June 14, 2000
You know how sometimes ideas just come and bite you on the ass? Yeah...this is it...
Notes:
Well, it was originally going to be a PWP lemon (if you read the
first few paragraphs it's rather obvious) but it ended up with a
plot. A very large plot.
~Bianca~
I remember the first time I took you.
You had gone into the bathroom we shared in the school, tired and sweaty after barely outrunning a group of girls and a few boys intent on learning the secrets of the new student, Heero Yuy. I watched them from my window and snickered. The older we get, the less the cold glare works. You're going to have to learn to speak in order to dismiss someone, Yuy. Poor baby. I chuckle again as I remember how you'd ducked behind a bush, only to find yourself in a tangle of football players eating lunch outside in the courtyard. It was good that you ran away the first chance you got; they were checking you out like you were dessert. I don't know if even Heero Yuy can outmuscle seven hulking linebackers.
And I remember sneaking up to the door, freezing as I hear the sound of footsteps, then relaxing as the shower turns on. I can still feel the heavy carpet beneath my knees as I knelt, the rug grounding another daydream of mine. In my daydream, I kneel at your feet and--Well, that's a story for another day, isn't it?
I can see through the old keyhole; the entire school's falling apart. Victorian era architecture--beautiful, but old. For a moment, I am extremely thankful for the lack of funding, and press my cheek to the cold metal grating, one eye blinking through.
You stand at the sink, hands pressed to either side of the oldstyle white porcelain sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror that hovers just above the dirty metal of the faucet. I see your hand creep up to your cheek, as if testing the sharpness of your angled cheekbones, and feel my own hand dropping to my lap, moving restlessly.
And then, both hands fall to your waist, only to pluck at the thin cotton of your white shirt, untucking it slowly, your own eyes now fixed on your hands. Two button, then two, and three. The bottom of your shirt falls upon, an unorthodox way of undoing, unbecoming. You go against everything I have ever known, and everything I have ever believed and still have faith it. Unbidden, her face rises in my mind, habit tattered and eyes full of unshed tears. What would she say, to see me kneeling at a keyhole, spying on my partner as he undresses?
The worst part of all this is that I don't care what Sister Helen would think. I want you so much it is like the necessity of breathing. Your shirt falls open all the way, exposing two hardened nipples. As if surprised by your body's reaction, you reach up and slide your palm, callused and rough, over the darkened nubs, then pinch them. The groan that tears from your throat sends an answering jolt straight to my faltering erection, making it fully harden.
You look at your reflection again. Maybe you see what I see, the desirable angel whose only fault is a lack of wings. You shrug your shoulders and the white cloth falls to the ground soundlessly, barely catching over thin wrists. I lick my lips and wish they were your nipples, wish I was on top of you and inside you. I hear a click and see a gun rising from inside your tight jeans, only to fall to the floor, its impact muffled by the shirt.
A long pause, and then you pull your jeans off, stepping out of them like a bad dream. I can see the long line of your spine now, and my fingers twitch, wanting to trace it, learn its intricate bumps and concaves. Then you tug your boxers off, black silk, and step inside the shower, your back still to me.
I can see your silhouette, see you bend down and change the water flow so that it flows from the faucet. Steam rises from the water as it quickly fills the tub, and you slowly descend, one hand gripping the edge of the tub, fingers visible beneath the curtain. Soft moans crowd the bathroom as your hand flies up and down, thighs trembling and finally tensing as you come, back arching off the sloped edge.
I feel my hand unzipping by own pants, drawing out my erection, still trapped by my boxers. Standing for one moment, cursing as I lose time watching Heero, I kick off my boots, sending them flying into a corner, and tug off my pants, letting them sink to the carpet.
When I look again, your hand is between your legs, too far forward for you to be touching anything but that tight, puckered ring. Your head tilts back, exposing a long arch and an aquiline profile. My hand moves faster as I continue to watch, my eyes and my body slowly separating, one desiring completion and the other never wanting to tear away from the sight of the young boy masturbating in the tub. It's almost funny, in a way.
I can feel my whole body twitching as I try to keep myself from going inside, from sliding between those parted thighs and kissing the flesh between. Would he push me away, calling me a pervert, or would he nudge those narrow hips a bit further apart, eyes staring coyly at me through soaked bangs?
It is the last straw as I hear you cry out. "Duo!" you moan, my name ripped straight from your lungs like a breathe of air, desperate and raw. Unlatching the door, I pull my shirt over my head, piling it on top of his gun and his own clothes. You never stop; if anything, you become louder. "DUO!"
I push aside the curtain and search your face for a semblance of expression, but instead you look at me with a small smirk, knees kissing the edges of the tub, one hand between your legs, three long boned fingers deep inside you. In that low, slightly nasal but always sexy voice you have, you ask...
"Well? You did come in here to fuck, right?"
I have to surpress a smile. So you did know I was there. The thought both amuses and pleases me. I lean down and capture the head of your erection in my mouth, teeth scraping lightly over the velvet skin. You arch up, head almost touching the water as you back bends into an amazing shape that I have never seen a practiced contortionist achieve. Then you come again, panting, one hand gripping my neck loosely, hands relaxed.
I grasp your other hand, the one that is still caressing inside you, and tug sharply, fingers clenching and unclenching as they are drawn away. You thrust your hips once almost annoyed at my hesitance, and I grin, taking you up on your kind offer. I ride you into sweet oblivion twice, then lift you from the water, pausing to dry us both off with a white towel, then deposit you into my bed as we try love between the sheets.
And here we are, back in the school that started it all. A year after the war, a year of healing and tears and nightmares, and we're seventeen and in high school as freshmen. We're all starting over, I think, in our own way. Wufei may have been a scholar, but he has no people skills. Destroying Shenlong...that was the hardest thing he's ever done. Hell, destroying Deathscythe was like losing a part of myself. He's been the one constant in my life, besides Death. And Death is forever so I guess nothing man-made can compare.
Unless I'm talking about Heero, who seemed relieved as he watched Wing Zero explode into molten pieces on the desert. He sits on the bed we made love in that first night, hands on his knees as he stares out the window. He's like a piece of seaglass; broken, but still so heartbreakingly beautiful you can't help but pick it up and stick it in your pocket.
Quatre and Trowa...wherever one is the other will always be near. They're both appraising, watching, plotting their moves carefully. Not wanting to make a mistake. I remember asking Heero would he would have done if I hadn't come into the bathroom.
"I would have jerked off so loudly you would have come inside to tell me to shut up," he told me with a straight face. I remember his own non-expression, remember noting the striking difference between this emotionlessness and that other one that takes over during the war.
I sit next to him on the bed and he opens his eyes, the look just begging for a quick hug. I jump into his arms, nuzzling his neck, just enjoying the feel of his skin against mine, knowing that as long as I can touch him like this, can feel his breath slipping between his lips, he is mine.
Relena's eyes widen in surprise as she kneels by the door, one cornflower blue eye blinking rapidly as she peers through the keyhole. She sits there, puzzled, then has to cover her mouth to muffle the loud, unlady-like and most definitely unQueen-like guffaw that erupts from her mouth. Wiping tears of mirth onto her sleeve, she pulls herself to her feet and goes to find Pargan. Apparently, there is no reason for her to bully Heero into telling Duo his feelings.
As she walks by, she hears a soft sob from one of the doors and pauses, two demons battling on either shoulder. Then she bends down again on one knee, glancing around to see if anyone is approaching, and peeks through the keyhole. The Arabian boy sits on his bed, clutching a torn and tattered picture. The green-eyed pilot, she thinks, and strokes her chin wisely with two fingers. Hmmm...
She swore a long time ago that she would never meddle in another couple's affairs.
Her resolve lasts for all of five seconds. As she whistles an airy tune, she thinks, "Who knew the Queen of the World was such a busybody?"
End Prologue
Next part: The Other Blonde Bishounen
Bianca
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