Title: And the Berber Rug Beneath My Feet
By: Shi-chan
Archive: GWA (Willow), FFnet (Katerina Shinigami)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Poop.
Rating: M
Pairing: 1x2
Warnings: drug use (marijuana), sex, cursing, POV (Duo), unbeta'd
Note: I will state for the record that I am not promoting the use of marijuana or any other recreational drug use. This like any other piece I have written is a work of fiction and as such is just that. If you have an aversion to the idea of your beloved Gundam Wing characters even considering the use of ganja then DO NO READ. This work was written on a whim and published without consultation of my prereaders or beta-reader and as such, the fault lies solely on my own shoulders. Now on with the show.
Summary: A rambling blurb of sex under the influence.
And the Berber Rug Beneath My Feet
By Shi-chan
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The feeling was intense, like a deep bass beat, driving and thriving and livening the world – spiraling up in a fever pitch until your heart beat too fast, your head spun too fast, and you fell over the precipice with a body wracking thud.
Best of all: it's s all in your mind. All of it: the singing of the nerve endings, the fire in your veins, the thud-thud-thud of the hammer of your heart. All in your head, but your body thinks it's real…
I lay on the bed, staring up at the crusty flaking ceiling just feeling, just experiencing the rushing euphoria of heightened sensation. The bowl was still warm in my hand, dancing blue sparkles twisting along her barrel, highlighted by dark resin, which I needed to find the time to clean out.
He'd be along any moment, I told myself, rolling over with a groan that degenerated into a giggle as I rolled off the mattress and attempted to stand, to find my balance on the Moroccan Berber rug that covered the sand-cement floors in this seedy hotel room.
Quickly as my drug-addled brain would let me, I scuttled about, dumping the ash and packing my bowl in its padded pouch, stuffing it into the compartment in my toiletry case along with my stash and my grinder.
I giggled again as the cat that had come with the room rolled over on my pillow to look lazily up at me. "Too bad I'm not into pussy," I snickered at it as leafy-brown eyes blinked at me. I wondered if I'd managed to get the cat high too…
Eventually the worn, once-rich-blue door swung open, revealing a none-too-pleased Heero Yuy. I watched bemusedly as the light colored linen of his pants swished about his trim hips as he moved in an almost choreographed dance of fabric and muscle. It was like sex, that movement, the airy linen kissing his tauntly muscled body the way it was, moving in tandem, swirling about like lovers.
He grunted, I noted distantly, as he dropped the green khaki rucksack beside the other mattress in the room. There was disgust in his glare as he took in the rat-hole we'd ended up with, but he knew as well as I did that beggars can't be choosers. "We're stuck in Marrakech for a week," he grumbled.
After a prolonged instant -- it could have been a millisecond or a minute -- I finally responded, breathing out a "yeah" questioningly as my eyes drifted from watching him to the bug on the windowsill. It was pretty, shiny, the hard shell protecting the delicate wings beneath. Some kind of beetle, I guessed.
"Our contact has been detained on the boarder and won't be back for at least a week," he informed me. His tone was curious, and I wondered if he'd caught on. "We've been instructed to keep a low profile."
"Low profile, gotcha." I think I managed, flopping back on the low mattress, grinning to myself. "We needed a vacation anyway," I chirped blearily, closing my eyes with a smile. Definitely could use a vacation and what better place than the former imperial city of Marrakech with its dusty lanes and alleys, its 'get lost in me' appeal. Forget that the 'get lost in me' also tended to offer up 'and get killed or worse', but hey, I'd lived on the streets of L2... Little could be worse.
Eventually I opened my eyes again to find myself staring up into the only-the-ocean-can-come-close blue of Heero Yuy's eyes as he stood above me, staring down contemplatively. "Hi, Heero," I smiled, briefly wondering if I looked as dopey as I thought I did.
"Not yet," he murmured, crouching down to peer at me more closely. I think he was trying to read my eyes, either that or he was judging my sobriety by the dilation of my pupils. "But you sure are."
"Yeah..." I murmured back, not bothering to try and hide the fact any longer. I looked up at him lustily from beneath hooded lids. "Horny too."
"I can see that," he breathed, dropping to rest above me, arms supporting him. His deep Prussian blue eyes locked with mine, searching, watching, reading me like the open book I tend to be with my feelings. "How buzzed are you?"
"More than a little, less than a lot," I giggled in response before moaning as his leg drifted up between mine, thigh pressing against my erection teasingly. "God… Heero…"
Heero doesn't like to get high before sex… but he likes it when I'm high. Something about the range of my reactions, how loose my expressions are, how wild I get… He says it makes me all the more sensitive and responsive. I say he's right… it's never better than when I'm high as hell but not quite stoned and he's thrusting in and out of me like a wild rapid ride and all I can do is hold on and scream.
Believe it or not, I'm usually quiet when we have sex… some deep seated fear of drawing the wrong kind of attention at my most vulnerable; but when I'm high, all my inhibitions and fears get thrown out and I let loose.
I'm brought back from my internal rambling as a large, calloused hand paws at the weeping evidence of my arousal, squeezing my through my loose pants. I'm naked underneath and the soft scratchiness of the material adds an extra dimension to the feel of his warm, sweaty hand on my cock. I almost whine, the sound stuck in my suddenly thick throat, as he massages me to desperation.
"God, Heero, just fuck me already," I beg pathetically, already so hot that it's insanity not to jump to the next logical step.
The once vibrant colors in the room throb in time with my heavy pulse, illuminating my otherwise grey-shrouded vision. A tiny breeze ekes through the shuddered winder, slipping through the plaster cracks and causing the gauzy drapes to dance, to undulate like the act we are about to commit.
"Not yet," he whispers, his hot breath tickling the hairs of my neck. When did he get so close? Perhaps the dancing colors and wispy curtains blinded me to his movements, cloaking him from my wandering vision like the reflected-light of the moon cloaks the stars. "I'm going to take you to the edge again and again before I let you cum."
"You're a cruel son of a bitch, you know that, Yuy?"
He just smiled at me, a tiny quirking of his lips before his face was closing on mine. I felt like I was sinking into him – or him into me – as he descended toward me. Before I could connect the movement with the intent, his lips were on mine; his tongue slipping as easily as breath between my lips, dipping and diving into the cavern, tasted me like I was the sweetest ambrosia. I moaned into his mouth in return, sucking on his sweet muscle as it danced with my own.
Marijuana enhances sensation in some, numbs them in others – for me it was like I didn't know how to feel, didn't know how to smell or taste or touch, until I smoked a bowl. Sex was like becoming one with God, like St. Peter opened the Golden Gates and allowed you into Paradise.
Time skews, minutes turn into hours, hours into minutes, confused and befuddled but never confounded. Time ceases to matter… Somewhere along the way our clothes were lost as he brought be rising to the crest again and again and again and it felt like days as my blood churned like angry waves in my veins, my cock throbbed like fire and fever between my legs but still he denied me. His lips traced me muscles with reverence shown only by the most devout of worshipers – their movements a prayer against my skin.
And just when I thought I could take no more, he eased into me. The silky smooth skin of his shaft sank painlessly – nigh euphorically – into my body, seeking its prize.
We rocked together, sweaty on that low, dirty mattress as dust motes drifted through the sunny beams of dying afternoon light. Our bodies danced harmoniously as I screamed and cursed and begged him, each thrust finding that nub, that center inside me. I could feel it all, each vein, each shift of taut flesh that wrapped the thick velvet of his shaft. And as bright colors drifted before my open eyes, painting the tacky tiled ceiling in the vivid hues of yesteryear, I wondered if I could feel the individual cells as they brushed the inside of my anus, generating my pleasure so daringly.
"Unnnnnnh!" I moaned, teeth sinking into my lower lip as I throw my head back in ecstasy, pouring silver strands of cum across my belly in shuddering spurts. It had hit me like a ton of bricks, no warning, no preparation, just the sudden, earth quaking climax that was part of why he loved to fuck when I was high.
Even in my daze, I heard him groan out my name, his body straining above mine, back arching like a yogi as he spilt himself deep inside me. "Jesus," he panted, corded neck tight, sweat glistening on his skin like diamonds that I wanted to lick off, to suck like sweet nectar on the stigma of a honeysuckle flower.
And then, like someone cut the strings of a marionette, he collapsed on top of me. After a moment I felt his fingers drifting up to roughly push my damp bangs from my eyes. His lips were gentle though as they once again found my swollen ones, languidly sucking on them as if to lap up the last vestiges of nectar from their petal-like form.
I lay there, smiling beatifically as I drifted in the afterglow of sex and the lingering effects of the ganja I had smoked before hand. After a moment to catch his breath he rolled off of me, sprawling tiredly. He gathered me to him, our sticky skin forgotten as we cuddled half on, half off the tired mattress.
"The things you do to me," he murmured quietly, drifting off.
A goofy smile spread my lips as I replied with a reverent breath. "Yeah."
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The End