torch, flambeau@strangeplaces.net
August 3, 2011

Disclaimer: let's not and say we did. Written for porn battle XII. The request was Quatre/Trowa, and the prompt I chose was worship. Do not archive without permission.

was soaked in the body

The water was tepid, sun-warmed turning sunset cool and somehow all the more comfortable for that; the night outside lay like wet black velvet over the desert. Quatre ran a washcloth down the firm curve of Trowa's spine, then shook his head and put it aside, using his hands to spread the lather instead. The washcloth was much too distancing. He touched steadily and thoroughly, soaping up, sluicing down. When he was done with Trowa's back, he washed shoulders and arms, one after another, and hands, paying attention to each finger. Under the arms, careful not to tickle, and then the sides and the chest, slowly, reverently. Quatre knew this body already, the lean strength, the flexibilility, but he was touching now as though his fingers were learning the shape of Trowa for the first time.

He'd been too impatient then, shaky and weak with a desire he was too shy to fully express. Now he had the freedom of familiarity, a new ease that let him kneel down and wash Trowa's legs, long and slim and strong, and his feet with their high arches and surprising barefoot-walking roughness. The ankles, like the wrists, looked fragile. Quatre caught at Trowa's nearest hand and kissed the inside of the wrist through a trickle of water, tasting nothing, only feeling that fleeting warmth against his lips. He went on with his methodical washing, hips, ass, cock and balls, and he didn't let his touch linger, not now, though he could feel Trowa stirring and thickening against his fingers.

When Quatre stood up again, all that remained for him was to wash himself, quickly and efficiently. His own body was uninteresting in this, and he could be brisk with it.

Quatre turned off the water and invited Trowa with a gesture to step out onto a coarse bathroom mat. He followed close behind, picked up a thin, well-washed towel, and began to pat Trowa dry with the same care he'd used in washing him. Silky skin, miraculously almost unmarked by battle, though Trowa had a burn scar on his back that Quatre could never bring himself to ask about. Quatre dried it with the same care he gave to every part of Trowa's body, and then wiped himself down much more quickly, just enough not to drip on the floor as he led Trowa by the hand into the next room and gestured for him to sit on the pile of rugs and pillows.

Then he knelt down and leaned forward, keeping his own body balanced as he began to lick the last drops of water from Trowa's cock.

Trowa drew a sharper breath, and Quatre looked up through his lashes. "Just let me do this," he said. "Please."

He went back to licking, feeling Trowa's cock move against the push of his tongue. The bland taste of water and the lingering sharpness of soap wore off, and there was the taste of Trowa, of skin; Quatre indulged himself in it for a long time, before he finally swiped his tongue over the head and caught the first bitter drops of Trowa's rising desire. He spread his knees a little wider, settled back on his heels and bent forward, neatly folded in three, and sucked at Trowa's cockhead, letting it rub against his tongue and push at the sensitive roof of his mouth. Quatre moaned softly with pleasure and took in more, sliding his lips down the shaft as far as he could, sucking, swallowing.

He couldn't keep his balance like this any more; Quatre's hips rose in the air, and he braced himself with one hand against the rugs, the nap against his palm just one more sensation. What he felt most, though, was the slick, heavy weight of Trowa's cock against his tongue, A drop of saliva escaped from the corner of his mouth, and he moaned a little louder before he could stop himself, pushing down to take Trowa deeper. His tongue moved a little faster, too, pressing against the heavy shaft in caresses that half begged, half coaxed.

The wet sound of his own sucking made the tips of his ears flush hot. He wanted, oh, he wanted this, wanted to make it good and slow and at the same time he wanted nothing more than to feel Trowa come in his mouth now now now.

Quatre shivered. He was rushing it now, he knew that, but at the same time, Trowa tasted so good, he just couldn't slow down. He barely moved his head, and instead let the rhythm grow from the way he swallowed around Trowa's cock, creating waves of suction and feeling Trowa throb in return, hearing Trowa's quiet, even breathing speed up. That was what he wanted. That was just precisely what he wanted, to hear that bitten-off gasp, that low groan. To feel the cock in his mouth jerk and pulse and flood his tongue with rich, thick cream that tasted terrible and delicious at the same time.

Quatre swallowed with another soft moan, and licked Trowa's cock clean with a light, undemanding touch. He sat back a little, and then Trowa's hand caught his face, curved gently against his jaw and tilted his head up.

"You can do anything you want to me," Trowa said, and the look in his eyes went through Quatre like one of Sandrock's shotels. "Anything at all."

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