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kinkfestTitle: Breathe In, Breathe Out
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sumthinlikhuman
Pairing: Trowa Barton/Duo Maxwell
Rating: AO
Warnings: blowjob, language
Prompt: Gundam Wing, Trowa/Duo: Swallowing – You really should watch what you eat
Summary: Duo has it figured you were only a fag if you let the other guy put it in you somewhere.
Notes: So...SO late. Ugh. I got to the day, and it wasn’t happening. And then...I don’t know. I just couldn’t touch it. But. Yeah. I was aiming to incorporate Trowa’s immense sociopathic crazy, but I don’t know if it came across as well as I would have liked. Or Duo’s grossed-out-ness at being the one doing the gay stuff.
Duo had it figured that you were only a fag if you let the other guy put it in you somewhere.
He’d learned that on the street, before he snuck onto that boat to get off L2 and ended up changing his whole life for a hunk of metal that seemed like an extension of himself now, even years later. It had served him pretty well—he’d never really been surprised by the number of fags running around L2, willing to pay him for the opportunity to suck his dick; or the number of guys willing to pay him to give them a hand with their stiffy in the back of a taxi. It wasn’t whoring, he said, it was making ends meet, it was feeding himself, it was hiding from OZ and the police and the gangs that didn’t know his name but knew his face.
He hadn’t had Trowa pegged for being a fag, during the war. But, then again, he hadn’t pegged Quatre for being a deviant, so what the hell did he know?
But that wasn’t really the problem here. He could deal with Trowa’s being a fag—he could let as many guys fuck him as he wanted, suck off as many as he felt like. It was the fact that Trowa was looking at him that worried him; that he was palming himself through his jeans with heavy lidded eyes as Duo took of his shirt.
It was the fact that he kind of liked Trowa watching him like that, looking, seeing all the scars and old yellow bruises and the freckles on his shoulders that nobody had seen since the Maxwell Church—and possibly Quatre, in passing.
“I don’t do this sort of thing,” Duo told Trowa, and Trowa didn’t stop palming himself, but he did frown just a little. In his eyes. Duo knelt on the bed, reached out and undid Trowa’s belt. During the war, Trowa had never needed a belt; he’d lost weight in the years that had passed, or just gotten even more lanky as he’d grown into that long, gangly body after the stress of war passed them over.
Trowa grabbed his fingers as he began to undo the button fly. “Forget I said anything—”
“I kind of want to.” He didn’t add, “Even if it makes me a fag,” but Trowa looked like he heard it anyway. He let go of Duo’s hands and sank back against the pillows of the motel bed, staring down his nose and his long body at Duo as he undid the buttons and peeled the denim to the sides.
Considering how tight the jeans were, he shouldn’t have been surprised when Trowa’s cock practically jumped out to meet him. But he was, and he jumped a little. They both chuckled over it a bit, Trowa’s ebbing off with a nasal sigh as Duo wrapped a hand around his cock and pulled at it.
“When was the last—?”
“Two years ago,” Trowa told him, quiet, breathless. During the war. Trowa gripped the sheets and shifted his hips, and Duo watched precome pearl at the tip as he shifted the foreskin down. It gleamed in the poor light, sparkled.
“Who?”
“Wu Fei,” Trowa breathed. Duo nodded, rubbed his thumb over the swollen head of Trowa’s cock. Trowa swore, quiet and fervent and desperate. “Don’t tease.”
“Right. Yeah, right.”
Trowa’s breath caught on a sigh, the first tentative dive at his cock Duo took, and Duo pulled back, a little surprised. Trowa stared down at him, expectant and urgent and broken. It made Duo wonder if he’d ever looked like that, all those times those fags would suck his dick.
“Sorry,” Duo whispered toward Trowa’s groin, unable to look at him. He pushed Trowa’s shirt up a little, kissed his belly, said, “Sorry. Never done this before.”
“Shit,” Trowa hissed. Duo heard the fwump of him throwing his head against the pillows. “Shit. Do it?”
“Yeah, okay,” Duo whispered against Trowa’s belly. He tugged at the jeans, got them over the sharp angle of Trowa’s hips and down his thighs, and then just stared at Trowa for a second: rumpled clothes and clutching hands and firm sack beneath his twitching cock. Duo felt his mouth water and told himself he wasn’t a fag for doing this, he was just curious. He was just helping out an old buddy.
That first conscious taste, repulsive but not really, was all salty tang and musk and the taste-smell of sweaty youngish man. Duo pulled back, wrinkled his nose, pulled back Trowa’s foreskin with a few expert pulls, and tried to remember all the porn he’d ever watched. Anything to help him power through this.
When he lowered his mouth again, Trowa’s fingers were there, winding their way into the almost loose hair at the crown of Duo’s skull, pulling him in and encouraging him with a soft sigh. His cock bumped the back of Duo’s throat, and he gagged a little, jumped, pulled back to steady himself.
Trowa’s fingers were urgent-tight. “Do it,” he whispered, breathless, demanding. Duo opened his mouth and lowered himself with the help of Trowa’s fingers, aware of the taste-smell of it all and the weight of everything, fingers and Trowa’s cock hot-heavy against his tongue and the back of his throat.
When he gagged again, Trowa swore deep in his chest, let up just enough that Duo could pull back and close his eyes and suck, because he knew that. He knew how that worked, remembered it from back seats and alleys and seedier dives than this motel room—at least this place had a bed that wasn’t threatening to collapse any second now.
He didn’t listen to the noises, but he knew them—slick, gross wet noises from his own mouth; quiet, nasal sighs from Trowa. He wondered, because he didn’t dare look, if Trowa bit his lip or if he just kept his mouth shut and refused to be too distracted by all this.
His fingers dug into Trowa’s thighs as Trowa’s fingers got more testy in his hair, against his scalp, blinding pressure to points Duo hadn’t known he had, encouraging him to do things he’d never thought he’d do—but here he was, lying on a musty motel bed, rubbing his crotch and his chest against the itchy comforter while he gave another guy a blow. Trowa was getting louder, more insistent—getting past Duo’s little defenses against the fact that this was real, that this was happening, that this was really, really faggy—all these little mumbles and sighs turning into a soft keening and deep moans, the shift of his hips and his cock slipping impossibly deeper into Duo’s mouth, the feeling of his lower arms flexing against Duo’s temples that made Duo’s spine tingle.
The first taste was what made him flinch, made him try to pull back. Bitter spunk against his tongue, and how could anyone like that sort of thing. Especially with Trowa’s fingers tight, hot against his scalp, holding him when he groaned and—and Duo could taste it, there against his tongue and on the back of his throat, thick and bitter and tanged toward salty-blood iron flavored. Too much to hold in, and he could feel it on his chin, on his neck, on his nose as he finally managed to pull back toward the end as Trowa’s fingers went slack.
He fled for the bathroom, Trowa still blissed out on the bed, and retched into the sink for a minute. When he looked up, there were little dribbles on his lips and neck, a particular dollop caught in the bow of his collarbone. He scrunched up his nose, grabbed a nasty-looking hand-towel from the corner of the corner and scrubbed at himself until his cheeks and neck and chest were pink.
He was impossibly hard, desperate for it almost. Well, shit.
Back in the room, Trowa looked like nothing had happened, was in fact heading for the door, and only stalled when Duo came back in, spotted him, and barked an indignant, “We’re not done yet, I’ve still got a stiffy!”
Trowa peered over his shoulder, through his hair—Duo hated when he did that—and said, rather dispassionately, “You have hands, Duo.”
Author:
sumthinlikhumanPairing: Trowa Barton/Duo Maxwell
Rating: AO
Warnings: blowjob, language
Prompt: Gundam Wing, Trowa/Duo: Swallowing – You really should watch what you eat
Summary: Duo has it figured you were only a fag if you let the other guy put it in you somewhere.
Notes: So...SO late. Ugh. I got to the day, and it wasn’t happening. And then...I don’t know. I just couldn’t touch it. But. Yeah. I was aiming to incorporate Trowa’s immense sociopathic crazy, but I don’t know if it came across as well as I would have liked. Or Duo’s grossed-out-ness at being the one doing the gay stuff.
Duo had it figured that you were only a fag if you let the other guy put it in you somewhere.
He’d learned that on the street, before he snuck onto that boat to get off L2 and ended up changing his whole life for a hunk of metal that seemed like an extension of himself now, even years later. It had served him pretty well—he’d never really been surprised by the number of fags running around L2, willing to pay him for the opportunity to suck his dick; or the number of guys willing to pay him to give them a hand with their stiffy in the back of a taxi. It wasn’t whoring, he said, it was making ends meet, it was feeding himself, it was hiding from OZ and the police and the gangs that didn’t know his name but knew his face.
He hadn’t had Trowa pegged for being a fag, during the war. But, then again, he hadn’t pegged Quatre for being a deviant, so what the hell did he know?
But that wasn’t really the problem here. He could deal with Trowa’s being a fag—he could let as many guys fuck him as he wanted, suck off as many as he felt like. It was the fact that Trowa was looking at him that worried him; that he was palming himself through his jeans with heavy lidded eyes as Duo took of his shirt.
It was the fact that he kind of liked Trowa watching him like that, looking, seeing all the scars and old yellow bruises and the freckles on his shoulders that nobody had seen since the Maxwell Church—and possibly Quatre, in passing.
“I don’t do this sort of thing,” Duo told Trowa, and Trowa didn’t stop palming himself, but he did frown just a little. In his eyes. Duo knelt on the bed, reached out and undid Trowa’s belt. During the war, Trowa had never needed a belt; he’d lost weight in the years that had passed, or just gotten even more lanky as he’d grown into that long, gangly body after the stress of war passed them over.
Trowa grabbed his fingers as he began to undo the button fly. “Forget I said anything—”
“I kind of want to.” He didn’t add, “Even if it makes me a fag,” but Trowa looked like he heard it anyway. He let go of Duo’s hands and sank back against the pillows of the motel bed, staring down his nose and his long body at Duo as he undid the buttons and peeled the denim to the sides.
Considering how tight the jeans were, he shouldn’t have been surprised when Trowa’s cock practically jumped out to meet him. But he was, and he jumped a little. They both chuckled over it a bit, Trowa’s ebbing off with a nasal sigh as Duo wrapped a hand around his cock and pulled at it.
“When was the last—?”
“Two years ago,” Trowa told him, quiet, breathless. During the war. Trowa gripped the sheets and shifted his hips, and Duo watched precome pearl at the tip as he shifted the foreskin down. It gleamed in the poor light, sparkled.
“Who?”
“Wu Fei,” Trowa breathed. Duo nodded, rubbed his thumb over the swollen head of Trowa’s cock. Trowa swore, quiet and fervent and desperate. “Don’t tease.”
“Right. Yeah, right.”
Trowa’s breath caught on a sigh, the first tentative dive at his cock Duo took, and Duo pulled back, a little surprised. Trowa stared down at him, expectant and urgent and broken. It made Duo wonder if he’d ever looked like that, all those times those fags would suck his dick.
“Sorry,” Duo whispered toward Trowa’s groin, unable to look at him. He pushed Trowa’s shirt up a little, kissed his belly, said, “Sorry. Never done this before.”
“Shit,” Trowa hissed. Duo heard the fwump of him throwing his head against the pillows. “Shit. Do it?”
“Yeah, okay,” Duo whispered against Trowa’s belly. He tugged at the jeans, got them over the sharp angle of Trowa’s hips and down his thighs, and then just stared at Trowa for a second: rumpled clothes and clutching hands and firm sack beneath his twitching cock. Duo felt his mouth water and told himself he wasn’t a fag for doing this, he was just curious. He was just helping out an old buddy.
That first conscious taste, repulsive but not really, was all salty tang and musk and the taste-smell of sweaty youngish man. Duo pulled back, wrinkled his nose, pulled back Trowa’s foreskin with a few expert pulls, and tried to remember all the porn he’d ever watched. Anything to help him power through this.
When he lowered his mouth again, Trowa’s fingers were there, winding their way into the almost loose hair at the crown of Duo’s skull, pulling him in and encouraging him with a soft sigh. His cock bumped the back of Duo’s throat, and he gagged a little, jumped, pulled back to steady himself.
Trowa’s fingers were urgent-tight. “Do it,” he whispered, breathless, demanding. Duo opened his mouth and lowered himself with the help of Trowa’s fingers, aware of the taste-smell of it all and the weight of everything, fingers and Trowa’s cock hot-heavy against his tongue and the back of his throat.
When he gagged again, Trowa swore deep in his chest, let up just enough that Duo could pull back and close his eyes and suck, because he knew that. He knew how that worked, remembered it from back seats and alleys and seedier dives than this motel room—at least this place had a bed that wasn’t threatening to collapse any second now.
He didn’t listen to the noises, but he knew them—slick, gross wet noises from his own mouth; quiet, nasal sighs from Trowa. He wondered, because he didn’t dare look, if Trowa bit his lip or if he just kept his mouth shut and refused to be too distracted by all this.
His fingers dug into Trowa’s thighs as Trowa’s fingers got more testy in his hair, against his scalp, blinding pressure to points Duo hadn’t known he had, encouraging him to do things he’d never thought he’d do—but here he was, lying on a musty motel bed, rubbing his crotch and his chest against the itchy comforter while he gave another guy a blow. Trowa was getting louder, more insistent—getting past Duo’s little defenses against the fact that this was real, that this was happening, that this was really, really faggy—all these little mumbles and sighs turning into a soft keening and deep moans, the shift of his hips and his cock slipping impossibly deeper into Duo’s mouth, the feeling of his lower arms flexing against Duo’s temples that made Duo’s spine tingle.
The first taste was what made him flinch, made him try to pull back. Bitter spunk against his tongue, and how could anyone like that sort of thing. Especially with Trowa’s fingers tight, hot against his scalp, holding him when he groaned and—and Duo could taste it, there against his tongue and on the back of his throat, thick and bitter and tanged toward salty-blood iron flavored. Too much to hold in, and he could feel it on his chin, on his neck, on his nose as he finally managed to pull back toward the end as Trowa’s fingers went slack.
He fled for the bathroom, Trowa still blissed out on the bed, and retched into the sink for a minute. When he looked up, there were little dribbles on his lips and neck, a particular dollop caught in the bow of his collarbone. He scrunched up his nose, grabbed a nasty-looking hand-towel from the corner of the corner and scrubbed at himself until his cheeks and neck and chest were pink.
He was impossibly hard, desperate for it almost. Well, shit.
Back in the room, Trowa looked like nothing had happened, was in fact heading for the door, and only stalled when Duo came back in, spotted him, and barked an indignant, “We’re not done yet, I’ve still got a stiffy!”
Trowa peered over his shoulder, through his hair—Duo hated when he did that—and said, rather dispassionately, “You have hands, Duo.”
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