Author: Lipstickcat
E-mail: [email protected]
Pairing: Zell/Seifer
Rating: Nc-17
Warnings: Nasty songfic. Evil Zell. Screwed up Seifer.
Disclaimer: Not mine
***
Gone With The Sin
(from HIM, sung by Ville Valo)
I love your skin oh so white
I love your touch cold as ice
And I love every single tear you cry
I just love the way you're losing your life
Ohohohohoh my Baby, how beautiful you are
Ohohohohoh my Darling, completely torn apart
You're gone with the sin my Baby and beautiful you are
You're gone with the sin my Darling
I adore the despair in your eyes
I worship your lips once red as wine
I crave for your scent sending shivers down my spine
I just love the way you're running out of life
Ohohohohoh my Baby, how beautiful you are
Ohohohohoh my Darling, completely torn apart
You're gone with the sin my Baby and beautiful you are
You're gone with the sin my Darling
***
He's so fragile. Of course, he hides it from the others, but it's the little
things that give him away. Things like the fact that he passed the SeeD
exam. He needed everyone's approval so badly it was the first thing he did
when he got back.
He only ever smiles now, never that grim smirk, and it's a sad smile, forced
onto his face like a mask. It speaks of a heart in torment. His comments
don't cut anymore. If they looked they'd see it. He believes that he wronged
us all and despite our forgiveness, he still feels the Sorceress inside of
him. His memories haunt him, rip pieces of his soul away. He's convinced
that he's committed some great sin against us, that he deserves punishment
that our pardon has denied him.
If only they looked, they'd see it. You only have to scratch the surface to
see how he's falling apart. But I won't let them see. He's a shell, and I
love it.
The Sorceress really did a number on him, scarred him deeper than Squall
ever could do. His lips move when he thinks no one's looking, talking to, or
in time with, the voices in his head. She's still there. I remember her
voice was like icicles stained with dried gore. I shudder to think what it
could sound like inside my own head. She tells him he's worthless, that he
deserves to be drowned like a bagged kitten for how he mistreated his
friends. I don't let on that I know and I make no effort to deny what she
tells him. I leave him to be gone with the sin. He's broken and I don't want
him fixing.
It's bad of me, I know, my conscience does stab at me occasionally. Perhaps
I am taking advantage, but it's pay back for all the times he hurt me, all
the times he made me feel small, when all I wished for was to see him smile
for me. He wants it too, if he didn't, he could make it stop. All he has to
say is "enough".
And I do love him.
He's afraid of rejection, or worse, so he barely interacts with the others.
I guess he thinks that his sin is so great, it's all he could expect from
them. He's wrong, but this way makes it easier to keep him all to myself. We
hide away in the anonymous hole that he calls his dorm.
He's far away when we're in bed. His skin never flushes, not even in the
heat of passion; maybe the memory of her voice freezes his blood. As his
cool fingers run over my back, tracing my body without feeling it, I can see
it in his eyes: He's not here. His eyes are dark mirrors, frosted with a
green that should be the colour of the deepest ocean, but isn't. I can see
past my reflection, see the indistinct images that hide inside of him. The
sharp teeth and claws of the remains of the Sorceress' hold on him.
He cries when he comes. It's a silent sob, a hitch of breath. Crystals that
catch the light well up, trapped in honey coloured lashes until he blinks.
Then the tears roll silently down, following sharp cheekbones on a face too
thin, reaching his jawbone where I lick them away. The taste of salt and
sorrow, I love it.
He cries afterwards too, in the night. These are more violent tears,
accompanied by weeps and wails, flooding down his face as his body rocks
back and forth. I wonder if the images ever stop. He's getting closer to
giving up, each day it's harder to keep the despair away.
He looks to me, his eyes wide and frightened. I can almost see her dance
across the glassy surface of his eyes, always there, always reminding him:
Sin. He wants me to make it all go away, to make everything okay, to keep
him safe. I can't and I won't. I like him like this; he clings to me, he
needs me. Still, I pretend. I run my fingers over his face, stroke his hair,
hold him close. I whisper to him, lie to him, tell him I can make it all
better.
Then I kiss him softly, my mouth lingering over lips that are drained of
colour. He's getting closer to death, I can smell it on him. It's a sweet
smell surprisingly, the smell of freshly washed skin. He's forever trying to
wash his sin away, to absolve himself of the woman and her curse. It makes
his flesh smooth and tender. So silky. I love the scent, especially mixed
with sweat and sex. It makes me want him more, and he never says no, never
pushes me away. For a moment in the night he can escape his thoughts as he
lets me screw him. It never lasts for long though, I can see the precise
moment that she catches him again and tangles him in her net made of razor
wire, as his eyes become sharp with pain before misting over.
It's better that I spend as much time with him as possible. I know what he
does when he's alone, I can see the deep red scars on the pale skin of his
arms. I trail my fingertips over the hard ridges of healing skin, wonder how
much he bled from each of them, how much life he's got left. I can almost
see the bright glowing life force splashed over the white bathroom tiles,
watch it swirl down the drain as he slumps against the shower wall. I'd be
lying if I said the thought didn't turn me on.
Maybe I should get help. I know for sure that I should get him help. I
should tell someone how much he hurts. One day he'll be gone and I'll regret
it, because I do love him. But I love him like this; believing in a sin that
only exists in his shattered mind. He's so beautiful like this, drained and
empty. I love the dark circles around his dull eyes, the brutal scars
decorating his skin; he's completely torn apart.
And, he needs me. If his mind weren't broken would I still be by his side?
As long as he's gone with the sin, he's mine.