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"The Good Life"Written By: Miss Murdered Disclaimer: I don't own the GW characters - am
just borrowing to torment for my amusement Rating: NC 17 Warnings: m/m sex – a little rough, hints
of violence/gore, angst, some bad language Pairings: 1x3 Summary: Heero tends to Trowa's wounds after being compromised on a mission. A/N: A pairing I love but never write. Meant to
work as the opposite of canon after Heero's whole self-destruction.
Title may be ever so slightly misleading as this is kinda angsty.
There is a reason. Beta'd by ELLE
" The Good Life" Chapter 1 The gentle sound of waves lapping against the hull of
a small fishing boat woke Trowa, his body still aching, his mouth
still tasting of blood and salt, his head throbbing. The slow, lulling movement was comforting, the dark
of the cabin reminding him of safety, cocooned in the back of Jeeps
as a child, the slow rumble of old engines sending him to sleep in
blankets. He reached for his wrists, to where the ropes had been
tied tight, and he rubbed at those chafing wounds, the pain a little
uncomfortable but nothing he couldn't deal with or hadn't dealt with
before. The other wounds were painful in degrees but Trowa did not
care – the beating he took meant he didn't break cover, meant
he was outed as a spy for another criminal gang rather than as a Preventer
and it meant that his mission was not a failure. Not over. He could
deal with the beating. Deal with his head pulled back and his fingers
stomped on – had dealt as then there was Heero, shooting people
in the head, his partner making short work of a gang of Somali pirates,
the blood and bone fragments, the skin and brain tissue all decorating
a steel box of a room aboard the Juggernaut, an old Alliance warship
converted for criminal purposes. He sat up, remembered the escape from the Juggernaut
– him limping along corridors, supported by his partner, Heero's
firm muscles encased in the black slick wetsuit, his eyes darkened
by the passion and fierceness that he brought to battle. The same
passion and fierceness he brought to fucking. It was as though the
two were interlinked within him and Trowa was a willing participant
in playing with that line – lust and violence. Sex and death.
They were soldiers – those things lived side by side. They had jumped off the Juggernaut, the small fishing
boat anchored not far off. And Trowa was weak – too weak perhaps
for the swim – not fed, bleeding, his hands useless from the
hours spent tied behind his back but he was following the sleek black
form into the frigid water, following, falling, his lungs filling
with salt water and being pulled, pulled under until he was dragged
upwards, dragged by Heero's arms and his strength. Trowa had been
pulled towards the small fishing boat bobbing on the waves and he
saw the name of the boat on the stern 'the Good Life' – something
ironic about it, he thought vaguely as they reached it. Last night he had been tended to – hot soup and
tea, his injuries bandaged, his body wrapped in warmth and Heero's
warmth, a firm body holding him tight as he drifted to sleep, the
shared body heat making him feel his limbs again. He took the beating, the fall into the cold salt water,
as that's what they did and he didn't regret his wounds, his pain,
as he shifted on the bed. Trowa had drifted after the war at first
– feeling so little for so long that pain and Heero were what
he needed and the life of a deep cover agent satisfied that. Trowa moved, sitting, feeling stitches pull, his head
nearly hitting the bunk above and he grimaced, felt the pain and he
heard a snort from the doorway. Heero. "Pain?" "Manageable." Heero grunted, left and Trowa swung his legs over the
side of the bunk, rubbed his thighs, and stood, his legs shaking slightly
or maybe he was disorientated by the slight rocking motion of the
boat. He held onto the sides, stabilising himself, followed Heero
to what he'd seen the previous night – a small cabin with what
acted as a kitchen, the table, attached to the floor, where the first
aid kit still sat, the uncomfortable couch that he'd sat on as Heero
treated his wounds. He'd asked him how he felt last night and Trowa
had murmured, soft, his mind elsewhere to a time long ago, a trailer
and a fifteen year old boy. "It hurts like hell," he'd said. Not dying – though without Heero, he probably would've
been, but it all hurt last night. Now he dealt. Pain was pain was
pain. He'd had worse. Heero had coffee in tin mugs – gave one to Trowa,
watched him drink it, eyes dark in the dim light of the cabin, watching
him closely, and he saw Heero lick his lips unconsciously, take a
sip of his own coffee. "Where are we?" "Off the coast of Madagascar," Heero said
matter-of-factly. "You need to eat." Trowa acquiesced, his stomach deprived for some time
and some stew in cheap tins was heated up, placed in front of him
and he ate as he needed to with Heero's eyes not leaving him. "You checked in?" Heero shook his head. "We haven't got anything.
You're not compromised fully – only seen as a traitor. We can
work that when we get back to Cape Town." "You listened?" His answer was one curt nod. Trowa took another spoonful
of stew like he should, Heero leaning against the counter, and that
information was processed in Trowa's brain, the recording device hidden
under his skin reported back here, to the laptop, and Heero had heard. "You didn't lose your accent." "I never do." No he didn't – meant to be French, so kept that
accent even during his interrogation, even during the pain. He was
a damn professional. Trowa finished the food, not tasting like anything beyond
salt but he wondered if the salt water in his mouth from his dive
had tainted it. He got up, unsteady still, the bowl discarded in the
sink, Heero closely watching his movement. Not offering help as Trowa
did not want it and Heero knew – knew like he always did –
that Trowa was recovering not just from his wounds but from the injury
to his pride. The cabin was too small – smelt of staleness and
unappetising food. Trowa felt too big for it – Heero seemed taller,
more imposing, his blue eyes watching him move, and Trowa liked that
look that Heero gave him. One that would make a lesser man's skin
crawl – predatory and dark and passion in his otherwise impassive
face. In pain, in boxers and bandages, Trowa was still drawn
to him, and he approached, stopped in front of Heero, put his hands
on either side of the counter, trapping him, and Heero's gaze lifted
to his face. "You're hurt." The statement made Trowa laugh, a soft sound that escaped
his lips and Heero maybe knew why and maybe he didn't. One of Trowa's hands made its way from the counter,
pulled at Heero's hair, so that he could lick a trail from collarbone
to pulse point, his voice then whispering against Heero's saliva soaked
skin. "I like the pain." It was all Heero needed, hands at Trowa's jaw, forcing
him to meet the kiss that was demanding, Heero's tongue unrelenting,
forceful, bypassing lips, running over teeth and palate, dominating
him and Trowa felt himself pushed towards the small table, tin mugs
of coffee spilled and rattling to the floor, the med kit falling,
the clank of metal heard as Heero pushed him, Trowa's cock already
hard for the man with dark blue eyes. The contact of the table jolted Trowa, made him moan
in pain and pleasure as Heero released his lips, dragging and biting
down on the bottom one and Trowa pulled at Heero, regaining his footing.
He kissed him again, attacking his lips, navigating his way backwards
towards what acted as a bedroom and the thin bunk, the rocking of
the boat making him feel unsteady. Or maybe it was the touch of Heero's
hands all over him, at his cock, at his back, stroking, touching,
burning through him. They tumbled, off balance to the opened doorway and
Trowa braced himself against the frame, Heero's body colliding, grinding
against him. His lips left Trowa's and his mouth found his left nipple,
bit down, pulled back and Trowa grabbed at Heero's hair, already so
damn hard, and he demanded the attention to where he ached to be touched,
his dick throbbing. "Fuck," he said, as Heero finished his torture
on his nipple, the abused flesh smarting though in a way that sent
a spark down to his cock. "Damn it, Heero, do something." He did, took the head through fabric, the wet heat making
Trowa's eyes slide closed but the layer of fabric was damn annoying.
He bucked forward, instincts driving him forward, achieving nothing
but pain as Heero was only letting the head slide between his lips
through boxer shorts. The deep groan, the noise he made gave some indication
to Heero as the lips were gone, the soaked front of his boxer shorts
sticking to his dick and Trowa reached down, inside, and stroked.
He realised why Heero had gone, the first aid kit fallen to the floor
with the coffee mugs had something in to use as lube and he held a
tube in his fingers as he watched Trowa's hand work over his cock
in the confines of boxers. "Off," Heero ordered as he stood, approached,
and Trowa complied, material sliding down his legs, pooling around
his ankles, naked now except for bandages. But he kept his hand wrapped
around his cock, hard, leaking at the tip and he slowly moved his
fist – Heero's eyes tracing up and down his body, the feeling
making him hot and wanting. He didn't beg Heero, didn't need to, Heero was his mirror,
his reflection through stained glass, and he knew what Trowa wanted. "On the bunk." Trowa complied – a good soldier taking orders –
walking to the bed, lying down on his back, the movement of his hand
ceasing and he felt the cool rough sheets against his skin. He spread
his long legs for Heero to come in between them, one draped over the
side due to the size of the bunk, saying "fuck me" non-verbally.
Didn't need words. Not with Heero. Didn't need to encourage him as he slid in between his
legs, kneeling between them and Heero's finger slid in, quick, harsh,
left him panting, arching into the touch, temporary stitches hurting,
and Heero twisted it, his mouth on Trowa's neck. He could feel Heero's
cock against his thigh, hard and hot, clothed in thin shorts. The finger inside him became two, then three, driven
into him with a varying degree of pressure – sometimes harder,
sometimes gentler, Heero fucking him with his fingers, making him
shudder and push back and want. Making him see sparks, hitting prostate,
his dick twitching in response, his hand reaching to touch, slide
along his cock until Heero saw, grabbed at his hand, pushed it down
to the bed, his fingers harsh around the rope burns. Trowa panted, demanded, and Heero fulfilled that –
pulling down his own shorts, throwing them off the bunk – and
he watched Heero lube up, watched the cock he wanted inside him as
Heero's fingers stroked himself more than necessary, his control a
tease. Trowa acted then, despite the heaviness in his legs, and he
wrapped one around Heero, pulled him forward, reached for his face
with his free hand, leaned up and kissed him. He grunted in pain as
his aching body protested but Heero pushed in, and he felt the slide
of his dick, intense and fucking good. Trowa's lips slid from the kiss, his back hitting the
mattress as Heero released his wrist, grabbed at his hips, aligned
Trowa's body how he wanted it, his hands grazing bruised and broken
skin. Only the first thrusts were tentative, shallow, as Trowa
felt Heero's dick so damn hard and hot inside him, his slickened movement
slow, the opening act for what they both wanted. Heero was leaning over him, his t-shirt still on, and
Trowa pulled at the fabric, fisted his hand in it, feeling the material
begin to break in his fingers at each slow slide. The beginning was
always like this, long times between their fucks due to their work
and Trowa missed the feeling of Heero taking him, fucking him, dominating
him, and he tried to brace himself against the bunk underneath him
as Heero's hips sped up. He crashed into Trowa then, Heero's cock almost out
of his body entirely before it plunged back in, the force of Heero's
body making Trowa slide to the end of the bunk, his head hitting the
metal behind him from the strength and pressure of Heero fucking him. Heero's eyes stayed open in the dark, staring down at
him, and Trowa kept that gaze, one hand in the t-shirt, the other
latched tight in his hair – not closing his own eyes as he pushing
up into Heero's downwards thrusts despite pain, the weariness and
the dead weight of his limbs. He wanted this. Heero. Everything his
partner could give him. Each rough touch, each kiss laced with tongue and teeth,
each plunge of his cock inside and each slide of his hand over Trowa's
dick, firm, assured, knowing how to bring him to climax – how
to make him come. Heero was heat, violent passion, and Trowa grabbed onto
that – liked that – didn't want normality and real life
worries, wanted the faded memory of dead men killed only hours before
and the confident thrusts of a man whose desires were just as dark
as his own. Who liked a hint of pain with his fucks. Trowa had been
raised by mercs. Heero by an assassin. Really what could they expect?
A house in the suburbs and a wife and a decent job? No. This. Rough sex and violent missions and the adrenalin
of a life lived close to the edge. Heero's hand sped up around Trowa's cock, his hips a
steady and fast rhythm. Trowa felt it all build and Heero hit that
spot inside him, again and again, with accuracy, and Trowa came, his
body protesting in both pleasure and pain, his hand finally ripping
through the fabric of Heero's t-shirt. Trowa's orgasm made him drag Heero further into him
with his leg and Heero faltered, a low grunt of "yes" whispered
across his lips, his face knotted in concentration and his eyes closing
as he came. Trowa felt it, the shudder of his body above him, and
a moment later Heero shakily moved off him, no need for post-sex contact.
No need for kisses and the gentle nuzzling of flesh and whatever normal
people did. Instead, Heero got his shorts from the floor as Trowa
laid back on the bed, stretching his arms, the movement making him
realise he'd popped some stitches as a rivulet of blood ran down his
bicep and the sheets underneath were dark with blood from re-opened
wounds. Heero's t-shirt was badly damaged and he removed it,
threw it to the floor, and as he prepared to walk out of the room
he looked over at Trowa. "I'll re-do your stitches." Trowa nodded to that and got up slowly, grabbed for
clean boxer shorts, cum pooling on his stomach, his body weary but
satisfied, and he walked back to sit at the table where he had been
eating only minutes before. He watched as Heero found the necessary
items from the med kit and came to sit beside him, took hold of his
arm to inspect where the wound had reopened. "Did I hurt you?" "Nothing I can't deal with." Heero made a soft noise, staunched the bleeding, disinfected
the wound with something that made Trowa hiss quietly and removed
what remained of the stitches to replace with new. As Trowa watched each careful touch, each stitch putting
his flesh back together, he knew what they had was not normal but
in their own way the name of the boat was appropriate. It wasn't the
good life "normal" people aspired to but to two men who
met as boys in war, raised by killers and bringing death to those
that deserved it, this was the good life.
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