January 2002
Trowa stretched lazily and then relaxed back into the sun-dappled hammock, his hands loosely clasping the anchor-rope above his head. It was a warm afternoon here on Earth, and the slight breeze was pleasantly cool against his bare chest.
He sighed, content. He'd really needed this break. His eyes slowly closed, and he dozed.
He was brought back to wakefulness some time later when a warm weight settled familiarly across his hips. He smiled without opening his eyes and murmured, "Hello, Quatre."
"Hi."
The slightly husky tone made him crack one eye open. His blond lover was straddling him, his arms full of miscellaneous items and his blue eyes full of mischief.
Trowa felt a slight blush rising in his cheeks as the Arabian's gaze travelled appreciatively down his arms, over his exposed chest and abdomen, to the low-slung denim cutoffs that were his only clothing. The blush followed in the wake of those knowing eyes, sending heat across his skin and down to his groin.
"I saw you from the window of my office," Quatre said softly, finally looking back into Trowa's face, "and you looked like you could use some snacks."
Trowa smiled slightly. That was typical of Quatre, always so generously anticipating his guests' wants. Perhaps he could be persuaded to attend to another desire...?
"Will you hold this for me, please?"
Trowa brought one arm down and obligingly held the tall glass Quatre held out to him.
"And this, please." Trowa took the second glass in his other hand.
A moment later both glasses had been filled with icy lemonade from the sealed jug Quatre produced from the crook of his arm.
The young blond then proceeded to lay out a tasteful array of foodstuffs - directly onto Trowa's body. Carrot sticks formed a line over his collarbone and around the right side of his chest. A moment later celery stalks were arranged similarly on the left. A generous amount of chips was sprinkled in between, onto his pecs.
Trowa was hard pressed not to laugh out loud. His lover looked like some demented party host, determined to lay out appetizers on anything vaguely horizontal. And judging from the smile twitching at his lips, the Arabian was not unaware of the silly image he presented.
When the snacks were arranged to his satisfaction, Quatre produced one last container from under his arm with a flourish.
"Chip dip! Hmmm, let's see..." He peered at the lid. "Stir well before serving. Well, I'm afraid I don't have a spoon handy..."
Quatre carefully shifted his weight until his feet were resting lightly on the ground. Then he began to shake the tin vigorously, careful not to jostle the hammock enough to spill any of the food.
Trowa almost gasped at the sensation. His lover was hovering over his groin, and the quick arm movements were translating into a sweet vibration he could feel right down to his bones. He couldn't help himself - his hips lifted, pressing up between Quatre's legs.
He shoved his bare feet into the supporting cords at the end of the hammock for leverage, and rocked his hips up again. He pressed himself firmly against his love's exquisitely curved bottom.
The feel of Quatre's body shifting back and forth against him was delicious torture. The rapid rubbing soon had him fully hard and ready, but the tight shorts he was wearing made his condition almost painful.
By the time the dip was thoroughly mixed, Trowa was perilously close to crushing the lemonade glasses. His eyes were squeezed shut and his lower lip was caught hard between his teeth in a frantic attempt to avoid coming in his shorts. He moaned, frustration and relief combined, as Quatre finally stopped shaking the little container.
The maelstrom slowly eased, and Trowa was able to edge back from the brink, gradually lowering his hips.
COLD!! His belly contracted towards his spine as a large dollop of extremely-well-mixed chip dip landed on his abdomen.
"Now, now, don't spill anything," Quatre chided, obviously trying not to grin.
"Spill?" He managed to keep his voice level, and raised an eyebrow for extra effect. "I'm an acrobat, Quatre; I never spill. I was merely... providing a bowl for the dip."
"Oh, good.," Quatre said pleasantly, swinging one leg over the hammock and standing up. Trowa felt a moment's disbelief - surely his best friend and lover wouldn't leave him here like this!?!
But the slender blond obviously had other ideas - he was disrobing with straightforward eagerness. The twist and arch of his torso as he ignored buttons and pulled both shirt and vest off over his head was exquisite. And his obvious arousal, his flushed cheeks and quickened breath and - Trowa moaned softly at the sight - his proud erection, was enough to heat the coldest blood to boiling.
Kicking off the last of his clothing, Quatre looked over his personal smorgasbord and smiled happily. "I'm afraid, sir, that you're improperly dressed for this dining establishment." He began to tug on the brass button at the waist of Trowa's cutoffs.
Trowa blinked and said carefully, "You're naked, but I'm improper??"
Quatre cocked an eyebrow and popped the button open. "The chips aren't All-Dressed; why should you be?"
Trowa's snort of laughter turned into a gasp of relief as Quatre eased his zipper down and released some of the pressure on his aching cock. A familiar hand slid inside his shorts, gently straightening and freeing his erection. He moaned and thrust up into the warm caress.
Quatre's hands took advantage of his raised hips, sliding around to cup his ass and forcing the slightly loosened shorts down to his thighs. To his frustration, they didn't stop there, but continued pushing the worn denim down and off his legs.
A trickle of wetness across the back of one hand warned him that he was letting his desire get the better of his control. He righted the tipping glass, and took a sip from it for good measure. The lemonade was a perfect blend of sweet and tart, refreshing and cool across his tongue.
His breathing steadied, until Quatre swung one leg up and over, straddling him again. Their erections brushed and rubbed together as the blond settled into place, and they both moaned.
"Quatre..." His voice came out deeper than normal, roughened with need.
"I know, love, I'm hungry, too," Quatre said softly. He leaned forward, putting his hands on Trowa's shoulders.
Trowa reached for his lover's hips, wanting him to move and repeat that delicious friction, momentarily forgetting that his hands were otherwise occupied.
"Gyaaaahhhhh!!!!" Quatre yelped and jumped as the cold lemonade glasses made contact with the sensitive skin inside his thighs.
Trowa flung his arms out, automatically shifting his weight to accommodate as Quatre reflexively jerked his knees up and in. Lemonade sloshed and celery sticks rained down onto the grass below as the hammock swung, but he managed to avoid capsizing.
They stared at each other, wide-eyed, the hammock slowly subsiding to a gentle rocking. Trowa took in Quatre's shocked expression and fought to keep his laughter behind his teeth. He managed a semi-contrite "S-sorry," but couldn't stop his lips from curving into a smile.
Quatre tried to look severe, but his eyes were dancing. "You will pay, Mister Barton," he said, pointing a stern finger.
"I'm truly sorry, Quatre, I didn't mean to freeze your pri-"
"You spilled the celery," Quatre accused. "And the lemonade. I hope you realize your reputation as a flawless acrobat is at stake here." The Arabian took a carrot and bit the end off with a decisive snap of his teeth.
Trowa let his smile widen into a little grin; he loved it when Quatre was playful. "I see. I hadn't realized it was so serious. What can I do to restore your good opinion of me?"
"Shall we discuss it over snacks?" Quatre waggled his eyebrows and attempted to leer, something which always amused Trowa.
"Of course."
Twenty minutes later, Trowa had gained a deep appreciation of his lover's sense of humour. And timing. And what was that other thing? Oh, yes - revenge.
Quatre smiled wickedly at him, and selected a chip from the dwindling supply. Trowa followed the progress of the chip as it was dragged lightly through the remaining dip on his belly. The skin had been sensitized from repeated swipes, and the half-caress, half-tickle made him catch his breath.
Quatre braced himself with one hand on Trowa's shoulder and leaned forward, offering the dipped chip for him to sample. This simple act had the effect of pressing their erections together, a thoroughly enjoyable experience which was multiplied a thousandfold by the subtle movement of Quatre's hips against his.
From previous experience, Trowa knew that as long as he was taking small bites of the chip, Quatre would stay where he was, rocking and rubbing and driving him mad with desire. Any attempt to move his own hips would cause the remnants of the dip to slither around, which would bring a stop to his lover's delicious torture.
With iron discipline, he kept his hips still.
The chip was reduced to crumbs all too soon, but Trowa was desperate to maintain their contact. He was so close...
He reached up and took the last little bit of chip, and Quatre's thumb and two fingers, into his mouth. He sucked and swirled his tongue around, trying to convey his urgent need. To his deep satisfaction, he could feel Quatre's cock jump and harden even further in response.
Quatre groaned and bent down, muttering, "Well, it is French Onion dip, after all," before pulling his fingers away and replacing them with his tongue.
Trowa leaned up into the kiss, revelling in the taste and feel of his lover's sweet mouth. He could feel Quatre's fingers digging into his shoulder as the slow rocking gradually sped up and became more urgent. It went on forever, and ended too soon.
Quatre stood up, panting and flushed, breaking the kiss. Trowa dropped his head back and groaned, a half-strangled cry of frustration and need. A moment later, he cried out again, as his erection was grasped firmly and rubbed up into a tight hot crevice.
"Ohhhhhhhh," Trowa managed, "You're already..."
Quatre laughed a little breathlessly, "A good host is always prepared, Trowa." His hand caressed and positioned Trowa's hard length while he lowered himself slightly, just enough to ease the head inside.
Trowa gasped at the exquisite sensation, grinding his teeth as his lover stopped. He struggled with the primitive urge to bury his cock inside, the muscles in his thighs trembling with the need to swivel his hips.
Quatre was saying something to him. It took a moment to claw the tattered wisps of his mind together enough to make sense of the sounds.
"Would you like a chip?"
He was asking that NOW?!?!?
Once Quatre saw that he had Trowa's complete, if dumbfounded, attention, he continued, "Or a dip?" As he said these words, the blond suddenly lifted his feet off the ground, relaxing and letting himself sink down onto Trowa's cock.
Whatever the acrobat might have said was lost in the triumphant shout that burst from his throat as he was finally buried deeply within his lover. A second attempt at speech became a groan as Quatre leaned back, bracing himself with his hands on Trowa's thighs, his feet hooked under Trowa's ribs. After that, incoherent cries were all he was capable of.
Quatre raised himself slowly, angled his hips, and 'dipped' again. And again. And again.
All too soon, Trowa was breathing in deep, unsteady gasps, his arms quivering with the effort of keeping the glasses out and level, his body deliciously poised on the brink of orgasm.
He could feel the tremble in Quatre's arms as the blond slowly raised his body again. Trowa's eyes kept drifting closed, but he forced them open. He wanted to see his lovely Quatre overcome with passion.
The slender blond was the very picture of wanton desire - head flung back in ecstasy, blue eyes glazed and half-lidded, cheeks flushed, mouth open, knees bent double and spread wide apart, dusky cock swollen and dripping. He moaned as he positioned the head of Trowa's erection against his sweet spot and squirmed.
Trowa saw the tremors spread from his arms all over his body, and then Quatre was crying out, snapping his hips down, impaling himself deeply, digging his heels into Trowa's flanks to couple them more closely still as his seed spurted over both of them.
The warm shuddering clasp of his lover's sweet body and his ecstatic cry triggered Trowa's own orgasm. His hips curled up of their own volition and his entire body shook for an endless, shattering moment. Then the compulsion eased, and he collapsed bonelessly back into the hammock, dizzy and breathless.
When he could think again, he took a careful look at the glasses still miraculously gripped in his hands. Amazing. They were both almost full. He put one to his lips and drank deep.
"Quatre..."
The warm, limp weight covering his legs stirred slightly and moaned. Trowa smirked a little and, making an enormous effort, bent his knees, raising his lover to a sitting position. Quatre's eyes slowly opened, a smug little smile on his lips.
Trowa silently offered the full glass. Quatre grinned and took it, draining it thirstily. Trowa took it back and set both glasses down on the grass, flexing his fingers with relief.
The Arabian rearranged himself, settling beside and half on top of Trowa, not bothering to avoid the sticky bits. He sighed happily. "Well, I must say you came through with flying colours. Your acrobatic reputation is secure."
"Of course. That's one of the benefits of a balanced diet."
Quatre burst out laughing, and Trowa smiled, wrapping an arm around his love and pulling the blond head down onto his shoulder. "But I'm going to report you to the Perfect Host Society," he added in a disapproving tone.
Quatre snuggled closer. "What for? Didn't you like your snacks?"
"Well... the dip was superb. But Quatre, weren't you ever taught that guests are supposed to come first?"
Quatre laughed again, shaking his head. "Ahhh, I see. I'll have to be more considerate next time."
"Next time?"
Quatre reached down and grabbed the empty chip bag, holding it up in explanation.
Trowa raised a questioning eyebrow.
"They were Lays, Trowa."
Trowa rolled his eyes, and Quatre snickered. Then the blond tapped a finger over the motto emblazoned on the chip bag, quoting it as he stretched up for a kiss. "Bet you can't have," his voice was softer and huskier, "just one..."
Owari
(:./wingnut/chipdip)
