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Author: Amy the Evitable
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Smut, smut, smut. Bondage. Headgames. 1x2
Posted: 5 September 2005
Updated: 5 September 2005

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Gundam Wing, it belongs to Bandai, Sotsu and associates.

Pearl of Great Price

He is a soft target.

The beat pulsing from his earphones strips from him the warnings of his ears.

His workbench is the only space in the room bathed in light, and the shadows strip from him the warnings of his eyes.

He is too well trained not to face the door, but he is absorbed in his tinkering, and it is a simple, simple thing to enter as he leans forward, braid tumbling to the side, to study the circuitry.

He is a soft target, and I...

...I do not make those kinds of puns. But he would, so I acknowledge it for him.

I circle around my target, sizing up what makes him most delectable. The swaying and rocking of his ass to the music is that of a belly dancer, sensuous in the perfect control exerted -- his hands are rock-steady despite the gyrations below.

I will make that ass sway to my beat. And he will not be able to keep his hands steady.

I smile.

The cut-off jeans that he wears mold themselves to his rounded peach contours. I do not think he realizes just how far up they have unraveled in the back. That shirt, grey and baggy, is not worthy of the form it graces. It will have to go.

He tosses his head, sending his braid tumbling back over his shoulder, and the tufted end slaps against a rounded cheek. It is a good suggestion, and that long rope of hair is itself another good suggestion.

Fortunately, I have the appropriate materials at hand. And I have had enough of watching.

His senses have not entirely failed him, and he is turning as I pounce, moving to keep vulnerable wrists from my grasp. He has mistaken my target, though, and with one hand I entrap his braid while the other takes possession of his waist, pulling him back towards me. One of his feet leaves the ground, leaving him helpless as I pivot him toward me, leaving him off-balance and without leverage. I wrap his braid around my hand and exert a slow, steady pull, turning his face towards me and exposing the long, pale curve of his neck.

I cannot resist.

I follow the arch of the tendon with my tongue, ending with a nip behind his ear. Then I take his mouth, devouring the moan that rises from deep within his chest. I plunge my tongue into every corner of his mouth, marking it as conquered territory, and his impossibly soft lips writhe and rub against my own as his tongue dances enthusiastic welcome.

I am supporting almost all his weight; he does not struggle for balance. One of his arms is wrapped around my neck, but his hand is too busy stroking circles at the base of my neck to bother with anything so trivial as grasping hold.

His trust in me, in my strength, is complete. The knowledge sears through me, and I shiver even as I burn. This is trust rooted not in naive faith, but in an economy of bartered vulnerability and a history of unswerving commitment. It is my pearl of great price. I need to hold it up to the light, look at it from this angle and that, and glory in the perfection.

I end the kiss, pulling back only the slightest bit. "Are you mine?"

Duo's eyes open slowly, dark and unfocused. "Heero...."

In his mouth, my name becomes an invocation of wonder.

This time, I am growling, my voice arising from some deep primal space within. "Are you mine?"

I see the goosebumps ripple down his arms, but his eyes focus and he is looking at me, seeing me, as he answers. "Yes, Heero. Yours."

I smile again.

I pivot him back onto his feet, releasing his braid. His knees are not steady, and he braces himself on his workbench, nearly sitting on it.
With both hands I take hold of the hem of his shirt, and I rip it right up the middle. Duo's eyes are wide, impossibly huge pools of violet. I lean forward, and place a kiss at the notch between his collarbones, suckling at it a bit.  Then I replace my lips my forefingers, and with the lightest single-fingered caress along the hollows of his collarbones, I push the remains of the torn shirt off his shoulders.

Duo's breathing is fast and shallow; those tight, tight shorts clearly outline the erection they confine.


"Hn. I like the shorts."

It takes a moment to penetrate through the daze, and then he scrambles to remove them. Duo, flustered and drowning in lust, never fails to fill me with a warm tenderness and the longing to make him helpless before me, to sculpt him into vulnerable curves and exposed nooks, to flood his senses with pleasure and perhaps even the slightest bit of pain.

He is nude before me, slender and pale, with a history of pain written in his skin. But it is pain survived, pain conquered. When we first became lovers, I would bind him with limbs outstretched and study the shape, texture, and taste of every scar as he squirmed in equal embarrassment and arousal. Even now he blushes when I gaze at him, but I think he is no longer so ashamed of his body. At the very least, he no longer perpetually hides it behind long sleeves and jodhpurs.

I bring out the rope. Black rope, to frame pale skin and rich brown hair; rope not of silk to whisper almost imperceptibly against flesh, but of oiled hemp, ever-so-slightly rough, an inescapable reminder of the bindings.

I begin with his clever, deft hands. A doubled length of rope, wrapped twice around each trembling wrist with a few inches slack between. A quick check to see they lay flat so nothing will bind or pinch, and I lead Duo across the floor, to stand beneath a thick length of cast-iron pipe. I toss another length of rope over the pipe, and in a moment Duo's hands are bound together over his head.

It is not a position I can leave him in for one of our hours-long sessions, but there is something terribly alluring about Duo's head, either fallen forward in submission or tossed back in ecstasy, framed by the lean, corded length of his arms.

Then another length of rope around the back of his neck, parallel lines down his chest, splitting to frame his already needy red erection and balls. I tie a knot behind his balls, and he moans, knowing what is coming.

I smile.

The ropes climb up between the cheeks of his ass; I am tempted to stop and nibble at one, but I have more willpower than that. Then the ropes are wrapped up, and around, and I cross them with one another, weaving a harness of black diamonds across Duo's torso. With each diamond I form, the knot behind his balls presses more firmly against his prostate. By the time I am done, he is rocking back and forth, moaning low and continuously, rubbing the knot against himself. His cock is already dripping.

Each nipple is perfectly framed by a black diamond of rope; so is the tight little hollow of his navel. I circle around to his back, and run my fingers up and down his spine, nipping at the base of his neck. With each nip, his breath hitches, and as I take a final swipe with my tongue, he says my name again.


I yield to the urge, and fall to my knees to worship the ass that has been tempting me all this time.  I knead for a moment, but his continuous thrusting and rocking forces me to use my hands to immobilize his hips. Because he is Duo, being pinioned makes his moans louder, brings his breathing to a near pant. Forced to worship with my mouth, I lick, and nibble, and suck, leaving a mark that will last for days.

"I can't see you, Duo."

He knows what this means, and whines, a wordless plea.

I am not feeling merciful. From my pocket I take a metal ring, two inches in diameter. It is intended to be used to hold hole-punched pages together.

I have a far better use for it.

With one hand, I spread his cheeks apart. I place the ring between them, centered around the little pink passage, and I move the ropes over it to hold it in place.

I move back, and appreciate the sight of Duo's cheeks held open, leaving the secret entrance to his body visible and vulnerable.

My cock is aching almost unbearably.

"Hn. Better."

He whines again.

"What was that, Duo?"

His response is a whispered mumble.

"You don't like it?"

He squirms, indecisive, and then gasps as I lean forward and lick, spiraling from the edge of the metal ring inward, ending with a thrust of my tongue into his passage.

"You don't like it?" I ask again.


I stand, and walk around to face him. His head is hanging down, and he is blushing. I lift his chin, and wait until he meets my eyes.

"Are you embarrassed to be held open like that?"

He becomes even more red, and tries to look down.  I raise his chin higher.


"Do you feel vulnerable, all exposed like that?"


"Spread like that, anyone could see, Duo." He trembles, but his cock twitches almost violently. "Anyone could touch." Another twitch of his cock. A clear drop hangs from the tip, and begins a long fall to the ground. "So exposed, anyone could touch, and there would be nothing you could do."

For all his flush, Duo is panting and thrusting his hips again. I run my finger over his lips.

"But you'll bear it for me, won't you?" A nod that I feel, rather than see. "No matter how embarrassed you are." Another nod.  "Even though you're totally vulnerable. You'll bear it because it pleases me, won't you."

He throws back his head. "God, yes!"

I have to have him soon. I can't wait much longer. But he is still moving, still acting, still trying to control what he feel. I need to push him to the point where all he can do is feel -- where he will let go of everything, become only helpless sensation and let me become his world.

There was only one thing to do. I kneel, and took hold of one ankle and another length of rope.

I spread his legs, pulling each ankle out until he is on the balls of his feet. They still carry some weight, but he has no leverage anymore. He is spread too wide to be able to thrust, to be able to move at all. I stand back again, and watch as he tests his bonds, pulling, and finds himself helpless.

The look on his face then... I am more possessive of that look than I was of Wing, than I am of Duo's body. Only I get to see that look, that open, beatific expression that belongs on a Botticelli angel.

Only I can bring that look to Duo's face.

My control snaps. I rip off my shirt, yank off my pants, and then I am embracing my Duo, my lover, our cocks rubbing together, trying to bring as much of my skin into contact with his as is humanly possible, and then some.

I run my fingers over his nipples, hear him moan, then pinch the crinkled pink nubs. This time his moan spans arpeggios, from a guttural sound to a keen. I bury my face in his neck, chanting his name over and over again as I kiss and suckle. Our cocks are slick as they rub against one another and butt against hips and bellies.

Every touch brings a new sound from Duo, raw and primal and needy. I could have come just from rubbing against him, but that isn't what I want. Isn't what we need. I step back, fumbling for my pants and the lube still in the pocket. Duo's cries change -- perhaps he was saying, "Please, please, please." Perhaps it was a high-pitched whine. It doesn't matter.

I find the tube, fumble it open and coat my fingers. I reach around, and he flutters open for me almost at once. One finger, two, must remember I am stretching, not just thrusting. An arpeggio scream from Duo tells me I've hit his sweet spot, and I try to hit it again as I add a third. He is ready.

One last moment to cut the bindings on his ankles, and I am lifting his legs, wrapping them around my waist. Then one of my hands is lifting and positioning his hips and the other is holding my erection steady, and it's all I can to not to slam into him like a car crash.

My cock slides deep into his passage, smoothly opening him, filling him, and he's tight and so hot around me. I know I should wait a moment to let him adjust, but I have to move, have to thrust, have to lift him up and impale him on myself over and over again. His cock rubs between our bodies, slick with sweat and precum.

There is nothing in the world but our skin, our scents, the noises we make, and I can no longer distinguish his voice from mine. I am not even sure I can distinguish his body from mine; we are movement and need, and who fills whom seems as irrelevant as asking what color up is.

I wonder which of us is more helpless in the grip of this; ropes are nothing compared to this overwhelming sensation.

Then I cannot wonder anything anymore, only feel.

He comes first, I think, but it only takes seconds for me to follow.

After, for a moment, I can't see. The world comes back slowly, and I realize that my legs are not going to hold out much longer. I ease myself out of Duo, and quickly cut him lose. I lower us both down to the floor, and wrap myself around him.

He's not yet at the point where he can move, but he 'hmmms' at me to let me know he's ok.

The sheer wonder that he will let me do this to him -- wants me to do this to him! -- to bring him to this point of helplessness, of ultimate trust and connection, fills me. My Duo. My pearl of great price.

After a bit, he lifts his head and meets my eyes.

"Heero? Are you mine?"

And with something like laughter, and something like a sob, I answer.

"God, yes."

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Author: Amy the Evitable