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"Hurricane"Written By: Miss Murdered Disclaimer: I don't own the GW characters - am
just borrowing to torment for my amusement Rating: NC 17 Warnings: yaoi, m/m sexual relations of varying
degrees of smuttiness and roughness, angst, language, dark Quat and
Tro' Pairings: 3x4x3, brief mentions of 1x2 Summary: "There is a moment that I think of when we are in bed together, before the reality sets in, when we are lying side by side and he is the Trowa I could be with and I am the Quatre he could love." A/N: I admit, that I am not usually a fan of the
3x4 pairing as I don't see it working long term as the characters
are so different. As such, if you like the pairing happy and non-angsty
then this fic is not for you. If you want to read a darker version
of the Quat and Tro' pairing then welcome… The fic is inspired by the song Hurricane by 30 Seconds to Mars Beta'd by ELLE as always. "Hurricane " Chapter Two This Hurricane "There's a storm coming," Rashid says from the front of the car. I have loosened my tie, rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and my jacket is abandoned beside me in the black town car. The air conditioning system is turned high, the muggy heat of Honolulu not penetrating the vehicle as we drive from the luxury of the ESUN Fiscal Policy Summit and the elaborate resort that hosted it to the bungalow I have rented by the ocean. The sky had darkened considerably during the dull hours I have been inside the summit, sitting around a highly glossed table, occasionally raising a point regarding the L4 cluster and nodding in appropriate places at the other men and women situated around the circle. I was there by necessity, finding it oddly ridiculous that we talked about fiscal policy, the impending financial crisis that was ripping through the earth and colonies while we were sitting in a five star resort. A resort that had been closed entirely for the event, security provided at no expense spared. It was indeed an irony when entire countries and colonies were filing for bankruptcy. It never ceased to amaze me. There's a storm, I thought, smiling as I looked out the window. There was that palpable sensation in the air, the sign of a tropical storm as the world started to go still and then the wind would pick up and then there would be the rain. I hoped for lightening. I hoped to see rolling waves. I hoped to sit on the deck of the bungalow I had rented and watch earth's utter chaotic display and step out into it, cleansing myself in the rain. I did not share those opinions with Rashid as he drove up to the gated driveway. "I wish you would let me stay with you, Master Quatre. I would feel more comfortable if I knew you were not alone." I smiled at his concern wearily. I had gone through this with him before - that I did not want him or any of the Magunacs on the premises. I was quite capable of defending myself if necessary and I wanted the solitude. There was no lack of security - there was a perimeter of men around the edge of the property on sentry duty, an advanced detection alarm system, a bank of security cameras located around the property and even a panic room. The bungalow was situated away from the hustle and bustle of the main tourist area, surrounded by lush trees, and the beach was private, made that way by nature. The property was owned by someone richer than I, built to a set level of safety and security and thus I felt more than secure spending the night alone. Rashid looked disappointed as he exited the car with me and walked up to the door for no other reason than to voice his concerns one more time. He'd always seemed so tall to me, yet now that I had grown into my father's height, I was not that much shorter than he was. I wondered sometimes if I had disappointed him with the path I had taken after the war - that I settled for a peacetime life of WEI and politics, that I never settled down and had a revolving door of sexual partners and that I had lost some of the sharpness that had made me a Gundam pilot. I had lost none of that, I wanted to assure him, it just lay dormant. I would pull out a gun if necessary, defend myself if necessary, and I would do so without hesitation. "Master Quatre," he says one more time and I shake my head. My father had viewed me as a disappointment and somehow I felt Rashid saw the same. Yet though I did not care for the opinions of the ghost of a dead man, I did care something for what Rashid thought of me. "I have a gun. There's a panic room. I will be fine," I try to assure him. Reluctantly, he leaves and I enter the bungalow, a swipe card and code required to open it showing the advanced quality of the security system. I strip my clothing off as I walk, the shirt falling off my shoulders, leaving me in the white tank top I wore underneath. My shoes are toed off as I find the well-stocked kitchen area, my pants are left haphazardly on the floor and I realise then that the bungalow has been breached as a glass has been left out, the crystal shimmering, and I pick it up as I reach the obvious conclusion. He, of course, would have no challenge in scaling the perimeter. He would not care for the armed sentries, as he was better than them. I walk to the back, the glass in my hand, my fingers lightly drumming against it as I find the large bedroom with the deck that leads directly out from it. For a moment, I wonder whether he will try and surprise me - whether he will use those impeccable stealth skills and pounce on me, unsuspecting, yet he is not doing that. Instead he sits on one of the chairs on the deck and I walk towards him, unable to stop the sound of my footfalls. I wonder if Rashid would be happier knowing I was no longer alone yet when the man in question was Trowa Barton, I believed Rashid would suggest he prefer me to be alone. His gaze turns to me as I walk past the large four poster bed and our eyes meet. He looks tired, I can see that, and he has not shaved for some days. He is still wearing fatigues, khaki with an insignia that I do not recognise. Some militia. I never press. There is a cut across his cheek, a slice of a blade without an expert touch and I notice he has taken the most expensive bottle of alcohol from the cabinet - some real Scottish vintage whiskey - and has knocked back a considerable amount. "Trowa," I say as I meet him there on the deck, the sky darkening further, the trees rustling around us indicating the start of the storm. He had been gazing out towards the ocean and I wonder for a second what he is thinking. Yet I have never been entirely sure what he is thinking and sometimes I am glad he is as closed to me as he was when we met, when I was so hopeful for friendship - before space, before ZERO, before Peacemillion and before us as we are now. Trowa reaches for me and I find myself dropping the glass to the floor and sliding to his lap. He has not changed his clothing or showered since he departed from wherever he has been. I can smell gunpowder residue on him, I can smell sweat, I think I can smell blood but I am uncaring as I meet his lips, the scratch of his beard against my skin. The taste of his mouth is all the alcohol he has consumed yet I do not care as I slide my fingers through the short hair at the back of his head, letting my body instinctively grind down onto him. I am wearing all white, white boxer briefs, white tank top and I want the dirt of his uniform on me, I want his dirty hands to touch me and he does that, no tease in his touches, no extended foreplay. It is simple - we want to fuck so we will. A rumble of thunder breaks through our collective consciousness and our lips part. "There's a storm coming," he says, repeating Rashid's words and I now I realise how prophetic those words were. He was my storm. "You smell," I tease yet I cannot say I don't like it - raw and rough and masculine and Trowa. He gives me a half smile that I take to indicate that I've amused him. "You want to know?" I think for a second - do I want to? I thought I did. I thought I wanted to know where he was in the earth sphere, I thought I wanted to know the things he did, the people he killed for dirty money - his own dirty blood money that he preferred to anything I could offer him - but I was not sure. I shake my head. "No. Let's go to bed." He laughs at me and I can tell he's probably had more alcohol than what has been drunk from the bottle and that tells me he has done things, he has seen things that I cannot comprehend and he wants to lose himself. The alcohol won't work. Maybe I will. A part of me wants to tell him to get the fuck away from me but I have never denied him anything. I have never denied that part of myself that wants him like this. "No bed, Quat," he says and I find myself complying with his request, despite the elaborate four poster bed in close proximity with those stupid towel sculptures left on it by an over-zealous cleaning company angling for some large tip. He only calls me Quat when he's like this. It tips me off to his intent as he lifts up the tank top impatiently, wanting to feel my skin against his. He is unbearably needy like this and he demands touch and skin-to-skin to contact like it is a drug. I start to unbutton the khaki shirt and see a pair of dog tags around his neck, glistening, that are new and I do not speculate about them. He kisses me once the tank top descends to the wooden deck and I open my mouth, thrust my tongue with his and I am aware that this could be being recorded - that the security feeds had points of entry as their primary position. I do not care. I don't care for the scratch of his facial hair against my skin or the feel of his fingernails embedded in my skin. No bed. He doesn't want to be stretched on the sheets. Instead, we clatter to the ground of the decking, the wood hard and uncomfortable as we fight with the last of his clothing. My own boxer briefs are easily removed and once that is done, he goes down on me without any warning and I find myself on my back against the hard surface, looking up to a darkening sky where the clouds are shifting into muted greys and blacks. I encourage him. Unlike him, I thread my fingers through his hair and thrust my hips into his mouth, let myself get lost in the sensation of his mouth around my dick, feeling those dog tags around his neck against the skin of my thighs. He pulls off me and I thrust ineffectually into the air. He surprises me as he produces condoms and lube, sliding one onto me with practiced efficiency and offers me the tube of lube. "Fuck me, Quat," he says and I only study his eyes - one always hidden and I am unsure of why he wants what he wants but I don't deny him that. I maybe am less rough with him than he is with me, I may tease as I push my fingers into him as he balances on his hands and knees in front of me and I centre all my dedication, my determination, my desire into bringing him pleasure. And I know that requires some pain. I bite at his shoulder blade as I work my fingers inside him, as I twist and stretch, as I hear a boom of thunder, see the flash of lightening, and I know it will rain soon but we do not care. I don't know what he wants to forget. I try not to imagine it. I try not to imagine what brings him, un-showered, unshaved, with new scars to me. I don't want to think about it as I slide into him, the first few moments of our bodies joining being slow and torturous for him as I thrust shallowly, his body relaxing to take my Dick, harder, deeper. It doesn't take long until he is thrusting back into me, that I am thrusting hard into him, biting down on his neck, his shoulders, gripping his sides tight enough to break skin as I know what he wants. I angle my hips precisely, I hear that noise low in his throat that indicates "more" and I angle them that way once again, feeling his body ripple and pulse. I fuck him like he wants me to. The storm suddenly erupts, the sheets of rain descending onto us, instantly soaking our sweat stained skin and it is blissfully cold against my heated flesh. My hair gets in my eyes and I don't reduce my rhythm - in fact, I speed up, seek out his cock, slippery from pre-cum and rain water - and I find my pace stuttering as I can't maintain the movement, my Dick pulsing and releasing, the high of my own orgasm making me more determined to bring about his. My strokes are firm and his cock spurts onto my hand and across the wooden deck underneath us, the spasm of his body extending my own pleasure. I lick at where I've bitten down, the rain water already running in rivulets over the expanse of his pale skin, pinkish in places where I have broken the surface and I slowly separate from him, my body not wanting to be parted despite the fucked up situation we were in. The thunder booms above us, our clothes are scattered over the deck, a fork of lightening extends across the sky and he turns to look at me and for a moment I think him wilder than the storm around us. If it was someone else, we'd laugh getting this wet, being naked but instead, we gather up our clothing, the condoms - though leaving the used one to the elements, the lube, the expensive whiskey bottle and glasses and drip our way into the bedroom through the open glass doors. He doesn't speak to me as he leaves for the bathroom and I find one of the expensive plush robes, wrapping myself up in it as the storm increases in ferocity. I watch the black sky, the threatening waves, the powerful streaks of lightening and find my hands shake a little. I frown at them and get the whiskey, drinking straight from the bottle, and I steady my fingers as I glug liquid fire. He joins me on the bed only when I have equalled his amount of alcohol consumption and I realise my world is ever so slightly hazy as he directs me further into the bed. The noise of the storm rattling against the windows on is on the edge of my consciousness aa he finally settles next to me and I find the warmth of his body an irresistible pull. He doesn't protest as I ingratiate myself into his space in the bed - and if alcohol had not clouded my brain, I would suspect even more that he had done horrible things. But as I lie into him, onto him, covering him with my body and resting my head upon his shoulder I find my fingers clasp those newly acquired dog tags and I cannot help but wonder who they belonged to and why they were dead.
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