Duel

2x3

Sex was power, amongst other things, and he'd put the other two in their places swiftly enough when Beryl had recalled him, and so he grabs Zoisite by the crossing of ropes in the center of his chest and kicks his bare feet out from under him and lets him fall, helpless with his hands tied in the small of his back, and catches him sharp, a hand's breadth from impact, with his hair brushing the floor--and Zoisite, calm Zoisite, shakes just a little, and he considers it a small victory.

He drops him full to the parlor floor, a bound and naked bundle, and swiftly spins more rope out of sheeting white energy and grabs for Zoisite's ankles, and the little bastard doesn't fight him in the least as he binds them, crossed so he can't close his legs to protect himself, and ties the end up to the back of the harness digging into his narrow chest, so he can't stretch them out. And Zoisite has the impudence to simply lie there, unafraid, and let him roll over a bit to get at his back, then roll him back down, chest arched where he's lying on his forearms.

At least he can't see if he's smiling anymore, not with the rope he's tied tight between Zoisite's teeth, stifling that mocking voice, then twined up over his face and along elegant cheekbones, in some black and painful urge to distort his beauty.

"I told you," he says quietly, "that you weren't to interfere."

Zoisite doesn't respond in the least; his eyes are closed peacefully, and he only arches his chest and hums slightly when Kunzite twists at a nipple pinned tight between ropes.

"Damn you," Kunzite hisses, and hoists Zoisite's legs onto his knee so he has access, and spits twice on his fingers, and forces one up his ass. Zoisite's eyelids flicker, and his dry lips move a little around the rope--and then he wiggles, rolls his hips, impales himself on Kunzite's finger, and Kunzite fights hard to keep his anger from reaching his face.

And waits, a long while, wondering when Zoisite's shoulders will ache, wondering when his hard-on will become frustrating; and then loses patience, and shoves another finger into him. The sparse lubrication, he thinks, must be hurting him--oh, he remembers, of course, how they once were close, but he doesn't really care anymore if he hurts anybody--but after a while longer Zoisite, no pain in his eyes, looks up at him.

And hums, again, and this time it's a phrase, and Kunzite's stomach wrenches with the sudden realization of a move misplayed as the keys on the piano move by themselves, sinking slightly, a pianissimo echo of Zoisite's breathy hum, and the ropes on his face and ankles dissolve in green light, leaving only pink marks at the corners of his mouth.

"Damn you," he hisses again.

"You underestimated me," Zoisite says, untroubled. "That's not like you. It's not just your goals that have changed, Kunzite." He draws a deep breath, looks down with interest at his own erection. "Now get down here and finish the job."

Kunzite clenches his fists white-knuckle tight--but Zoisite has won, this round, because he misplayed, because he wasn't playing seriously enough. Only this round, he promises himself. He will win all, in the end. But there's no denying that he's aching hard himself under his uniform, and the thought of fucking Zoisite still bound on the floor is getting to his head, so he inclines his head in a mocking bow, tugs up his jacket, and unzips his pants. And going in this dry would hurt him too, so he concedes to the necessity, pulls oil from the malleable ether of the Kingdom, yanks up Zoisite's legs, and plunges hard into him.

"I suppose," he says, between gritted teeth as Zoisite deliberately squeezes down tight and hot around him, "you wish I was Endymion at the moment. Your Master."

Zoisite looks up at him with a fey smile. "You have no idea what I want." He rolls his hips, strokes Kunzite's chin with the side of his foot. "Now harder."