Author: Karen, The Huntress
Rating: R
Warning: AU, language, lemon
Pairing: 1x2
Feedback: Always appreciated
Archive: DHML
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters.
Delta Night
Sure has been hot for the last week in May.
All afternoon the pitiless sun blazed down from a cloudless sky. Sunset torched the horizon then, shimmering scarlet, dissolved away into an equally sweltering purple twilight.
Even though every screened window is up and an occasional breeze flutters the curtains, I've taken refuge on the front porch in hopes of a less humid environment.
Dressed in a sleeveless gray tee shirt with "Grizzly Archery" printed on the front and khaki shorts, I ease down on a weathered wooden chair that creaks under my weight and fetch a cold can of Budweiser from a faded red cooler.
A gulp of beer before I gaze across the yard to watch thousands of luminescent fireflies dance on the sultry cedar-scented air and wink like Christmas lights in the Spanish moss festooned oak trees.
To the west above Morgan's Inlet, a gator infested marsh studded with partly submerged cypress trees that dye the stagnant water black, ghostly glimmers of heat lightning tease with a false promise of cooling showers.
Crickets and tree frogs, their chorus of shrill chirps and peeps pitched at a deafening crescendo, resonate from that swampy bayou and the metered brrrump of a bullfrog lends a deep baritone to nature's concert.
Judging by music on the TV, CSI Miami or New York-never could keep them straight-is over. A shadow flickers in pale yellow lamp light before the screen door swings back on squeaky hinges and Heero steps out.
Shirtless and shoeless, he's wearing those skimpy denim shorts with the frayed hem he made by cutting off a pair of threadbare jeans.
He shoos some flittering moths to keep them from getting in, lets the door slam shut then flops down in one of two green plastic chairs we got at the Walker Creek Cooperative.
"Not much better out here." is announced with a snort of displeasure.
Heero nudges my bare feet to encourage them off the cooler serving a hassock, as my Creole Grandmama use to call her footstool upholstered in red crushed velvet. He lifts the lid, fishes in the mostly melted ice for the last can, tugs the pull tab then sits back with a satisfied sigh.
As I reposition by feet, I'm offered an unhindered view of Heero's crotch. Now don't get me wrong, I ain't complaining, but the bulge straining against that scant strip of fabric running betwixt his legs is tempting even for a saint, which I never claimed to be. Also if I tilt my head just right I swear he's not wearing any underwear.
Heero and I sit in silence, sipping beer and listening to a pack of hounds, most likely belonging to Scooter Paxton who's originally from Baton Rouge, yapping off in the distance.
"Reckon Scooter and Fred are coon huntin'?" I wonder, doing my best not to drool when Heero shifts to the right and light from the window glows golden on his tanned chest.
Heero considers the question for a moment then shrugs. "Damn dogs probably got loose again." Then as if the devil murmurs in his ear, he smirks. "Better hope those dimwitted mutts don't vex a skunk."
The Waterbury mantle clock strikes ten.
The baying fades into the night.
I finish my beer and absentmindedly roll the empty can between by palms.
Now over towards Morgan's Inlet thunder rumbles and the sky flickers like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
I ponder if the storm is making up in the right place before stating. "Looks like rain."
Heero pivots to gaze over his shoulder just as a gust of humid air causes the copper pipe wind chimes to jingle. "Yeah." he agrees with my weather analysis. "I'll dump out the cooler and check the truck windows." he declares, stretching his arms over head to show off his beefy biceps.
*********
Wind-driven rain pelts the closed bedroom windows. The front yard lights up then, in a split second, goes dark again.
Although it's cooling off outside the house is still muggy. I've switched on the ceiling fan, but it's not doing much to stir the air.
In the bathroom the shower imitates the rain.
"Duo." Heero calls above the pulsating water.
Heero Yuy is a man of few words however his tone suggests mischief so I heed the summons, shedding my tee shirt and shorts along the way.
Steam adds another layer of humidity, misting the mirror over the sink and accordingly interfering with my reflection while I pin up my braid.
Yeah, I said braid, at least eighteen inches feet of platted hair in a shade best described as a fusion of ginger and cinnamon. Before you speculate as to the notice my unusual style evokes, well, reactions range from astonishment to curiosity to damn rude comments.
In fact back in March I was nearly arrested for persuading an ill-mannered drunk in the Lazy Bateau Bar that "fuckin' faggot" was not an acceptable expression to utter in my presence. Heero would've also defended my honor, but he resolved that my fury and fists taught the lesson good enough.
Sliding back the shower curtain I'm rewarded with a breathtaking image of Heero in all his glorious nakedness. Water dripping from dark brown hair merges with the continuous stream that cascades over his muscular chest, flat stomach and magnificent cock.
Without additional invitation I join my lover under the warm spray.
Heero nuzzles my neck; his tongue laps at an earlobe. Just as I'm about to purr, nimble fingers fondle both nipples until I groan from the stimulation.
Leaning against Heero for fear my legs might forsake their support I close my eyes and relish the targeted attention.
Senses as foggy as the bathroom, I don't realize his hands are on the move again. With a hiss of surprise eyes pop open when those talented fingers stoke my inner thighs then travel up at a rate of speed designed to torment.
"Tell me what you want." Heero whispers in a primal tone that raises goose bumps on my skin.
"I---ah---want---dammit give me time to---think." I stammer when a single finger brushes across the tip of my budding erection.
To befuddle me further Heero presses his rigid length against my ass. "You want this?" is inquired huskily and the last of my willpower tumbles like a house of cards beset by a whirlwind.
Preparation is limited to a quick insertion of two soap slick fingers. Foreplay concludes once Heero grips my hips with sufficient pressure to leave imprints of his fingertips.
Hands braced against the sage green tiles and mind swamped by relentless sensations, my ragged breaths petition the heavens, curse the fallen angels and shamelessly beg for more as each centered thrust drives deeper to strike my prostrate and send me spiraling into delicious ecstasy.
Moans become my mantra. Chants of YES! YES! YES! spurs Heero closer to a climatic conclusion.
"Please." I implore.
Heero tunnels a hand around my engorged manhood and pumps.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
With a powerful shudder I succumb to "ma petite morte".
One final thrust and Heero follows me over edge.
Withdrawing his softening member, Heero pants. "Love you."
"Love you, too." I declare as shaky legs give out.
Arms wrapped around my waist, Heero and I sink to the shower floor to bask in the afterglow.
*********
Rain-fresh breeze billows the bedroom curtains. Moonlight filtering through the trees paints dancing patterns on the walls.
Content in our natural state of nudity, Heero and I snuggle between cool cotton sheets and drift off into sated sleep.
Tomorrow will come soon enough but, for tonight, the world can take care of itself.
OWARI
Author Notes:
A bateau is a flat bottom boat used to navigate shallow water.
"Ma petite morte" is French for "my little death" usually in reference to an orgasm.
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