Author: Reverand Maynard
Warnings: 2+3; Strong R for inuendo and language; short; attempted humor
Disclaimer: If it’s not tall, blonde, and endowed with exceptionally large eqipment (HIS GUNDAM, YOU HENTAIS!), then I don’t want ‘em anyway. ^ ^


It had all started with a simple song.

Duo had been practicing his favorite sport, channel surfing, when he heard the muffled sounds of a woman’s screeching voice reach him from another room. Now on any other occasion, he might have simply yelled, ‘turn that down!,’ or, feeling particularly cheerful, might have ran into the next room to dance or sing along with whomever was enjoying the oddly upbeat music.

But, it was Sunday. The sky was clear, the birds were singing, most of his roommates were gone, and he hadn’t killed anyone in the last 48 hours. Today, he decided as he irritably clicked off the power of the television, today he would be pissed.

Decision made, fueled by the now undeniably annoying voice (and just why the fuck *was* one of his fellow assassins listening to a female crooning about how ‘girls just wanna have fun’?), he skulked down the hallway, eyes squinty and forehead creased with obvious displeasure, toward the source of the noise: the rumpus room.

The music was even louder here. He could feel it in his feet, in the doorknob, and when he flung the door open, the boy inside was deaf to its crash against the wall. Duo’s awareness however, particularly that of his happily lazy, Sunday afternoon libido, increased exponentially.

In time with the music that thrummed against the walls, Duo’s groin pulsed, and in the midst of the room, a body bounced along.

Trowa, back -no . . . ass to Duo, was bending at the waist, stretching his arms to touch the ground this way and that. His bottom, his calves, his thighs, were covered by a clingy, soft material, pale blue and tautly hugging his every curve and angle. At his ankles, were thick and flimsy warmers, blue and white and ribbed, and Duo noticed that a contraption of similar material, only tight and braided this time, served as a sweat band and peeked deliciously from beneath strawberry hair. His shirt was a simple white tank top and his arms were bare but for sweat.

But the best part, the final fucking straw, was the delicious view between the boy’s legs. Each time he would bend that pale material would stretch tight across a tighter ass, and the ample spread of his legs would allow an observer a first hand look at the sweetest mound of cock and balls this side of L5 (excepting, of course, one very specific blond prince/soldier/lover-of-all-things-good-and-general-like . . . but I digress).

Duo watched in rapt admiration, feeling his anger, and a good bit of every other substance in his body, flow in one direction, making for an uncomfortable, albeit delicious, tightness in his groin. He knew he was fully hard (teenage hormones--gotta love ‘em), and longed to unzip his trousers and pull the hot flesh out right then and there, teasing, squeezing, stroking himself to release. Yet at the same time, he knew that now that he’d seen that perfect ass, nothing short of that would do.

“Oh! Hi Duo.” A voice ripped him suddenly from his view, or. . . . almost. Below the apex of those lanky legs that seemed to climb forever, (obviously they too longed to be as close to that ass as he did), was Trowa’s face, a bit red from exertion, and beautifully comical in it’s upside-down gaze.

“I was just working out a bit. The music wasn’t bothering you was it?” He asked innocently, continuing to bounce and looking at Duo upon every descent between his legs with that same upturned emerald regard.

Duo closed his mouth, and swallow hard, but not as hard as-- “No.” The word was very clipped and dry sounding and almost inaudible.

“Oh.” The shape of the word on those lips gave Duo naughty thoughts and, impossibly, his pants grew tighter.

“I’ve just been away--” bounce, “ --from the circus--” bounce, “--so long that I’ve--” bounce “--been feeling quite--” bounce, “--stiff.”

“Unnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn . . . .” Duo moaned. He was no longer in control of his body. His cock had declared mutiny and was hoisting it’s rebel flag . . . directly in Trowa’s direction.

“I can really--” Trowa continued with another bounce, “--feel it too,” bounce, “right in here.” As he said so he stopped bouncing momentarily and from his vantage point between his legs, framed by his upturned ass, stroked the insides of his thighs. He looked at Duo, and cocked his head comically.

“You ok?”

“Heh . . . yeah . . . ummmmm . . .” Duo lied. He was seconds away from coming in his jeans. Trowa had no idea what he was doing to him! He thought about the fact that his erection must be blatantly obvious, but that thought came a second too late, as startled green eyes regarded his crotch and then his flushed face.

“Duo!” It wasn’t a shout exactly, but for Trowa it might as well have been have been a shriek.

For Duo, it was the end.

Trowa finally stood from his bent position. The song had ended and the house was quiet. He walked to the now prone form lying on the floor of the hallway, only a little concerned for his fallen comrade. He poked him with a bulky white sneaker to make sure he was still alive.

Indeed, there was a small moaning sound, though Duo didn’t open his eyes, and Trowa decided that was good enough.

A door slammed shut in another part of the house.

“Trowa, Duo, we’re back! Where are you?” It was Quatre and the others. They probably had dinner!

Trowa looked again at the still body on the floor, shrugged and turned to meet his friends and roommates, replying to Quatre’s call as he went.

“I’m coming!”

And on the floor, a certain unconscious face, developed a sated, if not cryptic, smile.