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"Bananas in Space "Written By: Asymphototropic
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam wing. Author: Asymphototropic (attracted toward the
light, but never quite arrives there) Email: asymphototropic@aol.com Pairings: 1+2+3 (Preventers) Rating: NC 17 Summary: Duo's banana doesn't have a tattoo. What's
a guy to do? Warnings to date: sequels are never as good as
the original story
"Bananas in Space " Part 13.
Nothing, silence. Or rather, the groaning, creaking, grinding, rapidly parting at the seams - noises that represented quiet on L2. "Guys?" "Lacka jockey again tonight," moaned Trowa's cock. "My balls are gonna petrify." Barton drew the long knife from his secret thigh sheath and toyed dangerously with the balance as he checked the hidden shadows of their rooms. "I'll make you a deal. Shut up until this mess is concluded. And after the dust settles, I'll set you humping 'til you're pounded flat as a flounder." "Promises, promises," Trowa's cock whined. "Best cooperate. Otherwise I'll swear off sex and become a monk. Where would that leave you?" Trowa chuckled at the lack of response. "That's better," he purred. xXxXx Heero considered the air vent beneath his feet. Inside, the duct would be alive with all manner of vermin. His tight smile was small and sinister. He could break the code on the concealed locking device. Or melt the soldered joins of the grating. Or a faster alternative. He fingered the two sheets of putty carefully sequestered in his rear trouser pockets. The friction of his hands against his butt cheeks inspired him to wonder where Trowa might be at this moment. Yuy's grin evolved a definitely wicked twist. He withdrew the first wad of putty, massaged it through its cellophane wrap until it was warm and malleable, then pressed it into a corner of the manhole cover. Likewise the second wad. With left and right hands working simultaneously, he drew a strand of each compound along the seam of the grating, pressed the two ends of polymer together and leaped back. The resultant explosion was brilliantly colored, and nearly noiseless. Heero slithered through the sizzling hole, instantly disappearing into the crawling depths of darkness. xXxXx The dinner table was ridiculously lavish in its settings. Crystal goblets, porcelain dishes, sterling silver utensils, layers of pristine white linen, cloth, mats, napkins. Candelabras and chandeliers, individual burning wicks floating in fragrant saucers of oil at each placement. Finger dishes with lemon slices in water. Wasted water. Duo glared fixedly at the table. "We generally dress for dinner," Sharpsten leered at his guest, his eyes stripping every body contour as he went. "I can send out for appropriate attire in your size." "Erm already dressed." "Suit yourself," the Big Boss chuckled down at the L2 Kid. The boy made quite a ragged image in his canvas jacket, sweat shirt, torn jeans, scuffed combat boots. The piratical looking patch covering his eye, the irritation causing his nose to run, gave him a particularly bratty look. Sharpsten snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared, humbly tendering an elegantly hand scripted menu. "Tell the chef we'll have the lime veal piccata." "No." "You don't like veal, Mr Maxwell? It's young and tender, quite fresh, shipped on wet ice. The finest available." "I'm a vegetarian." "Oh, tsk. Surely you can rise to the occasion." "Sink to your level, do yer mean? To eat meat is to eat off the top of the food chain. With every carnivorous bite, you deprive others, people starving for a bit of simple food." "As an opponent, you are annoying. But as a guest, you are even more tedious, I find. Hmph. Oh, very well." He returned his attention to the trembling server. Evidently a guest arguing with the master was a rare and dangerous event. "I'll have the veal. Inform the chef of Mr Maxwell's dietary peculiarities. I imagine the chef's culinary genius will be able to fill the void adequately. Cabbage stew with mashed turnips, or some such." The pale kitchen helper choked out a perfunctory laugh at the Boss' joke, before turning heel and fleeing from sight. "Just a little dry sherry at first, to start the digestive juices flowing," Sharpsten crooned. His hand darted forward to stroke down the length of Duo's braid. The Kid stepped back with a reflexive shudder. "Oh, yes," the Boss stated firmly. "A glass or two of sherry for a little heat. The evening is young yet, so very young and promising. xXxXx Barton changed into his cold night gear, all in whispering silky black. His heartbeat was still calm, despite his joyful anticipation of some action. Treating humanity's ills, all day everyday, was fine and dandy. But he so totally craved a little violence now, just to balance his life. He drank a mouthful of water, then treated himself to a second, but covered the open can with a plastic sealer, conserving the rest for later. Then he consumed a dry energy bar, licking the residue out of the wrapper before recycling the trash. He strapped on several blades, variously balanced for throwing and wielding, then fastened his service pistol against bare flesh, nestled in the lumbar curve just over his ass cheeks. At the pressure there, he thought suddenly of Yuy, already out ahead of him in this confrontation. "Go slow, Heero. If you blast all the baddies before I get there, I'll have to take it out of you in trade." He offered the outer blackness of the ominously creaking colony a dirty little chuckle as he fled the building, onto the icy street. If he hadn't been so acrobatic, he might have slid straight into the gigantic body standing there, barricading his exit. Instead, he recovered his balance quite timely, and showed his assailant the glittering metal of his hand held weapon. "Barton," came the bizarre, pseudo feminine voice, down from a dark height. Had Trowa been at the hospital, on the wards, in the clinics, the sound would have invoked a brisk diagnostic analysis with just a touch of sympathy. In the current setting, he allowed himself to prod the view with morbid repulsion. A huge hulk of a man, bearing shriveled balls and bounteous breasts. The aftermath of soldiering in space with insufficient shielding against radioactivity. The poor, miserable slob. "Graimes," he returned the salutation in neutral tones. "I'm gonna favor yer, boy." "Zat so? Like this, huh?" In a reflex gesture with a flash of lethal light, the blade switched hands. Trowa popped out the photo stats from his pocket, evidence of Graimes' treachery. "You were stalking me with a camera, in the hospital. Pretending to be a patient. You knew how Maxwell would respond when he saw these. Give me one good reason I shouldn't gut you where you stand, cut out your liver, and saute it with onions for supper." Graimes giggled in alto timbre. "Think I'd go take down that easy?" Trowa merely showed his gleaming white teeth in reply. "Lookit chere, boyyo, I owe yer," Graimes stated. "Yeah, I took those stats. But I also saw the docs there at the hospital, about the tumor, just like yer said to. Looks like it's benign, they said so, the docs. Not gonna kill me. And nobody laughed. You steered me right, and I owe yer a favor, bigtime. Gonna do you one, like it or not, savvy?" "I'm listening." "Sharpsten. Can gift him t'ya. Trussed up pretty fer taking. Come wid me, pronto, yurp?" "Maybe so. But best not turn your back on me. Midnight snack, ya know?" Graimes giggled agreement, as they slunk together into the shadows. xXxXx Maxwell licked his lips. The chairs at the dinner table must have been made on Earth. Too short for him to be comfortable. Reaching up awkwardly to his plate was just one more reason to feel at a disadvantage. Almost childish. Deep inside Sharpsten's stronghold, a homicidal maniac crime boss, surrounded by his goons. Completely at the evil slime's disposal. As if Duo needed any other excuse to feel ill at ease. He sneered. The L2 Kid. Show the bastard what that means, he challenged himself. "Dinner was lovely," Sharpsten crooned. "My compliments to the chef," he told the nervous waiter. Duo wondered if the boss man had a rep for gutting his servants when they displeased him. Or maybe he chose people specifically for their talent at cringing? Sharpsten eyed the L2 Kid. The man was nearly slavering visibly. But all he said was, "Dessert, Mr Maxwell. I do insist."
~ * ~ Chapter 14
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