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Gonads and Strife	By : Alleyprowler Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1121 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Gonads and Strife
- 1
Title: Gonads and Strife

Author: Alleyprowler

Warnings & Pairing: Yer basic 4x3 PWP lemon. Rated NC-17 for
language and smut.

Summary: Trowa gets an owie. Quatre gets lucky. The rest of you get to
find out why I don�t write lemons.

Disclaimer: The usual.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Above the hand clamped firmly over his mouth, Quatre�s eyes were roughly the
size of dinner plates. Blue ones. �Oh, poor Trowa�� he said in a rather muffled
voice.
Sprawled out naked on the rumpled sheets of the bed, Trowa had his eyes
fixed firmly on the dark wooden beams that ran across the ceiling of their
vacation cabin. He couldn�t bear to look at his injuries, but by the sound of
Quatre�s voice he could tell that all of his moaning and groaning and outright
bitching was indeed justified. �Is it that bad?�
�Poor Little Heavyarms,� Quatre gulped audibly, �it hurts just to look at
it.�
With great trepidation, Trowa raised his head from the pillow and peered out
from under his bang at the woebegone flesh between his legs. �Ohmygod.� He said
in a rush, and let his head flop back once again.
�Do you want some ice?�
�NO! You are NOT going to put ice on me THERE!� Trowa bellowed in a
pain-fuelled panic, making his lover jump a little.
Quatre put his hands up placatingly. �Okay, okay, no ice. I wasn�t thinking
clearly.� He soothed. He knelt on the bed and examined his lover�s hot and
throbbing shaft more carefully. Normally he liked seeing Trowa hot and
throbbing, but since this particular condition was none of his doing, he felt a
little sick instead. �There�s got to be something we can do about it, though.
Maybe I should call Duo, he�s spent a lot of time around here, and��<
<
�No!� Trowa begged. �Please don�t tell Duo. I�ll never hear the end of it if
you do.�
That was a good point. If Duo ever caught wind of this little�mishap, he
would first laugh himself silly and then proceed to broadcast it through their
circle of friends quicker than wildfire. Trowa would never be able to show his
face in public again.
�All right, calm down.� Quatre patted his ailing lover�s shoulder. �Let me
go find the first aid kit. Maybe there�s something in there that can help you.�
Quatre slid off the bed and padded barefoot to the tiny bathroom in the back
of the cabin. He didn�t hold out much hope�they rarely had very much time for
more than a day or two at the little mountain getaway, and stocking up on first
aid supplies was a much lower priority on these trips than stocking up on other
essentials. In fact, they rarely packed anything other than food, a bottle of
wine or two, and lube. They didn�t even bother with extra clothes. Who needed a
change of clothes when you spent most of your vacation naked?
He finally found a first aid kit after much rummaging around in various
cabinets and cubbyholes. Coughing hard at the musty smell that rolled out when
he opened the lid, Quatre sorted through the various packets and bottles and
bandages and tape and gauze and whatnot until he found a promising-looking tube
of whitish goo that proclaimed it was analgesic cream. �You�d better work.� He
growled at the hapless little tube. �If you don�t, then my only three-day
weekend in six months is going to be ruined and I will not be held responsible
for my actions against the misbegotten pharmaceutical company that manufactured
you.�
With visions of lawsuits and hostile takeovers dancing in his head, Quatre
clutched the cowed tube of cream in one fist and stalked back to the bedroom.
�Did you find anything?� Trowa asked hopefully.
Smiling, Quatre held the tube aloft. �This should fix you right up,� he said
with more confidence than he actually felt. He sat down cross-legged on the bed
by Trowa�s left side and twisted the cap off the tube. The cream inside looked
okay--there were no strange discolorations or weird smells, anyhow--so he
squeezed a bit of it onto his fingers. �This might be cold,� he warned.
�I don�t care.�
�Fine. Here goes.� And with that, Quatre proceeded to apply the medicine to
his lover�s affected areas.
Trowa jumped a little. The cream was indeed cold, as were Quatre�s fingers.
He fancied he could hear his skin screaming in protest, and he bit down hard on
his lower lip. But then, just as the coolness really started to bother him, the
cream began to grow warm�warmer�really warm�and oh God, those nimble
little fingers were seriously carbonating his hormones�.
�Feel better?� Quatre asked him.
�A little. Maybe you�d better put some more on,� Trowa suggested.
Doing as told, Quatre applied more cream to his fingers, then resumed his
gentle massage of the wounded area. The pain was mostly gone and Trowa�s skin,
though slightly numb, was beginning to tingle pleasantly. �How�s that?�
Yes, the cream--and Quatre�s fingers--were definitely warmer. Trowa shifted
his hips a little to increase contact. �You could rub a little harder, babe,�
he suggested. He heard Quatre snort softly and looked up to meet his eyes. He
was grinning.
�Translation: Give me a hand job, you gorgeous stud muffin.�
�I�ve never called you stud muffin.�
�There�s always a first time.� Quatre tipped him a saucy wink.
�You�re so bad�� Trowa�s eyelids fluttered shut as Quatre�s hand wrapped
around his less wounded by still very sensitive bits. A low purr of delight
escaped his throat. �Bad, bad, bad Quatre.�
�Yes, but that�s our little secret, right?� Quatre breathed into his ear. He
had stretched out alongside his taller lover in order to get a better angle to
stroke his shaft. That, and licking Trowa�s ear never failed to turn him into a
little puddle of hormonal goo. He ghosted a path of feather-light kisses down
the side of Trowa�s face from temple to jaw line and then took his earlobe into
his mouth and nibbled on it with his sharp white teeth.
�Bad�bad�bad�� Trowa�s vocabulary had dwindled down to one word. He repeated
it like a mantra as his hips met the rhythm of Quatre�s stroking hand.
�Bad�bad�bad�wait, stop!�
Quatre stopped and propped himself on one elbow. �What�s wrong? Did I hurt
you?�
�No, it�s just that I want your fingers someplace else.�
One blond eyebrow quirked up. �Oh? Where did you have in mind?�
Without answering verbally, Trowa grabbed onto Quatre�s right wrist and
guided his hand to his backside. �Here,� he said, running Quatre�s slippery
index finger around the puckered ring of muscle. �But go slow, I�m kind of on a
hair trigger.�
Quatre blinked. �Why do I suddenly feel overdressed?�
�Well do something about it, but hurry.�
Quatre hurried. He slithered out of his baggy khaki shorts and dark blue
rugby shirt and flung them carelessly onto the floor while his lover watched
with lust-clouded green eyes.
�Well, you�re certainly taking a healthy interest in things.� Trowa ran his
tongue over his bottom lip as he eyed Quatre�s erection. �Or rather, the Pink
Scimitar is.�
Quatre rolled his eyes. �I hate that name, Trowa. It�s so damn cheesy.�
�Oh, and Little Heavyarms isn�t?� Trowa asked, and the blond didn�t really
have a reply to that. He simply glowered and smeared a fresh coating of
analgesic cream on his fingers before he went back to his exploring. He smirked
a little as he remembered why he named Trowa�s intimate bits Little Heavyarms:
�You have some impressive ammunition, love, but you tend to run out of it
rather quickly.�[1] Quatre�s nickname was a little more obvious. His cock
actually had a slight curve to it that brought the head to rest against his
navel when he was completely aroused (like he was now), and the dusky rose
color of the head plus the mild arc had led his lover to call it the Pink
Scimitar, as in, �Impale me with your pink scimitar, you horny little devil
you.�
Trowa was cheesy as hell sometimes.
�Um, Quatre? Did you forget to trim your nails or something?� Trowa asked
impatiently.
Quatre gave a start a he was jerked back to the present. �Sorry. I spaced
out. Were you waiting for me to do this?� He worked his forefinger into
Trowa�s tight heat and then brought it out a little.
Trowa squirmed wantonly and broke out into a rare grin. �Oh, yeah. I love a
man with bony knuckles.�
Quatre snorted. �I knew it. You only love me for my knuckles.�
But Trowa was in a state where he would say ridiculous things and his lover
knew it. �I love all of you�� he gasped. �Your toes, your knees, your cute
little navel,� he caressed each body part from then on as he named it, � your
nipples, your shoulders, your lips, your nose, your eyelashes, your hair�AUGGHHH!
Oh God, do that again.�
Quatre did the thing that made Trowa go AUGGHHH! again. He crooked the
finger that was inside him in a come-hither gesture and lightly caressed the
sweet spot there. Trowa threw his head back in pure sensory overload, neck
tendons straining and a faint sheen of sweat beginning to form on his brow and
upper lip. Quatre caught his breath at the sight of his lover being in such a
state, and he lowered his head down to the sensitive cup of his ear. �I want
you. Now.�
Without further delay, Trowa turned over on his right side with his back to
the flushed blond. �I�m yours.�
It wasn�t one of their favorite positions, but Trowa couldn�t really lay on
his belly, and making love face-to-face might aggravate his injury. Quatre
merely shrugged and molded his chest and stomach to his lover�s back. �Well, if
you insist.� He moved his hips into position and rubbed the silk-skinned head
of his erection against Trowa�s entrance, eliciting a frustrated grunt from the
green-eyed man.
�Quatre�don�t make me beg.�
�Oh, but I want you to beg, my pet,� Quatre breathed playfully into
his ear. �Beg me nicely.�
�Please?� Trowa tried to move himself onto Quatre�s shaft, but it just
didn�t work that way. �Pretty please?�
Quatre pretended to think about it. �Pretty please what?�
Trowa�s patience was about ready to snap. �Pretty please with--oh God,
Quatre, will you just fuck me already?�
Breaking into a grin that his lover could not see, of course, Quatre
complied. Slowly. �Ah, love, you do beg so nicely when you are properly
motivated.�
The slippery, pain-numbing properties of the analgesic cream made their
coupling just as smooth and easy as a hand slipping into a glove, and Quatre
slid in to the hilt in one smooth motion. He stopped thshivshivering on a
delicious brink. �Trowa�don�t move. Do. Not. Move. If you move, it�s over.�
Trowa didn�t move. �Think of something else, then.�
�Like what?� Quatre was so close to orgasm that his teeth were chattering
slightly.
�Relena in a bikini.�
Quatre developed a mental photograph of Relena in a white bikini with red
polka dots, posing innocently with a beach ball in front of her. �Not working.�
�Dorothy in a bikini.�
Quatre visualized Dorothy wearing a white bikini with red polka dots and a
fencing mask, posing in a thrust with her foil. �Scary, but still not working.�
�Heero in a bikini.�
Quatre�s teeth stopped chattering. �I�m going to be in therapy for years
with that image in my head.�
�I take it I can move now?� Trowa asked with a hint of a smile in his voice.
�Move,� Quatre ordered, and Trowa did. Deliciously. Quatre took a few
seconds to catcs brs breath, and then he began to move in counterpoint, sliding
himself in and out of the tight, moist heat. He felt captured in it, enslaved,
but he knew from personal experience that Trowa felt the same way. Neither of
them were certain where their own bodies enand and where the other began, but
in their state of liquid fusion, it didn�t really matter. Pleasure given was
the same as pleasure received. Nerve impulses echoed off of each other�s brain,
amplified and augmented as their coupling progressed. Emotions grew, exploded,
grew again.
Quatre, nearly delirious with sensation, gave into a strange impulse and
clamped his mouth and teeth into the tanned skin between Trowa�s neck and
shoulder. He sucked the sweaty skin, nibbled, licked, and bit almost hard
enough to draw blood.
�L-love,� Trowa stammered. �What are you doing?�
What was he doing? Quatre didn�t exactly know. Dizzy and feverish, he lifted
hiad. ad. �I�m marking my territory,� he heard himself say. �You are mine.�
Those last three words were the last bit of stimulation that Trowa needed,
and he arched his back with a strangled cry. He spent himself in a jet of white
fluid that spattered messily against his abdomen, and his entire body went
rigid. Internal muscles cramped, which triggered Quatre�s own release, and they
both gripped each other tightly in an effort to stay earthbound.
For a few minutes, nothing could be heard in the sunlit room except for two
sets of un-syncopated pantings. Two minds settled back from forever into
reality, but slowly.
�You�� Quatre finally said, but he couldn�t finish his thought.
�You too,� Trowa said. He reluctantly pulled his hips forward and
disconnected their physical contact. He rolled over and pressed his sweaty
forehead to Quatre�s in a vain attempt to recapture their more intimate
contact>
>
�Beautiful.� Quatre breathed.
Trowa smiled. �Yes, love. Beautiful.� He kissed Quatre between the eyes and
held him close. �Mine.� He said firmly.
�Mine.� Quatre echoed, wrapping his tired arms around Trowa�s waist. They
lay like that for a long moment, happy, exhausted and utterly spent.
�Um, Trowa?� Quatre shook his post-coital sleepiness off with an effort.
�Mmm-hm?�
�Not that I want to question a good thing, but��
�What is it?�
�How the hell did you get a bee sting on your dick anyway?�
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1] ///.- : I hate you, Alley.
- 1
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Gonads and Strife