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"Love Like War"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 of the rougher kind, angst,
language, Trowa POV Pairings: 2x3 and mentioned past 2x1 Summary: "You appear when you want, a text message, an email my only warning as I prepare for another war of wills, our bodies our battlefield." A/N: Inspired by the song Love Like War by All
Time Low and Vic Fuentes Beta'd by ELLE "Love Like War "
I don't see you for months – your visits brief,
fleeting, you appearing out of shadows, in between missions spread
across the earth and colonies. You appear when you want, a text message, an email my
only warning as I prepare for another war of wills, our bodies our
battlefield. I get the Metro, know you are probably already at my
place and I hold my messenger bag tight, weighed down with books,
as the train rattles underground, thinking of us. You smiled and I capitulated. Drunk on you wanting me.
Drunk on the feel of you, sinew and muscle and all that hair wrapped
around my hand. I was young. You were confident, no, arrogant, high
on the adrenalin of being a hero and you pushed me against a wall,
promised me sin, sucking me off, your lips, the heat of your mouth
my undoing You only did it then as you were making your point.
To him – you'd destroyed him already, left him behind –
and he walked in on us as you'd planned that. You turned your head
and looked up at him from your position on your knees, meeting his
blue eyes before he stormed out, the door closing loud behind him. I was your new target and you finished me, making me
come into your mouth, me touching your hair in reverence. You stood
then, thrusting your tongue between my lips, making sure I tasted
myself, and you walked away leaving me slumped against a wall. You always walk away. With that slight sway, with that
movement of your hips, with your tight jeans, with your braid trailing
behind. You walk away leaving devastation, the aftermath of a firefight,
I think Heero was half the man he was after you'd finished with him. I don't give in to you. You feel like you have the control
but you've kept coming back to me – you could've left me behind
long ago but you want me still. I have you like no other man has,
maybe because I fight back. You like that I bite back. You like that my nails run
red lines down your chest – you like that I can push you down
and fuck you, make you shout and buck your hips and whimper. It's
war between us. I wonder, as the train stops at my station, whether
you will be expecting me to surrender tonight. Whether you will use
your hips and your hands and your legs and pin me to the floor, tie
my hands, rake your teeth down my chest and fuck me against the floor. You might plan that, lie in wait in my apartment, stealthy
and silent, but I am not surrendering tonight. This is one battle
I refuse to lose. I want to push you, I want to slam your pretty face
into a wall to stop that cocky grin, I want to slide into you and
pull your braid and bite down on your neck until you bleed. I walk to my place, a grey building in a grey nondescript
place – all blank and annoymous like me and I wonder at times
why you picked me. You could've had anyone – gorgeous and fucking
knowing it. You could've toyed with Heero for years. You don't tell me and I don't know if I want to know.
Maybe I am your mirror, you distorted through a filtered lens and
you destroy me as you can't destroy yourself. I take out my keys at the door, walk in, see no lights
or indication that you are here but you are – I feel you, your
lingering presence echoing in the room. I laugh sometimes about your
public persona – all smiles and jokes. No one knows you like
I do – dark, lust filled eyes, dirty talk and rough sex. You don't move from where you lie in wait as I remove
my bag, leave my keys on the table covered with my papers and books.
You laugh that I decided to go to University rather than join the
Preventers like you did. I decided long ago the only fight I wanted
anymore was ours. I walk to my bedroom, anticipation rising – I may
not be a Preventer but I am not unused to a fight. I haven't lost
any of my skills, I need them all to fight you. You pounce once I'm through the door – you are
heat and aggression and lust, pushing me to the wall without any hesitation.
I let you, feel your breath wet against my face. I say your name like a curse – lick my dry lips
and then lick at yours, the moment of surprise gives me an advantage.
I tumble you to the floor, pin you underneath me. I'm taller, more
muscled but you have all the tricks. You never lose unless you want
to. You smile – that smile that I remember as you slid
to your knees in front of me all those years ago – and I find
it difficult to resist you. I kiss you, angry, and it is all tongues
and teeth and barely suppressed violence. I want you. I want you underneath me, I want you in
any way I can, but I know I will lose to you tonight, your hand is
at my groin, my cock hardens under your touch, and you use that against
me, flip our positions, grind your body against mine. You straddle me, look down at me, my wrists pinned and
your eyes almost black in the darkness – streetlights creating
slashes of yellow across the room and you through opened blinds. "Trowa," you say, deep, husky, "want
me to fuck you, baby?" I moan as your teeth are at my throat and your tongue
is making lazy patterns over each bite. I don't know if you draw blood
– there doesn't need to be blood for us to be wounded by this
encounter. When you walk away, I am always left battle scarred and
bruised. As are you. You don't need my answer, you remove my shirt, slide
your lips down my flesh as you undo each button and I didn't intend
to but my white flag is raised. I will do all those things I want
to do next time, fuck you until you scream my name, but your mouth
is on my dick, skilled fingers already having bypassed material and
I am bucking up into wet heat, forgetting everything but you. I hate what your mouth does to me, that smirk, those
words, how you go down on me but I don't do anything to fight back
as you slide slick fingers into me – the gentleness of preparation
contrasting all too harshly with what will happen next and what has
gone before. You remove your clothes and I watch you, my shirt discarded
and my jeans around my ankles. You know how you look – pale skin,
perfectly muscled body, tattoos and scars, that damn hair – you
know you're a walking wet dream and you watch my face closely as you
strip. Fuck, I want you as you pull down boxers, shimmy out of them
– finally naked. I'm lost when you look at me like that – with need
and desire. You pull down my jeans, then slide your lips up my legs,
brushing inner thigh, teasing at the head of my cock with little licks,
your lusty stare watching my reactions. You smirk when I whine – fuck I hate you for that
as you're teasing me. You lick down my dick, the flat of your tongue
sending me spiralling into pleasure and I contemplate forcing you
onto my cock, holding your head, you taking me down your throat but
though there is violence, though this is war, we both want this and
we both yield in our own way. I gasp when you murmur against my flesh, tongue at slit,
"how'd you want me?" I grunt out, grab for you, your cock
hard in my hand and you gasp as I stroke you, squeeze a little, your
tease ceasing as you find the lube, the condom, the sound of foil
a sign of our relationship status. You let me slide slippery fingers over your dick, your
eyes shut as I give you firm strokes and you grab at my hand, wrap
a hand tight around my wrist to stop me. "Too much for you?" I tease. I let you push that wrist above my head and I give you
a smirk that matches your own as you kiss me, hard, demanding, our
cocks rubbing together as we create friction against each other. "Never
too much with you," you say as our lips part. You look far away then, as though you have said too
much, but then you move back on your heels and whisper, "on your
hands and knees." It's an order and as a soldier I obey, pulling
you roughly for one last kiss before I turn. I gasp when you thrust in, all my senses alive with
the feel of you – we should've made the bed, but instead I feel
the harsh roughness of carpet against my knees and you all over my
back, lips locked on a shoulder, grunts stuttering over my skin. You fuck me hard. I feel your braid against my arm where
it trails and I grab for it, demand a kiss, open mouthed and I bite
at your bottom lip and I push back into you. You tell me I'm good
– you curse and I let myself repeat the words "fuck"
and your name like a manta – quiet and not heard above the sounds
of flesh meeting flesh. I shiver when your hands skim my chest. You avoid my
cock and I feel your hands at my thighs, fingernails digging in and
I push back harder, meeting you every time. I'm not passive, I'm not
someone you can fuck up and leave. I'm your rival, your opponent,
your enemy and I throw everything I can back at you. You start to lose it, I know, as you grab for my cock,
stroking me with the same rhythm as your body's movement. You bite
at my neck, your chest against my back, and you'll come soon, and
we'll both shatter together, covered in bruises and carpet burns and
bite marks, our skin showing our battle. I hear your words against my ear. You lick at my lobe
and bite and say, "come for me, baby, wanna feel it." Your
hand brings me to climax, your words and your mouth on my neck and
I feel your push in hard – rough, deep aggressive thrusts that
have you moaning my name – and you come. You kiss my neck, then, laving where you bite down,
and you pull out. I find myself missing the feel of you already –
I never said what we have is healthy, or that it is more than this
– but a part of me hates peace, hates not having any fight. I don't need the cool steel of a gun, I need the heat
of your body and the intensity of our fucks. You dress, and you look
less dangerous in the aftermath – and I slide my shirt on, leaving
it open, putting my boxers on and it all seems desolate between us.
The dust and debris settling. You stay for a while. You surprise me as we share drinks,
cigarettes, a temporary truce. You look at the textbooks, flick through
the pages, making comments. We fall asleep to the sound of another
language, a film where a man plays chess with death, and it feels
oddly domesticated. I wake up, you close and warm, and I reach my fingers
to your throat, to where in your sleep you are defenceless, your skin
pale, and my hands could so easily do such damage. You wake at my
touch, a moment of confused innocence, replaced a second later by
the realisation of where you are, and who you are with. You smirk, that look that makes my blood boil, and I
give you a brief reprieve before your back hits the coffee table and
your body is underneath mine. You try to distract, to tease, to trick
but I have you, my teeth scraping over your skin and our war begins
again.
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