|
"Wicked Game "Written By: Miss Murdered Disclaimer: I don't own the GW characters - am
just borrowing to torment for my amusement Rating: NC 17 Warnings: m/m sex, angst, bad language, implied
drug use, cheating, some violence of the not too explicit variety Pairings: 2x3x2 Summary: Trowa knows that he risks everything playing a dangerous game with Duo. He just wishes he knew how to quit it. A/N: Apologies for an extra update from me this week as today is one of my good friends, Amberly's, birthday and I promised her a little 2x3 fic. However… I wrote her a little 2x3 one-shot that then became a 5 part multipart. So happy birthday Amberly! And thanks to ELLE
for her super speedy beta-ing as this got out of hand… *shakes
head at muse*
"Wicked Game "
Tonight is the night we pretend – you pretend that
you love me and I pretend that you're mine. You're grinding your ass
against my groin, you have one hand lodged in the back of my hair,
holding my head close to your neck, and the other keeps running down
my thigh as you dance against me, hot and tight. It's a shitty club
but the music's loud enough to lose ourselves in and it's busy enough
that we can imitate fucking on the dance floor and no one will see
us. I slide my fingers down your well-worn jeans, put my
hands into your pocket, drawing you closer even though you're already
so fucking close. The smell of your hair, the touch of your body is
intoxicating to me as you continue fluidly moving your body back into
mine. I think about pulling apart the zipper of your jeans, jerking
you off in the dim light, but your pants are too fucking tight and
I want it later – just us and some shit motel room, when I can
have you all to myself like I don't often get. 'It's only tonight' – that message, those words
and I'm following you to some club, letting you buy us cheap vodka
that burns a trail down our throats and then we're dancing. Shit –
you're dancing. I feel like I'm just here for you to dance against.
Not that I care, I'm a little drunk, a little high and I let you do
whatever the fuck you want. Me? I have you for one night and I'm going
to take you all. I don't feel the guilt now though I know there's someone
sleeping at home, someone that believes in honesty and justice and
is far too fucking good for me but as soon as you said you were on
this colony in L3, I was following your damn instructions as
I wanted to touch and taste and fuck you. "You got a gun or you happy to see me?" you
say, turning in my arms, that wicked smirk on your face as I lean
to kiss you. "A gun," I answer as our lips part but your
hand is rubbing at my crotch and I slide my hands to your ass, drawing
you close enough that we are connected from chest to where I'm fucking
hard for you – pleased to feel that you are for me, too. "Naw, I think you're hard for me baby. Wanna bail?" I don't answer you, only stop your teasing hand and
we're leaving the club and the smell and sweat of all those damn bodies.
We walk to the nearest cheap motel – this is a bad fucking colony,
they're easy to come by – and you buy smokes and liquor from
a nearby convenience store as I pay for a room for the night. I think
briefly about only paying for a few hours as I will leave you, dressing
in the quiet, and you'll be lying there, smoking, but instead I pay
for the whole night so you can sleep there once I go back to him.
I owe you that much. I think for a moment as I hand cash to some overweight guy behind the counter that I should be thinking about Wufei. He always thought it'd be Quatre out of any of us. Never thought it would be you. Guess we both hid it well enough – but then you'd always been a stealth expert and few people saw through my mask so shit, you were the perfect one for me. The one who walks into the cheap-ass, stained lobby with a brown paper bag and a look on your face that I wanted to wipe off right now – pinning you against the nearest wall. Instead, I take the key on the cheap plastic fob and
lead you to our room for the night. The motel room is as uninteresting as any other and
I don't look at it. Instead I'm pushing you up against the door, grinding
into you, sliding my hands to the zipper of your tight-ass jeans,
unzipping them with the impatience of it being to fucking long. Your pants are always too tight as I reach inside, past
your boxers, stroking you, kissing you, wanting to inhale you. You
mouth and bite at my neck, shaking my damn foundations, and I'm grabbing
you, wanting to feel nothing but you, the taste of cheap booze and
the adrenalin of fucking you into the mattress. The tumble to the bed is inelegant, stupid as you are
all about stealth and damn graceful movement and I have balance and
poise from all those times in front of a crowd but I barely care as
you pin me to the bed, straddle me, grab the bottle from the brown
paper and open the cheap vodka. You offer me a sip and I lean up to
take it, you pouring it into my mouth, sharp enough to make me choke
as it dribbles down my chin. I don't think about your intent as you move the bottle,
chase the alcohol down my jaw and neck, the stubble of a few days
on my chin, and fuck – you lick and nip and bite, lapping it
up. I reach to touch your head and wrap your braid around my hand
as you open the buttons of my shirt, parting the fabric against my
chest, my breathing too fast just from touching you after so long. It has to be so long as I can't see you. Not just because
of him – but because I should arrest you as I damn well know
why you're on L3. I know it was you behind the scope of that sniper
rifle and I can't help but wonder if you felt good when you pulled
the trigger, watching his head explode into red mist. But you don't let me think about that, opening my shirt
further, pouring vodka across my chest, lapping it up, leaving my
stomach muscles quivering until you are at my jeans, setting aside
the vodka as you find the gun holster and pull out the standard issue
Preventer weapon. "Sniper rifle better?" I say back and you
grin, digging the gun into my cheek. "Hell yeah." And I reach up then, dislodge the weapon from your grip,
my hand tight around your wrist as I buck up into you. I roll you
over, so you're underneath me, and you only smirk up at me. I kiss
that smirk off your face, run my fingers over a tight cotton tee and
down to your cock, roughly tugging at you as our teeth clash and our
noses knock and we share the taste of that damn vodka. Our clothes don't matter. I'll fuck you half-dressed
but I help you out of those jeans and I push up that t-shirt, mouthing
at your abs as I remove my belt. I fumble my jeans down far enough
before sitting back on my heels a moment as I locate my wallet for
a condom and lube, a sachet in the folds of the wallet as I knew the
moment you'd called that this is where we'd end up – me between
your legs and you looking up at me like that – half-lidded with
that small smirk on your face. I still know your body despite the time we spend apart
– the scars, the marks – and I still know how to touch you,
how to slide my fingers inside you, make you gasp and thrash your
head, pull on my damn hair and reach for my shoulders. "Don't fuckin' tease, baby." And I would – if this was a regular thing, if this
wasn't all artifice and pretend, if it wasn't smoke and cheap alcohol.
But it is and so I don't tease. Instead, I thrust into you hard, harder
than I would ever do with him as you take it, demand it. Fuck, rough
sex is all us, and that's why I came when you called. You blew someone's
brains out today and you need someone to fuck you. Drink with you.
Smoke with you. Someone to forget with you and I'm willing to be that
person. Too damn fucking willing. "You feel good," you tell me and I grunt,
touching you, my hand on your dick, sliding up and down it as I bite
at your pulse and I roll my hips into yours. Each thrust is hot, slick, and I know you make me lose
control too quickly – but we'll smoke, finish the vodka, maybe
score something and get high together and then fuck again in the haze
of cigarettes and the buzz of whatever street drug we can get a hold
of. I do everything that is the opposite of who I'm meant to be with
you because with you I'm not a decorated Preventer – I'm the
man I can't be with anyone else as I mouth at your skin, creating
my marks with teeth and lips, fisting your cock in my hand. You pull me close with your arms and legs, your body
making me speed up by thrusting to meet each motion of my hips, and
you don't say my name, only those "fucks" and "baby's"
you always damn give me, your nails running red down my back. I come, my hand faltering on you, and you push at my
head, sliding down your body to suck your cock. You push at my hair
as I taste you in my mouth, your body jerking, thrusting up –
me tasting cum on my tongue. We both slide away from each other. I swipe the arm
of my shirt against my mouth. You grab the vodka, I grab the smokes.
I remove the rest of my damn clothes, naked now, and I lean against
the headboard, you moving to sit between my legs, lying back against
my chest as you grab a cigarette, lighting one with a matchbook from
a bar, taking a drag before offering it to me and opening the bottle
to take a sip. "I should damn arrest you," I say and you
laugh, steal the cigarette back. "You won't though – you only get tonight." I grunt in response, move the braid over your chest,
breathe in the scent of your skin, my nose in your shoulder as I know
I only get tonight and that in the early hours of the morning I'll
be home with a man I try to love while remembering you. So tonight I'll love you as tomorrow... Shit. Tomorrow
you'll be gone.
|
