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The Sabintha Stories	By : Maureen Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 841 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
The
Sabintha Stories: Not So Innocent pt. 3: Night: TB-W/QRW #6: What Trowa Did
About It

Archive: The Sabintha Archives: http://gundamwing.fanworkrecs.com/Sabintha/index.htm

Pairing: 3x4

Warnings: The following fic features
Dominating!Trowa and Sub-Space! Quatre. No bishonen were harmed in its
writing...

Special thanks again to both zOzma and Manon for their beta work!

Trowa
had not spoken since they left Heero and Duo in the entertainment room. He
simply kept a firm grip on Quatre as he quickly covered the distance to their
bedroom, his free hand occasionally making passes over Quatre's upturned ass.
When they reached the room, he silently set Quatre on the foot of their
queen-size four-poster bed, and stepped away. Quatre heard him fumble
momentarily with the bedside lamp, and then the room was warmed by its soft
light, the sheen of the rosewood paneling glowing in muted reflection. Trowa
moved behind him still. A quiet shush of fabric told Quatre that Trowa had
pushed aside the curtains to let in the night.

Quatre
sighed and fidgeted with Mr. Fluffy, the large stuffed pink rabbit Trowa had won
for him long ago at the circus. The gesture had touched Quatre in a way he could
never successfully articulate, but it always made him feel warm and fuzzy inside
whenever he looked at the toy, so it had a place of honor among the many plush
cushions and pillows on the bed. Having a good idea what was coming, he absently
patted the rabbit before gently placing it on the floor and sliding it under the
bed with his foot � there were some things that Mr. Fluffy just did not need
to witness�

"Trowa,
are you sure you're not upset with me?" Quatre asked finally, unable to
bear the silence any longer.

"No,
Quatre. I'm not." Just the warm caramel flowing through Trowa's husky tone
was enough to make Quatre's thighs tighten and his knees loosen. "But I
can't understand why you never told me."

"About
Heero?" Quatre started to turn towards him, wanting the reassurance of face
as well as words.

"No,
don't turn around, love� stay just like you are." Trowa's voice came
closer, and then there was a dip and shift to the mattress as the taller man
settled in behind Quatre. "And I don't mean about Heero � I told you I
understood about that."

"Then
what � " Quatre began, but was cut off as Trowa's hands clamped around
his left wrist.

"This,
love." Trowa said as he wound one of the silken tiebacks from the curtains
around the captive hand, pulled it up and secured the other end of the
three-foot length to the bedpost. He quickly caught and bound the other hand to
the opposite post, and Quatre was forced to stand to avoid straining his trapped
arms. Trowa leaned in to breathe directly into Quatre's ear, "The look on
your face during that whole scene, Quatre. I know you � I could see how much
being tied up affected you." He rose from the bed to inspect his handiwork;
tugging at the knots to make sure Quatre could not escape. He then took hold of
the blonde's chin and forced their eyes to meet, "I should have suspected
something when you so stubbornly insisted on buying just this style of bed�
Why didn't you ever say anything? All you had to do was ask�"

"Tro
� Trowa?" Quatre stuttered, eyes widening as he took in the particularly
dangerous shade of green of Trowa's.

"No,
Quatre. Don't talk." Trowa raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Unless, of
course, I tell you to."

"Tro�"
Quatre was cut off by Trowa's unyielding but gentle hand over his mouth.

"I
said no talking, Quatre. If you continue to disobey me, I'll be forced to gag
you." Trowa's eyes held Quatre's, and the gaze was cool and appraising.
"But perhaps you'd enjoy that." He removed his hand. "Would you
like that, my Quatre? You may answer."

Quatre's
voice had suddenly dried up in his throat, and he could only manage to croak out
a feeble, "Nuh-no�" in response.

"Good,
because I have plans for your mouth�" Trowa leaned in to show him exactly
what some of those plans might entail, teasing Quatre's lips apart and exploring
the newly opened territory, his tongue mapping it in minute detail before it led
Quatre's own through paths of mutual discovery. He brought his hands up to cage
Quatre's face, and the fingers lingered, tracing the contours of cheeks and chin
as he pulled away. "Good boy."

Quatre
flushed under the strange praise, and barely managed to clamp down on the
questions building within him before they could escape. Trowa saw his restraint,
and repeated, "Good boy." He indulged in one more caress, eyes
lighting from within as Quatre leaned forward to prolong the contact. "Stay
right where you are, love. I need to get something."

Quatre
could not contain a shudder as Trowa stepped away, his body instinctively
chasing the warmth of Trowa's until the restraints were at their limits. As his
lover moved out of sight, Quatre struggled to regulate his breathing.
Concentrating on the simple in and out rhythm of air soothed him somewhat,
distracted his restless mind from the overload of racing thoughts and
half-hopeful fears. He was so caught up in exercising this small bit of control
that he did not notice Trowa's return until he felt the taller man's hand brush
his hair back from his face.

"Look
at me, Quatre," came the steadily delivered command. "See me,
Quatre."

"Yesss�"
Quatre sighed before he could stop himself. Trowa stood before him impassively,
a small upturn of his lips indicating forgiveness for the infraction. As always,
Trowa was the embodiment of refined grace � lean muscles evident even through
his clothes, wiry strength dormant until needed. Now Quatre could sense
something else there as well � the feral, splendid menace of a long-caged lion
who had never been completely domesticated and was now on the verge of running
free.

In
his hand, Trowa held a plain folding knife, which he flicked to the open
position with a smooth snap of the wrist. "There are two things I can do
with this knife, Quatre. The choice will be yours." Trowa ran the flat side
of the blade over Quatre's cheekbone; the metal was cool against his heated
skin. "I can use it to cut you free � we'll never have to speak of this
again. We can simply get in our bed, make love, and go to sleep." Trowa's
eyes followed the knife, which outlined the curve of Quatre's jaw, the slope of
his nose, the planes of his cheeks in a hypnotic, repetitive pattern. "Or,
you can trust me to do with it what I will." Trowa withdrew the blade and
regarded him with feline disinterest. "Do you want me to stop? A simple
'yes' or 'no' will do."

When
he tried to answer, Quatre found that words had abandoned him entirely. It was
as if the bonds, instead of constraining him, had set him adrift � and his
body was no longer responsive to even the simplest commands he gave it. Knowing
that Trowa needed the answer, Quatre concentrated on his breathing again until
he was able to manage a weak negative shake of his head. The forced precision of
his breath competed with the thundering wash of his own pulse, and only the
authoritative timbre of Trowa's voice was enough to cut through the internal din
and return Quatre's focus outside of himself.

"Quatre."
The knife glittered in the air between them, and then retraced its path over
Quatre's face and neck. This time, however, the keen edge of the blade slid over
his skin, promising pain if he flinched in the slightest. He focused his eyes on
Trowa's, relying on the serene strength he found there to keep himself perfectly
still. "Quatre." The word, though still firm, was spoken with warmth
as well. The knife was removed and replaced with lips that kissed �
feather-light and oh-too-brief - over the same territory, finally claiming
Quatre's mouth, rewarding his obedience with first a languorous teasing and then
a more passionate probing. The kiss lasted minutes� hours� eons � Trowa
eased out of it gradually, the tip of his tongue flickering over Quatre's until
it seemed that all sensation centered on that small stretch of muscle. Every bit
of Quatre trembled as the contact broke, desperate for any touch.

Trowa
stepped away then, to allow a return of the internal equilibrium. When Quatre's
small shivers had subsided, he brought the knife between them again, this time
sliding it under the top button of Quatre's shirt. The blade jerked, sending the
button to the floor, and then moved down to repeat the action again and again,
until Quatre's shirt hung open at his sides. Trowa liberated the button at
Quatre's left cuff as well, and holding the material taut with one hand, guided
the knife along the length of the trapped arm. A cold line of fire lingered in
the wake of the dull edge of the knife as the sound of readily parting fabric
washed through the room. Quatre's right arm was exposed in the same manner, and
the tattered remains of the white cotton drifted, ghostlike, to the floor.

Trowa
closed the knife with a sharp "click" that echoed through the
otherwise soundless room, and pocketed it. Quatre's thin undershirt parted like
spider webs under Trowa's fingers and joined his shredded shirt. He then moved
his hands to Quatre's waist, unfastening his belt and the button of his pants
before effortlessly dropping to his knees. Trowa slowly peeled the garment and
boxers beneath it down Quatre's legs. The glacial progress of the cloth
sensitized what it uncovered, forcing Quatre to center on his freshly exposed
skin. The air against his newly bared flesh, the brush of Trowa's knuckles as
they passed over thighs, over knees, over the curve of his calves � these were
the only sensations in Quatre's world. His shoes and socks were discarded in the
same unhurried fashion, and even his feet seemed to be alive with erotic nerve
endings Quatre had never before known he possessed.

"Quatre."
Low, almost purred, the call refused to be ignored, and was followed by a wisp
of laughter. "So deep within already, love? And I've only just begun."
The words unlocked a new awareness in Quatre � he was at once both within his
body and totally outside of it. Trowa rose and stepped back to examine his
handiwork, like an artist contemplating a half-finished canvas. He moved away,
and brought the small chair from their desk to place in front of Quatre. He sat
and let his eyes meander over his captive - Quatre's skin burned with
anticipation. Trowa's heavy gaze was almost tactile. Quatre yearned for a more
physical touch, but was strangely aroused by the knowledge that he would only be
allowed what Trowa permitted.

And
the caress of Trowa's eyes was all he received for some time � it lingered
over his stretched arms, his arched chest, and when it trailed towards his
groin, Quatre could feel himself tighten and harden under the intense
inspection. Trowa looked pleased at this, and brought the weight of his stare up
to hold Quatre's. "Have I told you enough," he began, and then
laughed. "How could I ever tell you enough � how beautiful you are to me,
my Quatre?" The words, the voice � the yearning in them - sent a thrill
of delicious frisson up Quatre's spine, and he could feel himself blushing down
to his chest. "Oh, yes. Perfect."

Trowa
stood and pushed the chair back with off-handed grace. He peeled off his
t-shirt, exposing himself to Quatre's starving eyes inch by inch � flat
stomach rippled lightly by a ladder of muscles that led to solid pectorals,
nipples hardened either by the cool air or warmer thoughts. The neckband pulled
back Trowa's bangs as it passed, revealing both high cheekbones and both deep
green eyes. Quatre sucked in a harshly stuttering breath as he ravenously
devoured the delicacy before him � Trowa totally exposed in a way that was
only ever for Quatre. The moment passed before it could overwhelm him, and
Trowa's hair settled back as the shirt hit the floor. His jeans soon followed,
and Trowa stood, arms slightly out to his side, offering himself for appraisal.

Quatre
could not remember the last time Trowa had been before him so � presented up
for the love of his eyes and not his hands. It was so easy to fall into a
routine in life, to not really see what was by his side every day. But now, in
his involuntary leisure, Quatre rejoiced in the body before him. Smooth and
lean, skin tanned a cocoa butter brown, strength lurking beneath the cover of
sleek flesh. Hands made to hold his, which fit in the crooks of his bent knees
during love as if they had been molded to do so. Hands that could make a flute
weep or soothe a wounded child. The hands of the man he loved. Arms that fought
wars, yet embraced with such tenderness. Shoulders that could carry the weight
of the world but sagged at the sight of a downed sparrow. Chest chiseled with
muscle, yet softer under his head when they slept than any pillow had ever been.
Legs that stretched for miles, defined and powerful, yet still delicate enough
to dance. And the muscle Quatre craved the most, as glisteningly eager for him
as he was for it.

"We
don't do this often enough, do we, Quatre? And yet I feel as though I could look
at you like this all day and never see enough." And there was the face �
lips that spoke so softly, so often just for Quatre's ears. Lips that kissed,
caressed � lips that knew every secret place on Quatre's body, lips that
lingered on these spots. Firm chin, high cheekbones, and the fine, straight nose
� a face that was elegant and classically refined, yet open to those who knew
Trowa best. And above the rest, the eyes � greener than spring � eyes that
saw Quatre, all of Quatre � eyes that looked beyond what was given them and
deep into his soul.

And
the words that did not need to be spoken, the words that still thrilled Quatre
every time he heard them, the words that comforted and strengthened, the words
that made the rest of the world disappear. "God, I love you."

Quatre
did not know when his tears had started, did not even know they were there until
Trowa closed the distance between them and traced the wet tracks from his face
to his chest. Silent tears became soft cries and then full-throated sobs as they
were kissed away, as he was given permission to release them. "Let it all
out, love. I want it all�"

And
in the wake of the tempest, Quatre felt lighter than he could ever remember �
everything unimportant washed away. Like an early summer field after a passing
storm, suddenly verdant from the cleansing rain � warmed by the sweet
endearments murmured in his ear, meaning nothing, meaning everything.

Trowa's
hands eased the tightness from Quatre's neck and shoulder with unhurried
kneading. When the tension was gone, Trowa stepped away to retrieve the chair
and a bottle of jasmine-scented oil from the nightstand. He sat close enough
that Quatre could feel his steady exhalations on his abdomen, and with hands
slick with the oil Trowa brought Quatre back to full hardness with even strokes.
"Relax and feel what I'm doing to you�" His words matched the rhythm
of his hands. "We too often see this only as a means to an end." The
steady grip encircled Quatre, pulled up and off, one hand and then the other, a
never-ending cycle that varied in neither intensity nor speed. "I want you
to feel now � don't think about where this leads." Quatre
struggled to obey, but the insistent touch was too much to resist, and he could
feel himself nearing the brink bare moments after Trowa had begun. Trowa's hand
became a vise, not quite painful, but still prohibiting the orgasm that boiled
through Quatre and threatened to overflow. "Relax, and I'll continue�
breathe, Quatre."

Quatre
let out the breath he had not known he was holding and focused on Trowa's voice,
on the soft commands. Quatre's eyes had tightened as well, and he released them
to find Trowa studying his face, a soft smile enhancing the quiet instructions.
"Breathe, Quatre, and feel." And when the hands began to glide over
him again, the sensation was not overpowering, it just was. The touch of the
hands that knew him best� the slick slide of skin on skin� the ripple of oil
that was pushed up and reapplied with every pass� it was better than coming,
because it did not end.

Three
times Trowa brought Quatre to the edge, and held him back with a firm hand�
and each pinnacle took longer than the last to reach. After the last near-climax
had abated, Trowa took more oil and moved one hand back to rub first his
perineum, massaging his prostate from without, and then further back, circling
the tight ring until it loosened enough to admit one slender finger with ease.
He manipulated the gland from within, as his other hand continued to flow over
the same slow circuit from base to tip. The internal pressure was so much more
constant, so much more precise than could be achieved through full penetration,
and after all too brief a time, Quatre was bucking into it, trying to hurry
those exquisitely torturing hands. Again, Trowa stopped and waited until the
knot of tension unraveled and Quatre was again able to focus on the sensation
and not the culmination.

Pleasure
for no other purpose than pleasure; touch that promised nothing but itself�
Trowa fed Quatre on this, filling him to the edge of his perceived limits and
beyond. It ceased to matter how many times the sequence of stops ands starts
repeated. And Trowa's eyes held him as each wave swelled and crested, as
thoroughly as his hands did Quatre's flesh. There was no need to cry out �
Trowa could read every whimper and moan before Quatre could give voice to it.
There was no need to plead � Trowa would give Quatre no more than he could
take. Each time that Quatre thought he might die if the stimulation continued
unabated, Trowa showed him that he had the capacity to accept so much more.

The
hands pulled away, and Trowa's mouth moved for his � covering it, opening it,
filling it. Quatre's legs were lifted at the knees, and his hips drawn forward
as Trowa sighed against his lips, "Just feel, my Quatre � just feel
this�" His body welcomed the protracted impalement, yielding to the
incremental joining without tightening as he might have normally done. And while
some small part of him marveled briefly at Trowa's control, Quatre's thoughts
soon fragmented and lost coherency � until all that was left was feeling. The
feel of Trowa's chest against his own, of Trowa's buttocks under his crossed
legs, of hands that steadied him at his waist, of Trowa's shoulder, smooth under
his lips and cheek. And the divine friction that was the center of everything,
given to him again, and again, and again�

Trowa's
hands moved again, and the restraints on Quatre's wrists released with a simple
tug at the knots. He eased Quatre's back down to the bed, all the while
maintaining the deliberate rocking pressure, taking and giving equally. Trowa's
eyes found his, and their fingers twined together, and this time when everything
coalesced to one point - rushed together and forced itself out of Quatre's body
- Trowa let him come. Quatre was anchored by the green eyes that surrounded him
and eclipsed his vision even as wave after wave of the ultimate bliss took his
body, shook it, used it as a conduit, spread out in gigantic swells and rushed
back to bathe him in a warmth he had never dreamed possible. This was a
rampaging flood that swept away everything in its path � a flood that should
have left him drained, but instead ebbed back within � placid now�
powerful� pure.

And
still Trowa pressed in and out at the same speed � an unshakeable oak in the
path of Quatre's passion. Somehow this love after love was even more than what
had come before it, as if Quatre had reached some level that both transcended
the physicality of the act and dwelt in it�

Time
dissipated, and lost all meaning. It might have been hours or only seconds
before Quatre felt Trowa swell within him, felt pulse after pulse rippling up
inside him as Trowa released. And Quatre's body absorbed it, called for it,
milked Trowa for more and more� somehow answering again in kind.

One
by one, other things came back � their fingers tightened almost painfully on
each other, a small drop of sweat that rolled off Trowa's nose and splashed on
Quatre's chest, the post-marathon measure of their breathing, ragged in the
otherwise still air. And Trowa's eyes, telling him things so deep and intense
� things that "I love you" would only ever be a pale whisper of�

There
was movement, he was sure of that later, warm water and soft cloths wiping away
the physical reminders. And then he was cocooned in the soft nest of their bed -
with Trowa's arms around him, the beat of his heart under Quatre's ear- nestled
without the strength or will to move. Trowa's cleansing tears a gentle spring
shower, carrying Quatre's name on the breeze. "Quatre, my Quatre�"

*************************************************************

It
was a few weeks later, as Quatre and Trowa were taking a late Saturday
breakfast, when the plain brown package arrived. Quatre fingered the wrapping
gingerly, lingering over the return address as he met Trowa's eyes. "It's
from Sabintha� You don't suppose she�"

Trowa
set down his coffee cup and shrugged with one shoulder. "I can't say that
I'd be opposed to seeing whatever she's sent, Quatre. Go ahead and open it �
we've nothing planned for the rest of the day."

There
was a small stack of discs nested in the packing material in the box, and a
cream-colored enveloped rested on top. Quatre opened it to read:

Dear sex-gods,

I had no idea how right I was when
I said the two of you were going to be the most popular pairing I've yet to have
the pleasure of Capturing! This latest two-disc set of you � "Night"
"And Day" � has been met with overwhelming demand. You should be
receiving a much larger shipment of vids in the next few weeks � I've traded
this with more people than I can count, and new requests for it come pouring in
everyday. I'll make you copies of all of them as soon as I have a free moment.
In the meantime, I thought you might want to add this to your "greatest
hits" collection. I'd tell you to use them for inspiration, but neither of
you seem to be lacking in that! Well, sweeties, I only have time for this short
note. But I'll want to have you over for dinner sometime soon. In the meantime,
keep scorching up my vid-screen!

With greatest love and affection,

Sabintha

PS. Quatre � what did I say about
it always being the quiet ones?
- 3
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