More procrastination. Surprise, surprise.
Apr. 26th, 2006 01:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lukon_ideinWell, I just couldn't resist writing a sequel to my Trowa ogling piece since it got so much positive feedback on GW500. (Still VERY happy about that! - what, me shallow? Hell, yeah!!) Anyway, I don't think it's as funny as the first one, and maybe Q-man is not quite as strong in this one, but hey, he'll get his own back before all is said and done. Muahahahahaaaaaaa. So here goes....
Title: Ball Boy, or Trowa’s Revenge
Author: Lukoni
Characters/Pairing: Quatre, Trowa, hints of 1x2
Word Count: 1669
Summary: In which Quatre endures much.
Rating: PG13 (for lots of talk but no action)
Warnings: More ogling. Possible muscle strain. ; P
Notes: Written for GW500 challenge #117: Swing.
Follow-up to The Power of Water. My apologies to anyone who doesn’t know how tennis scoring works, but I don’t think it’s completely necessary to follow the story (what little there is of it).
Feedback/Criticism/Typo notifications welcome. Thanks for reading!
Ball Boy
Trowa’s swing was a work of art. Just like the man himself, it appeared languid and disinterested yet in truth was completely directed, focused and deadly. His long fingers caressed the racquet handle, strong but flexible. His swift feet never landing in the wrong spot. His sculpted arm reaching out with perfect timing. Almost no backswing. And whack! The ball would shoot across the net like a bullet, low and clean.
Not for the first that afternoon Quatre bit back a groan. Those legs that would never end came to a stop inches from his face, thighs bulging, calves straining, sweat dripping. Then turned in an instant and were away across the court. It was torture.
Quatre had never truly appreciated the deviousness that lurked inside Trowa Barton. They had usually fought on the same side and he had never experienced that innate ruthlessness firsthand. He was certainly learning now! No hackneyed ‘eye for an eye’ revenge for Trowa. Not from the spy who had played Colonel Une like a violin. Oh no. Trowa’s form of payback was to give Quatre exactly what he wanted… in spades.
And he had fallen for it so easily.…
“Ball boy” was all Trowa said as he sat down at their table ten minutes after going to change out of his sopping wet clothes. Quatre looked back at him blankly, trying to ignore the fact that Duo had almost spurted orange juice all over him.
“I’m sorry, what?” Quatre prompted politely.
“You can be my ball boy. This afternoon. I’m playing tennis with Heero after the memorial ceremony.”
“Tennis? Since when do you play tennis? Or Heero, for that matter?” Trowa shrugged dismissively as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Heero had to learn because of Relena. She likes to play, but she sometimes finds herself short of partners who can pass Heero’s security checks. So she told him if he wouldn’t let people in he’d just have to take their place.” He paused to take a bite of the strawberry crepe the waitress had just placed in front of him.
“And you?” Quatre prompted as he savored the sight of those sensual lips reddened by strawberry juice. Duo kicked him under the table. He hoped he hadn’t been drooling.
“I just started because I found it relaxing. With all the traveling I do with the circus, I don’t really have a place that feels like home. But the court… well, they’re the same everywhere. Familiar, I guess.”
“And who do you play with? Cathy?”
“No. She hates it. When I get to a town, I usually just go down to the local park and pick up a partner. Are you okay, Duo.”
Duo was currently choking on his juice. Quatre, who was being plagued with visions of Trowa embroiled in a daisy chain with a group of L2 gigolos, was glad his friend was providing a distraction from his own reddened face.
“Fine, fine,” he wheezed. Trowa just looked perplexed and went back to eating his breakfast.
“So, Tro,” Duo finally managed, “Do you usually beat these partners of yours? Or do they beat you?” Quatre kicked him under the table.
The conversation had just gone downhill from there, and Quatre had readily agreed to Trowa’s proposal. Spending an hour or two in the sun chasing a few balls was a small price to pay for his prank earlier. Especially when that hour would be spent watching Trowa running around in shorts.
Poor, deluded fool! He should have known it was not going to be that easy. He’d wanted to ogle Trowa’s manly endowments? Well, he got it.
That broad chest peeking through the sweat-soaked white shirt. That tight ass hugged so lovingly by the white shorts, shorts which stopped just at the top of those rippling quads. All running and bending and twisting and sliding for his pleasure. Except he could do nothing about it. The match had been going for three hours now, and he believed his erection was probably approaching two hours and forty-five minutes. And it’s not as though he could sit quietly in the corner praying to be allowed to jerk off. Noooo. He was running around the court after balls. And not the balls he wanted, either. Trowa was clearly the devil himself.
“Advantage Barton,” came Wufei’s voice into his reverie.
“No shit,” Quatre grumbled under his breath as he trotted with difficulty after the loose ball. The match was dead even, one set apiece, and tied in the third nine to nine. Being the stubborn war heroes that they were, they refused to end with a tie break, and insisted on playing until one beat the other by two games. And considering neither of them seemed to be willing to do that any time soon, Quatre braced himself for the long haul. That’s what you get when you let two brilliant ex-fighter pilots whack balls at each other. Quatre nearly groaned again. Now he had the phrase “whack balls” stuck in his head.
He bit his lower lip in concentration as he attempted to will away his hard-on. He glanced across the net at Duo to see how he was faring. He had decided to take a page out of Trowa’s book and get back at Heero by volunteering to be *his* ball boy. Looking sinfully alluring in his extremely short cut-offs and a white tank top that left enough chest exposed to make one wonder why he bothered wearing a “shirt” at all, he was doing his best to distract the stoic Japanese pilot. He was careful to place himself always just at the edge of Heero’s line of sight, and, whenever possible, to bend over to pick up the ball with his ass pointing right at him. Heero’s demeanor of rigid concentration never shifted, but every now and then a shot would go wild and Quatre could catch Duo smiling smugly to himself over it. Still, it was hard to tell whether the number of points Heero lost out of distraction surpassed the number of points he won from the adrenaline high derived from showing off to the braided baka. Quatre would be laughing his own ass off if he weren’t in so much pain. He’d spent a few minutes back in the second set trying to distract Trowa in the same way, but it was difficult to do in his baggy white shorts and modest blue polo shirt. On the other hand, the baggy shorts were his number one ally at this point, so he really couldn’t complain. Especially since spectators had started to gather outside the fence that enclosed the court. They even applauded when a point was particularly good.
“Game Barton.”
With that Trowa took his place in the corner to receive. Bouncing a bit on his toes, he bent forward with his racquet loose in his fingers, ready to go after whatever came at him. His ass was bobbing merrily in Quatre’s face. He dutifully suppressed another groan as he tried not to think about Trowa being on the receiving end of anything from Heero. How hot would that be? rang Duo’s voice in his head. He sighed. It was going to be a long night.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The match was over. Finally. 7-6, 6-7, 24-22. Heero had finally been derailed by Duo’s performance, and double faulted three times in his last two service games. Trowa smiled a brief but genuine smile and then shook Heero’s hand solemnly. Amid the chatter and congratulations of the impromptu crowd, Quatre tried to make his way surreptitiously off the court and back to his room. It was not to be, of course. Just as he stepped through the gate he felt an arm drape across his shoulder. A sweaty arm. A sweaty, musky, intoxicating arm. Accompanied by a knee-weakening purr of a voice.
“Thanks a lot, Quatre. And I’m sorry – I had no idea it would go that long.”
Oh merciful heaven, just let me jump you or let me go back to my room so I can wank in peace!!!.
“It was no problem,” he answered instead. “I enjoyed it, actually. I had no idea you were so good.” He felt Trowa shrug in return.
“Thanks,” he replied softly, guiding them both toward the door of the hotel’s guest locker room. Once inside, Trowa peeled off his shirt and looked around for a towel. Quatre took a firm grip on his tongue with his teeth to keep him from going over and licking the man clean. He wondered if Trowa had really meant to get him quite this worked up. He hadn’t given any indication in the entire four hours and eighteen minutes of the game that he’d noticed Quatre’s dilemma in any way. Surely he couldn’t have assigned this penance in all innocence?
Quatre was debating whether to offer to scrub his back to see what sort of reaction he’d get, when Trowa looked up at the clock over the lockers and frowned. “We’re late for dinner. You’d better go and get changed.”
Curses. Foiled again.
“Of course. Relena might have us arrested if we don’t get there soon.” There’s a thought. Trowa… in handcuffs… locked in a cell…. No, bad thought. Down, boy!
Trowa gave his usual half smile of amusement. “That wouldn’t do at all. Seeing as how we’re the guests of honor.” Quatre thought he detected a faint trace of regret in Trowa’s voice. Like maybe he’d wanted Quatre to scrub his back. He just couldn’t tell for sure. It was just so hard to read the man.
“I’ll head her off and let her know we’re on our way.”
“Thanks,” he said, draping a towel over his shoulder. “Oh, and Quatre,” he added, glancing pointedly at the blond’s bulging groin. “You should probably put some ice on that. It looks like it hurts.”
Quatre narrowed his eyes in a piercing glare as Trowa sauntered off to the showers. Oh that’s it. Trowa is a dead man!
-fin-
Title: Ball Boy, or Trowa’s Revenge
Author: Lukoni
Characters/Pairing: Quatre, Trowa, hints of 1x2
Word Count: 1669
Summary: In which Quatre endures much.
Rating: PG13 (for lots of talk but no action)
Warnings: More ogling. Possible muscle strain. ; P
Notes: Written for GW500 challenge #117: Swing.
Follow-up to The Power of Water. My apologies to anyone who doesn’t know how tennis scoring works, but I don’t think it’s completely necessary to follow the story (what little there is of it).
Feedback/Criticism/Typo notifications welcome. Thanks for reading!
Ball Boy
Trowa’s swing was a work of art. Just like the man himself, it appeared languid and disinterested yet in truth was completely directed, focused and deadly. His long fingers caressed the racquet handle, strong but flexible. His swift feet never landing in the wrong spot. His sculpted arm reaching out with perfect timing. Almost no backswing. And whack! The ball would shoot across the net like a bullet, low and clean.
Not for the first that afternoon Quatre bit back a groan. Those legs that would never end came to a stop inches from his face, thighs bulging, calves straining, sweat dripping. Then turned in an instant and were away across the court. It was torture.
Quatre had never truly appreciated the deviousness that lurked inside Trowa Barton. They had usually fought on the same side and he had never experienced that innate ruthlessness firsthand. He was certainly learning now! No hackneyed ‘eye for an eye’ revenge for Trowa. Not from the spy who had played Colonel Une like a violin. Oh no. Trowa’s form of payback was to give Quatre exactly what he wanted… in spades.
And he had fallen for it so easily.…
“Ball boy” was all Trowa said as he sat down at their table ten minutes after going to change out of his sopping wet clothes. Quatre looked back at him blankly, trying to ignore the fact that Duo had almost spurted orange juice all over him.
“I’m sorry, what?” Quatre prompted politely.
“You can be my ball boy. This afternoon. I’m playing tennis with Heero after the memorial ceremony.”
“Tennis? Since when do you play tennis? Or Heero, for that matter?” Trowa shrugged dismissively as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Heero had to learn because of Relena. She likes to play, but she sometimes finds herself short of partners who can pass Heero’s security checks. So she told him if he wouldn’t let people in he’d just have to take their place.” He paused to take a bite of the strawberry crepe the waitress had just placed in front of him.
“And you?” Quatre prompted as he savored the sight of those sensual lips reddened by strawberry juice. Duo kicked him under the table. He hoped he hadn’t been drooling.
“I just started because I found it relaxing. With all the traveling I do with the circus, I don’t really have a place that feels like home. But the court… well, they’re the same everywhere. Familiar, I guess.”
“And who do you play with? Cathy?”
“No. She hates it. When I get to a town, I usually just go down to the local park and pick up a partner. Are you okay, Duo.”
Duo was currently choking on his juice. Quatre, who was being plagued with visions of Trowa embroiled in a daisy chain with a group of L2 gigolos, was glad his friend was providing a distraction from his own reddened face.
“Fine, fine,” he wheezed. Trowa just looked perplexed and went back to eating his breakfast.
“So, Tro,” Duo finally managed, “Do you usually beat these partners of yours? Or do they beat you?” Quatre kicked him under the table.
The conversation had just gone downhill from there, and Quatre had readily agreed to Trowa’s proposal. Spending an hour or two in the sun chasing a few balls was a small price to pay for his prank earlier. Especially when that hour would be spent watching Trowa running around in shorts.
Poor, deluded fool! He should have known it was not going to be that easy. He’d wanted to ogle Trowa’s manly endowments? Well, he got it.
That broad chest peeking through the sweat-soaked white shirt. That tight ass hugged so lovingly by the white shorts, shorts which stopped just at the top of those rippling quads. All running and bending and twisting and sliding for his pleasure. Except he could do nothing about it. The match had been going for three hours now, and he believed his erection was probably approaching two hours and forty-five minutes. And it’s not as though he could sit quietly in the corner praying to be allowed to jerk off. Noooo. He was running around the court after balls. And not the balls he wanted, either. Trowa was clearly the devil himself.
“Advantage Barton,” came Wufei’s voice into his reverie.
“No shit,” Quatre grumbled under his breath as he trotted with difficulty after the loose ball. The match was dead even, one set apiece, and tied in the third nine to nine. Being the stubborn war heroes that they were, they refused to end with a tie break, and insisted on playing until one beat the other by two games. And considering neither of them seemed to be willing to do that any time soon, Quatre braced himself for the long haul. That’s what you get when you let two brilliant ex-fighter pilots whack balls at each other. Quatre nearly groaned again. Now he had the phrase “whack balls” stuck in his head.
He bit his lower lip in concentration as he attempted to will away his hard-on. He glanced across the net at Duo to see how he was faring. He had decided to take a page out of Trowa’s book and get back at Heero by volunteering to be *his* ball boy. Looking sinfully alluring in his extremely short cut-offs and a white tank top that left enough chest exposed to make one wonder why he bothered wearing a “shirt” at all, he was doing his best to distract the stoic Japanese pilot. He was careful to place himself always just at the edge of Heero’s line of sight, and, whenever possible, to bend over to pick up the ball with his ass pointing right at him. Heero’s demeanor of rigid concentration never shifted, but every now and then a shot would go wild and Quatre could catch Duo smiling smugly to himself over it. Still, it was hard to tell whether the number of points Heero lost out of distraction surpassed the number of points he won from the adrenaline high derived from showing off to the braided baka. Quatre would be laughing his own ass off if he weren’t in so much pain. He’d spent a few minutes back in the second set trying to distract Trowa in the same way, but it was difficult to do in his baggy white shorts and modest blue polo shirt. On the other hand, the baggy shorts were his number one ally at this point, so he really couldn’t complain. Especially since spectators had started to gather outside the fence that enclosed the court. They even applauded when a point was particularly good.
“Game Barton.”
With that Trowa took his place in the corner to receive. Bouncing a bit on his toes, he bent forward with his racquet loose in his fingers, ready to go after whatever came at him. His ass was bobbing merrily in Quatre’s face. He dutifully suppressed another groan as he tried not to think about Trowa being on the receiving end of anything from Heero. How hot would that be? rang Duo’s voice in his head. He sighed. It was going to be a long night.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The match was over. Finally. 7-6, 6-7, 24-22. Heero had finally been derailed by Duo’s performance, and double faulted three times in his last two service games. Trowa smiled a brief but genuine smile and then shook Heero’s hand solemnly. Amid the chatter and congratulations of the impromptu crowd, Quatre tried to make his way surreptitiously off the court and back to his room. It was not to be, of course. Just as he stepped through the gate he felt an arm drape across his shoulder. A sweaty arm. A sweaty, musky, intoxicating arm. Accompanied by a knee-weakening purr of a voice.
“Thanks a lot, Quatre. And I’m sorry – I had no idea it would go that long.”
Oh merciful heaven, just let me jump you or let me go back to my room so I can wank in peace!!!.
“It was no problem,” he answered instead. “I enjoyed it, actually. I had no idea you were so good.” He felt Trowa shrug in return.
“Thanks,” he replied softly, guiding them both toward the door of the hotel’s guest locker room. Once inside, Trowa peeled off his shirt and looked around for a towel. Quatre took a firm grip on his tongue with his teeth to keep him from going over and licking the man clean. He wondered if Trowa had really meant to get him quite this worked up. He hadn’t given any indication in the entire four hours and eighteen minutes of the game that he’d noticed Quatre’s dilemma in any way. Surely he couldn’t have assigned this penance in all innocence?
Quatre was debating whether to offer to scrub his back to see what sort of reaction he’d get, when Trowa looked up at the clock over the lockers and frowned. “We’re late for dinner. You’d better go and get changed.”
Curses. Foiled again.
“Of course. Relena might have us arrested if we don’t get there soon.” There’s a thought. Trowa… in handcuffs… locked in a cell…. No, bad thought. Down, boy!
Trowa gave his usual half smile of amusement. “That wouldn’t do at all. Seeing as how we’re the guests of honor.” Quatre thought he detected a faint trace of regret in Trowa’s voice. Like maybe he’d wanted Quatre to scrub his back. He just couldn’t tell for sure. It was just so hard to read the man.
“I’ll head her off and let her know we’re on our way.”
“Thanks,” he said, draping a towel over his shoulder. “Oh, and Quatre,” he added, glancing pointedly at the blond’s bulging groin. “You should probably put some ice on that. It looks like it hurts.”
Quatre narrowed his eyes in a piercing glare as Trowa sauntered off to the showers. Oh that’s it. Trowa is a dead man!
-fin-