Fight Club

“Knock it off

Disclaimer: Shin Kidousenki New Mobile War Chronicle Gundam Wing is copyright Setsu Agency and Bandai Inc., and is not property of this writer. Likewise, Fight Club is property of Twentieth Century Fox, though no direct use of its characters or plot is made. I’ll also state here something that the content of this story arc warrants; although it may be stated elsewhere to the contrary, any references made to places, events, or person(s)—living or dead—are entirelinciincidental. If you are intentionally scouring my writing for incriminating references, get a life.
Title: Fight Club
Chapter: IV—Sport Fucking
Author: Switchblade003
Pairing(s): Toothpaste and mouthwash.
Warning(s): Lime. And we’re not talking fruit, people…
Rating: NC-17
Archive: www.wuffie.net
Notes: All right! Step right up, folks! We’ve got angst, counter-plots, citrus, and the cameo mention of a lovely antagonist! I finally sat down and wrote something. Mono can’t even keep me from my pretty, stolen charas. Thank you all for being so patient, and reviews would be much appreciated!! This chapter is extra-long, to tide you guys over.
Review Raves: For those of you who reviewed the last time I posted…
Fabi-chan: Hey!! Long time no write!! Thanks for reviewing; here’s your reward!!!
Neko-Youkai: Thanks for the well-wishes! Sorry for the trick! Have a chapter!
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"Knock it off!"
With a slightly annoyed roll of teal eyes, Quatre pressed his back to the frosted glass sliding door of the shower stall, but a little smile took the corner of his flushed lips. It had taken nearly fifteen minutes to fight his guardian out of the bathroom; Trowa had been very insistent on helping him to rid his hair and skin of the pesky field dirt which coated him, and while the blonde would have loved nothing more than an energetic romp in the shower, he was actually starting to feel a little reluctant about the prospect of bedding his mate.
All traces of amusement left the Moslem’s fair features, a hard, customary frown taking his mouth. He stepped into the cold spray of the water, standing still and staring at the tile before him. He hadn’t needed his scowl much, these days, yet it felt so comfortable, so much more familiar to him than the smiles, the laughter that his mentor could coax from him. He had spent so long being unhappy, alone, unloved… Why did he miss the feeling?
His frustration was mounting, and he needed to move, do something constructive… Trowa had made him give up cutting. His eyes fell on the cold, glistening triple blades of the flimsy, disposable razor that the man had left on the stall ledge that morning. Could he get away with a slip-up in the shower?
The blonde reached out and plucked the razor from its perch, the stale water from that morning freg asg as it trickled down the shallow groove in the handle and onto his skin. He pursed his lips in thought, twirling the object around easily before setting it on the soap dish. Maybe later…
Instead, Quatre picked up the bar of soap, frowning in distaste at the slimy underside that stuck to the porcelain, and began methodically lathering his slender frame. As his fingers grazed over the raised scars that covered his arms, his sides, he winced. The wounds were no longer physically painful, but the boy remembered the origin of every one. His eyes narrowed in recurring anger as memories of the brutal beatings his father had orchestrated flashed through his mind. He even recalled the singular burn scar that marred his inner left wrist, a relic from his relationship with Duo.
The Arabian chewed his lower lip silently, rinsing the suds away, wanting to see the blemishes that striped his pale skin. He no longer thought of his father, not unless it was a fleeting memory and even those he attempted to banish from his consciousness. But the braided young man who had broken his heart… That was another story entirely.
Quatre missed the American, missed even their half-hearted confrontations in the deserted hallways of his old high school. He missed the fury that only he could spark in the star quarterback’s luminous violet eyes with simple words. He knew that Trowa could never replace his former friend, would probably never understand him quite as well as Duo had… The age difference did matter, here.
Trowa was a well-educated, disciplined adult, a responsible, law-abiding citizen, and as hard as Quatre tried, he just couldn’t see how the man could want him, love him the way he claimed to. He had overheard the man’s conversation with his colleague the night that he had decided to go active duty with the Navy. He knew what Trowa’s peers thought of him, and he had to admit that their accusations were not baseless. Why his guardian couldn’t see the validity of their words, he wasn’t certain.
Slim hands worked through flaxen locks with a frustrated vigor. He had to consider the possibility that he was somehow part of a veritable midlife crisis on the part of his impromptu caretaker. Maybe Trowa hadn’t been pleased with the direction that his life had taken, and he was looking for something to liven it up? The blonde growled angrily, throwing back his mane of soap-laden hair and rinsing the suds and dirt away. The wry, self-loathing part of his brain decided to speak up, then. Or maybe he just wants to tackle something a little more challenging than teaching International Relations.
The youth’s frown deepened. Maybe Trowa had taken him on as some kind of test; maybe the brunette wanted to know if he really could handle being a parent. Yeah, Quat, but normal guys don’t want to have sex with their sons. That was just your dad…
"This is ridiculous. I’m making this up! He wants to be with me…" The Arabian opened cold blue eyes and stared hard at the razor. I might not understand why, but I’m sure he really does…
"Quat?"
Trowa’s soft tenor sounded muffled over the drone of the shower, and the blonde turned the taps off, still scowling. "What do you want?" he snapped, a bit harshly. The man just beyond the pane of inch-thick glass paused, and Quatre could almost see his beautiful green eyes blinking in confusion at the hostility lacing his alto. He had asked the officer to let him alone while he showered, but Trowa never listened to him. He supposed it was part of the man’s charm.
"S-Sorry," the former teacher stammered, leaving as suddenly as he’d entered. The blue-eyed boy sighed heavily. Great. Now I’ll have to deal with his sulking…
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Twenty minutes later found the brunette laying tensely atop his bed, arms crossed over his bare chest, bottle-green gaze fixed on the television. It was a familiar habit of his, to stare idly at the ‘idiot-box’ when agitated or worried, and Quatre wasn’t surprised to find the man in front of its lure yet again.
"Trowa," the blonde sighed, moving to stand between the edge of the bed and the TV, a towel wrapped firmly about his hips. "I’m sorry I yelled at you."e bre brunette didn’t budge, however, and the teenager could feel the tension in the room grow by considerable degrees.
So a simple apology wouldn’t fix things. Quietly, he moved onto the bed that they shared, crawling over to his guardian and moving to straddle the taller male. "Trowa?" The naval officer frowned at the sudden pressure against him and pointedly ignored his companion. The Arabian growled quietly in frustration, leaning forward and pressing his lips to his bedmate’s, caressing slowly, with a gentleness rendered clumsy by inexperience.
Trowa remained motionless, stoic against his ward’s intimate assault at first, but as the teenager’s agile hands ran up his bare sides and into his short-cut hair, he relented to the boy’s carefully-controlled passion, returning his gesture softly, eyes falling closed. As angry as he was with the Moslem for shouting at him, the hostile emotions couldn’t hold out against the desire that surged through him at the contact of those full lips. Slowly, cautiously, he took Quatre’s narrow hips in his hands and pulled the boy closer.
The blonde smiled against his friend’s lips, sighing contentedly. Maybe now the brunette would forgive him? A soft moan was his only response, Trowa grinding up against him subtly, his mouth slack as he panted silently into Quatre’s kisses. Maybe tonight he would finally go through with that rain-check that he had given the younger male back at his old apartment. Maybe tonight…
With a deliberate twist of his hips, the teenager pressed more urgently to his guardian. That was exactly what he wanted to happen. He wanted to lose himself in Trowa’s touch, his body… He could feel his own lithe form tense up at the direction his thoughts were taking. Then maybe I can forget about the fact that he doesn’t really love me.
"Quat?" Characteristically melancholy teal eyes slid open to find concerned hunter green staring up at him. The brunette ran soothing hands along the smooth line of his back, his fingertips running over the subtle bumps of his vertebrae. Trowa had noticed him tense up, and he probably thought that he had done something wrong.
"I’m fine…" He ducked his head down and buried his face in the man’s strong column of neck, sighing explosively. "I want to concentrate on you, right now." It was more a request than a stent,ent, and the green-eyed young man nodded slowly. Quatre could almost see his brow creasing in confu. &. "I need to forget about what’s bothering me." Carefully, he raised his head and held the brunette’s gaze. "Can you help me forget?"
The former professor frowned thoughtfully, and it seemed as though he were weighing his options. The paternal part of his mind wanted to know what it was that was upsetting his charge, but the more sporadic, protective, lmatumature side of him said that he should simply comply with his comrade’s request. He decideda coa compromise. "I’ll do whatever you want to distract you, but afterwards we talk."
The decision was delivered in a gentle enough voice, but the look in Trowa’s eyes was unwavering, and Quatre nodded his understanding. That was fine. Maybe he could just make up something to talk to the man about; a large part of him was scared that if he told his caretaker what was truly unsettling him, the man would just confirm his worst suspicions. Quatre wasn’t too certain that he could handle that kind of rejection.
A bit roughly, the taller of the two rolled them over onto his back, straddling his slender hips and leaning over him, the feral light in his eyes almost predatory. If Quatre wanted a distraction, he could sure as hell deliver. If this was the only way that he could help his friend, he was more than willing to give it a shot. "What do you need, Quat?" he whispered, tenor low, husky. The blonde felt his pulse quicken at the sound of it.
"You. Just… make me forget."
It was all the initiative the brunette needed. With a soft sigh, he closed the space between them, claiming the blonde’s lips with bruising force. He hadn’t wanted their first coupling to be anything but gentle and, well… romantic, but if this was what the boy wanted…
Quatre arched beneath him, his smaller hands clutching at the man’s shoulders. Trowa felt his groin tighten almost painfully at the groans he was wringing from that slender throat, his mouth falling to the boy’s collarbones. He bit teasingly at the blonde’s left pectoral, his tongue seeking out the youth’s nipple.
"Trowa…" The Moslem’s voice was strained, his frame taught as he pushed at the man’s shoulder in a feeble attempt to urge his mouth lower. Bottle-green eyes darted up to his face. "Don’t feel like foreplay, right now," he mumbled, pressing himself up into Trowa’s solid chest. The officer’s clever tormenting, while brief, had been enough to arouse him, and considering his lack of sexual activity during the past few months—something he certainly wasn’t used to—his tolerance couldn’t handle much more of that skilled mouth and those strong hands.
"What should I do?" the man inquired, arching a brow and trailing a finger down the boy’s sternum, over his trembling stomach, and snagging the edge of the towel. The blonde moaned, reaching up to take the brunette’s head in his hands and pull his lips towards his navel. Trowa wasted no time in picking up where he’d left off. He moved himself down the youth’s body, hands to his sides, and slid his tongue into the warm, shallow recess of the boy’s navel.
Quatre drew in a shaky breath, head thrown back against the bed. With as much force as he could muster, he pushed at the man’s shoulders again, and Trowa took the hint. With a rough motion, he tore the towel from his ward’s hips, gazing down at the exposed, pale skin, the light gold curls, and the proof of the blonde’s passion for him. He hesitated, hands straying to stroke the sensitive skin at the inside of Quatre’s lean thighs.
The former professor was no stranger to sex, but he had never been with another male, before. Consequently, the only knowledge of the male organ he harbored came from what he knew he liked having done to him. So with that in mind, the man lowered his mouth to the blonde’s length, taking the head between his lips and lapping experimentally at the weeping slit at the top.
"Trowa!" A loud cry tore itself from Quatre’s throat, his hips bucking automatically towards the source of the heat around him, hands fumbling around the bedspread, flexing into a white-knuckled grip on the sheets. The officer steadied himself, trying to relax his throat and resist the urge to choke as the blonde arched into his mouth. He was thrilled with thectioctions that he was getting from his lover, and he wanted to give the boy the release he sought, but gagging was a serious problem at this point.
Carefully, with strength that the Arabian could not have contested, he held the youth’s hips to the mattress. Then the brunette slid the boy’s length into his mouth, relaxing his throat to accommodate him, and he ran his tongue along the underside of the Moslem’s shaft, reveling in the moans and cries that Quatre was making. He applied as much suction as possible, moving his head up and down slowly, cautiously.
The orphan was reeling in sensation, his hands threading through the brunette’s short, dark auburn hair, his back arching off of the bed with every flick of his lover’s tongue. The older male might have had no experience with gay sex, but what he lacked in knowledge he made up for in both enthusiasm and ferocity. Something in his mind told him that the boy didn’t want a gentle, tender lover, but a forceful one, and that was exactly what Trowa gave him.
Quatre groaned, head thrown back, blue eyes clenched closed. As good as what Trowa was doing to him felt, it wasn’t going to be sufficient to bring release; he wasn’t using any kind of pattern or rhythm, and the boy moaned almost out of frustration. He held the man’s head in place as he began moving his hips, thrusting shallowly into the brunette’s hot mouth. Trowa loosened his hold on the blonde, though only by degrees, and took up the boy’s rhythm.
"Ah!" The Arabian shouted something incoherent as the coil in the pit of his stomach began to wind more tightly. He was so close… The man above him sucked harder, moaning around the flesh in his mouth as the blonde’s fingers ran through his hair spasmodically, his bright head thrashing from side to side. Trowa was amazed at how passionately the boy was reacting to his stimulus, his lithe frame wire-taught, the muscles in his stomach and thighs jumping, his small hands trembling.
All it took was a well-placed stroke of his tongue to send the youth over, Quatre convulsing around him, his shaft throbbing in its release. The Arabian cried out loudly, and Trowa felt his mouth filled with a heated, bitter fluid and he turned his head, spitting onto the towel he’d taken from the boy’s hips.
Quatre willed his turquoise eyes open, gazing up at his lover, and the small smile on his lips faded instantly at the angry, confused expression on his guardian’s handsome face. "Trowa?" he asked tentatively, propping himself up onto his elbows. The brunette met his gaze with stormy leaf-green eyes.
What in the world is he upset about? Does he not like what just happened? The blonde pushed himself upright and moved over to his lover, who sat on his heels on the bed, back slumped. "What’s wrong?" he asked softly, reaching up to cup the man’s cheek. Trowa pulled away from his touch as if burned.
"You called out Duo’s name," he stated simply, quietly. "Not mine."
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TBC.
Lol. No quote for you guys, this time, but a phrase I heard in the movie that cracked me up: "sport fucking." Heh.