Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Ride A Cowboy ❯ Ride A Cowboy ( One-Shot )

Title: Ride A Cowboy
Author: Prynesque
Pairing: 1x2
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, OOC (this is an AU - I think it's a given), some swearing, lemon, POV, possible Australian-isms, PWP-ish.
Disclaimer: You know the deal… not mine, etcetera…

 

Notes: It's amazing where inspiration comes from. One moment I'm at the gym, working entirely too hard, and suddenly this song comes on and I'm having delicious Heero/Duo visions that could only be satiated by writing this fic. I've got visions of a Trowa/Quatre companion fic which may or may not ever be written. Please note that this is my first actual sex scene… so be nice.

 

Be warned: this fic hereby contains not a whole lot of plot. But there is sex and that hides a multitude of sins.

 

Dedicated to SkyLark - who read this first - and to Mike the Bartender at my local pub, who makes the best Cock-sucking Cowboys in town and can be tempted to wear a cowboy hat if you ask very, very nicely.

 

Ride A Cowboy:

 

I'm an average sort of guy. I think I always have been. Average. It's a fairly meaningless word, really; stuck on the fence between poles, it doesn't really seem to describe much of anything. Most people seem to use it synonymously with dull.

 

And who knows, maybe they're right. Maybe I'm not an average guy, maybe I'm just dull and boring… 26 going on 50, one foot already heading for the grave.

 

After all, I've never done any of those crazy, irresponsible, spontaneous things that one always associates with youth, and with people who are completely un-boring and un-average.

 

I've never chugged half a keg of beer and then been spectacularly half-dead the next morning… I've never snorted or smoked or injected or swallowed… I've never joy-rided down the interstate at two-hundred miles an hour, whooping in a giddy haze… I've never pressed a half-naked stranger up against a wall and had anonymous, wanton, messy sex.

 

No, I've never done any of those wild, adventure-type things that are supposedly an integral part of being a 20-something; because they just never held any appeal for me. I just don't see the point of participating in illegal, dangerous, idiotic stunts simply for the sake of it, or so that I can say that I have.

 

I'm perfectly happy being average. I show up to work on time each morning. I pay my rent and my taxes. I give to charity when the compulsion arises. I feed my neighbour's cat when she's out of town. Maybe that sounds dull to you; maybe you think I'm a 20-nothing after all. But I'm happy with my average little life.

 

The only trouble is that people tend to underestimate you. They take one look at you, fit you into your neat little average category and then assume that anything outside of that is completely beyond you.

 

But I've never cared about that, I've never cared what people thought of me… which is why I'm having a little difficulty understanding why it is that I'm currently standing here on this darkened street.

 

I suppose I should start at the beginning. It's not a grand story so I won't bother with the ubiquitous `Once upon a time,' I'll just get on with it. It all started this morning, and it was as completely un-dramatic as that opening probably suggests.

 

I had just arrived at the company conference room for my weekly dose of unmitigated torture. Staff meetings… I hate the wretched things. It would be alright if we just sat down and efficiently discussed this week's progress and next week's itinerary. But it's never that simple and never that short.

 

No, there are the endless minutes of waiting for everyone to settle, for the stragglers to arrive late and issue their lengthy apologies. Then there is more waiting for refreshments to be sorted, for coffee to be brewed and biscuits offered. And finally once the meeting actually starts, it's always interspersed with useless trivia and weekend plans and gossip.

It's a perfectly pointless formality but of course, I would never not go. Sometimes I have to wonder at my own dedication and consistency.

 

The meeting room was empty when I got there; a long, bland, cream and beige room with a long, bland, cream and beige table at the centre. I eased myself into my usual chair.

We don't really have dedicated seats but that one has always been my favourite; it has an unobstructed view out the window of the Memorial park opposite. There are often kites being flown mid-morning and I've always found the sight a welcome distraction whenever Julie from Legal starts on about her husband's weekend amateur baseball games.

 

My reverie was interrupted by the sharp crack of the door being flung open and hitting the wall with a bang. I heard the culprits long before I actually saw them; their giggles wafted into the room minutes before they did. I sighed heavily as they entered. They, of course, giggled even harder and then ignored me.

 

Both tall and blonde and lean, they are probably two of the most attractive women at work. Unfortunately, they are also exceedingly silly and, from what I've seen of them, rather pointless as well. I've never bothered to learn their names; they've always seemed fairly interchangeable anyway.

 

They seated themselves at the far end of the table and bent their heads together, so close that their foreheads were almost touching. There was a stream of nonsensical natter as they shared whatever secrets their vacuous blonde heads had managed to come up with in the ten minutes since they last saw each other. Their mouths were a whirr of red paint and white teeth; I've often wondered how they can understand each other when they're talking so fast… perhaps it's some kind of code.

 

There was a peel of laughter just as another co-worker entered, a short, and balding, slightly round man whom my brain registered as being from Accounting. He too ignored me, but leered at the blondes, all yellowing teeth and saliva. He sat himself halfway down the table, leaning back in his chair to stare at the stretch of bare skin that was revealed as the closest blonde's skirt rode up.

 

“What are you gorgeous girls giggling about?” he asked in that supposedly suave manner that many middle-aged, slightly going-to-seed business men still think they can pull off.

 

More giggling followed, which I suspected was more at his expense rather than his compliment. I was filled with the dreaded sense that this was going to be a long morning.

 

“I had a date last night,” one of the blondes revealed as though this was on par with achieving world peace. “Total spunk! Took me dancing and everything.” Still more giggling. I tried to drown the sound out, tried to glaze over and enter my own little world where petty, irritating blondes didn't exist. The blissful vision was punctured by a high-pitched squeal.

 

“Oooh! Where did you go?” the other blonde asked, leaning forward even further. Her pale eyes glinted, on the probe for juicy information.

 

“That new club on West 53rd… Insomia. It's brilliant!” Blonde Number One enthused, a slightly superior tone to her voice.

 

I'd heard of Insomnia, of course. Anyone who's anyone is talking about it; I merely overheard the gossip when I was passing the office kitchenette. It's an exclusive nightclub with a guest list that costs your right kidney and your first born to get onto. I confess I was slightly impressed, though I kept it masterfully to myself; whoever her date was, he must have had connections. A damn sight higher up the social ladder than the incompetents she usually dates, I'm sure.

 

“Oh, wow!” gushed Blonde Number Two, the jealousy barely hidden beneath her simper.

 

“I've never been there. Have you guys?” She turned slightly to look down the table. Her gaze was fixed on me but it was Mr. Not-quite-debonair that answered.

 

“Not me,” he said, patting his portly stomach and smirking. “I leave that sort of thing to pretty ladies such as yourselves.” More giggling. I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

 

“What about you, Heero?” Blonde Number Two asked again, smiling in what I suppose was meant to be coyness, and revealing rows of straight white teeth.

 

I have yet to work out why she persists with flirting with me; short of actually telling her I'm gay, I've done everything I can to deter her. In fact, I'm fairly sure I've given her clear signals that I would be more interested in doing the rumba naked with a hippo than returning her attentions.

 

I was still trying to decide whether I should deign to answer or not when Blonde Number One laughed derisively, raising one immaculately plucked blonde eyebrow. “Please! Heero Yuy clubbing? What a joke!” Yet more giggling.

 

And that was it… that was the moment. It was just a stupid, thoughtless comment from a stupid, thoughtless person and yet for some reason I took it to heart. I was irked by her assumption; by the way she coolly looked right through me and wrote me off with less than a second glance.

 

That, I suppose, is why I'm standing here on this gloomy street at midnight… to try and prove her wrong. It's ridiculous. I'm Joe-Average, remember? I don't do irrational things like this just for the Hell of it or just so that I walk up to her tomorrow and tell her that I did. And yet, here I am.

 

The street is dark, save for the gleaming green neon light flashing in the corner of my eyesight. All Hallows. Infinitely popular and trendy, this place attracts every sort of 20-something and good deal of 30-somethings as well; they flock here like moths to a flame.

 

The line at the door stretches halfway down the street, full of barely dressed waifs shivering in their glittering pumps and spaghetti straps. The wind whistles down the road and they shiver as one, huddling together for warmth. The bouncer on the door, a big beefy man with dark skin and a goatee, is unrepentant and the line remains at a stand-still.

 

I had dithered at home for a good half hour before I decided to come here, a rare thing, as I pride myself on not being a ditherer. But now that I'm here I'm starting to wonder whether I shouldn't have just dithered for a bit longer.

 

Suddenly I remember why it is that I never go clubbing… it's not because I can't, like that blonde bimbo assumed, but because I just don't like it…

 

The loud, pumping music that rattles in your chest and pounds in your head, even days later… the blinding ecstatic bursts of brightly coloured light that illuminate the crowd, mixing with the grating, jolting robotic flashes of the strobe light… the dusky swirls of dry ice, ghosting across the dance floor, weaving through the pulsating, sweaty bodies that gyrate against each other in one massive barely-clothed orgy… I detest it all.

 

And if I'm being perfectly honest, which I might as well be, it actually rather scares me… all those people, pressing in on you, drawing you into their sweat-soaked throbbing circle; it's far too intimate a situation for public places and relative strangers.

 

Nightclubaphobia someone once joked at my expense. I'm not talking paralyzing panic attacks and irrational tremors; I'm just talking about a disquieting, unnerving sense of discomfort; the instinct that tells me I don't belong there.

 

I'm torn inside, a sensation that I've always found intolerable. The memory of the last time I was dragged out to a club by one of my more persuasive friends comes back to me in sickening flashes of unease… all that sweat and noise and claustrophobia… it's not me and I just want to turn around and go home.

 

But at the same time, that derisive laugh echoes in my ears, the look on that pretty, empty face taunts me, and that little coil of stubborn determination deep inside urges me to do it… just this once…

 

I hunch back into my jacket, stuffing my hands deep into the pockets, wavering with indecision. A second gust of wind whips down the narrow street, tousling my hair like the hands of an invisible prankster.

 

I eye the shivering crowd… a mixture of rich brats with designer clothes and platinum credit cards, and professional yuppies with mobile phones and fixed sneers. I try to imagine what it would be like to be pressed up against them on the vast smoky dance floor beyond those doors.

 

And there's my decision right there. Fuck the blondes… fuck being a wild 20-something… fuck this whole stupid idea. I turn sharply on my heel, anxious to get away.

 

I've gone barely two steps when I see him. He's sauntering down the street towards me. Normally I wouldn't give a stranger a second glance but he's unusual enough to catch my eye.

 

Dressed all in black, he is wearing a tight t-shirt that clings to his body, hinting at the smooth muscle beneath. Similarly tight leather pants grip long, lean legs, flaring out at the bottom; the seams that run down the sides are trimmed with black tassels that shake and quiver with every step. Silver-toed boots click on the side-walk and round violet eyes twinkle mischievously beneath the wide-brimmed hat. He's a cowboy; a wild, sexy, enticing cowboy.

 

Despite his distinct lack of warm clothing, I'm the one who shivers… a full body shiver that begins at the top of my spine and ends in my groin with a sharp stab of attraction. I've felt this feeling before but it's never been this strong and there has never been the overwhelming urge to act on it.

 

As he approaches, his mouth cracks into an impossibly wide smile, revealing slightly crooked teeth and the barest glimpse of the tip of his pink tongue. He draws level with me, winking and flicking the brim of his hat up with long, pale fingers in an impossibly sexy sign of salutation.

 

He brushes passed me and the sharp, spicy scent of his cologne fills my nostrils… and it's intoxicating. But then he's gone, meandering on down towards the club. Before I know what I'm doing, I've done a complete 180. Facing the club again, I let my gaze linger on his back as he wanders away from me.

 

He has the most incredible length of hair. Pulled back in a braid, it hangs down his back to his waist, following the line of his spine, and swinging back and forth with every step. It points, temptingly, teasingly, to the curves of his arse, beckoning me to follow. And suddenly, I am.

 

I stop abruptly in the middle of the road, barely a metre from the club door. The cowboy has paused by the bouncer, one leather-clad hip jutting out in mock impatience as he waits to be let in.

 

The bouncer grins and then looks past him to where I'm frozen, mid-street. “Back of the line, mate,” says the bouncer, pointing one solid, brown finger down the street.

 

His accent is broad and foreign, a lazy, comfortable drawl. South African, I wonder. Up closer I can see the sinuous, twisting design of a tattoo crawling up both arms and disappearing beneath his t-shirt. Australian, maybe?

 

I must have said that aloud because suddenly those deep brown eyes are fixed straight on me again. “Nah, I'm a Kiwi,” he says smoothly.

 

Ah, a New Zealander. I swallow heavily wondering whether I've just invited myself to a right royal beating; I know I'm particularly edgy when people mistake my Japanese heritage for Chinese. I'm fairly fit but this guy is built like the Empire State Building, and although he's pretty heavy, I'd be willing to bet that he's quicker than he looks and not one for messing around.

 

But before anything can happen, suddenly the cowboy is talking, “But we don't hold that against him,” he laughs, tipping his head back and giving me a perfect view of his smooth, pale neck. I wonder what it would be like to run my tongue… I shake my head, trying not to go there.

 

The bouncer's attention is drawn away from me and he fixes his gaze on the cowboy again. “You're late… your break finished ten minutes ago.”

 

The cowboy laughs again and then he's looking straight at me. “Hey, you can't rush perfection, can you?” he says, winking that same tempting wink.

 

The bouncer rolls his eyes dramatically and jokingly cuffs the cowboy around the head, knocking his hat forwards into his eyes.

 

Then, “Back of the line, mate,” he says again to me. “It'll be a long wait, though. It's already packed inside.”

 

A shot of disappointment rips through me. Do I really want to spend hours waiting in the cold just so I can get closer to the cowboy? At that moment, said cowboy pushes his hat back to reveal those eyes again. They've taken on a green tinge from the neon sign overhead.

 

The tight feeling in my groin is back and before I'm even aware of having made the decision, I'm wandering away down the line.

 

I'm half-way down, passing endless shivering bodies, when there is a sudden whistle, sharp and arresting. I glance back reflexively. “You're in, mate,” the bouncer calls down to me, jerking his head in the direction of the door. The cowboy is lingering just behind him and I swear he winks at me before he disappears into the pitch blackness of the club beyond.

 

I cross the threshold and the pounding beat of the bass hits me almost instantly, rattling in my rib-cage, daring my heart to keep the pace. Already I feel that edgy sensation of discomfort creeping over me.

 

A long dark corridor stretches out before me ending in two sets of stairs, one leading up, and the other down to where the violent thrashing music is playing. To my immediate right is the cloak room; a black leather-topped counter framed by thick, heavy black curtains.

 

The door-bitch looks up from her glossy magazine and casts me a seductive glance. She's a vampire… all impossibly pale skin, long midnight hair, smoky eyes and blood red lips. The tips of her plastic fangs are just visible as she smiles.

 

“Take your coat, sugar?” she asks in a thick southern accent that seems far too sweet and wholesome and all-American for this place. Her black eyes glint in the dim green glow from the outside sign.

 

I nod, dry-mouthed, and shrug my jacket off, laying it across the counter. I smooth my shirt awkwardly and wipe nervous hands on the rough denim of my jeans. I feel hideously out of place.

 

“Give us your hand,” the vampire purrs, waving what looks like a date stamp.

I hold my left out to her and she takes in hers, long black nails curving around my wrist… little red droplets are painted at the centre of each one; the image is rather unsettling against the pale bronze of my skin.

 

She stamps my hand in one swift motion, inking a black number into my flesh before doing the same to the slip of cardboard now pinned to my jacket. 01-31-93.

 

She twiddles the dial on the stamp, moving it on to the next number and then peers down at the neatly printed digits. I can feel her breath on my hand. She grins, plastic fangs bared. “Hey, January 31st, 1993. The Dallas Cowboys won the Super Bowl on that day. My dad's a big fan,” the vampire says, grinning at me, unnervingly cheerful for someone representing the un-dead.

 

Cowboys… that figures; suddenly my entire world seems to be revolving around them. “Hn,” I grunt.

 

The vampire ignores my rather unsociable response to her trivia and waves one black-nailed hand in the direction of the stairs. “Candy Bar's up; Dance Floor's down.” She looks me over critically, taking in my tense, awkward stance. “You look like a Candy Bar kinda guy to me, cowboy.” She pats my hand. “You head on up there… Duo'll take good care of you.”

 

She winks, though I'm not sure why. “Have a good night. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.” I stare at her. “Don't worry, that don't rule much out.” She winks again, running her tongue over the shiny plastic surface of her fangs, and waves me off.

 

I shuffle down the length of the corridor. The mild discomfort inside me is growing exponentially. The floor is slightly sticky beneath my feet; I focus on it to try and stop myself from turning back. When I reach the stairs I take her advice and go up.

 

The door at the top swings open as I approach and a fairy appears. She's wearing a silver, sparkly outfit that leaves little to the imagination and the tips of blue-silver wings are just visible above her bare shoulders. The glitter on her skin twinkles and she flashes me a cheery smile.

 

She's carrying a heavy rack of empty glasses and I step back out of her way. She slips past me and continues down onto the Floor. Her floral scent lingers in the air, mingling with the swirling curls of cigarette smoke that are seeping out from beneath the door at the top of the stairs. I watch her until she disappears into the darkness below and then I turn back and cross through into the Candy Bar.

 

It's not what I'm expecting, though if you asked me exactly what I was expecting, I doubt I'd be able to tell you. It's a refreshingly old-style cocktail lounge… or at least, as old-style as a lounge can be when it's filled with ultra-modern, high-flying business men and women.

 

The interior is all smooth, clean lines of red and black leather barely lit by soft, glowing candles and shimmering lamps that cast a gentle red hue across the room.

The air is thick with smoke; it clings to the scarlet shadows, making them almost tangible. The tips of cigarettes burn amber through the gloom as drags are taken and smoke exhaled.

 

A bar runs down the left hand side of the room, black leather-topped like the cloakroom downstairs. Empty glasses hang from racks over head; they glint in the dim light, the flickering candlelight dancing across their sparkling surfaces. Beyond are rows and rows of bottles, filled with glowing liquids, translucent greens and blues and oranges beside creamy, opaque grays and browns.

 

There are tables and chairs and long soft lounges dotting the room, mostly filled with professional-looking types in smart designer clothing. They are about my age or slightly older and all seem to be members of a rather obnoxious-looking breed of yuppie. They remind me of the vacant blondes from work. They sip fancy drinks in fancy glasses and laugh at their own spiteful jokes.

 

But I'm relieved because I would rather deal with these people than the twinked out bright young things that are probably thrashing around on the Floor downstairs. These people I can ignore; these people will ignore me back… they will make no move to draw me into their narrow little world.

 

The far side of the room is one long window, framed by heavy black curtains. Bright, throbbing lights flash on the other side and when I approach I find myself looking out over a massive dance-floor packed with violently pulsing bodies… a swaying mass of sparkles and bare flesh.

 

It's a vision of everything I've always hated about clubbing. But from up here, I'm delightfully removed and the voyeuristic sight is strangely compelling and even enticing. A good-looking young man grinds himself indecently close to a pretty girl with curly red hair. They laugh into each other's mouths as the dance continues. I can feel their sexual energy from up here and I find myself blushing.

 

The music carries up through the vibrating floorboards, clear but not overwhelmingly loud. The latest pop-remixes blend seamlessly together and the sharp techno beats pulse in the air, seeping into me. I resist the urge to tap my foot.

 

I spot the fairy pushing her way through the crowd; her short dark hair, streaked with glitter, weaves through the throng of bodies. She is holding her rack of glasses as high as she can, skillfully maneuvering around the vibrant dancers. She disappears into a room on the far left.

 

I survey the other pumping bodies. Soon I'm spotting more oddly-dressed characters. A black cat emerges from the DJ booth on the opposite side of the room. She's dressed in form-fitting lycra and a little silver bell hangs playfully from the red collar around her neck.

 

She saunters through the crowd, looking gracefully feline and attracting more than a few lewd glances. A young man, giddy from too much alcohol, makes a grab for her gently swaying tail. A dark figure is at her side in moments, prying clutching fingers away from her. She nods to the security man and he releases his charge, disappearing effortlessly back into the shadows.

 

The cat meets up with a curvy girl dressed as Wonder Woman, gold headband and belt glinting beneath the flashing lights. Together they collect the empty glasses from the few tiny tables that dot the edge of the dance floor.

 

Behind the downstairs bar are two guys that seem to have stepped right out of a Village People video; a bare-chested builder with a thick mop of dark hair sticking out from beneath a plastic yellow hard-hat, and a cop in dark sunglasses and a uniform two sizes too small. They are laughing at something a customer on the other side of the bar has said as they twist the tops off damp bottles of beer.

 

Further down the bar is a pirate with a red bandana and an eye-patch. He is twirling a bottle of something in one hand. He tosses it up high, the light glinting off the cool green liquid inside, and then catches it neatly in the other hand. He makes a show of filling the shot glasses lined up on the bar-top. The girls at the bar giggle and clap.

I watch him as he repeats the trick for another customer and winks his one visible eye.

 

“He's a show-off,” says a voice behind me, catching me off-guard. I don't need to turn to see who it is. I can smell that same sharp, spicy scent even through the cigarette smoke.

I incline my head slightly and the cowboy grins, revealing that crooked smile again. Instantly, another sharp stab of attraction hits me and I feel the slow burn of arousal curling around me.

 

“He only chose to be a pirate so he could make cracks about the length of his sword,” the cowboy tells me with a low throaty laugh.

 

“What's with the costumes?” I ask. My voice is too soft to be heard over the music and the cowboy leans closer so that his ear is almost pressed against my lips. Resisting the urge to capture that tempting earlobe between my teeth, I repeat the question and he gives me a sly look as he leans back again.

 

“This is All Hallows… it's Hallowe'en every night here.” His tongue darts out, smoothing across his pink lips. “So… trick or treat?”

 

“I don't have any candy,” I tell him. Is he flirting with me? There is a fluttering in the pit of my stomach that certainly hopes he is.

 

“I'm sure you'll think of something,” he says with a wink. Yep, that's definitely flirtatious. I feel a corresponding tightness in my pants.

 

“So why the cowboy?” I ask. My voice is slightly husky, part arousal and part nervousness. It's been a long time since I flirted.

 

He laughs, seemingly delighted by my question. “Because I like to ride,” is all he says, his eyes twinkling enticingly.

My mouth goes dry but before I can reply he's already sauntering away, his braid dancing alluringly across his arse.

 

He settles himself behind the bar; he looks instantly at home there. I follow automatically, seating myself on one of the red-leather bar stools. My heart is racing, pulsing even faster than the quick, resounding beat of the bass downstairs. Tight anticipation coils in my stomach. The dance is about to begin… I can just feel it.

 

The cowboy flicks his hat back and leans forwards across the bar, resting his elbows tantalizingly close to mine. His scent fills my nostrils again. “So what do you want from the bar?” His tone is light and even… daring?

 

I'm tempted to respond in kind, to tell him that what I really want is him… right here, right now, even up against that wall. I am alarmed by the wantonness inside me. I try to remind myself that I'm average and in that last moment, my courage fails.

 

“Vodka and lime,” I croak. My arousal throbs painfully, telling me what it thinks of my cowardice. I try to ignore it, to reign it in. This isn't me, I tell myself firmly… so why does it feel like it is?

 

For a split second, I think I see disappointment in those big, round eyes but he covers it with a grin. “You mean you don't want a fancy drink with a pretty paper umbrella?” he teases, glancing pointedly down to where a couple of rather intoxicated women in power-suits are giggling over their cocktails.

 

I shake my head, not quite trusting myself to speak. His grin widens even further. I try not to think of what else he might be able to do with that mouth.

 

“Good,” he nods, leaning even closer. I can feel his breath on my face. “You're too gorgeous to be a stuck-up asshole like that lot,” he whispers. I feel my face flush, not quite disguised by the dim lighting.

 

The cowboy smiles to himself and turns away to make my drink. His t-shirt slides up ever so slightly when he reaches up to grab the vodka off the shelf. Two inches of smooth, creamy skin are revealed, stained red by the smoky lighting. I feel an almost overwhelming desire to leap across the bar and press my tongue to the curve of his lower back.

 

He swings back around, the hem of his t-shirt falling back around his waist again. I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

 

Setting the drink down on the bar before me, he throws me a casual smile. The shot of green curls through the clear liquid. “There you go, cowboy,” he purrs, the sound going straight to my groin.

 

I swallow heavily, pulling the drink towards me. Cowboy. That's the second time I've been called that, though I'm not sure why. “I thought you were the cowboy,” I venture, staring up at him through my eyelashes.

 

He considers me for a moment and then in one swift motion, he plucks the hat off his head and settles it on mine; the head-band is warm against my hair, his body-heat still lingering there. He lets one long, pale finger slide around the brim. I shiver when it brushes against the curve of my ear.

 

“There you go, cowboy,” he says again. “Much better.” He regards me with an indecipherable expression. “I'm Duo, by the way,” he says suddenly.

 

The vampire's words come back to me… Duo'll take good care of you… There is a heady feeling in my stomach. I sincerely hope she meant that in the way that my erection is telling me she did.

 

“Heero,” I manage to croak.

 

“It's mighty fine to meet you, cowboy.” Duo laughs, tugging the hat down over my eyes.

By the time I've pushed it back again, he's gone. Further down the bar, he grins at an exotic-looking woman who is waving her Sex-on-the-Beach in a rather dangerous fashion.

 

I feel a stab of envy and jealously before I can stop it. It ripples over me, seeping into every crevice of my body. And then slowly it gives way to disappointment. I bet he's like this with everyone, I think bitterly. Cheeky and flirtatious… isn't that what bartenders are supposed to be?

 

I stare glumly down at my drink and then drain the lot in one go. I want to hurl this stupid hat at him, scream at him for making me feel this way, for making me want to do things that I would never dream of doing.

 

But I don't… because average people don't cause drunken scenes in nightclubs. Instead I slowly slide off my stool and turn to go.

 

“Not leaving so soon, are you, cowboy?” asks that now-familiar voice. “You know… I don't just give my hat to anyone…” he muses.

 

Hope kindles inside me. I dampen it before it can turn into a raging forest fire. But it's still there, flickering steadily along with that familiar tightness in my jeans.

 

“Just stretching my legs,” I lie unconvincingly.

 

He grins. “Good idea. We wouldn't you getting all stiff now, would we?” comes the flirtatious response.

 

Suddenly the grey-suited, Sex-on-the-Beach woman is gone from my mind. In fact, the entire universe has suddenly been reduced to him and me and the burning of my cock.

I desperately wish that I was the sort of person who could think of a snappy retort on the spot. But I'm not. I stare down at the bar-top instead. Duo must think I'm a complete loser. Any minute, he'll lose interest and move onto someone with a gregarious nature to match his own.

 

I risk a glance up. He's staring at me like I'm the most fascinating thing in world. His eyes dart away when I catch him staring. The hope inside me is now flickering at a rather dangerous rate.

 

“Can I get you another?” he asks hurriedly, indicating my empty glass.

 

I hesitate and then nod. I don't drink very often but I have a fairly good tolerance for the stuff. I can manage another few drinks without starting to lose my self-control.

He turns away and again I'm treated to that strip of tempting flesh. The urge to touch him there is even stronger. He turns back to me just in time.

 

My drink is set in front of me with a click and I take a tiny sip. Duo grins at me and then leans back against the far side of the bar, busying himself with a tray of slightly damp glasses. He takes each one in his hands and gently wipes it down with a cloth.

I find the sight mesmerizing. I can't help but wonder what it might be like to have those hands on me. It won't ever happen, of course, because I just don't do things like that… but there's no harm in fantasizing, right?

 

I sip my drink slowly, my gaze still fixed on Duo. He looks up at me every-so often and grins. Occasionally he'll wander away down the bar to serve someone else. But he always comes back, those round, violet eyes always returning to mine, whispering something indecipherable to me.

 

Eventually he pushes himself away from the bar, a movement so fluid and so impossibly sexy that I feel the almost painful throb of my cock intensify. I wonder how much longer I'll be able to stand this. But more than that, I wonder if he's feeling the same heady sensation.

 

“What brings you here, cowboy?” he asks me unexpectedly. “You don't exactly look like the clubbing-type… no offense.”

 

I've always found it incredibly irritating when people say `no offense' after they've just said something that could only be offensive. But when Duo says it, I find myself not caring in the least. In fact, I don't even care that he's implying exactly what Blonde Number One implied that caused me to come here in the first place.

 

“I'm not… I'm just an average guy,” I confess, my voice loud enough to be heard over the music but not loud enough to draw the attention of the yuppies further down the bar. “I've always hated clubbing… the noise, the sweat, the intimacy…” I trail off, suddenly feeling hideously embarrassed by my admission.

 

“You've just never been clubbing with the right person,” he tells me, a twinkle in his eyes.

 

“What do you mean?” I ask, hopelessly curious.

 

“The right person… someone who completely fills your senses to the point that nothing else in the world exists… dancing with them down there, surrounded by sweaty, pulsing bodies that will never be as close to you as that one person is, no matter how hard they try… imagine how exciting that is… to be able to press up against them in public and do things with them that would normally be reserved for dark corners and private places…”

 

He trails off but the sound of his voice still echoes in my mind… But then I realise the intimacy of his revelation. The right person. I wonder who his right person is… the person who makes him feel like they're completely alone, even when they're surrounded by strangers. I feel a pang of something that I don't know how to describe.

 

“Or at least, so I'm told,” he concludes. I look up at him, too afraid to ask the question but needing to know anyway. “I haven't found the right person yet. But I'm more than willing to thrash around with that lot downstairs until I find him.”

 

Him. I didn't know a single word could bring so much hope. His words fill me and suddenly I find myself thinking that maybe all that sweat and gyrating flesh isn't such a bad thing after all. My cock is suddenly making me very aware of its presence. Evidently it doesn't think gyrating flesh is such a bad thing either… as long that said flesh belongs to the incredibly sexy cowboy grinning at me.

 

“So then, if you're not really the clubbing-type… why did you come here?” he ponders aloud.

 

I hesitate, wondering whether I should tell him the story. It probably makes me sound horribly lame. I don't want him thinking of me like that. But something in his eyes inspires confidence.

 

“I'll tell you, if you promise not to laugh,” I offer.

 

He grins. “I'll try,” he swears, attempting to look solemn but really just looking mischievous.

 

I decide that that will have to do. And so I tell him. About the Blondes, about the sleaze from Accounting, about how they laughed at me and thought I was a complete non-entity… the whole stupid story. It's much longer when I tell it aloud and of course, Duo does laugh. But it's a fantastic sound… and I discover that he's not actually laughing at me, but with me. I'm not entirely sure I've ever experienced this.

 

To the yuppies who are casting us the odd glance, I must look like one of those drunken losers that cling to bartenders as thought they're best-friends. But in this moment, I couldn't give a shit.

 

“I wasn't going to come in. I got here and chickened out. But…” I stop suddenly, not sure whether I should continue.

 

“But?” he prompts, resting his elbows on the bar-tops and leaning dangerously close to me. The red light casts hollow shadows beneath his eyes and that familiar spicy scent goes straight to my cock, making it twitch.

 

“But then I saw you and decided I was willing to risk it,” I say in a rush.

 

Apparently that was the right thing to say because he grins and then winks. “You're something, you know that?” he tells me. I smile but I'm not entirely sure what he means.

 

He leans back again, regarding me for a moment with an indecipherable expression. “Fancy a Cock-sucking Cowboy?” he asks me suddenly, catching me completely off-guard.

 

Hat or not, he still a cowboy to me and my mind is suddenly filled with the most delicious interpretation of those words imaginable… up against a wall, the hard stone digging into my shoulder blades and that hot mouth, always that mouth, wrapped around me…

 

“What?” I splutter. Is that panic in my voice?

 

Duo laughs. “Relax, it's a drink, not an offer,” he says smoothly. I nod and then the disappointment sets in. “Unless you want it to be,” he adds, voice so low I barely catch it.

I flush immediately. “So how 'bout it? The drink, I mean,” he clarifies.

 

I take a deep breath to stop myself from asking for both. You're average, remember? I tell myself. Average people don't suddenly go having wild fantasies about complete strangers. And nor do that act on them. Suddenly I hate that word. Average. I'd give anything to something else right now.

 

“What is it?” I croak belatedly.

 

“It's a shooter. Half Baileys, half butterscotch Schnapps. Sweet and tasty. You'll like it, I promise,” he says, temptingly. I nod because right now I don't think I could refuse this man anything.

 

He sets the shot-glass on the bar in front of me and expertly fills it with liquid. The two layers sit snugly on top of each other, twinkling golden brown and opaque, dusky grey. Duo casts me a glance and then makes another. They sit side by side, rims just touching.

He pushes one towards me and takes the other in his own hand. “So what shall we drink to, cowboy?” he asks.

 

“The right person?” I suggest, wondering if my face is a red as I think it is.

 

Duo grins. “The right person,” he echoes, voice low and sultry.

My pants are so tight now that I'm fairly sure the pattern of my denim jeans is permanently imprinted on my flesh.

 

“And to cock-sucking cowboys, of course,” Duo adds after a moment.

 

We drink simultaneously, throwing our shots back in one go. The sickly sweet liquid dances on my tongue and then trickles down my throat. In my mental fantasy, where I'm pressed against that wall with Duo's mouth around me, I come and it's my essence that's gliding down Duo's throat. My cock twitches violently, impossible to ignore, reminding me how much it wants to follow suit for real.

 

Duo smacks his lips, snapping me out of my daze. Focusing on Duo's mouth doesn't do anything to reduce the strain in my pants. He grins at me but there is a slightly wanton tinge to his smile. I get the distinct impression that he's thinking exactly the same thing as I am.

 

I hover, on the verge of asking what I've been wanting to ask since I first saw him outside on the street. But subconsciously I'm waiting for him to make the first move. He's been leading this dance since the very beginning. I'm average, remember. And it requires someone distinctly un-average to make such a bold move.

 

Suddenly there is a sharp bang. I whirl around. The door has been flung open and the fairy from earlier is stomping across the room, a tray of dirty glasses in her hands and a distinctly disgruntled look on her face.

 

The yuppies all follow her progression across the room. It's only when she finally makes it behind the bar and sets her tray down with a heavy sigh that they turn back to their pink drinks and their pointless conversations.

 

“They need clean glasses downstairs,” the fairy grumbles to Duo, smoothing short, spiky strands of hair back off her forehead.

 

Duo grins that shit-eating grin of his at her. She doesn't react. “They're right there,” he says, indicating the two racks of glasses he'd been wiping earlier.

 

The fairy stamps her foot and pouts. Her glittering silver wings tremble beneath the smoky red lights. “I've been lugging fucking glasses around all night. I want the cushy job behind the bar, flirting with the hot guys!” Is the indignant exclamation. “Nice hat, by the way,” she says to me. I blush.

 

Duo holds his pale hands up in defense. “OK, OK. Relax! Don't get your tutu in a twist.” She glares at him. It bounces off his grin like a tennis ball off a racket. “I'll take 'em down.”

 

It takes all my strength not to slump in disappointment. I don't want Duo to leave. Not now when our flirting has almost reached fever point.

 

Duo heaves the trays up onto the bar, right beside my left elbow. I ignore them spitefully. Suddenly Duo is standing right beside me. His skin is hot against mine. He pushes his hat firmly down onto my head. “Fancy giving me a hand?” he asks smoothly.

 

I wonder if he's aware of the double entendre in those words. The saucy grin he gives me tells me that he is. I nod, suddenly dry mouthed again. I hesitate for a moment, uncomfortably aware of the erection straining against my jeans. I try to think incredibly un-sexy thoughts in a vain attempt to will it away. But of course, with Duo standing so very close to me, it's impossible. If anything, my arousal is just getting worse.

 

“Down there?” I ask, stalling. Suddenly I'm feeling edgy again. Regardless of what Duo said earlier, I really don't want to go down there into that seething mass of people.

 

“Down there,” Duo confirms. “Don't worry, I'll protect you.”

 

I bite the bullet and stand. Duo grins and murmurs something encouraging. “Here you go, cowboy,” he says, handing me a tray of glasses. “Come with me,” he whispers a moment later. His breath ghosts across my cheek, hot and slightly sweet from the Baileys and Schnapps. Coming is all I've been thinking about for the past hour and a half, I want to say. But again my courage fails. Instead I just trail after him out of the Candy Bar.

 

As soon as the door swings gently shut behind us, we're plunged into almost darkness. I stumble inelegantly down the stairs after him. Two steps before the bottom, a couple of excited girls come hurtling down the corridor from the cloak-room. They're slightly blue with cold and have probably been waiting in the queue outside for hours. Giddy anticipation rolls off them in waves as they giggle together.

 

Duo stops abruptly and then so do I. The tray of glasses in my hands narrowly misses plowing into the back of Duo's head, merely skimming the top of his bangs. But my body is not quite so lucky and before I know it, I'm pressed right up against him on the step above. My erection brushes against the small of his back and twitches, as giddy with anticipation as the glittering girls.

 

I can't see Duo's face but I could swear that his voice is slightly huskier than normal when he speaks. “After you, ladies,” he says with a nod and probably a grin.

 

They giggle again and hurry away down the stairs to the Dance Floor, the sound of their sparkling high-heels clicking on the steps almost lost in the deepening bass.

 

They disappear through the door at the bottom. The music in the air grows thicker as the door opens and then drops back when it closes again. I'm really not looking forward to what lies beyond.

 

But then suddenly Duo is leaning back ever so slightly, the light muscles of his back firm against my throbbing cock. I think I hear him snicker, but frankly I can't think of much else beyond my own need.

 

We continue down and I hesitate at the bottom. My shoulders are tense and I'm not sure if that's because of what I'm about to walk into or what I may or may not be about to do with Duo or both. Either way I take a deep steadying breath and Duo nudges the door open with his hip.

 

The noise hits me like a wall… like a wave, rushing over me, around me, sucking me down. It's so loud, so deep, so pulsating that I can almost feel the marrow in my bones quivering from its force.

 

Duo grins a wild, ecstatic grins that is lit up by the flashing lights overhead. He jerks his head onwards. It's with the strength of that grin alone that I manage to step forwards into the crowd, my tray held high in the air.

 

Hot, jittery bodies press against me from every side… hands grab at me, sliding across my thighs, my arse, my back… wet, sweaty hair brushes against my face… cold beer slops over the edge of a glass and trickles down my arm…

 

It's entirely overwhelming. I fix my gaze fiercely on Duo's arse, following it through the throng, trying to drown everything else out save for those perfect, tempting curves.

We reach a clearing in the crowd. “How're you doing?” Duo roars over the ear-rattling noise. The voice is lost but I follow the movement of his lips.

 

I nod shakily. “OK,” I mouth back.

 

There is a momentary flash of gold to my right and suddenly Wonder Woman is standing in front of me in all her glory. Her breasts, straining against her costume, are dusted with gold glitter, an abstract part of my brain notices.

 

She holds her hands out to me and I happily deposit my tray into her waiting arms. She grins and winks but I don't notice it because I'm too busy staring at Duo who has already handed his tray onto the bare-chested builder and is now staring back at me with something that I can't identify but goes immediately to my cock.

 

Suddenly he's so much closer to me than he's ever been. He presses himself against me from forehead to toe and I know I moan aloud when I feel the outline of his arousal pressed against mine.

 

And now I know exactly what Duo was talking about earlier. The entire world just seems to fade away… all the noise, the sweat, the hot, pulsing bodies… they are nothing. There is just me and Duo and the delicious feeling of him against me.

 

He nudges the brim of my hat with the top of his head so that it sits back further on my skull and then he looks me straight in the eye. Slowly he starts to move. I'm vaguely aware of the beat his body is dancing to but really all I can feel is the sensation of his hands on my hips, gently twisting me in time with his own confident moves.

 

I let him guide me. I've never felt anything like this before. My erection is hot and heavy against his and every time he moves I'm afraid that I'll shoot my load right then and there.

 

He slides his arms up and over my shoulders, pulling me down. “Listen to the words,” he mouths against my ear before flicking his tongue teasingly against my earlobe.

 

And so I make a concentrated effort to listen. It's hard at first; partly because it's so loud and partly because I'm so absorbed with Duo. But slowly the music comes to me, swirling through the thick, smoky air, like a leaf caught on the wind.

 

It's the twang of a country song twisted into a pulsing techno re-mix… And I saddle up my horse and I ride into the city, I make a lot of noise 'cause the girls, they are so pretty... I catch the words; they ring in my head just as the strobe light starts the flash.

 

The next lines come in time with the blinding jolts but I don't notice that, or the way the crowd freezes robotically with every beat, because all I can hear is those words and the feel of Duo mouthing them, hot and wet, against my neck... Riding up and down Broadway on my old stud Leroy, and the girls say save a horse, ride a cowboy…

 

Duo's arms draw me closer and now we're really moving as one, and his scent is intoxicating and the pressure of our cocks grinding together is almost unbearable… Everybody says save a horse, ride a cowboy…

 

Suddenly Duo is drawing away from me and in that moment, the noise and heat and the pressure of the crowd comes rushing back to me, hitting me with the force of a tornado. It's only Duo's hand in mine, pulling me away, that keeps me upright.

He pulls me out of the crowd and away towards the bar. I catch a fleeting glimpse of the Pirate laughing and bottles flying through the air. And then suddenly there is darkness and the noise is dampened sufficiently that I can begin to hear my own thoughts again.

 

I stumble against something hard. My hands seek it out and eventually my eyes adjust to the gloom. It's a beer keg. I look up. Duo is lingering in the shadows, just feet from me. My arms itch to reach out and pull him against me again. My cock seems to think that it's a very good idea.

 

“Everybody says… save a horse, ride a cowboy…” Duo quotes, his voice oddly removed from the heady beat pulsing on the other side of the store-room door.

 

I sense a question in his words but I don't know what it is. “Lucky horse,” I venture hoarsely.

 

Suddenly there is a flash of white in the gloom as Duo gives a feral grin. “Lucky cowboy,” he replies.

 

And then he is pressed against me again and his mouth is on mine for the first time. His lips are firm and commanding and his tongue forces its way into my mouth, probing and searching. It slides hot and heavy against my own and then we're kissing for all we're worth.

 

It's not soft and tentative like many first kisses are… it's demanding and rough and full of the passion that has been bubbling away beneath the surface since I arrived.

 

Duo draws away and then plunges back in, lapping at me in an exhilarating combination of lips and tongues and teeth.

 

And I think I'm going to explode because now his hands have found their way to my erection. He kneads my cock through the roughness of my jeans and I cry out in a strangled voice, breaking the kiss.

 

“Fancy a Quick Fuck?” He drags the last words out, long and sensuous, in a voice that promises so much more.

 

I swallow. “Is that a drink or an offer?”

 

“Both… so how 'bout it?” he asks for the second time this evening… and this time I know he's not talking about a drink.

 

I forget about being average. I forget about the fact that I've never done anything like this in my life. All I can think of is pressing him against the nearest wall and having wild, messy sex, and not just for the sake of it or so that I can say that I have, but because I think I might die right now if I don't.

 

“Fuck yes!” I moan my answer, dragging him to me again. Our lips mash together as though we're trying to consume each other.

 

He pushes me away harshly. “Right answer, cowboy,” he mutters and then grins. “You'll like it, I promise.” He echoes his words from earlier and I groan again.

 

And then he's ripping at my shirt. Buttons slide through button holes. Two are ripped clean off. But I don't care because suddenly my shirt is gone and Duo's mouth is laving my nipples. Teeth graze here and there, reducing me to a shuddering, groaning mess.

I'm dangerously close to losing it. My entire world seems to consist of my cock and his mouth. But I want more. I want him.

 

I pull him back up to me, attacking his mouth with mine. I bite his lips hard enough to make him moan and then smooth them with my tongue and my heavy breath. He grins against my mouth, thrusting his tongue against mine. We duel fiercely for a moment, slick and heavy and reckless.

 

We break apart again, our breathing so heavy it's almost as loud as the music beyond. For a moment, we stare wild-eyed at each other. Slowly, he stalks towards me, stopping mere centimetres away. I back up slightly until the backs of my legs make contact with the stack of kegs behind me.

 

The heat from his body flows across the space between us and into my skin. He reaches over me and scrabbles around in a box just above my shoulder. His lips are so close that I just have to lick them. And so I do. He laughs and licks me back teasingly.

 

His arm retracts, gliding down over my shoulder and then now my chest, brushing against my left nipple. I shiver. His hand presses something into mine. I look down. Lube and a condom. I shiver again. We're really going to do this, aren't we? A voice in my head asks. Wild, messy sex in the store-room at a nightclub… oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, chants the voice.

 

“Prepared?” I croak. There is a stab of something uncomfortable in my chest as I wonder how often Duo does this. Whether I'm just the latest in a long series of store-room conquests.

 

“Not me,” he whispers, suddenly very earnest. “But Drew the Pirate was a boy scout.”

I laugh, inexplicably relieved. There is a pause in which I place my charges down on the nearest keg… and then we're on each other again, clutching at each other like the apocalypse is about to dawn. Our heads bump and our fingers fumble but within seconds Duo's lost his pants completely and my jeans are now around my ankles.

 

Duo takes a sinuous step towards me, his silver-toed cowboy boots clicking on the store-room's cold stone floor. The tip of his cock brushes against mine and I moan. I reach a tentative hand out and it slides around him. He's about my size, I figure, but slightly narrower. But he's hot and heavy, jutting proudly out towards me. I squeeze gently and he twitches in my hand. It's such an enthralling sight that I just have to moan again.

 

An opaque bead of pre-cum oozes from his slit as he pants under my ministrations. I feel an overpowering need to lap it up. And so I do. Sinking to my knees, I bury my nose in the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Slowly, I dart my tongue out and let it run down the length before swiping the head, sucking in wetness there. It's tangy and sharp and overwhelmingly Duo.

 

Above me, Duo laughs through his strained breathing. “Cock-sucking cowboy, indeed.” His voice is shaky and I'm suddenly aware that I've done this to him; that I'm the one making him moan and pant and quiver with need. Me.

 

I move forwards, preparing to swallow him whole, but then there is a hand in my hair, pulling me upwards. “No, wait…” Duo pants.

 

I stop, confused, staring up at him through my messy bangs. Duo moans wildly and tugs me up forcibly by my hand. He captures my mouth, attacking me passionately. Our cocks grind hot and heavy against each other, and we gasp into each other's mouth. And then as quick as the assault came, it's gone.

 

He fumbles for the condom and suddenly he's the one on his knees. His breath is hot and moist against my skin and I'm finding it hard to breathe. Suddenly his mouth is wrapped around me and it's better than I could ever have imagined. My pitiful fantasy is nothing in comparison. The tight coil of impending release starts to well up inside me and I panic. Duo laughs around me, the buzz rippling up and down my erection. Slowly he draws away… just in time. The next thing I feel through my lust-soaked haze is the sensation of his hand sliding down my length, cool latex trailing in its wake.

 

He straightens up and looks me right in the eye. “I like to ride, remember?” he says throatily, echoing the flirtatious words that started this whole thing.

 

He trails one hand down my chest and then captures my hand, slowly he slides it across his hip. My knuckles brush the material of the t-shirt that I didn't quite get around to removing. And then my fingers are questing further… down over the curves of that perfect arse.

 

Duo turns in my arms, bracing himself against the wall. He spreads his legs and I'm treated to what has to be the most incredible view in the world. I draw my hand up again, smoothing it down the length of his braid. Slowly, I curl fingers around the end, tugging gently. His head tips back, revealing that long, lean neck. I press my chest to his back, sucking on a spot just below is ear so hard that I know I'll leave a mark.

 

I release him, my fingers dancing lower again. There is that tempting patch of flesh at the small of his back that affected me so badly at the bar. I bend at the waist, pressing my lips there, dancing my tongue across the smooth, warm skin. Straightening up, I reach for the lube. My fingers are shaking, I realise.

 

Slathered with glistening, translucent oil, my fingers dance around the edge of his opening. Slowly one slides in and there is a long, low throaty moan from Duo that makes my cock throb and my heart pound. It's hot and tight and I can just imagine what it will be like to have that around me.

 

“Oh God,” Duo pants as I insert a second finger. “Oh please, for the love of God…”

I hesitate, wanting to go slow, determined not to hurt him. But Duo has other ideas. “It's fine, cowboy, it's fine…”

 

And then there is another low moan that ends in a hitched squeak as I brush against something inside him. “Fuuuuckkk!” I discern from his gasps. “Now, now, now,” Duo is chanting shallowly. And I oblige. He moans as I withdraw my fingers and then quivers with anticipation at the sound of those fingers slicking the lube up and down my length.

I ease myself forwards slowly and the tip of my cock gently bumps against his waiting entrance. But something feels wrong. I hesitate, trying to pinpoint it.

 

“What are you waiting for, cowboy?” Duo asks heatedly, looking over his shoulder at me.

 

And then I know. I swing him around until he's facing me. There is surprise in those big violet eyes. I plunder his mouth with my tongue and then my hands slide down over his hips, lifting him up and away from the floor. His legs settle around my waist, his cock bumping happily against mine.

 

I prop him up against the nearest stack of kegs. He's perching awkwardly on the silver rim of the keg, precariously balanced, and just held up by my arms around his body. In fact, this is an altogether uncomfortable position. My legs are shaking under his weight, threatening to cramp, my arms are straining at the effort to keep him upright and I'm sure there is probably something awkward digging into Duo's back. But I don't care and judging from Duo's delighted gasps, he doesn't either. This feels right.

 

My cock is back at his entrance and this time I don't stop. Duo inhales sharply as the tip breaches him and I stop automatically. “God no, don't stop!” Duo squirms enticingly and slowly I'm sliding further and further in, until I'm buried to the hilt.

 

And the feeling is… God, indescribable; hot and tight and everything it should be. I almost lose then and I can tell Duo is similarly close. His arousal throbs against my stomach, smearing pre-cum against the muscles of my abdominals.

 

“Oh, God yes, Heero!” Duo pants into my ear. And that's the moment. Hearing my name fall from those swollen lips for the first time… I couldn't stop myself even if I'd wanted to.

 

I start to move, slow at first, struggling to gain momentum in our cramped position. I stumble backwards clumsily, dragging Duo with me. Suddenly I'm the one precariously perched and Duo is in my lap, my cock still buried inside him. And then we're gliding together and it's so hot and fast and unbelievable that I don't think I can bear it.

 

Duo's breath is wet against my neck and his moans are echoing around the darkened room. Or are those mine? I can't tell. All I know is my cock and his arse and my name chanted over and over again.

 

I can't last long and I don't. Suddenly I'm no longer standing on the precipice, I'm falling, wild and glorious and all-consuming. I crush Duo against me as I come longer and harder than I even thought possible, riding out the shock-waves like a drowning man clinging to a raft. There is a burst of hot wetness against my stomach and Duo is clinging to me just as hard.

 

Slowly the white light at the corner of my vision starts to fade and there is just Duo and I in the darkness, gasping for breath, our skin hot and damp and tingling.

 

Duo shuffles back slightly, gently sliding off me. I gasp at the loss of sensation and so does Duo. More than anything I want to be buried inside him again.

 

I release him and he slides down off my lap in one fluid, boneless motion. He rocks slightly on unsteady feet and I lend him my weight for support.

 

“Wow, that was… wow,” he pants into the empty air. And I know exactly what he means. “You are anything but average, Heero,” he tells me and I blush, wanting nothing more than to bury my face in his neck again.

 

But now I feel horribly awkward. So we've just had wild, messy, fairly anonymous sex pressed up against a stack of beer kegs. We've done the crazy, irrepressible, spontaneous thing that I never thought I would… but now what?

 

Do I just go home and store up this memory for when I'm old and tired and need to be reminded of what it was like to be alive? Do I never see him again? Do I maybe pass him in the street one day and nod and hurry away, pretending this never happened?

I don't know… but I know that I don't want that. I don't want this to be just some wild, stupid thing I did when I was young.

 

He's bending down gathering up his pants, sliding them back on, covering up all that bare naked flesh again.

 

If this were a date, like the ones that normal people go on, I'd be walking him back to his door. I'd be trying to find the words to tell him what an amazing time I had. I'd be asking him when I could see him again. But this isn't a date. And so I'm silent.

 

He chuckles in the darkness as he draws closer again. His body radiates heat and I just want to cling to him and soak it up. I want to bask and glow and I want to do it with him.

Duo peels the condom off my now-flaccid length and flings it at the bin in the corner. It hits the mental with a satisfying splat. His teeth flash white as he grins. He wipes my stomach with a rag. I catch his hand and he finally looks up at me. I wonder if he can possibly be feeling what I'm feeling right now.

 

He frowns slightly at the expression on my face. Tugging the hat down tighter on my head, he gives me a long look. “You know, I don't just give my hat to anyone,” he says, voice suddenly very serious. And then he kisses me long and deep, but slower and softer than our earlier attempts.

 

The flickering candle of hope is back. Can I see you again? The question lingers on my tongue, desperately trying to get out. But I bite it back.

 

Slowly, he reaches out and cups my cheek with his hand. The pad of his thumb brushes against the corner of my mouth.

 

“I'm working again on Sunday,” his voice playful again and a tempting twinkle in those violet eyes. My heart skips a beat. He flicks the brim of my hat back. It's become my hat now. And then he winks and is gone and I'm left alone in the darkness to gather my clothes and my wits. But I don't care because there's a beacon shining in the gloom. Sunday. I smile to myself.

 

And Friday becomes Sunday which becomes Thursday and then Saturday and Tuesday and Friday again and then I lose track because its every night at home with that cowboy hat hung jovially on the bed post.

 

And you know what? Maybe I'm not so average after all, and maybe clubbing does have its perks.

 

Fin