, right now."
It was more a request than a statement, and the green-eyed young man
nodded slowly. Quatre could almost see his brow creasing in confusion.
"I need to forget about what’s bothering me." Carefully,
he raised his head and held the brunette’s gaze. "Can you
help me forget?" The former professor frowned thoughtfully, and it seemed
as though he were weighing his options. The paternal part of his mind
wanted to know what it was that was upsetting his charge, but the
more sporadic, protective, less mature side of him said that he should
simply comply with his comrade’s request. He decided on a compromise.
"I’ll do whatever you want to distract you, but afterwards
we talk." The decision was delivered in a gentle enough voice,
but the look in Trowa’s eyes was unwavering, and Quatre nodded
his understanding. That was fine. Maybe he could just make up something
to talk to the man about; a large part of him was scared that if he
told his caretaker what was truly unsettling him, the man would just
confirm his worst suspicions. Quatre wasn’t too certain that
he could handle that kind of rejection. A bit roughly, the taller of the two rolled them over
onto his back, straddling his slender hips and leaning over him, the
feral light in his eyes almost predatory. If Quatre wanted a distraction,
he could sure as hell deliver. If this was the only way that he could
help his friend, he was more than willing to give it a shot. "What
do you need, Quat?" he whispered, tenor low, husky. The blonde
felt his pulse quicken at the sound of it. "You. Just… make me forget." It was all the initiative the brunette needed. With
a soft sigh, he closed the space between them, claiming the blonde’s
lips with bruising force. He hadn’t wanted their first coupling
to be anything but gentle and, well… romantic, but if this was
what the boy wanted… Quatre arched beneath him, his smaller hands clutching
at the man’s shoulders. Trowa felt his groin tighten almost painfully
at the groans he was wringing from that slender throat, his mouth
falling to the boy’s collarbones. He bit teasingly at the blonde’s
left pectoral, his tongue seeking out the youth’s nipple. "What should I do?" the man inquired, arching
a brow and trailing a finger down the boy’s sternum, over his
trembling stomach, and snagging the edge of the towel. The blonde
moaned, reaching up to take the brunette’s head in his hands
and pull his lips towards his navel. Trowa wasted no time in picking
up where he’d left off. He moved himself down the youth’s
body, hands to his sides, and slid his tongue into the warm, shallow
recess of the boy’s navel. Quatre drew in a shaky breath, head thrown back against
the bed. With as much force as he could muster, he pushed at the man’s
shoulders again, and Trowa took the hint. With a rough motion, he
tore the towel from his ward’s hips, gazing down at the exposed,
pale skin, the light gold curls, and the proof of the blonde’s
passion for him. He hesitated, hands straying to stroke the sensitive
skin at the inside of Quatre’s lean thighs. The former professor was no stranger to sex, but he
had never been with another male, before. Consequently, the only knowledge
of the male organ he harbored came from what he knew he liked having
done to him. So with that in mind, the man lowered his mouth to the
blonde’s length, taking the head between his lips and lapping
experimentally at the weeping slit at the top. "Trowa!" A loud cry tore itself from Quatre’s throat, his hips bucking automatically towards the source of the heat around him, hands fumbling around the bedspread, flexing into a white-knuckled grip on the sheets. The officer steadied himself, trying to relax his throat
and resist the urge to choke as the blonde arched into his mouth.
He was thrilled with the reactions that he was getting from his lover,
and he wanted to give the boy the release he sought, but gagging was
a serious problem at this point. Carefully, with strength that the Arabian could not
have contested, he held the youth’s hips to the mattress. Then
the brunette slid the boy’s length into his mouth, relaxing his
throat to accommodate him, and he ran his tongue along the underside
of the Moslem’s shaft, reveling in the moans and cries that Quatre
was making. He applied as much suction as possible, moving his head
up and down slowly, cautiously. The orphan was reeling in sensation, his hands threading
through the brunette’s short, dark auburn hair, his back arching
off of the bed with every flick of his lover’s tongue. The older
male might have had no experience with gay sex, but what he lacked
in knowledge he made up for in both enthusiasm and ferocity. Something
in his mind told him that the boy didn’t want a gentle, tender
lover, but a forceful one, and that was exactly what Trowa gave him. Quatre groaned, head thrown back, blue eyes clenched
closed. As good as what Trowa was doing to him felt, it wasn’t
going to be sufficient to bring release; he wasn’t using any
kind of pattern or rhythm, and the boy moaned almost out of frustration.
He held the man’s head in place as he began moving his hips,
thrusting shallowly into the brunette’s hot mouth. Trowa loosened
his hold on the blonde, though only by degrees, and took up the boy’s
rhythm. "Ah!" The Arabian shouted something incoherent
as the coil in the pit of his stomach began to wind more tightly.
He was so close… The man above him sucked harder, moaning around
the flesh in his mouth as the blonde’s fingers ran through his
hair spasmodically, his bright head thrashing from side to side. Trowa
was amazed at how passionately the boy was reacting to his stimulus,
his lithe frame wire-taught, the muscles in his stomach and thighs
jumping, his small hands trembling. All it took was a well-placed stroke of his tongue to
send the youth over, Quatre convulsing around him, his shaft throbbing
in its release. The Arabian cried out loudly, and Trowa felt his mouth
filled with a heated, bitter fluid and he turned his head, spitting
onto the towel he’d taken from the boy’s hips. Quatre willed his turquoise eyes open, gazing up at
his lover, and the small smile on his lips faded instantly at the
angry, confused expression on his guardian’s handsome face. "Trowa?"
he asked tentatively, propping himself up onto his elbows. The brunette
met his gaze with stormy leaf-green eyes. What in the world is he upset about? Does he not like
what just happened? The blonde pushed himself upright and moved over
to his lover, who sat on his heels on the bed, back slumped. "What’s
wrong?" he asked softly, reaching up to cup the man’s cheek.
Trowa pulled away from his touch as if burned. "You called out Duo’s name," he stated
simply, quietly. "Not mine." +++ TBC. Lol. No quote for you guys, this time, but a phrase I heard in the movie that cracked me up: "sport fucking." Heh.
|
