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"Bad Romance"Written By: Miss Murdered Disclaimer: I don't own the GW characters - am
just borrowing to torment for my amusement Rating: NC 17 Warnings: het, m/f sexual relations, some language,
angst, Relena POV Pairings: 1xR A/N: Inspired by the 30 Seconds to Mars cover
version of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance as there is something far too angsty
and sexy about the way Jared Leto sings it. And yes, I usually write
yaoi but I wanted to write het so here it is. Usual service to be
resumed shortly. Thanks to ELLE for the beta as always. Summary: "I did not want my knight in shining
armour. I wanted my soldier – my violent, passionate man who
set me on fire like no other could. I wanted Heero Yuy. And I would
never truly have him." "Bad Romance" My mother was not my real mother, this I had known since
I was fifteen and saw the man who I thought was my father die in front
of my eyes, yet despite that fact she would always be the only mother
I had ever known. And she was the dispenser of motherly advice and
concern and always would be. The advice she had given me on my wedding night was
not something I required though I smiled at her and nodded, asserting
that I was naïve even though I had long since gone past that.
I may not have had sex with my husband as protocol dictated –
he had courted me so traditionally, so publicly, so perfectly
but I was not the virgin wearing white that my mother thought of me
as. I wanted to smile at her eyes, full of concern for this
first foray into womanhood, or what she thought was my first foray
into womanhood, as she told me to let him initiate the encounter.
I believe the gist of her speech was to lie back and think of something
else. She warned me of blood, of pain, and I genuinely felt like sighing.
I was standing in the most elaborate wedding dress that money could
afford, the many pleats and lace making me feel like a China doll,
a tiara that had been in the Sancian royal family perched atop my
head and I looked the very image of decorum. Of the perfect bride.
Innocence and fresh faced youth at twenty two. My wedding had been televised to the world. My brother
had walked me down the aisle, his gloved hand steadying me as if he
knew more than he would ever tell me. I think Milliardo knew my eyes
drifted towards a man in formal Sancian clothing leaning against the
wall at the edge of the room despite the fact my future husband was
waiting at the end of the lines of pews. Milliardo had always known.
He had asked me once, at the ball for our engagement, why I was doing
this – marrying a pompous earl from Luxemburg rather than the
intense young man who had saved my life on numerous occasions –
and I had only flicked at his hair, leaned up into him, my heels providing
me with the necessary height, and whispered into his ear. "I can't tame him." Milliardo had smirked and raised an eyebrow – my
brother more knowing than my mother – and his eyes had flickered
towards him,wearing a suit and implementing security procedures
and understood. "I see." There was nothing more to be said. My brother would
never know that I snuck away with him during my engagement party,
that he kissed me with unbridled intensity, that I raised my skirt
and allowed his touch, his fingers, the swipe of his tongue until
I was wanton and his and demanding whatever he could give me.
I did not want to tame him – oh no, I did not want to put him
into my world, to loop my arm around his and walk through the gardens
of Sanc in bloom and discuss politics. I wanted him like he was –
like he'd always been, since we were fifteen and he took my virginity
like I hoped he would from when I had first laid eyes upon him –
dangerous and exciting, a shooting star that had descended into my
life with a gun pointed at my head and a threat to kill me. My feelings
for him were nothing if not tainted by our past of threatened violence
and the barrel of a gun. I didn't want to change him. And once he offered, once,
maybe when we were still too young, he had asked if I wanted him like
that. If I wanted him to put away his darkness, his violence, his
stern expression and his fierce eyes. Yet he would not be the one
I wanted if he was like that. If he was the simpering husband I'd
just committed my life to. The man I was now obligated to. The advice on my wedding night had not been entirely
unused. My husband's hands had been so delicate on the lace and satin
of my dress, scared, afraid, maybe of the expense or of the expectations
I had of him once we were undressed. My husband's hands were nothing
like his. I remember once, the kiss of a blade on a long dress, so
impatient to be inside me, to be thrusting into me and making me feel
so desired and wanted that I would permit the destruction of my clothing
just to feel him, hot and hard, and close, his eyes so dark that the
blue almost had been eradicated as he looked at me for one moment
in the darkness of another hotel suite, my hand buried in his hair
as he stilled his hips, stood together with one of my legs wrapped
around him as we had not made it to the bed – and then he would
move and I would come undone. He always ensured I came. He was the
most unselfish lover – no, not unselfish because he always reached
his climax, his eyes closing, his breath a whisper over the shell
of my ear and I would feel him shudder and release and I would run
my hands all over him, grip him tighter to me – but he would
never leave me unsatisfied. It was an admirable quality in a man. Unlike my husband, who had no sensuality, no feral quality,
no dark eyes, no desire to make sure I attained pleasure. I did lie
back and think of other things on my wedding night – the beautiful
lingerie discarded and not appreciated – and I thought how our
wedding night would've been. I would've stripped for him, maybe, I
thought as managed to make the correct noises as my husband's unskilled
hips flexed and I felt so far from orgasm from the experience. He
would've watched the white removed from my skin – the symbolic
display of pureness gone – and I would've made him watch, test
his patience until his hands were balled in the sheets and I gave
him permission. Maybe I could never tame him but I could make him
heel. Wait. Do as I wanted. I would've kissed every part of him, unlike the awkward
kisses I shared with my husband. I would've trailed my mouth and tongue
down his chest and taken him in my mouth as his hands sought out my
skin. I would think how it was something good girls did not do. I
would think how I didn't care as I would suck on him until he became
impatient, pulling me up, caressing my breasts, teasing nipples with
his tongue and sliding his fingers inside me to feel how wet I was,
how turned on, how much I wanted him. My husband could not elicit that response. My real wedding night had lasted minutes, his steady
rhythm, him on top and awkward movements providing little stimulation. Afterward I departed to the bathroom, excused myself
to shower and continued my fantasy of him. I teased myself
at first, running fingers over my nipples and imagined his tanned
flesh against my paleness, imagining him behind me in the shower as
we had done on a trip to L3 and he had bypassed my security to find
me there naked and said only one word. "Relena." And I nodded my permission. He dropped his clothing
and stood behind me, using soap and water to massage my breasts, his
mouth on my neck, his hardness against my lower back sliding and then
his hands slid over belly-button, down, to touch, to flick a skilled
finger and I was in no mood for game playing. I bent over, braced
my hands against cold tile, and the memory of hot water, of him and
of his body provided me with the necessary mental images for my own
fingers to slide at the rhythm for me to come. Thinking of him always
had the required effect. I did not need books or images. I had memories.
I had seven years of them. The day after my wedding my mother smiled vaguely at
me as though desiring some confirmation of the deed being done and
I gave her a half smile. It seemed that this satisfied her. I think
my mother was of the opinion that women like myself should expect
no better, that we should marry for obligation and political allegiance
and suitability rather than for wants and needs and desires and love. My honeymoon was as disappointing as my wedding night.
The secluded mansion in the heart of the desert was Winner owned and
entirely beautiful – the pool glistened in the sunlight, the
rooms were covered in gold leaf detail and I ran my fingers over tapestries
and paintings that went back centuries. The alcohol flowed, the food
was plentiful but I was already missing him. He was assigned elsewhere,
the security for my honeymoon not requiring his special skill set
and as much as I thought I could demand that, demand him here, I did
not. The nights spent in the glorious mansion were filled
with missionary position sex where eye contact was meant to be held,
where I was meant to be silent, where I was meant to only moan the
occasional approval. He didn't say anything. He didn't caress my breasts,
didn't put his hand between our bodies, he had both hands at the side
of my body and moved in an inelegant piston style motion. No additional
movement of his hips. It was meant to be making love, I believed,
that's what he thought he was doing. Yet I did not want to made love
to. Sometimes a girl just wanted to be fucked. And it was him
who could do that – had done that – and my skin tingled
at the thought of him. Upon returning from my honeymoon I did not see him for
some time. He was assigned elsewhere. Wufei took control of my security
and while I enjoyed Wufei's company, my body yearned for his
touch. I thought about contacting him. I stared at a vidscreen on
multiple occasions, suddenly so nervous, so girlish and everything
I never wanted to be. I could stand in front of politicians, televise
live broadcasts to the world yet there I was unable to contact the
man who had seen me naked, who had touched me so intimately, whose
mouth and tongue had trailed over every inch of my body and had brought
me to shuddering intense orgasm so many times. It was now a month of so called marital bliss and I
had not seen him. I was sitting at a patronising event for young girls
that so disgusted me yet I could not avoid attending. It was hosted
at the home of ESUN bothering old-fashioned nobleman Richard Beaufort
by his wife as an attempt to encourage the daughters of tomorrow into
politics and I had to do a speech to "inspire and motivate."
I had the speech to do so I departed from the table where I had been
forced to listen to the opinions of old women and field infuriating
questions about when I was thinking of having children. I went in
search of a quiet room to find some solitude to calm myself before
I approached the podium with anger that was not required or helpful. I was walking down the corridor when suddenly I realised
I was being followed. Which is not unusual as I have a vast security
team and one would typically follow to ascertain I was in no danger.
Yet I felt… like I was being stalked and I felt strange heat
on the back of my neck. I found what must have been a library and study for
Beaufort, opening the door, and as soon as I walked inside I felt
the attack. I was not untrained in self-defence. When you are as high
profile as I am, it is important to have some ability but as I felt
myself being pushed to the wall, I yielded as I smelt his skin, a
smell that made something in the pit of my stomach come alight and
I was already entirely his. There were questions I could ask him – like what
was he doing here, now, as it was entirely inappropriate – but
I could not stop myself from reaching out to his face, memorising
it again after so long, how the fall of his hair made shadows across
his eyes, how his jaw was firmly set, how he looked at me like I would
surrender to him as I had always done. "Relena." Words were unnecessary between us. My husband would
tell me how beautiful I was as I undressed for him. My husband would
speak a million compliments and platitudes as though they made me
feel desired. Heero did none of that. He only said my name in the
way that had always sent shivers up my spine and then kissed me –
his mouth warm, his lips chapped, his tongue insistent. His hands
already sought out my blouse, removing enough buttons and exposing
the black bra underneath, his hands and touch firm and arousing. There was no need for gentleness with him. I am sure
I have made love with him – when he has stilled above me, inside
me, and we have looked into each other's eyes and we had a moment
of thinking that our lives were unfair, that I had duty and obligation
and I could never have him. Not how I wanted him – like this,
his lips trailing from my mouth and his hands exposing my breasts
from the cups of my bra, too impatient to remove it wholly –
and I moaned as his tongue swiped around my nipple. I did not want
him to be my consort. I wanted him exactly how he was. Heero was still
the man I fell in love with and I would have hated myself if I had
forced him to become less him. I wanted to tell him I had no time for extended foreplay
but I felt my head loll back against the door as his fingers were
touching through lace and the feel of his confidence, his knowledge
of my body was enough to shake the foundations of any respectability
I had. That I was now a married woman but I would not give him up,
never despite the fact my husband should be my world, and should be
the only one in my bed. Or in my heart. "There's no time," I said, through parted
lips as his fingers bypassed material and my breath hitched as they
slide inside me. He understood, he always had, and he stood, his fingers
slipping out and we were kissing again and he touched me with such
rough impatience, such desire that I could no longer contain the feeling
in my stomach as I took some initiative. I pulled at the shirt tucked
into his black pants, ran my fingers up underneath the material to
feel those defined muscles and pushed him with my hips and hands towards
the couch by the window. I may not be able to tame him nor did I want
him that way, but he could take orders when required. It was something
that made me smirk into his lips. Still always the soldier. His legs
hit the back of the seat and our lips part and I smile as I say one
word – my command that he will obey. "Sit." I do not think I have had much control over anything
we have ever done since we were fifteen but then as I look at him,
as I slide my underwear down my leg and over my black heels, him watching
them fall, that maybe with him I am just as untamed. I would not do
as I do now with the man I should, the man who is all respectability
and speeches about continued peace. I do this with the man who had
blood on his hands and whose eyes are darkened with lust as I reach
to unbuckle his belt, caress him through material and feel him hard
for me just as he always is. I own him as much as he owns me. His hands take over from mine and I want to laugh at
his sudden impatience, at his need, and I do not know if he has someone
else or multiple someone else's spread across the colonies and earth
but I know that if there is, they are not who he wants just as my
husband is not. I do not care if there are a million hers or hims
– for in these moments he is mine. His applies latex onto his hard dick, the rip of a packet
sounding so loud as then we can finally consummate the lust that has
built between us since he stalked me through the corridors. I slide
my skirt up and straddle him, my knees on either side of his and then
use gravity and lower myself onto him, feeling the intensity of us
together. All our history, all our moments, from the heated times
in secret, to the moments that were more tender, when he stroked my
hair from face and tried to be what he thought I wanted him to be.
What I never really wanted him to be. I did not want my knight in shining armour. I wanted
my soldier – my violent, passionate man who set me on fire like
no other could. I wanted Heero Yuy. And I would never truly have him. His mouth was hot, his tongue and teeth nipping at my
jaw, my throat as I move above him, as I bring myself crashing down
onto him and he thrusts up into me. We always had a perfect rhythm,
always knew the ways to move against each other and it was not like
the stuttering motions of my new found marital bed. It was slick and
perfect. Like he would always be to me. My hands wove into his hair as his head descended to
my chest, as one hand supported my movements and aided me so that
I could collide back down with him, mostly dressed as he sucked at
my left breast, a tiny hint of teeth on my nipple as his hand sought
out underneath my skirt and I could feel all those intense feelings
crash into one another. My hips stuttered, unable to continue as I
felt my body thrum in a way that only he had ever achieved, as I panted
out my lust and desire. I could sense his smug look despite not seeing
his face – could sense the way he would look as he brought me
to the edge as he knew he could do this to me – he took pride
in it, I supposed, but I did not complain as I felt myself reach completion,
drifting through the haze of it as he continued his upwards motions,
each one drawing out my own orgasm until he came himself, his pants
against my skin, his tongue at my chest as he did. There is a part of me that thinks I should be embarrassed
by this – by us – that I should be the girl my mother thought
I was on my wedding night, that innocent young woman dressed in her
white dress… yet even as I feel my heart rate decrease to something
that resembled normal, I am not. For a moment, his head raises off my throat and our
eyes meet, his eyes still so intense, as intense as they had always
been from that very first moment and I leaned forward to kiss him,
the gentle touch of our mouths our goodbye as I move off him, feeling
empty again as I reach for my panties and heels, rearrange my clothing
into something respectable. I know I should feel bad, that I now am the adulteress,
no longer just finding sexual comfort with my girlhood crush in secret
but instead cheating on a man who is naïve of this – who
lies next to me at night and who I cannot love as my heart will always
belong to the man who dresses with quick efficiency and steady hands.
The man I decided to let go as I could not be her – the woman
who destroys the man she loves. I preferred my own unhappiness to
seeing him confined, to seeing him lose whatever made him what he
was and I would keep him forever as he was – my first time, my
first love and my first real heartbreak. "I have a speech," I said once we were both
on our feet and his hand drifted to my face, moving aside some of
my hair. He nodded in answer and he kissed me one last time,
short and sweet, and he walked to leave, reminding me so much of him
at fifteen, ripping up my invite and walking away, those words "I'll
kill you" coming from his lips and hanging on the air. He never
could, never did, but he had been slowly killing something inside
of me since then. "Heero." He had reached the door and stopped, his hand poised
on the handle and I thought of saying that I should no longer see
him – not even as a friend, as I could never be his friend as
all he needed to do was look at me and a hundred times would flood
back. But I didn't. "I'll see you again?" I asked, whispered,
ashamed maybe that I would always want, always need him. "Yeah," he replied and then he was gone. I stood for a moment, straightened my skirt, my blouse
as the afterimage of his touch skittered over my skin and thought
of my loveless marriage and my own sacrifice so that he could remain
who he was forever. And I did not regret my decision as I would have
him like this, brief passionate encounters for the rest of my life
rather than making him into the shadow version of himself he would've
had to become. I would want Heero Yuy as exactly as he had always been
– fire and passion, blood stained hands and dark lust filled
eyes – my first and last romance. ~ * ~
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