Story:               FIVE FINGER EXERCISE

Author:             FancyFigures (

Disclaimer:        I don’t own ‘em, wish I did, just enjoy writing about ‘em for free etc

Pairings:           1x2x?/all

Category:          Heero POV, PWP

Warnings:         Yaoi, lemon

Spoilers:           None


Feedback:         If you liked it, PLEASE let me know!






I lie back in the bath, and sigh with physical contentment. 


The water is hot – always too hot! complains Duo – and I have nothing but sandalwood bath oil to soften and cleanse.  I like the scalding touch on my skin; it’s a purging process that my body needs.  It’s also a precious few moments to myself – a time to contemplate the rather untypical life that we all lead.  A time to relax the mind; to mend the aches and hurts of the latest mission.  A time to be alone; with the door locked to outsiders, and the others kept away on pain of death.


Disturb me in my bath, and the threat of death will become a promise!  Duo thinks I’m joking when I say it aloud…I’m not so sure, myself.


But then – they are all out, at present.  All my fellow pilots.  Quatre and Wufei are being debriefed after an undercover mission, and Trowa has taken up some additional firearm training.  Duo is busy on maintenance of his gundam – I know that his whole attention goes on that.  We all share a house at present, but outside of our battles, our lives don’t have to be lived in each other’s pockets.


No – I lie back in the bath, and smile slowly to myself.


I know I’ll not be interrupted this evening, until much later.






I lie back in the bath and consider my current life.


My life is dangerous – it’s dirty; it’s violent; it’s painful.  It’s what I do, and what I do well.  I don’t know how to live any other way, but that’s another story, and one that I rarely go into.  The others feel much the same way about our situation, I suspect.  Though we all have different ways of dealing with it.


Quatre tells me that we have forged friendships; Trowa calls us a team.  Wufei admits that we have an excellent complement of skills between us.  Duo says he can’t imagine being this close to anyone, in civilian life.  Then he laughs, to soften the anguish of that remark.


I must admit that I never believed I would grow to enjoy their company.  Anyone’s company.  But when we’re off duty, it’s become necessary to be together, in some way or another.  To know that the others are there.  It’s become a strength, not a weakness, as I would have thought.


The water laps round my calves, as I draw up my legs.  I have long, strong legs – the skin is already dark, but the hot water has left a purplish tint to the flesh that’s been submerged.  I run my hands over my knees, and stretch out my arms over them.  Water drips back down into the bath.  I stroke my thighs – very slowly.


There’s a warmth and stimulation of being in a group of men like myself.  Young, attractive, strong men.  There’s a daily burst of testosterone – a rush of masculine smells, and vigorous exercise, and activity that throws us into the day’s challenges, even before we can think about the politics behind them.


There are loud voices, careless punches, rushed but eager meals; there’s often easy argument, quick to rouse, but then so is the laughter that follows.


It’s been a revelation to me, in many ways.


We are all different; but all inter-connected.  All intelligent, and extremely fit, and thrown together for long periods of time, in tension and excitement and – sometimes – fear.


And we are all - not surprisingly – at our most virile.







I lie back in the bath and consider my body.


I’m not the tallest of the group, but I’m thin and wiry, and there’s no spare flesh on my bones – it’s all muscle.  There are scars over me – as there are over all of the pilots – but I don’t really notice them.  My abs are tight, my arms and wrists well developed.  My lungs have an exceptional capacity.  My hips are narrow, but my legs can support me over many miles, and in many different terrains. 


I like to look at my body – why not?  It’s mine, and I’ve trained it to be as fine as it is today, and I know how well it works.  I like to touch it, too.  I’ve learned, perhaps, the excitement of other hands touching me – but I know my own wants, and my own favourite desires.


I lie back in the bath, and contemplate these desires of mine.


Of course I have them! – along with everyone else.  I just don’t shout or joke about them, like Duo does.  Nor do I suffer for them, like Quatre and Trowa do, who persist in trying to keep their passion hidden from the rest of us.  And I don’t deny them, like Wufei often does.


I keep one leg lifted up, but the other I slide back down under the water, pushing my thigh to the side of the bath.  The movement exposes my groin, and the hairs shift and float up from their bed between my legs, looking deceptively soft under the water.  My cock bobs softly out from my lap, pink from the hot water, and yet dark with its natural colouring.


The room around me is almost sweltering.  There are trickles of condensation on the walls beside me, and the water around my hips gives off a gentle, cloying steam.


I shift my legs, and watch the water pool at the tops of my thighs.  I run a hand slowly down my taut chest, letting my fingertips catch on a nipple as I do.  It springs up, confused by the touch and the heat around it.   I bite my lip a little – I like that touch especially.


I know that I need attention.  Of a carnal nature.  It’s a basic, primal call, which I ignore at my peril.  In fact, it’s a dire necessity – a critical factor in keeping my nerve steady, and my emotions reliable.  Or that’s what I tell myself on quiet evenings like this.


I do have someone I care about – above and beyond the duty required in the job.  Someone whom I know would be more than happy to oblige me; to join me, in whatever I suggested.  But they’re not here.  Not at this moment.  Not now, when I can feel the tightness coiling in my stomach – when I can feel the flush rising on my cheeks.


I’ve never been a particularly patient person when it comes to this.


No, what I need is exercise.  A five finger exercise.  One that I have developed; that suits me perfectly; that attends to me in every appropriate way.


I lift a hand out of the water, spread open the palm, and stare at it through lashes that are damp from the steam.  My heart starts to pump more heavily inside my chest.


It’s a secret exercise.  One that I don’t even share with my lover.


Just for me.






I lie back in the bath and I examine my hand.


My little finger is slim and unusually long – I can’t remember what that’s supposed to mean, though Quatre told me once, when he was reading up on palmistry.


Quatre… yes, Quatre.


I picture him, in my imagination.  He’s as slender as I am; he’s the shortest of us all, though he’s no baby, and he reaches easily above my shoulder.  His skin is pale, and his hair blond and smooth.  He is the personification of that phrase ‘good-looking’ – he’s almost beautifully so.  His face can express anything from a cool tolerance to a concentrated interest in anyone he meets; and the emotion is almost always sincere. 


Life should have been a breath of comfort for Quatre Winner.  He comes from a background of riches and luxury.  To look at him, you’d believe it.  His mouth is soft, his blue eyes too wide to be true; but he can carry a room full of men with his voice alone.  He will command them, and cajole them, and they’d follow him anywhere.  As a pilot, he is extremely talented at electronics – though he can handle anything from a game console to a jet aircraft.  With that same, easy charm that he might have brought to political diplomacy.  He is a critical member of the team – a motivator of us all.  Even when we don’t notice his direction.


My little finger reminds me of Quatre.  Slim; the shortest digit on my hand.  Yet perfectly formed, and smooth, and very flexible.  Sheltering the other fingers; shepherding them. Totally necessary for the balance of the whole hand.


I slide my hand down to my groin, and the water parts around it, so that the palm is half under the surface.  I stretch out the little finger, and tease gently at my cock, which is lying aimlessly across the top of my thigh.  My finger is firm – it pushes gently at the wet, turgid flesh.  My cock stirs softly inside its foreskin.


I sigh at the pleasure of the touch.  My little finger trails softly up the side of the shaft, and dips into the sheath at the top – it traces softly around the initially reticent slit.  The fingertip is small enough to slide inside the skin, teasing at the rim – to nudge at the cock head, and its smooth shine.  There is a drop that bubbles there, that‘s not bath water – it’s too sticky for that.  The little finger tugs gently at it – draws the thinnest of threads away from the tip of my member, until it breaks with less than a whisper, and dribbles back to my groin.


My little finger teases.  Like soft, delicate lips.  Like Quatre’s lips.  I imagine what they would be like, if they brushed against the tip of my awakening cock.  Just like my finger has done.


That soft mouth of his – like the wet, padded tip of my finger.  Who could resist fantasising about it?  What it might do; where it might go; how it might bring pleasure…


I sigh, and sink back a little deeper into the water.


My exercise has begun.






Gently, I flex the next finger on my hand – the ring finger.  Not that I have ever worn a ring.  Nor intend to.  Who the hell would ask me to?  I spoke about it last week, to Trowa; trying to explain my amazement that anyone would be able to commit themselves to another, when we have no idea where any of us will be within a month.  He looked disturbed; I know that he has strong feelings about such things.  Or about Quatre.  Whatever the reasons, it’s unlikely that he’d share them with any of us.


I picture Trowa, in my imagination.  He is the quietest member; he moves amongst us, and with us, and is always there.  But without needing to announce himself.  He is the rock of the team; he is a constant support.  He’s a brilliant partner to have beside you – his nerves are beyond steel; he hesitates at nothing.  And his confidence is a benchmark for us all. 


He stands often beside Quatre.  I believe they are lovers, but I’ve spent no time in bothering about confirming it.  He is more strongly built than Quatre; his shoulders are broad, springing from a narrow waist and torso.   His drooping chestnut hair just adds to his unassuming image – his green eyes are often shrouded from view.  But they are sharp eyes – knowing eyes.  He is fast, and deadly when he chooses to strike.  He is particularly skilled, in hand to hand combat. 


My ring finger reminds me of Trowa.  A straight digit, nestled beside its mate, the little finger.  The tip is honed to a sharp point, the only finger where my nails will grow; a finger that is long, skilled, and accurate in its destination.  Like Trowa’s own hands.


My ring finger breaks the surface of the water, as my hand moves down from my groin, and dives deeper between my legs.  Small bubbles pop to the surface, as I stroke myself with it – as I reach the soft fingertip down to the skin underneath my wrinkling balls.


I guide my hand back, away from the tightening little sacs, and further back through the warm water to the exposed skin of my perineum.  This flesh is underwater, and yet as sensitive as ever.


My ring finger strokes, confidently.  It caresses me there, almost mockingly.  Knowing how much I savour that touch.  It’s possessive - like a lover’s fingertip.  As I imagine Trowa’s would be, when he’s consumed with his own desire, deep in his bed with Quatre.  This finger knows my most desperate spots – it knows where to torment me.  When it ghosts over my anus, I gasp as if it were a shock.  My ass tips up a little from its position on the floor of the bath, to draw in the touch.   The water around me tilts, and flows strongly against the sides of the bath.


Who could resist fantasising about Trowa’s touch? What it might do; where it might go; how it might bring pleasure…


My head drops back against the side of the bath, with a slowly growing delight.






My middle finger is next – it’s curling next to the others, and prods insistently at my groin, even as my hand moves around the back of my ass.  This is the finger that boasts a broad, blunt strength.  That supports my pen; that grips my weapons.  Wufei has been the most influential in helping me improve my battle stance – in showing me the way to absorb the balance of my weapon, so that it becomes an extension of myself.


I picture Wufei, in my imagination.  He is a brilliant tactician, and exemplary soldier.  His sense of duty and his rigid training serve him so well, that the rest of us appear sometimes to be his inferior.  He likes to remind us of this – but I believe it’s only in his quest to force the best from the team.  He will carry a mission through to fruition, above all other considerations.  He’s not always the most comfortable of companions - some find him abrupt and harsh – but he has taught me to strive to be the best. 


Wufei is a striking man, as well – though he appears unmindful of his appearance, except to the extent that he must always look professional.  He is the tallest of us, and is broader than I am, all round; his hair is a shining purple-black, and he wears it drawn back severely from his face.  A face that can so often be fierce; an expression that offers nothing but challenge.  His body is disciplined and controlled; he has a highly muscled torso, with superb upper body strength.  His movements are fast in combat, and his endurance is the best in the group.


My middle finger reminds me of Wufei; tall, strong, and bearing itself over the others.  It knows its objective; it seeks to achieve its goal, regardless of any opposition.  It bends to its own will, and it grips like iron.


My hand swims again under the water, now between my legs, now under my buttocks.  My middle finger is slick with the bath oil, and slides unerringly to its target.  I stretch my legs wide, pressing my knees against the sides of the bath; I feel my small, puckered asshole flex, and blossom in anticipation.


The finger slips its broad, determined length up into my ass.  It conquers the natural resistance, and pushes on in, right up to its middle knuckle.  I groan with the sharp tightness, but I bear down on it at the same time – eager for it to probe right into the very heart of me.  I bend the top of it, and the fingertip presses against a spot that I know is there, and waiting for attention.  My body shakes; my back arches, and water rushes over my stomach and thighs, as I shudder under the assault on my prostate.


My finger is rather harsh up inside me – but it moves with the relentless force that I imagine Wufei would use.  And not with his mere finger, which I think he would find clumsy.  But I imagine how he might use his tongue – a slick, robust muscle; hot and powerful, and more consuming.  Thrusting inside to take the taste of whatever he wants.


Who could resist fantasising about Wufei’s tongue? What it might do; where it might go; how it might bring pleasure…


My head sinks partially under the water, as my body strains to suck in the delight of strong fingers at  - and in - my asshole.


My temperature is hotter than that of the bath, now.






And then, finally there is my index finger.  My whole hand is hugging my ass, now – my palm cannot help but bring all the digits into play.  The index finger is strong, and assertive, and it points the way.  It guides everything – it brings the thumb with it.  It both completes and anchors the hand – directs the play of the other fingers.


Duo is the man who loves to play.  The man whose hands are fast and skilful, and most creative, even in the talents of destruction.  He can fix any problem with his Gundam, whilst others are still searching for the help screens.  He will wire up an explosive charge, whilst the rest of us scrabble for the tools; he will turn his lithe body on a coin’s width, and twist cable behind him as he runs to relative safety.  And he’ll likely be laughing.


I picture him, in my imagination.  Duo is tall and athletic, with that ridiculous braid that has snagged in my hands many a time, and the slim build and innate speed that make him an escape artist extraordinaire.  His eyes are bright and always aware of his surroundings – his body is tightly muscled, and very strong, though not obviously so, when he wears those unusual clothes.  He tolerates no complaint from any of us, though he’s fond of loud argument himself.  His face never holds an expression for more than seconds – his mouth is always creased open, either in a wide smile, or around a stream of words.  He likes to eat well, and drink well, and – according to him – kiss well.


My index finger can only be Duo – he is the only one it could ever call to mind.  When Duo comes to call, everyone draws near.  Duo is in the strength of it; the teasing; the fun.  He is the troublemaker - the ringleader in any escapade.


He is the breath of fresh air – the vibrancy and the boldness within our team.


I drag my hand away from my ass, and back to my lap.  My cock is high and wild, and dripping with a combination of bathwater and pre-cum; it’s screaming for a firm touch.  My fingers fold around it, with something like relief.  It’s thick, and hot, and the vein is throbbing to be shown no mercy.  My index finger teases the foreskin over the straining, dark-red flesh.  It begins to lead the pumping – a tortuously slow operation, dragging the other fingers and my palm along with it.  Up and down my arousal, washed with gentle splashes from the water’s surface as it reaches the base of my balls, and then long, trailing droplets as it climbs back up to the throbbing, swollen tip.


I can hear my moaning in the echoing room.  I can feel the swell of a climax threatening deep in my groin – the electric pulses jarring my nerves.  I have almost bitten through my lower lip, as I try to swallow the groans of need, and the hiccups of pleasure.


My finger completes a firm, erotic grip around me.  A caress.  It holds me – it squeezes me, along with its partners in sin.  It gathers the others together so that they all hug me – so that they all torture and torment me.  Exquisitely. 


This caress – this grip.  I imagine that it would be like this, to experience Duo’s lovemaking.  To feel his naked body against mine; the caress of his skin; the grip of his willing arms around me.  To see him opening both his mouth and his thighs for me – to be pointed towards him, just like the index finger points to so many other roads to ecstasy.  Ones that I had never known before – the co-ordinates of which I’d never even dreamed.


Who could resist fantasising about Duo’s lovemaking? What it might do; where it might go; how it might bring pleasure…


But then, I know all about it, already.  Because I’ve been sheathed, deep, in that delicious ass of his, on many an occasion.  He is my lover – in fact, he’s been my lover for months, though I don’t know who in the group might know it.  I suspect that they all do - we find it difficult to keep the attraction hidden!  I feel drawn to his flame, like a particularly masochistic moth.  And our ardour hasn’t cooled since the first day he rolled over on the bed for me – laughing! - and I took him for mine.  He would understand this need I have; he would try to assuage it.  And take the greatest delight in the process.


He is like my index finger, because of my need for the whole hand.  He makes me complete. 






My head is thrown right back now, my hair underwater, my torso sinking further down, and my nipples barely protruding above the surface.   My legs are twisted high up, my feet gripping at the bars either side of the bath.  My free hand has returned to tease at my ass, but I still grip at my cock, thrusting myself into my fist, harder and harder, as the promise of my coming sweeps through my heated body, like a tidal wave.


The water swirls around me – my skin slaps wetly against the enamelled sides.  My thighs are straining hard, reaching for another body that’s not there, but just dreamt of.  The muscles in my buttocks are tightly clenched – I’m arched upwards, bent like a drawn crossbow, my stomach taut, and stretching towards the ceiling.  My hips are bucking up and down, in rhythm with the increasingly fierce pumping of my hand.


Duo is the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever touched in my life!  He’s everything that has ever been alive; everything that has ever been loud, and bright, and bold –


A groan wrenches out of me.  I’m almost hurting myself, I’m clenched round my cock so tightly.  I’m so very close…


Just the thought of him, even as his head turns and grins at me – even as his hand trails mischievously at my ass as he passes – even as that damn braid whips behind him, and catches at my scowling face –


I can imagine all of the other pilots – sexy, sensual, and stimulating my body’s natural reactions.


But Duo is beyond anything I ever imagined.


My upper arms are shaking from holding my body tight to the slippery surface of the bath.  My hand is sliding around my shaft, as it throbs and leaps, trying to escape my grip, and release itself out to the air.  I can feel the seed, rippling through it, pushing itself towards the tip – racing towards freedom.


There’s such stimulation with Duo – such a thrill!  He unleashes a capacity for passion that I never knew existed inside me.  He says it had just been slumbering…


That I needed him to wake me up – that I needed some excitement.  That I needed to explore the desire in me that only he had seen.  The desire that he’d set his mind on seducing.  That he’d set his heart on absorbing into his own.


With my whole body shuddering, my head lifts out of the water like a leaping porpoise, and I bend forwards, a harsh cry breaking from my mouth.  All five fingers are welded around my cock – all five fingers press, and squeeze, and drag the heat of my climax out.  It’s an explosion! – it’s a long, sharp arc of cum, hot from somewhere other than the bath, slick from something other than the sandalwood oil.  High, at first, in front of my face – dipping down on to my shaking knees, and then splattering on to the shimmering surface of the water.


I gulp huge breaths of air – I can feel the thunderous beat of my heart up in my throat.  My eye are misted; my ears throb with the aftershock.


I can hear Duo’s voice in my head.  I know what he’d say, if he saw me now.


“Didn’t I say you were a horny bastard, Heero Yuy?” he’d laugh.  “Can’t you even wait ‘til I get back?”







I groan a little, as I stand.  There are red marks on my leg from clutching at the side of the bath – I’ve got cramp in one of my feet.  My hair is soaked, and smelling of sandalwood, and lies bedraggled on my neck.


I stare down at the bath mat, and grimace.  There’s water all over the floor.  I was particularly energetic tonight!


I flush, though I know there’s no-one around to either see or hear me.  My cock lies flat against my thigh, tired and wrinkled from the long soaking.  But there’s still a flicker of interest left in it.  


I imagine that I can hear a door opening downstairs – the scrape of a set of keys.  The others are out for the rest of the evening, I know.  It’s probably Duo, back to find supplies, or tools – or just back to see me.


Things moan and stir in my groin.  The climax was fantastic – but it wasn’t enough.  My libido is another thing that Duo has awakened.  And stamina another of my undoubted strengths!  I search around for a towel, but what I really want to do is slip across the landing and into the fresh sheets of his bed – and lie there, waiting for him.  Ready for him.


I flex my hand – it’s stiffening up a bit.  I was too rough on myself.  When we’re having sex, Duo says that’s obviously how I like it, and there’s no shame to it.  He likes my enthusiasm, he says, and then grins at my embarrassment, to reassure me.  He also likes to watch me jerk off sometimes.  He watches the steady movement of my hand; he licks his lips, and prowls towards me on hands and knees as I grow more and more engorged.


But Duo is not just a hand.  He’s so much more than a five finger exercise.  He’s a man, himself.


The one who says he loves me.  The one who laughs – but very softly - when I say that I never imagined I’d feel this way about anyone.


I stand, stark naked in the bathroom, and I start to call out to him.  I’m warm and flushed all over again; the towel is uncomfortable at my hips.  I want to throw it off, and greet him with my very obvious and eager welcome!


And then I look back down at the puddles of water on the floor, and the sodden mat.


I wonder how long I’ve got before he comes upstairs looking for me.


Because however carefree and tolerant and loving Duo is, he has an obsession about tidiness.  He never minds cleaning the house – but he hates it when any of us are careless with the way that our home looks.   And I like it - more than anything - when he calls it ‘our home’.


My sigh is a frustrated one, but a resigned one.  Rampant sex may have to wait a few more minutes…


He’ll kill me if I leave this mess on the floor!