Inspirations

[Notes and Disclaimers]

He is sleeping.

You came here to see him after weeks of absence, with only the occasional carefully-worded message to break the tedium, and he has the bad grace to be asleep.

Yet, you cannot hold it against him, not when he appears so innocent, the white of his sheets twisted around his slender hips, his torso rising gloriously nude above them. His sleeping attire - or lack thereof - should be frowned upon, you know - soldiers must be ready at a moment's notice - but you haven't the heart to reprimand him. He has never failed you; he has earned that small liberty.

His hair streams over the pillows - another liberty. You asked him about it once, and he only smiled in that soft, sad way that drives you nearly mad with lust and said that it was a vow, something to keep with him always. Even now, you imagine that you can feel its silky texture sliding between your fingers and you hastily quell the thought before the tightness in your groin blossoms into something more.

You move silently across the room and sit at the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him. Oh, you would love to have those icy blue eyes turned on you now - they are far too often hidden behind that dreadful mask - but you haven't the heart to disturb his slumber just yet.

"Milliard Peacecraft," you murmur softly, trying out the shape of the name. You rather like it; it is a smooth dance of your tongue. You say it again, "Milliard." It is full of carnal promises, that name, although perhaps that is more due to how you tend to purr the syllables than to the name itself.

Ever so gently, you touch his cheek, admiring the contrast of his fair skin against the more olive tone of your own. His skin is creamy beneath your fingers, soft and so smooth that you sometimes imagine that there is an invisible barrier preventing actual contact. You stroke your fingers higher until your palm is cupped warmly over that cheek, the fall of his bangs a not-quite-tickle against the backs of your fingers as you bend over him.

Your mouth brushes over his once, then again, taking in the firmness of his slightly-parted lips, the warmth of his breath flooding between them. That breath stops briefly, then resumes as his mouth follows yours for a moment, unconsciously seeking to prolong the contact. You press a finger to his lips as you draw away, smiling down at him as his eyes slide slowly open.

"Milliard, I am disappointed. Not only were you not there to greet me, but you also made me seek you out. Was it truly necessary to sleep in your own bed?"

He smiles lazily, that kittenish smile that only you ever see, and purses his lips to kiss the fingertip pressed there. You barely repress the shiver and he murmurs with an utter lack of contrition, "You were delayed. They did not know how long. I thought that perhaps I should be rested for your arrival."

You recognize that look in his eyes, that sleepy smugness that usually appears after he's succeeded in making you beg, pleading sweetly for release, and a glimmer of an idea forms in your mind. "Milliard," you say softly as you rise, fingers already finding the buttons of your uniform, "it really was badly done of you. I do believe that my feelings have been most grievously wounded."

He laughs, his long, tapered fingers reaching out for you. You already know how they'll feel against your skin, a match set to dry tinder, and a part of you craves that even as you move out of his reach. He blinks, confusion flashing through those rich eyes as he withdraws his hand, and you marvel at how much that slight difference changes him. His beauty, feminine though it may be, is usually remote and unapproachable, yet that slight look of confusion melts its chill away, making him appear the teenager that he is.

"Let me, tonight," you murmur, then hastily mask your own surprise. Had you said that? You, who was always so content to let Milliard take the lead, to let Milliard drive you to distraction? It must have been; he is looking at you with surprise replacing the confusion in his eyes, as well as a spark of something else. Interest?

Your jacket drops carelessly to the floor, followed by the graceful drift of your discarded cravat. Your fingers are on the buttons of your shirt when Milliard rises, the sheet slipping from him to puddle on the bed. Unselfconscious of his nudity, he crosses to you and brushes your hands away, falling to the task himself. Beneath his fingers, the buttons seem to melt away and your shirt falls open, slipping from one shoulder to bare a good deal more skin, which he touches appreciatively. Your memories were correct; the simple contact of his fingers ignites a blaze deep within you, a flame of desire that is somehow never quenched.

"Milliard," you say softly, your hand running up his arm, across his shoulder, up the graceful length of his neck to cup his chin, tipping it to look at you. "Milliard." You brush your lips against his soft cheek, then touch your tongue to the fold at the corner of his mouth, tasting the light salt of his skin. "Milliard," you say again before deftly subverting the parting of his lips, morphing his impending comment into a soft, breathless moan. He tastes of mint and something indefinable, something exclusive to him, something that you find yourself thinking of at inopportune moments during the daylight hours.

Swiftly, you shrug out of your shirt and your fingers thrust into his hair, splaying to cup the back of his skull and hold him firmly as you ravish his mouth, taking all that he has taken from you countless times before and more. He groans softly and rests one hand on your chest, fingers blindly exploring its breadth, teasing one dusky nipple to life. You break away as his fingers pinch the taut bit of flesh, prepared to protest until he ducks his head and replaces his fingers with his tongue, then it's your turn to groan as the tight nub is washed with wet warmth. Your fingers tangle in his hair again as he plays his nimble tongue over it; he was delighted to learn early on of your sensitive nipples, and never wasted an opportunity to toy with them.

"Milliard." His name is the only word that will come to your mind. Your hands move agitatedly through the drift of his hair, parting the gossamer strands so that they shimmer with opalescence in the faint light from the other room. His mouth leaves your chest, settling at your throat instead, his tongue touching lightly to the pulse throbbing there.

Shuddering in reaction, you push him away, hard enough that he sprawls over the bed. You are on him before he can so much as bounce, covering his slimmer body with your own. His eyes are wide with surprise again, and you feel your mouth quirking with the beginning of a smirk; the tables have been well and truly turned now.

"Treize," he begins, and you silence him with a hand, closing your fingers over his mouth. Meeting his startled gaze, you shake your head firmly and skim your free hand up his side, catching one of his ticklish spots. His eyes widen again as you feel him shudder under you, arching into the light touch of your fingers.

The play of his muscles under your hand fascinates you. You can feel his breathing beneath your palm, quickened slightly with desire. The slide of skin over muscles is that of a smooth machine, its function hidden by the beauty of its form. Removing your hands from him, you move them to rest at his sides, levering yourself up to study him.

Your memories of his perfection did not deceive you.

His hair is a starburst around his head, tumbled haphazardly over the rumpled Egyptian cotton of the sheets. His eyes, still wide, are almost preternaturally blue, bright against the fairness of his skin. His lips are slightly swollen and moist, wet further as the tip of his tongue flicks absently over them.

You have always envied his jacket; day in and day out, it molds itself to his tapered back, hugging the breadth of his shoulders. His breeches fit snugly around his lithe waist and hips, clinging teasingly to the powerful columns of his thighs. God bless whoever first created jackboots, as well; they do wonders for his finely-turned calves. You must be in love; even his feet appear beautiful to you, from their delicate arches to the tips of his elegant toes.

You move again, kneeling between his sprawled legs, and feather your fingers over the bones of his ankle before gripping the joint loosely. He props himself up on his elbows, giving you a bewildered look down the length of his body, and you smile slightly in response. Tightening your hold, you lift the captive limb, raising it over your shoulder to allow you to rub your cheek against that sleekly-muscled calf.

Everywhere, he is a contrast, velvet over steel. You can feel the leap of his muscles against your cheek, and against your fingers as they move to stroke the heavy satin of his inner thighs. His responsiveness is a treat; already his arousal is apparent, hard and pulsing, begging for attention. You ignore its temptation for the time being, instead nipping at the side of his knee.

A shuddery breath from him tells you that you're doing something right, and you repeat the nip before soothing the sensitized skin with your tongue. He shivers - in delight, you hope - as you nibble and lick your way down his raised thigh, savoring the musky flavor of him. Slowly, you reach the smooth jut of his hipbones and sit back again, tracing their lines with a finger.

"Treize," he says softly - plaintively, even. He reaches for you, his palms cool against your cheeks as he draws you over him again. His mouth is open in invitation, an invitation you can't help but accept as you twine your tongues together in an erotic dance. A soft, demanding sound escapes him, vibrating through you as the kiss deepens, nearly forceful enough to grind your teeth together. You melt into the heat of his mouth until you are no longer certain where one ends and the other begins.

"Too much," he murmurs when your mouths at last separate, and you hum an agreement. You are wearing too much, and the close cut of your breeches was not made for this state of arousal. Through the fabric, you can feel the pressing response of Milliard's, the heat that you crave against your skin.

Growling abruptly, you reach for the hidden clasps of your boots, loosening them and kicking the leather away. You rear back and Milliard's hands, equally frantic, are at your waist, jerking the belt loose. The hook on your breeches rips free with his eager attendance and you don't care, shedding breeches, undergarments, and silk stockings in one quick motion, discarding them into a tangled heap on the floor.

Even before they have settled, his hands are on you, smoothing over the flat planes of your back, fingers skimming just above the rise of your buttocks. Another soft growl escapes from your throat and you press your face against his neck, letting the rumbling drift through you both. You're rewarded by a low moan, and the lift of his hips against yours, pressing your throbbing erections together.

You've dreamt of this moment, of him moving helplessly beneath you, and now that it has come, you revel in it. Every shiver dances over your skin, every hitching breath caresses your ears, every light touch shoots straight to the growing pressure in your groin. With a low groan of your own, you reach for the stand next to the bed and retrieve the small jar that sits upon it, twisting it open to release the scent of roses into the air.

So well, he knows you.

You dip your fingers into the jar, setting it aside as you slide off of his body. Letting the lotion warm on your skin, you coax one of his legs over your shoulder to bare his most secret entrance. His eyes are closed now, his chest moving rapidly with his panting breaths, his arms stretched over his head, his hands holding opposing elbows. Your slick fingers brush over the exposed pucker and he starts, hips arching from the mattress as a gasp claws its way from his throat.

It is a heady feeling to know that you are causing these reactions.

Your fingers plunge into him, made slippery by the lotion, and he arches again, his leg tensing against your shoulder. You chuckle, remembering your own responses to these same actions - the feel of his fingers within you, the brush of his hair against your chest as he bent over you to steal yet another kiss, the warmth of his body between your legs - and play upon them, teasing him more deeply with each catch of his breath.

Abruptly, you withdraw your fingers and push his legs up, one hand on both knees, bending him nearly double. Your free hand finds the jar again and dips within, coating your fingers once more. Without pause, you wrap them around your own erection, hissing slightly at the chill but stroking anyway, spreading the slickness over the straining shaft.

He murmurs something inarticulate and lifts his hips slightly despite his awkward position. Almost unconsciously, your fingers stroke over the smooth flex of his buttocks before parting them, baring him again. Your hips angle forward, the weeping tip of your erection presses against him, a small push, and he surrounds you.

You groan with the ecstasy of the position and he tenses slightly, then relaxes against the invasion of his body; the clutch of him around you defies description. You sink into him as a man escaping the desert plunges himself into an oasis, drinking deeply from the fount of his body. He is a sweet warmth around you, and you swear that you can feel the pulse of his heart, as rapid as your own.

Another groan escapes you as you seat yourself fully within him, his pulsing heat nearly overcoming you. You release his legs and they part, wrapping around you, pulling you closer as his hands reach to cup your face again. Blindly, you kiss one of his palms, then begin to move.

You've died, a small corner of your mind decides, and this is Hell; there is no way Heaven could possibly feel as good as this, this slick heat that clutches at you, pervading every cell. You bend to take his mouth and he sucks feverishly at your lower lip, tongue flicking over it in encouragement as his hips lift into the slow rock of your own.

"More," he whispers around the captive flesh, "More, Treize, please." His body flows fluidly against yours, his erection stroking against your belly as you move together, straining in tandem for a common goal.

"Treize!" Milliard gasps, the only warning before he writhes against you, spewing forth creamy seed that smears over your bellies. You watch his face in that moment, reveling in the novelty; with his lower lip bitten and his eyes tightly closed, his face taut with the explosive force of his orgasm, Milliard Peacecraft is something that surpasses beauty.

And he is all yours.

You close your eyes against the intense surge of possessiveness that washes over you with that thought, and piston your hips hard against his. One, two, three times, and then you are crying out your own release, emptying your passion into the tight glove of his body.

For a moment, all that matters is the pinnacle you've attained, the heady sense of completion as stars explode behind your eyelids. Distantly, you can feel his hands on your skin, dreamily tracing the contours of your body, and you grudgingly return to yourself. Your mouth finds his again, and this time the kiss is almost chaste. Not passionless, but tender, rife with emotions that surpass spoken words.

After a few moments, you separate, sliding from his body with a vague sense of loss to lie beside him. He curls into you, his fair head resting against your shoulder as his fingers trail teasingly over your chest.

"We should shower… change the sheets."

"We should," you agree, "but we won't. Consider it your punishment."

He snorts inelegantly, then chuckles before purring, "Punishment indeed, to sleep with the smell of you on my skin." He pauses, and the silence draws out heavily before he breaks it again, his voice that of the hidden teenager as he asks, "You will stay tonight, won't you?"

You don't answer for a moment, wrapping your arm around his shoulders as you weigh the consequences. Doubtless, Lady Une would seek you out first thing in the morning, and would be upset by the fact that you were absent from your quarters. Still… it would not be difficult to placate her and, in exchange, you would have the rare pleasure of waking up with this heart beating so strongly against you. Your hand strokes down his arm as the other rests against his chest over the organ in question.

"I do believe I shall," you murmur, then smile at the light kiss he presses against your shoulder in response. "Sleep now, Milliard, it has been a long day."

"Yes, Treize."

His breathing slows, deepens, and evens into that of slumber, kitten-soft against your shoulder. Gently, careful not to wake him again, you stroke his hair back and brush a kiss over the top of his head.

"Sleep well, my Milliard," you whisper into the fine strands, and then sleep claims you as well, drawing you into arms nearly as loving as the physical ones encircling you.

"…is that what you want?"

Milliard chuckled, the sound rich with amusement as he feathered his fingers over Treize's shoulder. "It's your turn."

Treize eyed his blond lover skeptically, then reached over and wound a shining lock of hair around his finger, tickling Milliard's cheek absently with the tips. With a soft sigh, he settled deeper into the warm water of the jacuzzi and drew Milliard between his legs, nuzzling into the length of his hair as he began.

"You are sleeping…"

You are sleeping.

Or so it must appear to him. In truth, you awoke the moment the outer door slid open, although you remained unconcerned and still; only one other than yourself knows the access code to your quarters, and he is one that you are always pleased to see. Although your eyes remain closed, you know that he now lingers in the doorway connecting to your sleeping quarters, as the light that had flooded across your eyelids is now blocked.

He is unmoving, and so you are content to continue the charade, allowing a deep sigh to escape as you roll onto your belly. You can feel the sheet catching beneath you, sliding down to bare your back and wrapping snugly around your hips. Your legs are cocooned into immobility, but it is a small price to pay for the answering sigh from him; it is a wistful sound, one that nearly makes you open your eyes and extend your arms to him.

Soft footsteps brush over the carpet, nearly silent; for such a large man, he is surprisingly graceful, every motion carefully considered in the split-second it takes to occur. It is something you find unbearably erotic, although you have never told him so; even now, in your feigned slumber, you must quell the urge to groan at the sudden arousal tightening within you as you imagine the subtle shifts of his body. You find yourself holding your breath as he stops next to the bed and hope he doesn't notice, not wanting this game to end so quickly.

"Milliard Peacecraft," he says softly, and you hastily stifle another groan; he does not simply say your name, he caresses it, molding his tongue around the syllables until you can nearly feel them against your skin. "Milliard," he says again, and you can't help the shiver that the tender wonderment in that single word gives you.

Ever so gently, his fingers touch your cheek, soft and warm from his shed gloves. They trace a slow circle before stroking higher, and you are certain that you can still feel the shape burning against your skin, as though forever marking you as his. With exquisite slowness, he cups your cheek, his palm following its gentle curve, and his thumb strokes over the rise of your cheekbone as his mouth lowers to yours, breath ghosting over your lips briefly before they are together.

Once, his lips touch yours, then draw away, but the whimper of complaint that tickles your throat has no time to become reality as his mouth is on yours once more, firm and ardent. You can't help but part your lips under the persuasive sweep of his tongue, and the escaping groan is muffled into little more than a sigh as his mouth slants over yours, taking all that you have to offer and returning just as much. Time stands still as your mouths mate, and only as they part again do you realize that you've been clinging to him as a drowning man to a lifesaver. You pull back, blinking, as his finger comes to press against your lips, drawing another shudder from deep within you as even its softness rasps over the over-sensitized nerves there.

"Milliard, I am disappointed. Not only were you not there to greet me, but you also made me seek you out. Was it truly necessary to sleep in your own bed?"

You can feel the smirk as it blossoms over your face, answering the gleam in his eyes. "You were delayed," you murmur, punctuating the sentence with the pursing of your lips, pressing a teasing kiss to his fingertip. "They did not know how long. I thought that perhaps I should be rested for your arrival."

His eyes dilate at the play of your mouth and he withdraws his finger, stroking it over the line of your jaw before it pauses against the pulse leaping at your neck. "Milliard," he begins softly, his chiding tone belied by the seductive curve of his mouth, "it really was badly done of you. I do believe that my feelings have been most grievously wounded."

You can't help but laugh and reach for him, your fingers finding the thin skin of his throat above his cravat and tracing the line of his collar delicately. "My sincerest apologies," you purr, propping yourself up on an elbow and running your fingers to his nape, where they twine with the soft ends of his hair. "Allow me to make it up to you."

He wavers for a moment, as though considering drawing away, but the action fails to come to fruition. Instead, his eyes slide closed and he sighs softly, leaning to claim another kiss, your tongues sparring zealously, twining damply until lack of air forces you apart, both breathing unevenly. So close, you can see that his eyes are dilated again, their cornflower blue irises darkened with the desire that is mate to your own.

"Treize," you begin, only to have further words fail you as his fingers move to your waist, curving around the taper there before moving higher, leaving a burning path of sensation in their wake. You lean back more heavily on your elbows as his hand pauses, thumb teasing one of your rosy nipples momentarily before his fingers come to a halt under your arms, pinching the sensitive flesh there. A startled cry rips itself from your throat even as you arch, your hair sliding over your shoulders as you throw your head back with the sheer pleasure of that one simple touch.

Before you can recover, his teeth are at your throat, scraping lightly over the revealed column of your windpipe. They snap together where your neck meets your shoulders; no doubt you will have a lovely mark there come the morning, but for the moment, all you can think about is that, if he keeps that up, you'll come before he even touches you. "Treize," you gasp as a shiver courses over your body, but he ignores your voice, his teeth finding one of your nipples next, closing around it and tugging it sharply. You can't help but arch into the touch again, the sharp stabs of pleasure-pain seeming to shoot straight from nipple to groin, pulsing violently through your already-aching erection. "Treize, please."

You are uncertain whether you didn't say the words out loud or whether he simply ignored them, as he moves to tug on the other nipple, sucking it into a hard nub over which he rolls his thumb. His mouth has already moved on, with lips, teeth, and tongue skimming over the heaving muscles of your abdomen, dipping briefly into your navel as his hands free you from the sheet, casting it carelessly aside. The weight of his gaze alone parts your legs, and you find yourself lifting your hips automatically, pleadingly, even as you hold your breath in anticipation.

For all his teasing, he doesn't disappoint you; his breath ghosts warmly over your turgid shaft before it is surrounded by the wet velvet of his mouth, and you tense abruptly to keep from thrusting mindlessly into that glorious heat. His descent pauses just beneath the tapered head, his tongue finding the sensitive gland beneath and playing deftly over it, until it is all you can do to wrap your fingers in his hair and let the cries come. Each time it seems as though you are about to plunge over the edge of orgasm, he draws back, fingers moving to stroke your inner thighs, or to draw patterns over your abdomen, only to start again until you're nearly sobbing with frustration. By the time he swallows you whole and sucks in earnest, you can't help but scream with the force of the surge of pleasure that overtakes you, leaving you writhing mindlessly beneath him, tears wetting your lashes.

The next thing you are aware of is his lips against your cheek, silently mouthing words that you cannot identify. His touch is light as he strokes your belly and you're vaguely embarrassed to find yourself literally purring in response. Discomfited, you catch his hand and draw it to your mouth instead, brushing light kisses over his fingertips until his lips still, then pucker with a soft kiss. A low whimper escapes you and you turn your head, offering your mouth to him, nearly holding your breath until he accepts the invitation.

His kiss is different this time. Tasting of pure pleasure, it is heady, like rich wine, and you find yourself growing languid as it progresses. Against your hip, you can feel his erection throb and slyly you reach for it, although your fingers barely make contact before he is pulling them away, drawing your hand to the more neutral region of his chest as he rolls to his back and draws you over him.

You know what he has in mind even before he sets you upright, and you can't resist teasing, squirming your backside against the hardness rising from between his legs. His groan is reward enough and, as his hands settle at your hips, you raise yourself, your own penis stirring with renewed interest at this new activity. It is only a slight stretch to reach the small jar on the bedside table, the scent of roses filling the air as you twist it open and dip your fingers within. You pause then, a dollop of lotion warming on your fingers as you study him, your head tilting so that your hair falls in a platinum sheaf over your shoulder.

Deliberately, refusing to break eye contact, you wrap your hand around your own stiffening shaft and begin to stroke slowly, carefully. Your eyelids droop and you can feel the swelling within your grip as your arousal peaks again, and yet you continue to stroke, tormenting him with the feel of your body struggling to rise over his.

"Milliard," he whispers at last, his hand curling over yours, and you can't help but chuckle, drunk as you are on power and pleasure.

"Patience," you murmur in response as your hand slips from beneath his to again find the jar. Another generous dollop slicks your fingers and you tense your thighs, lifting yourself from him. You can't help your strangled gasp as you thrust your fingers into yourself, but it is doubtful that he heard it over his own broken groan.

Despite your caution, patience is forgotten as you pump your fingers once, twice, then let them slide from the tight passage to instead curl around his rampant cock. Holding it steady, you shift, rise, then lower in one long, glorious slide that forces your breath from you in a high, undignified whine. All too soon, he is buried within you and you pause, nothing but the combined sounds of your harsh breathing breaking the silence of the room.

A handful of heartbeats later, he moves, a lazy rock of his hips that somehow buries him even more deeply within you. You reflexively move in response, the lazy rhythm rapidly morphing into a hard, demanding mating as his hand strokes a counter-rhythm over your own demanding erection. You think that you say his name, but even that is lost to the sharp stabs of pleasure as he fills you again and again, until it is suddenly enough, too much. Your hands seize on his arm as you come, the inarticulate cry issuing from your throat unidentifiable. Even as you buck over him, you can feel him pulse, then spasm, flooding you with wet heat. Perfection hangs suspended for a moment, the force of pleasure binding you as one, and then he shifts and you are again two. Exhaling heavily, you drape yourself over his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin and inhaling the scent of sweat, sex, and Treize.

"Milliard," he says softly after some long moments, and you find that you cannot stir yourself to answer beyond a slurred 'mn'. He chuckles and rests a hand against your back, stroking it over the hair clinging there. "I want you to promise me something."

"Mn?"

"Promise me that, whatever happens, you will never forget how much I love you."

"…Treize?" Summoning your flagging strength, you push yourself up on your elbows and study the unfocused cornflower of his eyes. "Treize, is something wrong?"

His hand cups your cheek and you can't help but nuzzle into it, an action which somehow makes his expression even more wistful. "Nothing is wrong, Milliard. I only wish for you to be certain that you are loved."

"I am certain, Treize," you whisper, resting your hand over his. "I am as certain of that as I am of my regard for you."

"Then I am content." His lips don't smile but his eyes gleam with warmth as his fingers gently stroke your cheek, before sliding to curl at your shoulder. It doesn't take much coaxing before you are stretched over him again, his chest the most perfect pillow in the world.

Outside, the world waits. But, for the moment, lulled by the heartbeat beneath your ear, you are happy, you are safe, you are loved.

You sleep.

- fin -

Notes and Disclaimers

Gundam W is © Sunrise, Bandai Visuals, Sotsu Agency, and Asahi TV.

Inspirations was written in an odd mood, which is why it is in second-person present-tense. The POV switches multiple times. It begins in Zechs speaking from Treize's POV to Treize speaking from Zechs's POV, beyond the third-person interludes.