by Alleyprowler
Above the hand clamped firmly over his mouth, Quatre's eyes were roughly the size of dinner plates. Blue ones. "Oh, poor Trowa..." he said in a rather muffled voice.
Sprawled out naked on the rumpled sheets of the bed, Trowa had his eyes fixed firmly on the dark wooden beams that ran across the ceiling of their vacation cabin. He couldn't bear to look at his injuries, but by the sound of Quatre's voice he could tell that all of his moaning and groaning and outright bitching was indeed justified. "Is it that bad?"
"Poor Little Heavyarms," Quatre gulped audibly, "it hurts just to look at it."
With great trepidation, Trowa raised his head from the pillow and peered out from under his bang at the woebegone flesh between his legs. "Ohmygod." He said in a rush, and let his head flop back once again.
"Do you want some ice?"
"NO! You are NOT going to put ice on me THERE!" Trowa bellowed in a pain-fuelled panic, making his lover jump a little.
Quatre put his hands up placatingly. "Okay, okay, no ice. I wasn't thinking clearly." He soothed. He knelt on the bed and examined his lover's hot and throbbing shaft more carefully. Normally he liked seeing Trowa hot and throbbing, but since this particular condition was none of his doing, he felt a little sick instead. "There's got to be something we can do about it, though. Maybe I should call Duo, he's spent a lot of time around here, and-"
"No!" Trowa begged. "Please don't tell Duo. I'll never hear the end of it if you do."
That was a good point. If Duo ever caught wind of this little...mishap, he would first laugh himself silly and then proceed to broadcast it through their circle of friends quicker than wildfire. Trowa would never be able to show his face in public again.
"All right, calm down." Quatre patted his ailing lover's shoulder. "Let me go find the first aid kit. Maybe there's something in there that can help you."
Quatre slid off the bed and padded barefoot to the tiny bathroom in the back of the cabin. He didn't hold out much hope-they rarely had very much time for more than a day or two at the little mountain getaway, and stocking up on first aid supplies was a much lower priority on these trips than stocking up on other essentials. In fact, they rarely packed anything other than food, a bottle of wine or two, and lube. They didn't even bother with extra clothes. Who needed a change of clothes when you spent most of your vacation naked?
He finally found a first aid kit after much rummaging around in various cabinets and cubbyholes. Coughing hard at the musty smell that rolled out when he opened the lid, Quatre sorted through the various packets and bottles and bandages and tape and gauze and whatnot until he found a promising-looking tube of whitish goo that proclaimed it was analgesic cream. "You'd better work." He growled at the hapless little tube. "If you don't, then my only three-day weekend in six months is going to be ruined and I will not be held responsible for my actions against the misbegotten pharmaceutical company that manufactured you."
With visions of lawsuits and hostile takeovers dancing in his head, Quatre clutched the cowed tube of cream in one fist and stalked back to the bedroom.
"Did you find anything?" Trowa asked hopefully.
Smiling, Quatre held the tube aloft. "This should fix you right up," he said with more confidence than he actually felt. He sat down cross-legged on the bed by Trowa's left side and twisted the cap off the tube. The cream inside looked okay--there were no strange discolorations or weird smells, anyhow--so he squeezed a bit of it onto his fingers. "This might be cold," he warned.
"I don't care."
"Fine. Here goes." And with that, Quatre proceeded to apply the medicine to his lover's affected areas.
Trowa jumped a little. The cream was indeed cold, as were Quatre's fingers. He fancied he could hear his skin screaming in protest, and he bit down hard on his lower lip. But then, just as the coolness really started to bother him, the cream began to grow warm...warmer...really warm...and oh God, those nimble little fingers were seriously carbonating his hormones....
"Feel better?" Quatre asked him.
"A little. Maybe you'd better put some more on," Trowa suggested.
Doing as told, Quatre applied more cream to his fingers, then resumed his gentle massage of the wounded area. The pain was mostly gone and Trowa's skin, though slightly numb, was beginning to tingle pleasantly. "How's that?"
Yes, the cream--and Quatre's fingers--were definitely warmer. Trowa shifted his hips a little to increase contact. "You could rub a little harder, babe," he suggested. He heard Quatre snort softly and looked up to meet his eyes. He was grinning.
"Translation: Give me a hand job, you gorgeous stud muffin."
"I've never called you stud muffin."
"There's always a first time." Quatre tipped him a saucy wink.
"You're so bad..." Trowa's eyelids fluttered shut as Quatre's hand wrapped around his less wounded by still very sensitive bits. A low purr of delight escaped his throat. "Bad, bad, bad Quatre."
"Yes, but that's our little secret, right?" Quatre breathed into his ear. He had stretched out alongside his taller lover in order to get a better angle to stroke his shaft. That, and licking Trowa's ear never failed to turn him into a little puddle of hormonal goo. He ghosted a path of feather-light kisses down the side of Trowa's face from temple to jaw line and then took his earlobe into his mouth and nibbled on it with his sharp white teeth.
"Bad...bad...bad..." Trowa's vocabulary had dwindled down to one word. He repeated it like a mantra as his hips met the rhythm of Quatre's stroking hand. "Bad...bad...bad...wait, stop!"
Quatre stopped and propped himself on one elbow. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"
"No, it's just that I want your fingers someplace else."
One blond eyebrow quirked up. "Oh? Where did you have in mind?"
Without answering verbally, Trowa grabbed onto Quatre's right wrist and guided his hand to his backside. "Here," he said, running Quatre's slippery index finger around the puckered ring of muscle. "But go slow, I'm kind of on a hair trigger."
Quatre blinked. "Why do I suddenly feel overdressed?"
"Well do something about it, but hurry."
Quatre hurried. He slithered out of his baggy khaki shorts and dark blue rugby shirt and flung them carelessly onto the floor while his lover watched with lust-clouded green eyes.
"Well, you're certainly taking a healthy interest in things." Trowa ran his tongue over his bottom lip as he eyed Quatre's erection. "Or rather, the Pink Scimitar is."
Quatre rolled his eyes. "I hate that name, Trowa. It's so damn cheesy."
"Oh, and Little Heavyarms isn't?" Trowa asked, and the blond didn't really have a reply to that. He simply glowered and smeared a fresh coating of analgesic cream on his fingers before he went back to his exploring. He smirked a little as he remembered why he named Trowa's intimate bits Little Heavyarms: 'You have some impressive ammunition, love, but you tend to run out of it rather quickly.'[1] Quatre's nickname was a little more obvious. His cock actually had a slight curve to it that brought the head to rest against his navel when he was completely aroused (like he was now), and the dusky rose color of the head plus the mild arc had led his lover to call it the Pink Scimitar, as in, "Impale me with your pink scimitar, you horny little devil you."
Trowa was cheesy as hell sometimes.
"Um, Quatre? Did you forget to trim your nails or something?" Trowa asked impatiently.
Quatre gave a start a he was jerked back to the present. "Sorry. I spaced out. Were you waiting for me to do this?" He worked his forefinger into Trowa's tight heat and then brought it out a little.
Trowa squirmed wantonly and broke out into a rare grin. "Oh, yeah. I love a man with bony knuckles."
Quatre snorted. "I knew it. You only love me for my knuckles."
But Trowa was in a state where he would say ridiculous things and his lover knew it. "I love all of you..." he gasped. "Your toes, your knees, your cute little navel," he caressed each body part from then on as he named it, "your nipples, your shoulders, your lips, your nose, your eyelashes, your hair...AUGGHHH! Oh God, do that again."
Quatre did the thing that made Trowa go AUGGHHH! again. He crooked the finger that was inside him in a come-hither gesture and lightly caressed the sweet spot there. Trowa threw his head back in pure sensory overload, neck tendons straining and a faint sheen of sweat beginning to form on his brow and upper lip. Quatre caught his breath at the sight of his lover being in such a state, and he lowered his head down to the sensitive cup of his ear. "I want you. Now."
Without further delay, Trowa turned over on his right side with his back to the flushed blond. "I'm yours."
It wasn't one of their favorite positions, but Trowa couldn't really lay on his belly, and making love face-to-face might aggravate his injury. Quatre merely shrugged and molded his chest and stomach to his lover's back. "Well, if you insist." He moved his hips into position and rubbed the silk-skinned head of his erection against Trowa's entrance, eliciting a frustrated grunt from the green-eyed man.
"Quatre...don't make me beg."
"Oh, but I want you to beg, my pet," Quatre breathed playfully into his ear. "Beg me nicely."
"Please?" Trowa tried to move himself onto Quatre's shaft, but it just didn't work that way. "Pretty please?"
Quatre pretended to think about it. "Pretty please what?"
Trowa's patience was about ready to snap. "Pretty please with--oh God, Quatre, will you just fuck me already?"
Breaking into a grin that his lover could not see, of course, Quatre complied. Slowly. "Ah, love, you do beg so nicely when you are properly motivated."
The slippery, pain-numbing properties of the analgesic cream made their coupling just as smooth and easy as a hand slipping into a glove, and Quatre slid in to the hilt in one smooth motion. He stopped then, shivering on a delicious brink. "Trowa...don't move. Do. Not. Move. If you move, it's over."
Trowa didn't move. "Think of something else, then."
"Like what?" Quatre was so close to orgasm that his teeth were chattering slightly.
"Relena in a bikini."
Quatre developed a mental photograph of Relena in a white bikini with red polka dots, posing innocently with a beach ball in front of her. "Not working."
"Dorothy in a bikini."
Quatre visualized Dorothy wearing a white bikini with red polka dots and a fencing mask, posing in a thrust with her foil. "Scary, but still not working."
"Heero in a bikini."
Quatre's teeth stopped chattering. "I'm going to be in therapy for years with that image in my head."
"I take it I can move now?" Trowa asked with a hint of a smile in his voice.
"Move," Quatre ordered, and Trowa did. Deliciously. Quatre took a few seconds to catch his breath, and then he began to move in counterpoint, sliding himself in and out of the tight, moist heat. He felt captured in it, enslaved, but he knew from personal experience that Trowa felt the same way. Neither of them were certain where their own bodies ended and where the other began, but in their state of liquid fusion, it didn't really matter. Pleasure given was the same as pleasure received. Nerve impulses echoed off of each other's brain, amplified and augmented as their coupling progressed. Emotions grew, exploded, grew again.
Quatre, nearly delerious with sensation, gave into a strange impulse and clamped his mouth and teeth into the tanned skin between Trowa's neck and shoulder. He sucked the sweaty skin, nibbled, licked, and bit almost hard enough to draw blood.
"L-love," Trowa stammered. "What are you doing?"
What was he doing? Quatre didn't exactly know. Dizzy and feverish, he lifted his head. "I'm marking my territory," he heard himself say. "You are mine."
Those last three words were the last bit of stimulation that Trowa needed, and he arched his back with a strangled cry. He spent himself in a jet of white fluid that spattered messily against his abdomen, and his entire body went rigid. Internal muscles cramped, which triggered Quatre's own release, and they both gripped each other tightly in an effort to stay earthbound.
For a few minutes, nothing could be heard in the sunlit room except for two sets of un-syncopated pantings. Two minds settled back from forever into reality, but slowly.
"You..." Quatre finally said, but he couldn't finish his thought.
"You too," Trowa said. He reluctantly pulled his hips forward and disconnected their physical contact. He rolled over and pressed his sweaty forehead to Quatre's in a vain attempt to recapture their more intimate contact.
"Beautiful." Quatre breathed.
Trowa smiled. "Yes, love. Beautiful." He kissed Quatre between the eyes and held him close. "Mine." He said firmly.
"Mine." Quatre echoed, wrapping his tired arms around Trowa's waist. They lay like that for a long moment, happy, exhausted and utterly spent.
"Um, Trowa?" Quatre shook his post-coital sleepiness off with an effort.
"Mmm-hm?"
"Not that I want to question a good thing, but..."
"What is it?"
"How the hell did you get a bee sting on your dick anyway?"
[1] ///.- : I hate you, Alley.
Close window to return to Author's Index
Return to Dryer Space