Title: Red Velvet
A Lemon Exchange Ficcie for Sea!
[Because it’s more fun if somebody else writes it.]
Author: The Queen of Blueberry Toast a/k/a Aoi-chan
Pairing: 2.08
Rating: Lemon!
PWP Lemon no less…
Archive: Should be appearing at Darkflame’s and Kikotei’s soon.
Note: This story on Dacey and Hiniku time. Just beware very domestic situations…
A Lemon Exchange Ficcie for Sea! Disclaimer:
It is that the rabbits, Vanyel and I own nothing. No, that is really! The our-work-is-our-only-possession situation exists!
<A heap of filthy doujin cascades form the closet existing behind those begging mercy of those Bandai people who are wonderful and mercy-filled in all ways.>

Eeek, I say! Please not to be suing us any of the ways! The you-will-have-to-put-up-with-us speaking-in- nominalized-sentences-and-backwards-phonetics would then exist!

And let’s face it that was torture for you and me both.

But please to be mailing all whiny type items and unhappy feelings to The KWOBT@hotmail.com ^_^.




“Trowa, crème fraîche? Aren’t you hungry?”

Trowa found himself glancing up from the smears of cream cheese and magenta jelly on his plate and smiling weakly at his beloved, who was dangerously flicking his fork about in his hand as he spoke. There wasn’t anything on it at least, and so it was, at least on this occasion, a safe action to have taken within the sage and seafoam damask of their dining room… all of this was tossing, wheeling… fluttering with no reason to the ripples. Wholly natural in sort, really.

And wholly dizzying to anyone not accustomed to eating in the place with the windows open. Surely the incoherent waves of the myriad of drapes would have sent their minds reeling more then the floaty coverlets and curtains as they flipped about in one more sunny gust.

Finally, after pondering this for a second or two, he remembered he was supposed to have answered something. Focusing on Quatre, who was smiling warmly as a cup of coffee, he wrestled with himself for a reply. All he could think about was the possibility he was managing to give himself vertigo. “Not much… I’m sorry.”

There was genuine concern in the cheery voice, cheery though it was. “You don’t have to apologize. Just so long as you’re OK. You are, aren’t you? You haven’t got a tummy ache, have you?”

Tummy ache? Tummy ache? He smiled and shook his head, not meaning to refute a thing, just shaking his head.

“But you love butterflies! You should at least eat *one*. Just for me? Just because it’s breakfast?” Batting lashes preceded a hopelessly girlish pose. Or at least juvenile. Either way, he found himself reminding some sane portion of his brain that his boyfriend was twenty-four, going on twenty-five, eventually. That would make it ten years…

Meanwhile, his gaze ended up on the platter of well-anointed toast dusted with sugar. All of it had been cut in to butterfly wing shapes, which despite being saturated with honey-cream butter from France, was attached to a body of a low-calorie cinnamon twist to create the illusion of a plate of tiny butterflies. Many of which had been gobbled down.

Don’t eat me! Don’t eat me! The idea of them crying it over and over struck him and he felt he was going elementary school all of a sudden.

That one there had two blobs of sugar on it that could have been construed as eyes, two gallons of butter on it, glistening in the sun, oozing off the plate. Just *ooozing*.

He snatched it up and did away with it before it had either the chance to start begging for mercy in a cartoon squeaky voice or turn him on even further.

/So I’m turning into a pervert in my old age. Oh well./

Quatre chuckled and tossed his hair. It was almost the same color as the honey cream. Almost exactly.

Trowa suddenly found he had a whole new appreciation for tableclothes as he pulled his edge of theirs over his lap as covertly as he could.

“Are you SURE you’re ok though?” Somehow, without his beloved noticing, Quatre has gotten up and walked around the table to stand beside him, which must have taken some time, as it was a very long table, being as long tables were currently very fashionable and all. “You look a little flushed.”

Trowa bit his lip. Hard. Got honey residue in it. Ouch.

Two soft hands on him. One resting on his temple and the other tugging him forward with the utmost sickening gentleness. Two silky lips caresses his own. Heat seeking were they. He sighed and leaned into it, right into Quatre’s arms even as he crossed his legs nervously. This must have been better than being wrapped up in guardian angel wings, even if he wasn’t sure he believed in angels. So soothing, so mild, even after ten years…

Unlike his hard on which was wet and digging into his zipper. Ow. At least it was laundry day.

Tuesdays were usually Laundry Day. Unless something out of the ordinary happened: say Duo came over, got raving drunk on Khalua and soiled some furniture. No… no, wait… that was Fridays, which made Saturdays Upholstery Cleaning Day.

But Trowa, as he ruefully vegetated on the rut that had been troubling, pestering, and all around molesting him with its sheer eerie, sated redundancy these past few months, shortly had his daydream ripped out of him by the tongue that wiggled into him and the giggles that followed.

/I thought so, Irish cream coffee today./

But just as he went to pull the kiss a little deeper…

Skipping. “Well, I hate to eat and run, but duty calls! I’ll see you around five! Behave!”

The blown kisses had no force to them. They seemed to stall time, the rustling of coats before his lover flounced off to work. The door took forever to close, the car’s sounds forever to fade out to soundlessness.

Silence now peaceably restored, Trowa scootched his chair back and tore open his fly to finally get at himself.

Oh yes, just another lazy day of indeterminate pastoral feeling, just swelling with sunshine and complacency in both the temperament of the weather and his fellow man. Another glorious suburban tribute to the mundane. Oh, the birds were warbling, the bunnies merrily going about their reproduction. The retired neighbors were mowing their lawn and the not retired neighbors’s wife was calling her Bible-study gossip friends rather than watch her daughter. You name it, it was blooming. The children too young to go to school were already frolicking outside, the magical never-ending jazz CD that always seemed to be playing next door could just be made out. “Ruby My Dear” [1]. Slow and walking nowhere with its barely manifested notes. All this wonderful Laundry Day!

It was just about this time he realized he was about to come and the impending splatter was destined to be… well, nothing he felt like having to deal with twice.



Trowa, ascending some familiar steps as he was in the forty minutes between loads of wash, ducked the wrench that came flying out of the studio. There surely were people who would have been disconcerted by the outburst, or the airborn hardware, but frankly, the only thing that he found unusual about it was that the window was actually open this time.

Calmly, he rang the doorbell.

3… 2… 1…

“Heeeeeeeeeero! Can you get that? I’m bleeeeeeeeeeding!”

3… 2… 1…

“I’ll get the med kit.”

3… 2… 1…

“I mean the doooooooooor!”

“Med kit first!”

Some grunting, some grumbling. Heavy footsteps and soon enough, the door came flying open, revealing Duo, masked wholly in cheer, covered mostly in what had once been black over-alls that were by now of course riddled with paint splatters of many audacious and unnamable colors, some singe marks, and some poorly placed tears. The end of his braid was neon green and it wasn’t exactly above suspicion he had been painting with it. As for the bloody towel bound around his hand in a most awkward fashion…

“Good morning, Trowa!” He intoned gleefully. “Please excuse today’s gory mess. It’s really nothing, just a flesh wound and yes, I did remember to get myself a tetanus shot on schedule this time. Anyway, how are you?”

Stepping lightly inside he emotionlessly quipped, “I just jerked off into a coffee cup.”

“Oh, that’s nice… isn’t it?”

“I need help.”

Heero, who had just manifested at the top of the stairs, made some very interesting inarticulate noises of acknowledgement as he unwrapped his spouse’s hand. “ Doko anata no chiisai yubi da [2]?” Then sighing. He waved both his guest and more permanent house mate down into the cavern of the computer room. As far as cave-like rooms went, it wasn’t so bad really. The dark woodwork and retro glitter lamps were almost a nice change, even the scent of motherboard exhaust was. He let Trowa have the battered recliner. Duo took the top of the small, red marble-pattern Formica table and Heero a kitchen chair that had managed to migrate downstairs.

“So,” the artist began, leaning forward and trying to fix Trowa with his gaze as a lepidopterist might fix a butterfly with a pin. He still had butterflies on the brain. He really did need help! He hated butterflies, what with their flitting around and being all happy and… yes, exactly, help. Anyway, he wished he was immune to that goofy grin. Almost. “What’s up, Trow?”

He also hated that nickname right now, but he had endured worse. “I just feel completely worthless.” Of all things, he picked up a sympathetic pat on his thigh from Mr. Macho Watch-Me-Detonate-My-Gundam, and encouraged, he actually continued. “I feel like my life’s not going anywhere, that it’s just this endless rut, over and over again. Nothing changes.”

“Oh that’s ok!” Duo burst out. “Normal even! Easy to fix! Why, I get to feeling that way myself an awful lot! But by then, it’s usually Friday, and I go over to your house, and I have too much Khalua and I get drunk off my ass and throw up on your couch and then everything is alright again in the morning!”

The visitor had no real response for that besides a stare.

“I think,” Heero began, “That’s what he’s talking about.”


“I just want something better,” the plaintiff resumed, “Every day is so much like that last one, and Quatre… Quatre’s just fine… but he’s boring me.”

This evoked nothing but nods.

“He’s happy, but I’m stuck… I’m so stuck! Just over and over again! He still turns me on but… he’s become impossible to approach about it, I can’t get close to him anymore because he doesn’t feel this way. And that’s just part of what’s driving me mad. He’s happy, why aren’t I?”

“We can answer that for you,” Heero said with a seriousness that came like a refreshing gulp of cold air that fine, warm day. “You’re bored. I was too, but then I started taking pictures of people fucking and charging other people to look at them.”

Trowa gulped… and waited for the invitation… Always: /Maybe I could do a shoot for you…/ Fondling yourself for millions upon millions of horny people with nothing better to do! Posing with some exotic foreign object crammed up your lovely ass! It was Heero’s panacea really… My car’s broken down and I have no money. Great! Take off your clothes, let me take pictures and you’ll feel better! I have a headache… Oh, I’m sorry, off with your pants! “Look, I really don’t know what Quatre would think…”

Duo grabbed that and ran, “Yeah! You two have been together a loooooooooong time. Maybe you’re just restless. Or maybe your medication has started makin’ you depressed, or… I don’t know! Maybe you’ve got backwards spring fever!”

His incredulousness quite suddenly went from a nagging shred of a voice to a Latin chorus of monks in bustiers and stilettos… yet another mental comparison that disturbed him, but, as it seemed appropriate, incredulousness first. “Backwards spring fever?”

“Yes! That’s being gloomy and horny instead of perky and horny ‘round April an’ May. Heero gets that sometimes.”

The indignation this incurred was patently false. “I do not.”

“Yes, dear, and you know what else? There’s a koala on a string eating your ‘tato chips in the kitchen.” This was followed by some vigorous nodding.

Trowa promptly wondered if his unquenched desire for oddness was somehow projecting onto his companions. Doubtlessly, a bad thing.

“I’m sure there is.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“That didn’t make any sense at all!” Heero, who had been poking at Duo’s injured hand once in every few minutes, promptly squirted it bactine.

“OWOWOWOWIE!!!!! Anyway, You say that about everything I say!”

“Because I’m tired of it! Hold still unless you want this tourniquet around your neck!”

“Well I’m sicka you too! And I can tie that myself.”

“Yeah, right, brat.”




“No more Japanese lessons for you.”

“Fine then, I won’t.”

“That didn’t make any sense either!!!”

Heero shook his head as Trowa cautiously volunteered… “You mean… you two aren’t… accustomed to each other, are you?”

“YOU TRY BEING ACCUSTOMED TO THAT!” The former Wing 0 pilot burst out suddenly, then quite relaxed and leaned towards Duo, nonchalantly inserting his hand into his back packet. That is to say, the back pocket on the pants that were not his. He then managed to tie a bandage around the poor, little hurt finger with only one set of his own.

“Exxxxxxxxactly!” The braided one happily quipped.

“I see…”

As usually transpired whenever he wanted the attentions and guidance of his flamboyant old friends, what began as a vision quest seeking the two most fickle guiding spirits of general perversion, madness and battles of thrown cool whip, ended up with him turning into Socrates and working everything out for himself while said fickle cool whip spirits harassed each other.

Not that he wanted to be reminded of the cool whip incident, but anyway…

It was really that simple. He was very used to Quatre. They finished each other’s sentences like a couple whose house was well besieged by silver and gold wedding anniversary gifts, but not out of sheer closeness, but rather due to…

… sheer BOREDOM! Yes! That was it! They were bored! Hopefully, not with each other, but with this absurd repetition, this inane daily routine. And the answer to that, frankly was one he had once been so used to, (barring the argument one can not get used to spontaneity) it had passed him by completely now that he was out of it’s mode! After all those years of making snap decisions about battles and who got the leavings in the stew pot, and what room on Peacemillion…

“You know, I think we just need to get away for awhile.”

“W00T!” Declared Duo despite Trowa having no fucking clue what “W00T” was supposed to mean. Heero rolled his eyes and was of no help on the topic. “You could go to one of those vacation L1’s! One of the tropical ones! How about the Aruban colony? I hear you can buy whores there on every street corner, not that you’d be interested in whores of course since you’ll be doing nothing but each other and drinking all those funky tropical drinks with the names no one can pronounce.”

“The only problem with that is,” Trowa began, “Is that last time Quatre and I did something like this we ran into you two after four years apart…”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Duo laid his neatly bandaged finger to the side of one cheek.

Trowa sighed, sighed so hard that Duo’s bangs fluttered despite their not being dreadfully close. “You wouldn’t mind if I used your computer then. Security reasons.”

He figured if he was going to expend all the necessary cash, he might as well make it a surprise. Maybe Quatre would be so surprised it would turn him on and they could do something naughty in the foyer like they had when he’d displayed the Jacuzzi he’d installed shortly after they’d moved into their house. They had been trying to make it to the Jacuzzi in fact but…

What did it matter, nothing like that had happened for years.

And, anyway, it wasn’t out of character for Quatre to check the history on their own internet hookup at home.

“Of course,” Heero replied as he meandered over to the heap of blinking crates where his main server was housed and started pressing what appeared to be random power switches. “We’re here for you Trowa and we know how you feel. There are days I wish something would explode besides Duo’s studio.”

Duo, apparently having not heard the crack about his various combustible artist endeavors, promptly assumed the position as it were. He was a notorious backseat surfer. Heero wasn’t far behind. Trowa didn’t feel like asking them away, despite their breathing right into his ears and the fact he really did fear some of the stains on Duo’s overalls. Possibly deadly.

Well, at least it was Laundry Day!


He picked one of about five browsers that came up on the desktop and prayed it wasn’t one set to boot Heero’s page when it started. Mintex’s logo involved Duo’s nether regions and that was one of a few things he didn’t need to see right now. Well, as it was, the thing didn’t go straight to the index page, it took him to the Lesbian section, implying that had recently been updated. Apparently, with Catherine’s new shoot.

“Esu na?” [3]

“Heero, she’s my sister, ok? Art or not… you didn’t… digitally edit this, did you?”


“Oh.” He tried to grope for the bookmark tab and avert his eyes at the same time, but if the photo of Cathy wasn’t bad enough…

“Live XXX Bohemian S+M,” Duo remarked.

“Dirty Girl Dominatirx’s Live Spanking Feed?” Trowa inquired.

“Gay Boys in Bondage: Hot Boy on Boy Action.” Stated Heero, a bare lilt of a question bothering his words until, “Oh, these aren’t *my* bookmarks. They must be Quatre’s.”

The guest turned in his chair and looked in horrible askance at the pair behind him. It was somewhat slow. Somewhere he remembered GBB being Mintex’s rival or something, so in some ways it made sense they had it bookmarked, but in others it didn’t… There was the matter of checking out that competition but something… something about it just made his throat go a little dry…

“He was the last one to use this browser.”

“Yeah, that and his name’s at the top.” Sassed the artist.

Sure enough, the window was labeld “Quatre’s Bookmarks”.

He cocked his eyebrow soliciting some sort of explanation. The room was going hot… and cold… and he was fancying he saw little blue koalas and fruitily clad monks going about, just for the sheer value of their incongruity. Something just seemed awfully, awfully wrong.

“Oh yeah… he stops by a lot to use this computer. Says the connection’s better. We thought you, y’know, knew.”

Slowly, they all turned back to the screen and read aloud a few more names, as if testing to see if the titles were even more suggestive if uttered aloud.

“Lady Celeste’s Bondage and Discipline Funhouse. All Leather.” Duo licked his lips.

“Spank me now! Over 1,000 Master and Servant novels for download.” Trowa wondered. It seemed like a lot.

“I was raped by my German Shepherd.” Heero said with a casualness unbecoming the situation.

Everyone had to lurch in the end at that and try not to picture anything, though Duo eventually added, with his voice suggesting he hadn’t quite properly assessed the situation, “Actually, that’s mine.”

Heero’s hands spasmed furiously and he turned to his lover looking a little unruffled as it were… “Anata… anata… TEME! K’SO HENTAI ZO! [3]”

Duo tugged at his collar and made a sounds suspiciously akin to “eep” before he took off running. “I was just curious! Really! That’s what happened!”

Meanwhile, the elevator music of random pondering continued to be-devil Trowa’s mind. Quatre. Sweet., innocent… Ok, so maybe not innocent, but… err… sweet and… Mild? Yeah, mild, content, loving, angelic… no, not angelic either. At the very least, Quatre who was very many gentle things, though surely possessed of the appetites of five men; Quatre, in many ways his own sanity and protector…

Was into common bondage.


No, no he was just exploring. That was it. This was the result of some odd curiosity that had arisen from what must then have been a *mutual* boredom. So they were alike! They were both suffering a sort of social cabin fever. Why, they shared everything else down to their toothbrushes and flu bugs! Besides, how could Quatre, saccharine Quatre, open as a new crocus with his emotions, have hidden something like this? Why, that wasn’t like him at all- he who wept sorely when their prize golden beta had been discovered floating belly-up in it’s bowl, launching him into a three day monologue about the nature of his own existence. An enlightening experience for them both.

But evidently not enlightening enough! The rationalization wasn’t making it really go away. Why, he could have given a lecture on why it wasn’t true and doubt still would have taken him… Quatre, wonderful in every way Quatre was into bondage and he, Trowa, who had been with him for what had certainly felt like ten sated, but sexy, years, knew nothing of it!

“EEEEEEEEEE! I’m sorry Ten-chan! I’m sorry!”

“Liar! Tawake!” [4]

For one reason or another, some pans came cascading out of the cupboard upstairs, followed by some more general suing for clemency and Japanese swear words of every size and dialect.

Trowa’s little built-in Socrates still sought an explanation, but ran, straight away into one amazing, pointy wall. /I mean, I don’t even know anything about bondage, besides that it involves being tied up and screwed in rapid succession… and who’d want to be tied up while they were getting screwed?/

His head swam and was shortly conquered by a sick fascination. He wasn’t sure of exactly what it was… something cold besides shock or the wish to be enlightened. Besides, as he cautiously tested a link, what he saw was hardly in the class of enlightening materials.

Specifically, he was at once confronted by the image of a woman, wearing nothing but some leather thongs and some pink, crotchless panties, hovering over some poor fellow chained to a bench and more or less enjoying the experience. She had on a party mask and was smirking. She had another woman putting a candle where candles were not particularly inclined to go.

“A dog! Of all things! A dog! A dog!”

For a second, he thought he saw a dog… but… well, either way, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t deal with that. The copies of porno mags the mercs had been wont to tote around were surely more graphic. You couldn’t even see that much on this lot, they were frozen right before the act, suggesting.

This was however just the menu header… pictures… pictures… places to buy leather… bondage fairs… these people had fairs? … message board- find and IM dominatrix… He clicked on that… no particular reason at first… as the page was loading, he thought maybe if he could understand these people… some of the comics Heero had had made for his site… always the businessmen wanting tied up and humiliated… must be a thing arising from being secure when young, a desire for that which you have never had… that online psych course Quatre had suggested they take was sounding better and better.

“Aw! There weren’t that many pictures! Play nice! C’mon! Ouch!”

But then again, Quatre was a businessman of sorts…

Oh god… this title graphic: young blond boy strung up from the ceiling, a masked man wearing a sheath on his member pouring hot wax down his thighs. Trowa had to blink to assure himself that wasn’t Quatre… He tried to make himself look at it for what it was. Boy being waxed. Any boy! Some silly boy who’d been lured into this business by someone as conniving as Heero…

“So you want a dog! I’ll show you I…”

And he was here to read so read he would, damnit!

And read he did, most happily titillated by what he assumed was loathing. Fortunately, he'd quite calmed his urges as it were, even if he had defiled a coffee cup in the process. He wondered if it had been his own or Quatre's? Ah, no matter. A little cum residue had surely never bothered either of them even when it popped up in the most interesting, and well, actually titillating places.

At any rate, it soon became apparent to him that there was some sort of color-coding employed on the site. Those who fancied being tied up had cyan messages, those who were more than willing to tie them up had their writing in magenta, and those who were impartial about the whole affair posted in yellow. He guessed weather or not one liked tying up or being tied up was not like deciding who of two boys got to shove what up where, but apparently incurred some degree of personal taste, as opposed to the taking of turns.

“W-w-here did you get those?”

This reinforced by the fact he was suddenly speculating that he should prefer being the tier rather than the tie-ee.

He skimmed a few posts.

[Most recent, from BadDKid699 /Ooooh, how original./oh mommy I've been very bad! but i can't find my mommy ;_;. would one of you nice ladies punish me instead? I really want it!!! please write.]

Someone had responded to this post that it was immature, some cyan person, he skimmed to a magenta, that had no name, just a long ICQ code.

[SWM seeks pretty mazo to be chained up and abducted by imaginary dragons! Rescuing incurs a fee of course... 100 lashes hehe. Yes, there will be lots of chainmail! Stop by my homepage to see a detailed listing of my collection, and some preeeeety piccies I took of my last damsel and I.]

Ah, so Heero wasn't the only one...

“Damare! Grrrrrrrrrr.”

The last line was rather cryptic though: [C'mon, loosen up BBOY, don't be lonely anymore, I can getcha whatcha want, hard as you want, anytime you want...]

[Yellow- I'm back! Anyone see that documentary on channel 127 the other night (1AM!) Yeah, your webmaster (mwhahahah!) got to be in that! I was the guy who paid the college chick to spank me. Really, she took pictures! Man, that last fair totally kicked ass! Loved meetin you guys there! Wow, autographed more whips than last year even! Just wanted to let you know I'm planning to open a subsection for the people who sold those gundainium handcuffs and you'll be able to buy them right here! No middle men. Anyway, since my lovely message board has just turned into a personals section, is the guy with that kinky-ass leather armor on here? And are you free Saturday?]

[A cyan reply- Damn straight I am! Well, damn, but not straight... lol. I only go in for threesomes though, so can I bring a friend? I guess I'm just kinky like that.]

/Well, at least someone is getting what they want.../

“Aieeeeeeeeeee!” Giggles. “What big teeth you have.”

And one more cyan, this one was quite lengthy...

/Maybe someone will actually tell me something here.../

The poster's name was marked as BBOY... he vaguely recalled having had a magazine with that name thrust at him the pornographer or someone close to him... something about a boy in a bunny costume getting it from some huge wrestler. He also remembered taking several goes at it in the shower after he and Quatre had returned home... it had been one of their favorite romps.


[Hullo everyone! ^_^ I'm ever so sorry if I sound nervous, I've never written anything like this before. I'm rather new here, to the community at least, but I've always felt, well, just a little masochistic. I live with my boyfriend and I have for a long time, but he doesn't know about me. ]

“Bad doggie! Don’t put that there! Down boy! Down!”

[I like B+D, but he doesn't go in for that sort of thing at all; in fact, he's always been very sweet about everything we do in the bedroom or the shower, gentle even. But I still leave my hair brush on my nightstand every night, just in case.]

Trowa tried to think back over his monotonous daily straightening of the bedroom! Yes! This morning, just like every other morning, he had most certainly replaced Quatre's hairbrush on the dresser after it appeared on the nightstand...

“Wan wan!”

[But, I know this sounds funny, but I don't want to upset him since he doesn't feel like I do, so, for this at least, you have all been the only people I've had to talk to about this. I just wish I could say to him once without being so silly and embarrassed, "Darling, crème freche... Tie me up! Spank me! Be rough with me for once." Ah well, I can dream.]

Crème fraîche - definition: 1) A French condiment consisting generally of combined heavy cream and sour cream which may be seasoned to either a salty or sweet taste depending on the dish. Typically flavored with horseradish and presented with steak, or honey and spooned on sundaes on many of the L4’s. 2) Quatre's most silly and affectionate name for his boyfriend.

Trowa tried to swallow, but he had nothing left to swallow with. His mouth was completely dry.

Quatre. Bondage. Hairbrush. Quatre. Pervert.

Well, looking back to all the rendezvous on the steps, in the shower, on the table, in the bed, beside the bed, in the backs of cars, in the library that one time. All the syrups, the vibrators. The lube flavors and dildos; the funny acrobatic positions in the kama sutra most people couldn't replicate. They were already pretty hentai...

The mere fact the darling blond youth could turn him on enough with one kiss to send him coming in a coffee cup.

Suddenly, today was a wonderful day instead of just Laundry Day. In fact, he quite decided he would do no more laundry today. Screw the laundry! Screw anything! Screwing was suddenly worth it! He actually put on a smile. Just a little one and he was sure it was more than a bit wicked. Padding up the stairs, he stretched as one who had just awakened and actually took a moment to admire the juniper bushes growing outside Duo and Heero's porch. Speaking of which, he stepped into the kitchen to inform them he was leaving. Let them figure out why. They didn't have to know.

He cleared his throat and kindly averted his eyes. "Err... I'll let myself out."


“So, anyway, that’s what happened with the Wunderkin account,” Quatre concluded from the bathroom.

“Just another day, then?” Trowa intoned only the slightest question with his words.

The door to the bathroom was wide open and a very naked Quatre, who very suddenly had recalled the little anecdote, stood as he dried himself over the rugs. His lover poked one of his pillows. “Oh, yes! I just had to tell you before I forgot.” At this, the tale was concluded and he reached for his toothbrush.

Trowa leaned back and reached for his glasses and his copy of Sophie’s World- perhaps not the best book to wander in and out of between bits of bedroom chitchat… although, it wasn’t as if he had no interest Spinoza or letters materializing out of thin air. He knew at once though he was only feigning interest in it.

He and his companion shared a pretty little bedroom away from the vague white noise of the street and at the back of the house. it was filled with champagne lace curtains and champagne moiré runners on the cherry Queen Anne furniture, and champagne shag carpeting, and champagne shades on the champagne marble lamps on the nightstands, not to mention a champagne fainting couch with champagne throw pillows that perfectly matched the champagne satin sheets. Once and again Trowa found himself glancing up from the pages to the champagne form of his companion as he flitted about the bathroom- spitting champagne toothbrush foam in the sink or tugging on his champagne satin pajamas.

He shortly came ambling out… or in… all shiny and bubbly, with a blue towel hung over his shoulders to keep his wet hair from dipping onto his shirt. He saw Trowa was reading and said nothing to disturb him then, only hummed a little to himself.

Trowa smirked a little. He knew the song. Quatre smiled and Trowa saw the reflection of this in the mirror over the dresser. The blond young man was focused on his own image by then, as he primped himself a bit before turning in. He brushed his hair out and wound a few threads of his bangs around his fingers to make them wavy. Actually, his preferred method for keeping his locks fluffy was to apply to them all manner of nourishing goop and then rip his little tortoise shell brush through them. He cast his towel off and untangled the last few ringlets at his neck, grumbling as he flicked water on his collar and found it cold. Then he fiddled with his bangs again, having plunked the brush on the nightstand.

“Rudy My Dear?” came a voice from behind him. The bed and the dresser were actually pretty close together, so it could have come from the sheets had the spaces behind him not darkened with Trowa’s reflection.

“Mmm?” They watched each other entirely within the confines of the mirror.

“That song. The neighbors play it sometimes.” A faint flicker as his lover set his glasses on the bureau and moseyed up beside him, two sinewy arms embracing his chest, one elegant nose nuzzling him just below the ear.

Quatre giggled. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, that’s understandable. I noticed though.”

“I’m sorry, Trowa.”

Skating his hands along Quatre’s smooth chest, he gave his forearms a gentle, inquiring squeeze. “Sorry for what?”

“You… having to be cooped up here all day. It seems like you should be so lonely, so shut off to me…” His head bobbed from side to side a moment as he chose his words. “If you could go back to work, would you?”

“Don’t act like it’s your fault all the time.” Trowa shook his head and pressed his warm, dry lips to the edge of his lover’s ear, breathing hotly on it a moment, almost miming a kiss. The other young man giggled a little at this.

/Just take a deep breath… that’s it…/

Quatre screamed as he was flung down on the bed. The nightstands shook and he spasmed on the sheets after his split second of heavy motion. Trowa seized him by the shoulders and shoved him into the comforter.

“Hey! What are y-…” the stunned complaint melted into a breathy sort of “oof” as Trowa reached between his sprawled legs to grasp the front of his now skewed pajamas. Trowa was on top of him, his lips set grim, his whole face a forbiddingly serene calm; nothing on him but a swift intentness, something lewd and pitiless. A few more inarticulate mumbles escaped his lover as he tried to push away, but every muscle of his companion closed down upon and with each movement he became tangled underneath him in
the most vulnerable positions. He felt fingers on his nipples, hips against his crotch, grabs at his neck and none of them reflected the usually cloudy calm of the champagne bedroom, the bright and rainy peace. The fingers tugged him until he bruised and the hips against his tenderness hurt and made him jump. He skidded, he pushed, he wrentched with his nails. Something tore. It sounded like his nightshirt or Trowa’s.

Trowa heard it too and decided it a small loss- he had nothing else to take a hold of as he slipped and tossed all over the bed. Quatre’s elbow caught him in the cheek. Quatre was on his back and he grabbed him by the collar. The buttons came popping off. He threw him onto his stomach and straddled his back, holding his waist tight between his legs as he reached for the item in his pocket with one hand, pushed his face back flush with the covers once in awhile with the other.

A small, thin voice. “Mmmph! Trowa! I can’t breathe. Mmmmmm… let go of me.”

The sheer ambivalence of the remark struck him as almost funny, in a candy sort of way: Mmmmmm… let go of me. Mmmmmm… I like it when you’re nasty to me. Suddenly desire and intensity clicked together in Trowa. There really was something eerily satisfying about knowing the plea was patently false and that Quatre wasn’t getting away. He reached down and roughly pulled his damp hair from his face.

His eyes were shut tightly, his lips parted dumbly. /You can’t make up your mind, can you? About something. That I know. Well… too late./

And with that, he pulled the red velvet ribbon from his pocket and proceeded to twist his lover’s arms backwards to bind them. The little shriek of protest was just that- little. The material fluttered a moment against the fair skin as he admired his handiwork; the ten long, dainty digits hanging loosely in the crimson manacle, flexing accidentally. He let go at last and rolled himself off the bed where he flung his pajamas over the lounger. Nothing underneath except the beginning arousal that must have been digging his partner in the back. Well then.

/There can’t be any doubt… who posted that letter?/

/What if he was just playing?/

/How can you say that? Even if this turned into some little mess of secrets, don’t you still know him pretty well? I mean, ten years…/

Retrieving his other toy from his second pocket, he happened to glance over at the bed.

Quatre was kneeling on the sheets now. He did not work his wrists against the binding or attempt to shrink away. He had curved himself sideways to try and hide his nakedness, but the pose was some awkwardly artistry more becoming of a vaguely salacious statue. His mussed hair darted about with his heartbeats, and there was this look, nothing like a smile, nothing like tears, on his face. Only the slightest trepidation, as if he was obeying only a daydream, picturing himself and no one else real with a pensive fascination. He was not afraid.

And the only fear, Trowa knew, was breaking the grim line of his own lips as he stared right back at him, tried to go through him. He was already aching to go through him. His questioning was done for tonight.

“This will not do,” he told his prisoner and taking up the blindfold, pushed Quatre back on the covers, where he lay sort of sideways, his statement still expectantly chill as his eyes were covered.

Trowa dabbed the wetness from his own stiffness and slid it roughly between his lover’s lips, almost letting his fingers into his throat.

“That’s so you know what you’ll be getting, when I’m finished.”

Quatre remained as he was, unmoving and helpless. His master for the night got up and as casually as he could, went about the room making the most erratic racket he could- slamming drawers and doors, kicking cabinets, running the faucet, knocking over everything he could in the bathroom. He kicked the shower door and the metal of it rang so loudly he could see the other young man visibly jump with the loud noise he could not account for. His tongue peered out from his lips in a gesture which could not wholly be attributed to nervousness. This brought a wicked, hungry grin to the master’s face and, Trowa found himself unconsciously mimicking the gesture for his mouth had begun to water. /How can he still do that too me? Make me feel like the big bad wolf. Brat! Angel!/


He fished some of his play equipment out of the box in the bathroom and stomped back to the pale form pressed just so against the bed. Lifting the little blond head up by the bangs, he waited a moment before kicking the rest of him onto his back where he remained half sprawled, his torso arched in an uncomfortably beautiful way over his arms. Trowa gaped elegantly at the damp spot on the covers, watched the juices running down the milky thigh and getting sticky...

He shook it all off with the most sadean pleasure and reached for the longest one of their dildos he’d been able to find on such short notice. This had only just occurred to him.

“Suck,” he ordered, and held the item a centimeter from the slightly parted lips.

Quatre obediently lifted his head and slid the tip most delicately into his mouth, his lips pulling tight and moist around the smooth shaft. Inhumanly smooth. He must have known it wasn’t real, but Trowa watched, most sensuously amused as he cheeks fluttered with such ministrations of his tongue as he loved up the sex toy as he would have any real member, once or twice even murmuring pleasurably to himself.

Since he couldn’t be seen, Trowa allowed himself a grin and proceeded to jamb the dildo further down. Quatre choked a little, nothing more. So Trowa began, slowly at first, to plunge the thing in and out of his mouth, jerking him from side to side with it. Always his plaything kept himself on it, nibbling and swallowing and sucking- his lips leaked saliva and he downright slurped. His master grinned a little further and muttered, nearly to himself. “You like that? Too bad.” And he tore the thing away and replaced it with his own mouth and a vicious upside-down kiss that drew only the faintest response of a tongue. For this he administered a light slap. “Don’t.”

Quatre only held his lips open then, allowed his master to suck and empty, bruise his bedmate that he pushed on his so hard- pulled and nipped.

The small blond was absolutely still.

/God, this is disturbing./ He slid down into him, slowly, feeling both of their shafts pressed tight to his stomach, his thighs against his sides. He was so warm, soft, almost pliable really. Trowa reached under himself and stroked whatever skin he could, bouncing against the soft stomach and letting his tongue creep out against his sensitive neck, followed by his teeth.

Quatre moaned gently but no more to feel the slick stiffness jabbing him, the scrapes just below his ear. Which were gone soon.

Trowa left him sighing in the open air. Trowa, ever more amused by this, saw his toy blushing slightly between the legs. Blushing. Not the vague flush of arousal, but a full, hot blush. He tested this with his hands, letting them flutter on and off the crimson patches, making them appear to creep downwards, though at last he took the aching member in his hands and squeezed. Quatre shuddered and was laved with bites for the infringement; this he took with the most intoxicating complacency.

But enough was enough. Trowa caught himself panting. That was noise, that was perceptible to his quarry. It would not do for this game. He rolled him back onto his stomach. Quatre always seemed to naturally curl up into a fetal position if given the chance, and he did so now despite the odd angle of his arms. Trowa rubbed against his back for a moment, feigning the act before pushing him down once more.

He felt his own cheeks. They were warmer than Quatre’s thighs. He stood and left his toy in the middle of the bed. His companion was fully exposed, the pinkish center of his ass graphically visible. Trowa considered it for a long while and though of perhaps taking that too in his mouth, bruising it a little, kissing, opening it with his tongue. He leaned down on the bed, propped on his arms and laid one kiss to him, and another. He grated himself against the covers and for one explosive moment absolutely made love to Quatre with his tongue, wetted him down, had his entire jaw open against him, but pulled away suddenly, leaving him vaguely glistening and doubtless shocked.

Force of habit had him reaching for the drawer on the nightstand then and pulled out one of the bottles there. The assortment of ointments was truly phenomenal, but he took the little flask of almond massage oil and drizzled it on himself. He fought to suppress a faint “Ooh!” as the liquid coursed down him. But he wondered… was tenderness really so engrained in him now? Was this not enough of the starkness whose desire had lead to all of this?

Oh, it smelled so good though. Smelled like something worthy of a bedroom fantasy. He slid his arms tight against the bitten little neck, holding his companion so he would be arched sweetly backwards.

Quatre stiffened and cried out as Trowa sank into him; Trowa almost did himself but his breath caught in his throat as he felt his lover’s shaking through his chest. Quatre’s asshalves were split by him, cuddled completely up against his hips. The tightness had unwrapped completely and swallowed him whole, past his rosebud he was warm and gooey, quaking inside. A few slippy words bubbled on the air, perhaps slight “ouch”es.

Amused, Trowa fumbled a moment with the exact spots where they had been joined, reveled at the sudden, achingly hot contact. He began to edge backwards- the motion came out maddeningly slow- until just his tip remained within his toy’s body. And he lunged again. Another wail. Quatre’s hands jabbed him in the stomach. The white wrists were whiter- stretched and strained against their red ribbon. Bleary with lust and fighting with his own breath, he dropped one of the shoulders he clung to, scooping them into one arm as he took the bound fingers in his own, closing his heavy, rough palm over them as he began to rock outwards once more.

The blond’s knees buckled completely and he would have collapsed into a heap had it not been for the possessive arm about him.

The master then remained for sometime, shoved completely inside, jerking further in, jiggling the tight warmth that held him a bit looser. This especial closeness was hell and it was heaven. The gentle cramping of it, the barely articulate burbles of its owner…

/Don’t you like it Quatre? When I’m sunk this far in your belly and it almost feels like there’s nothing that could get us apart?/

The breath was grating over his lips, and it was not until he thought he made out the words beneath him that he realized he had spoken that consideration: “Yes, master”.

He swallowed, an oddly conquering chuckle. “What did you say? Louder!”

“Yes, master,” it was not a shout, it was a long, breathy exhalation, a feather of a word and Trowa caught it delighted.

“What do you want?” Came the next suggested question, the one he hardly ever dared to ask, though this time he asked it enunciating with quick thrusts.

“I w-… I want…”


“Fuck me!”

In the entire time he had known Quatre, the fair young man had uttered the ignominious F-word only once, and that had been in a swell of giggles that had overcome him one happy, splendid day he had happened to catch their friends enjoying one another’s company on their back porch. And this had been followed by profuse apologies, this one more happy memory, this one more echo of his own desires.

Trowa proceeded to fuck Quatre as hard as he could. The body was boneless beneath him; his toy- his whole body heaved with the thrusts he received, rolling back and forth limply as he gradually inched open with his own wet demands. The skin under his fingers has a vague coating of sweat soon. He leaned forward to see the boyish cheeks gone rosy, his lips ever so slightly open and lushly bruised.

The master’s own loins were tight and needy, begging for an open body. Oh gods, it felt fine just to shove in like this and he hated it almost. Oh gods, holding those little white fingers was paradise.

And two of them had crept about one of his own. They were double joined. The child-like passivity of the gesture thrilled him. Quatre clung to him, begged to be opened, almost pulling him in where he was so tender, yet so satisfying.

Trembling. Quatre’s cries were so soft and unabandoned; they were so shrill and love-pained on the almond-tinged bedroom air. Trowa knew the sound, the desperate panging. Yet it had not been very long; as intense as being taken might have been, his partner was always a bit slow about reaching the cusp. Yet surely he was shuddering, weeping ecstatically, moaning sadly. He shook all over- quivering, tightening and loosening as he climaxed for what seemed like hours.

Trowa was more pleased than dumbfounded, and yet not prepared himself for this. Quatre continued to moan under him as the master reveled in the last of his orgasmic twitches, hauling his body closer and closer until Trowa’s eyes began to drift closed as he thrust one more time only to burst with an unexpected twinge that crept through him, shook him. He was sweating himself, lucid suddenly, ripped with the moment of paradise and pain that this was over.

He was suddenly very tired. His hips burned a little as if strained. He laid Quatre down on the covers, turning his moist face from the sheets, letting his fingers creep into his locks. And then he, still hidden in his lover, stretched out against his back and down. They gasped together for a long while, hearts pounding.

/Damnit! I’m gonna nod off if I don’t get up now!/ And so he pulled himself away from his servant of the night, and standing then, poured himself two glasses of water from the carafe kept on the nightstand to prevent any stumbling into the kitchen at one AM. The first one he threw in his own face. The second he drank slowly while watching the figure on the bed, whose vacant body was gaping, oozing with oil and cum, small traces of which had run out and were tricking onto his balls.

He suddenly felt very much the house-husband Trowa, looking back with semi-disbelief on what he had just done. Those hardly seemed his juices creeping out onto the bed. He sat down beside his lover and reached for the knot that held the blindfold in place. “Quatre?” He hadn’t said the name in… some many minutes. Suddenly it seemed happily quaint to be speaking again at all. The eyes beneath the lid beneath the black satin remained quite closed. He had started to say half a dozen things, one of his hands resuming it’s favorite spot in the creamy, yellow tresses, when suddenly his eyes shot wide open at the touch- two wide and sea green irises shining fearfully.


/Oh no…/

But before he even had a chance to respond to this, as the confusion in him held his further words (had those not been fulfilled cried, earnest requests?) his boyfriend had suddenly managed to scramble off the bed, and once on the floor, pitch down into the cubby between the armoire and the nightstand, where he lay, curled against the wall his face buried in his knees. There was no sound of weeping. His hands were still bound.

Finding him grave and motionless now, Trowa slid down beside him and reached a comrade’s hand out for his tender shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” came the angered, meek response.

He found himself asking, almost indecorously, “Why not?”

“You know… how can you not know?” Calmly, he reached forward once again. This time the shoulder flinched away and he needed no other sign. He was still and complacent, and yet his throat had gone tight. “Please, tell me just what…”

“How did you know?” Quatre snapped, turning his face from his knees and glowering, betrayed

“I was on Heero and Duo’s computer.”

His lover glanced away. Apparently, this truly did explain everything. But his eyes returned to Trowa, glassy with shame. “Then you have to know…” It was the staggered, little sort of speech his used whenever ashamed, his upper body drifting back and forth with his words. “… what a pervert I am. All those disgusting people I talked to about it, everything I said I wanted . How could you do this to me knowing I’d *like* it? Oh, Trowa, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I’m this way, I...”


He looked at Quatre. His Quatre. And suddenly he knew it just wasn’t true. Not at least, in his heart. Screw the rest of the world, the religious gossip next door. He silenced his companion as he cupped his cheek in his hand, rubbing it warmly with his thumb. “Sweetheart,” He hardly EVER used pet names- he couldn’t even remember if he had one he usually took to. This one just seemed right. “Wanting to be tied up doesn’t make you a sick person. Wanting spanked doesn’t either. I mean, how is it different from the time I let you put those jell-o jigglers in me, or when we did it on the stairs, or when you let me use the wiggler in front of the mirror? How is it even different from when I ask you to leave your shoes and goggles on?”

“Its… its… gross!” Came the protest.

He shook his head slowly and smiled. “No, it’s not. Do you have any idea how cute you look when you’re tied up?”

“But TROWA! I’m not your sweet, little boy like that! I’m a masochist! A dirty, weird masochist!”

“Weird? Quatre, come now! We’re *both* weird. *I’m* the only man on the entire colony who watches ‘Passions’ and you’re the youngest multi-millionaire this side of Cancun and god! We’re *both* ex-gundam pilots! And you can be a masochist if you want too. Even if you insist you’re not yourself when we get a little kinky, I like the person you are then. If you don’t want me to do it again, I won’t, but understand I did enjoy being with you this way. And the truth is… I’ve got a little bit of a sadistic streak.”

“But I’m not supposed to want to be hurt! That shouldn’t be what means you love me.”

“Did you enjoy it?”


Trowa smiled with relief at the small smirk that came over him.

“You have no idea!”

“Then I’m glad. And I’ll love you whoever you are, Quatre. Always. You can’t help you like this anymore than you can help you love me and not some pretty rich girl. And you don’t know how happy I am that you *do* love me as much as I need you and that you’re finally satisfied. You’ll never be dirty to me. You have, however, been a very bad little boy.”

Trowa promptly seized Quatre by the wrists and hauling him out of the corner and causing quite a yelp. He seated himself on the edge of the bed and yanked his partner down, so he was laying face-down across his lap, ass in the air. He ran his hands over the smooth skin a moment, before pulling it backwards and bringing the taught pal down on the left cheek as hard as he could.


His servant jerked and warbled at contact. Not quite a scream and not quite… he struck again. Yes, there was no mistake. Quatre was laughing amid his shrieks, wriggling futilely in his lap. , curling his legs underneath his stomach, trying to reposition the blows or make them stronger.

“You like that!” Trowa shouted above the din. “Oh, you bad boy, you! You are such a bad boy!” And he couldn’t even speak anymore. He was laughing too. Really, it almost sounded more like a tickle fight than a spanking. Something about the way the fair lover of his responded to his hand- the warming of the skin, its movements, his motions torn between moving away and casting himself harder against the punishing hands… it was all so edgy sexy. So toothsome.

He loved it.

Quatre loved it.

Oh his was every happy spring moment rolling in the grass and hoping the neighbors could see. Oh this was bondage and this was lovely.

His arm tired though and at last he ceased. Quatre’s bottom was blotched with crimson and feverish to the touch. They were both out of breath. He stoked his lover in repose along his spine.

“Oh, Trowa. I needed that. I did.” And pulling himself up to his knees, his boyfriend smiled contentedly.

Not to mention displayed quite the mischievous stiffness.

“Hmm…” remarked the master. “Well, have to take care of that, won’t we? Or you’ll just keep getting naughtier, and naughtier by the minute, won’t you.”

“I might.”

Leaning over the edge of the bed with a chuckle, Trowa reached under the skirts, feeling a mirthful gaze on his own bum as he groped for his last surprise. Finally, as he displayed the package. “You always said you wanted a neon pink one.”

Sly gulp. “Where on earth did you get that?”

“Same man I bought the blindfold from. The velvet is from one of Sally’s old curtains. But this baby had twelve modulation settings and a speed dial and look, no cord.”


“Yes, now open your legs.”

The fair young man obeyed but with a sort of ironic trepidation. His lover promptly plunged the vibrator into him, positioning it right up against the sweet spot he knew so well. He then hit the on button, all the while wearing a positively devilish smirk.



Duo yawned and poked the toast just one more time. Finding it insufficiently done, he popped it back into the toaster as another happy scream issued from the downstairs.

“Damn, he has these early morning sessions and then has the nerve to accuse *me* of being a slave to inspiration!”

“Oooh! Oooh! OOOOOOOOOH!”

“Saa, let’s do it again from the left.”

The phone rang. Several people downstairs moaned, but in exasperation this time. The artist sighed and picked up the receiver. “Hullo, Maxwell residence and Mintex porno hotline. No, we still don’t do phone sex.”

“Good morning!” caroled a pair of disturbingly perky voices.

“Hey Trow, Quatre. What has you up at the utterly inhuman hour of eight AM?”


There was a frightfully long pause consisting exclusively of giggles, during which the toast popped up for the sixth time, only to once again be returned to the bowels of the Japanese toasting over.

“Can we talk to Heero?” It was Trowa’s voice but… so airy… like a diet cream puff if a cream puff could speak, or Socrates on mental helium.

“He’s busy right now…”

From the studio came a particularly loud declaration of, “No! No! Don’t put it THERE!”

“Can I take a message?”

“Yes! Yes! Tell him I’ve reconsidered! I’d love to do a shoot for him!”

“And I’ll come too!” rejoined Quatre.

“It’ll be fun!” his lover answered.

“I know!”

“I love you.”

“I love you too!”

“I’m yours forever!”

“I am too!”

“Should I get a riding crop?”

“Hmm… why not?”

“Ye god!”


“Do that again.”

“Trowa, you silly!”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“Uh… guys? You can hang up the phone NOW!”


[1] An actual jazz piece available in 32 Jazz’s “Jazz for a Rainy Day”. Very Pretty.

[2] Where’s your little finger?- Yes, I realize he used “anata” instead of “omae”. I suppose he’s either mellowed or reallllllly likes Duo.

[3] Pretty, isn’t it?

[4] You… you… you bastard! You fuckin’ pervert!

[5] Tawake- Heero’s favorite epithet for Heero in Dacey and Hiniku time. Means brazen and foolish, fits a little better than plain old “baka”.


Sea, who asked me to write it because I had such a delightful time doing it. All the good people who put up with my wining about it in IRC. Figbash, the indubitable beta-reader who is wonderful in every way and actually fixes things, Alex who was most encouraging and really knocked my socks off with his interpretations of the opening, and my cat, who shed all over the rough draft.