cozzybob (cozzybob) wrote in cozzybabbles, @ 2008-02-25 04:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | 13x6, smut, treize, zechs |
[GW] It Has A Soul
It Has A Soul
by cozzybob
Pair: 13x6, refs to 9+6
Rated: NC-17
Warning: slash lemon (explicit man sex), dark, angst, Zechs-ish psychobabbling, stream of consciousness... a bit odd. Like, as in, odd.
Note: For the beat_of_destiny community, #34, troubled thoughts, claim of Zechs. This is the kind of thing that happens when I get inspiration in the middle of the night, and I'm not entirely awake enough to restrain the psycho!Cozzy tendencies. So if you have to read it twice to understand what the hell Zechs is babbling about, I apologize.
Summary: There is a soul in Zechs' mask. He puts it on, and it becomes him.
I have a mask with a soul inside. I put it on, and it becomes me.
She tells me that I'm different when I wear it. She tells me that when I wear the mask, I show a part of me that merits to my legend, the part that the world is right to fear. She tells me that it's the part that she's afraid of, even if it is the only part she's ever truly known.
She tells me that when I take it off, I'm better. I'm the me that no one but the dead and the hated have ever known, and she likes that. The good me, she says. The real one.
I have a mask. It has a soul. I put it on, and I become it.
But you.
But you aren't her. She isn't you. Neither of you will ever be each other, and I know, because you both know me so differently.
You're so different. You tell me that I'm no different at all when I wear it. You tell me that when I wear the mask, it is merely a shield to hide who I really am, who I have always been, and there is no soul, no legend, no names to become. There is nothing but me.
You tell me that when I take it off, I'm still the same.
I'm the still same, but naked now.
I think about her as you press against me, kissing my hair. I know that she believes she loves me, and I know she believes that I love her. I don't know if she really does love me, but I do know that I don't love her. If I loved her, I would have told her so. I have never told her that I loved her.
But I have told you that I loved you countless times, and you've always returned the favor.
All the things that you do to me...
All these things...
Favors.
Favors, like this mask that you have given me. It has a soul, Treize. It has a soul, and it's not mine, and it itches.
You touch it, I can feel the heat singing from your skin. I can feel your heat even under this molded sheet of steel on my face, and it burns me.
You smile.
You kiss me like you always do. Light, soft, something that tastes like caring.
And you stare.
I don't know why you stare, but sometimes you do. Sometimes you stare for the longest time, and I stare back, unable to look away. Your eyes know the language that my body speaks, even if I do not, and I know that you are reading me. Your eyes know everything, Treize, your eyes are the eyes of the only god I've ever believed in, and when you look at me, you know things. I know you know things that even I don't know, and I only wish that I could reach into your mind and take it, rip that page out of you and put it back where it belongs.
There are certain things about me that I do not want you to know, Treize. There are things... that you know... that I wish you did not.
I wish I could take your eyes from you. The mask wishes that I rip them out of your skull, that I take them, and that I destroy them, crush them under my boot.
I wish I could take your eyes. I wish you wouldn't stare.
I wish I knew your favorite. Do you like the mask more than me, Treize? Do you like me more than the mask?
It has a soul. It is not mine.
And it itches, Treize. It itches.
You stare. You stare, and it's almost as if you're looking for something, leaning closer, so close even your eyes are blurred. Then you grin. I know because I can feel it against my lips. Teeth on my ear. Thumb on a nipple. The devil whispering against my groin.
"There you are, Miri." Your words, like satin roses.
I love it when you call me that name.
You play with my ear until it's red, and then you float back, smiling into my eyes again. I shiver under your touch, my hands latching onto your skin, legs tangled with thighs, groin against your groin. Hair everywhere.
Your tongue dragging along the pulse of my beating heart. When I finally answer, my voice is hoarse. "And where was I?"
You're still smiling. Sometimes I love it when you smile, other times I want to rip it off your face, like your eyes.
Like this mask.
You touch it again, the mask, fingers loving it. I make a move to take it off, it itches with the sweat, but you pull my hand away, keeping it there.
It itches, Treize.
"You never left," you tell me. Your hand goes to my groin, stroking the fires inside of me. My head pulls back, and I groan. You bite me, hard, and then you add, "You were here." Drumming your chest, where a heart would be.
Your heart.
"Treize--"
I want. I want every last little bit of you. I want your skin, and your smiles, and your eyes. I want you, and I want you inside of me.
You know this. But you wait. You take the time to love me.
Pulling a leg over your shoulder, kissing down my thigh, breathing on my groin. Oiled finger teasing my entrance, oiled hand on my nipples. My breath hitches.
I want to beg, but I won't.
I want to beg.
I want to beg, Treize.
Do you see? All these things that you do to me.
I want to beg you.
You tease me, that finger goes inside of me, and I groan again. You touch that place that makes me lust, and my hips jump up, then down to meet you. I want everything about you, Treize. I want you, inside of me, now.
But you wait.
You're taking the time to love me.
Another finger joins, that hand on my chest pinches my other nipple, and your tongue savors the head of my erection.
The pleasure is so intense that it hurts.
"Treize, damnit, please."
And now I'm begging.
"Shh," you say, as if that could possibly calm me.
But you take me into your mouth, and I choke, as any other man would do. Heat. Wet. My soul, yours, us, all wrapped around your tongue.
I can't breath enough to beg louder... the only thing I can manage is broken whispers, half-strung curses, and hips bucking helplessly against you. And this, as everything else about me, seems to excite you.
My hand burrows into your hair, kissing every strand. I want more. For a moment, it's so intense that I forget about the mask, forget about that soul becoming me. Itching.
I want more, and I get it. A third finger. A third finger inside of me.
Down there, inside of your mouth, you suck hard. You're wet and hot and talented, and it's good, but it's agony, and I don't want to go inside you, I want you inside of me. You torture me for seconds into minutes into hours into days into weeks... You could be an interrogator, if you did them what you do to me; there would be no secret that OZ wouldn't know.
I have begged you, and still you take your time.
"Treize, I don't think..." Eating great gulps of air, writhing around your mouth. "Please..."
And you pull away. I cannot hide my own disappointment, even if it is what I wanted. You glance at me knowingly, lovingly, understanding as you've always been because there is so little that you do not or could not understand. Your fingers leave me, that other leg goes over your shoulder, your lips kissing a foot along the way.
You position yourself right there, right before me, and then you stop and you touch the mask, caressing it. Your eyes are sorrowful. I don't know why.
I will not wait. I pull you down on me, inside of me, and we groan together. And for a moment, you lose control. I can see the younger Treize Kushrenada, driving his hips up to push the rest of the way inside. You grin at me. I snarl back at you.
And then, finally, like a mass suicide at the end of the world, then you take me. You move, you stroke, you touch, and I arch my back to meet you. The battle no longer has lines--where you end, I begin, and we both blur into each other.
I don't last long. Sometimes I don't, but you always follow me... you never fail me.
Spasms all around, you make a noise, something soft, and then you pull out of me, falling down beside me. I turn on my side and touch the sweat beading down your chin. You stare again like you always do, and you brush my hand away, reaching your own to touch that mask again.
It has a soul, Treize. It's not mine.
"It itches," I tell you.
You nod slowly, as if something solemn were said.
I reach again to remove it, this mask, but you won't let me. I don't understand why.
"It itches."
You caress it, love it. You love that mask more than you love me.
"I know," you say.
"Take it off." If you will not let me, then do it yourself. Give mercy. Take it away.
"No."
I snarl and reach a hand to remove it anyway, but you grab me in a grip that only colonels ever gripped, and I am again left helpless. My fist shakes against you as we war for strength, but I cannot move.
For a moment, I hate, and then it passes away under your stare.
I know you love me. Sometimes I wonder how much, but I know that you love me, and I love you back. That is all that matters. I stop fighting, and you release my hand again.
"It itches," I tell you.
This itch, it's slowly driving itself inside of me, and I would scratch my own skin away layer by layer to reach it if you let me. But your hand molds over the mask, and I can feel you through it like a second skin. I close my eyes and lean into you. I try to tell you.
This mask has a soul. It's not mine. It never was.
"It itches--"
"I know," you say again. You pull me up against you, hand in my hair, combing the knots tied up in our sex. Hair everywhere, in knots and tangles. The mask and my face are on your chest, breathing shallowly against your skin. The itch is pulling up my lungs, taking my breath away.
It itches so much that it burns.
You try to calm me, but this is the one thing that you cannot calm.
"It itches, Treize."
You shush me, and pull me harder against you. I put my hand on the mask and scratch under it, trying to reach the face still hidden, but you take my hand away again, and kiss it.
You say nothing. I stare up at you, trying to tell you.
It itches. This soul that is not mine, it itches, it irritates every part of me. It is not supposed to here, inside of me, becoming me...
This mask itches. I want it off. Take it off, Treize.
But you keep it there. You glue it to my face, and chain it, smelt it, solder it.
It cannot be removed.
"It itches," I whisper. Breaking, now.
"I know."
I can't say how many times we have said this. But every time, you say the same thing.
"I know, Miri."
You always know.
I can't take it anymore. I reach my hand up yet again to scratch, but you snap out of your trance and pull it back down again with an iron fist. I growl, pushing away from you, fists bared. "It itches, Treize!"
"I know."
Do you? Do you really?
"This mask..."
You caress it like a lover would. "I know," you say.
"It's yours. You gave it to me... and it itches."
"I know, Miri."
It's not mine, Treize. This soul is not mine.
"I know."
It's yours.
--Fini