|
"My Addiction"Written By: Dentelle_noir Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing AC or the
characters. GW belongs to Bandai, Sotsu and associated parties. This
is a work of fiction and written for fun, not profit Rating: R Warnings: AU, Language, Philosophers and Conquerors
Side-Fic Pairings: 3x4 Summary: Quatre just wanted Trowa to finally stay the night. He wasn’t expecting how far the talented stripper would have to fall before he finally relented.
"My Addiction" "You don't pay enough to make me stay the night, and you can't fuck me long enough to make me." Trowa retorted sharply, walking around the corner with Quatre beside him, tossing the butt of his just-finished smoke to the ground before they got to their destination. Quatre could have SCREAMED in frustration at that response. The prickly, haughty, arrogant stripper that Quatre had managed to get into his life was usually a challenge. He always kept things interesting, and confronted Quatre at every turn. It was part of what Quatre liked so much about him. He was brutally honest and didn’t mince words. He wasn’t polite. But he was real. When they first met, Trowa threatened to mace him, and Trowa would barely speak to him until Quatre worked out that Trowa’s weakness was how much he enjoyed the attentions of his clients. A whore and stripper wasn’t a choice for him; it was nearly a fantasy. But it had come at a price. Trowa was jaded and hardened, refusing to give in even a little! It was easy to get Trowa cleaned up- Designer slacks and a beautiful button-down shirt with a sleek tie did miracles to make the stripper look like he belonged with the rich CEO that Quatre was, but his mouth and the words out of it didn't play the high-society game. Trowa was nothing if not proud of what he was and what he did. And, as much as it rankled Quatre to hear Trowa tell someone Quatre knew, 'I am not Quatre's date, I’m Quatre's whore', Quatre actually respected him for his brutal honesty most of the time. But it was starting to get old. Even after the first time Trowa had let Quatre take him home, Trowa never stopped thinking of himself like Quatre's 'regular', not his boyfriend. Trowa would glare at Quatre whenever he tried to use that word and say 'I never agreed to that' or something equally scathing. Prickly and sharp, bitter and jaded, Trowa never gave Quatre ANYTHING unless he’d expressly allowed it. Unless it was a sexual favour, which Trowa always allowed and encouraged. Quatre could screw him against a kitchen table and Trowa would beg for more, but calling him ‘boyfriend’ was ridiculously too far! But what else would he be called?! Quatre was absolute addicted to Trowa's presence. Quatre saw him every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. And Quatre had suspected, from the amount that kept coming out of his bank account each week, that Trowa was only telling his pimp about two or less of those dates. That meant, to Quatre, that Trowa was seeing him just because he wanted to; at least sometimes. And Quatre thrived on that knowledge. He figured Tuesdays. Because Trowa had made it clear, as soon as the routine was put into place, that Tuesdays weren't house calls. Tuesdays were 'date-nights' and Quatre was required to bring Trowa out somewhere or else Trowa wouldn't come. The first time it had been shopping (which Trowa hadn't liked much), the second time had been to a fancy restaurant (Which Trowa liked a bit better, but still didn't seem impressed with), and then finally Quatre figured out the unspoken desire when with the third time he'd brought Trowa out to a plain section of Miami beach to look for seashells, which Trowa loved. The idea was cemented when Trowa enthusiastically made love to him in the back of his BMW after the date where Quatre took him to a crappy dinner and then to see a movie that was being screened up against the wall of the library. Trowa liked dates. Normal dates. And on date-nights Trowa was almost always open to different things. Tonight was date night. And he had been ready to take the next step in his war against the stripper’s defences. They were walking towards the theatre (To see a musical that one of Quatre's friends was producing) and Quatre had made the suggestion that perhaps Trowa stay all night. This was met with a scathing “no” and an insult to his masculinity. Well, Fuck! They'd been seeing each other for almost two months! Sure, Quatre was still paying the minimal amount for two of the three days, but after two months he sort of thought that they'd passed the point where Quatre had to pretend that he wanted Trowa to leave once he'd gotten his rocks off. He didn't want Trowa to leave. He was so addicted to the dancer's presence that when he left, Quatre felt like the next day couldn't come fast enough. He needed more Trowa! More of his laugh, more of his smirk, more of his dark sense of humour and more of his amazing positions in bed; Quatre wanted this crazy arrangement of theirs to be a real relationship! Not this farce of intimacy and dates and paid hours of Trowa in his bed. But any time it was brought off, Quatre was turned down even more brutally than the time before! This time was no different, Trowa seemed so pissed that he'd even ASKED that he had taken his arm away from Quatre's waist and began to walk ahead of him, pointedly not talking to him. What did he need to DO to get Trowa to stop seeing him like a client and start seeing him as someone who cared about him?! "Trowa! C'mon!" He said, hurrying his footsteps to catch up, his temper starting to flare, "It's not as if you don't like being with me! I’m the only guy you see regularly and you’ve stopped taking in other clients! You love the way I make you moan. I promised to always keep you satisfied, and I do! I know you. I know what you're thinking, and you don't WANT to leave most of the time! Don't glare at me like that for suggesting you stay!" Quatre growled at him, falling into file with him as he caught up. His temper was starting to flare, and Quatre was going to start showing his spiteful side soon. Trowa, though, was just as stubborn and even less tamed. He glared wildly, "Don't tell me what I'm thinking. You don't know me. You only know what I LET you know. You're my John. I'm your whore. And that's THAT." He growled deeply, through gritted teeth. "Opps, Sorry" said a young guy, bumping his way between the two of them. He looked rumpled and smell liked garbage... And Quatre felt his hand slip into his pocket looking for his wallet. Quatre might have been blond, but he wasn’t an idiot; He didn't keep his wallet in the normal pocket. The bulge the pick-pocket had seen was just a folded up napkin Quatre hadn't been close enough to a garbage to toss out from their cheap take-out dinner that Trowa had loved. The guy walked off a bit more, and Quatre turned to Trowa, "Got your wallet?" he asked sharply, pissed off and rankled that their fight was derailed by some idiot punk pick-pocket. He was frustrated and angry and ready to keep yelling at Trowa until he got the arrogant dancer to stay the god-damn night for once! Was it so wrong to want to see his face in the morning?! But Trowa wasn't paying attention to him... Something was seriously wrong. Trowa’s eyes had dilated to pinpricks and he was twitching just a little, tensely staring after the pick-pocket, riveted on his shape. "Trowa?" Quatre asked again, eyes narrowing, "What's wrong with you?" "N'uthing." Trowa said quickly, turning away from the guy (who had turned a little, looking back at them oddly... as if trying to work out what was wrong with the tall one, too). Quatre looked Trowa over... and stepped back a little. His previous argument was forgotten in lieu of this new mystery. Something was going on between Trowa and the pick-pocket and Quatre had no idea what. And Quatre absolutely HATED being out of the loop. "Seriously, Trowa. What's wrong?" He grilled. Because as much as Trowa refused it, Quatre DID know him. And knew him well. And Trowa was NOT acting like himself. He couldn't seem to stop licking his lips, swallowing thickly and licking them again, as if he was just DROOLING for something he’d been starved of. His nostrils were flared, and he was inhaling sharply, smelling something that Quatre couldn't pick up... And Trowa was glued to that spot, just RIVETED... looking at the guy as if he wanted something. As if he wanted him. As if he wanted something he had. And Quatre wanted gone from there. Something wasn’t right and it was making his skin crawl. The pick pocket hadn't gone far... But now he seemed to smirk as if he knew something Quatre sure didn't. He relaxed against the brick building and he pulled out a lighter while looking at Trowa, then to the expensive CEO that was tugging at his arm to get going. The man smirked, and he opened up his rumpled jacket, pulling out a small, sleek, shiny glass pipe. To Quatre, it looked something like a thin light bulb with white around the end. To Trowa, it looked very, very different. He moaned in desire and clenched Quatre's arm BRUTALLY. "Take me home, Quat." he nearly begged. “Now.” Quatre had never seen this side of Trowa before... He looked almost... Scared. The sexy, confident, brash dancer, the man who saw fist fights and jumped into them and who would strip down to nothing in the middle of a dinner party if he was dared to was actually...Scared. Petrified, even! Trowa didn't seem to be able to move, he was totally fixated on what the rumpled guy was doing... Sprinkling something into the pipe and then flicking a lighter underneath the glass. "Wanna hit?" he asked with a grin. Trowa swallowed thickly again, and if Quatre had a say, he would guess that Trowa's body was saying 'Yes! Yes, I fucking DO want a hit!' Quatre tugged him away, horrified! No WONDER Trowa never seemed to have any damn money! "Jesus, Trowa! NO!" he growled, yanking him away harder this time. Trowa seemed to fall back a step, still staring at the meth-head, "N-no." He responded to the question shakily. It was the worst damn 'no' Quatre had ever heard out of him. "NO. I don't. I quit. Two years ago I stopped." Trowa said to the man. The meth-head grinned, "You can still smell it, mmm? You sure you don't want just a taste... You remember how it tastes, hmm? Why not get your sugar-daddy there to get you a hit? I'll even give you a discount if he tries some too. Two for one deal." Quatre sniffed the air... he didn't smell anything. Trowa sure seemed too, though. And he was shivering, quaking for it... Still smacking his lips and training his eyes on that pipe as if it were the only thing that could satisfy his desperate hunger. The man reached the pipe out closer to Trowa... And Trowa dug his hands into Quatre's arm, "Get me home!" he ordered Quatre, "Please! Please, take me home!" He begged, turning his head and taking shaking steps away. Quatre didn't need to be told a third time. If he wasn’t so damn worried about Trowa he’d have happily punched that disgusting meth-head in the face! He grabbed hold of Trowa behind the back and marched him away from that alley. Trowa's whole body seemed to be made of jell-o, shaking and pliable. He was still making those twitching motions and couldn't seem to stop licking his lips, eyes flicking back every few seconds to look at the pipe and the dealer smirking at him. They were right next to the theatre, but his producer-friend's disappointment was the furthest thing in his mind. He hailed a cab and literally shoved Trowa into it as soon as it stopped. Trowa's hands weren't working well enough to get the seatbelt over, and Quatre took over after a second, snapping him in and telling the driver how to get to his place with a temper spiked high and patience running low. Thankfully, Trowa didn't argue that Quatre had given his own house number, and not Trowa's house. There was no way that Quatre was going to let him out of his sight like THIS. And he was too worked up to argue anything. The drive home was the most stressful thing Quatre had ever experienced—and Quatre made million-dollar deals all damn day! Trowa wasn’t a deal, though. He was a person. A person that Quatre loved, despite how prickly he got and despite how hard Trowa pushed him away. Quatre couldn’t just stand back and let this happen to his Trowa! Trowa was NOT himself, shivering even as sweat beaded off his brow, and staring at the back of the driver's seat fixedly, probably dreaming of taking a hit back in that alley and feeling his brain fry. He didn’t even try to have a cigarette... And for the chain-smoking dancer, that was most telling of all! Quatre was damn worried. When the cabbie got there, Quatre tipped the man handsomely for his trouble, then Quatre tugged the dancer out of the cab and into his front door. He let go of Trowa so he could lock the door behind them and take off his jacket... and when he turned around, Trowa was gone. Shit, Shit, SHIT! Quatre tried not to panic. His Miami beach house wasn't as big as most of them on the block, but Trowa knew his way around it easy enough by now. He could have slipped out in seconds... Worried, Quatre moved to check the kitchen (and back door) for any signs of him, and then poked his head into the downstairs bathroom... No Trowa. Quatre walked up the stairs. He HAD to be there. And in a way, it would make sense if he was. Quatre's bedroom was upstairs and Trowa almost always made it there when he came to visit. It was the room Trowa liked the most, anyway. The room when he knew Quatre would always satisfy him. Quatre was not surprised to find his bedroom door open and Trowa's shoes laying haphazardly on the floor where they were kicked off. "...Trowa?" Quatre asked, walking in and taking a look around. There was Trowa, in bed already. He had taken off his shirt and slacks, leaving them in a pile at the side. He had crawled right under Quatre's blankets and stayed there, shivering so harshly that the whole bed seemed to be vibrating. His wild eyes locked with Quatre's. Instead of yelling, or saying something sarcastic and scathing, he reached out for him, "Please..." he begged, “Come to bed. I’ll – I’ll give you whatever you want, Quat.” Quatre had never seen such a thing. The proud, brash, handsome performer had lost his edge and wasn't acting anymore. He was desperate. And he was asking for Quatre. Quatre stripped down to his boxers, and climbed in behind Trowa. He took his hand, tucking it against Trowa, and Quatre pressed against the taller-dancer's back, holding him tightly. "You had a Meth problem, didn't you Trowa?" he asked quietly. Trowa shook like a leaf in his arms, and nodded, "I- I was a street whore for almost two years because of it..." He admitted, "Barely graduated dance school. Owe some bad people some serious cash... But I stopped. Been clean. Been clean for almost two years. Didn’t touch it for that long... But God, oh GOD Quatre just the smell of it! I wanted it so BAD!" "... Meth is odourless, Trowa..." Quatre said, frowning. Trowa shook his head, "No. Not if you've had it. I could smell it on that guy. Could taste it in my mouth. Could feel the ache. The need. God it tastes so fucking good," and Trowa shook brutally, "feels so good... Makes everything so much faster! So much easier. Like you can experience everything around you..." he was panting now. “The sensations would blow your fucking mind, Quat...” Quatre was really worried now, holding Trowa closer... He knew Trowa had a weakness for fine things- real leather pants, good wines, and Belgium chocolates. Those were all harmless, and indulgences Quatre happily tempted Trowa with. But this was different... And Quatre had a feeling he’d just come face-to-face with Trowa’s biggest weakness of all. Quatre slid his arm down and grabbed his hip, digging his nails into him there. He knew that usually turned Trowa on. Sex was Trowa’s favourite thing in the world... If Quatre could derail Trowa’s thoughts maybe Trowa would start thinking normally again! It seemed to work a little, making Trowa stop reliving his meth-dream and look to Quatre. He seemed to search Quatre's face... and he slowly began to move, getting on his back for Quatre. He was was looking away. He'd left himself totally open to him... Submissive and cutting himself off from the world. Quatre had brought him home, Trowa was sure he wanted the fuck. He didn't want to think about it. Just stared at the wall and tried to think of anything other than how good a hit would feel right about now... Fuck, Fuck, FUCK. Quatre could have cried. That wasn’t his Trowa at all. His Trowa was full of fire, moody and bi-polar and scathing, but passionate, and hungry, and easily excited. This wasn’t Trowa. This wasn’t the man Quatre loved. Something was very, very wrong... And Quatre refused to play into his hand and let Trowa block him out like that! Instead of pushing Trowa's legs open to take advantage , Quatre tried something different. He laid down on top of Trowa's chest, pinning him there, curling on top of him and holding him tightly, "Trowa... Trowa please stop," He begged quietly, kissing his neck gently and refused to move. “I won’t go anywhere. I said I would take care of you, and I meant it.” He reminded him stubbornly. Trowa swallowed thickly...looking at the man who was still holding him. Still keeping him near... Still kissing his chest affectionately, even after Trowa had spilled his deepest, darkest moments of life... And still, Quatre wanted him? He hugged Quatre closer, pulling him against him almost brutally tight, the blankets cocooned around them and blocking out anything else in the world. Trowa leaned to capture Quatre's lips, slow and soft and yearning, then he laid back and held him close with arms as firm as iron bars. "Quatre?" Trowa asked with a shakey voice. "Can I stay the night tonight?" Quatre cuddled up closer to him, leaving his head right where it was. He kissed Trowa's chest, and got comfortable. "Yes, Baby. Anything you want. I won't let you go." Trowa shook, “I- I guess it’s right. What they say about being addicted—You can stop doing it, but you can’t ever stop wanting it.” He said, shuddering as his body seemed to echo the brutal withdrawal he’d already been through before. Quatre kissed his chest, and held him through the next series of shakes, thinking about that... and thinking about how true it was... Since Quatre had gotten a taste of Trowa, he couldn’t ever seem to stop... But he didn’t want to. Trowa held him tighter... and after a long, long time... He finally managed to sleep, staying in Quatre's room the whole night... and well into the next morning. It wasn’t the best first time, but it wasn’t the last. One more battle was won, and soon, Quatre just might be able to win the war and conquer the heart of the man he loved.
~ * ~
|
