1 . Name: TeratoMarty @ 2012-02-24 00:31

Thanks to everyone who's been supporting me while I write my thesis, but thanks especially to CosmicTuesdays for encouraging me to allow myself this little bit of fun.

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He and I meet only in the windowless rooms of the deepest sub-basements. We approach separately, from different directions, several minutes apart. Once we are together, we lock the door and turn out the lights. Only then do we take off our masks.

I have still never seen him- and lest I accuse myself of giving away information for free, I must point out that I use the masculine term simply as a matter of social convention. I have never seen him, and although I am certain he could describe me, the particulars would hardly be useful to Interpol.

In this nullity of identity, we come to each other. Sometimes I take him from behind, forcing him face-down upon the floor. Sometimes he caresses me, unbearably gentle with his mouth and hands, until I am sobbing, shaking, undone. In this way we learn things about each other that perhaps no other knows. I know the hitch in his breath that signals the peak of his pleasure, the shape of his lips upon mine as he smiles in satiety. He knows what he has done to me, that no one else ever has, which I will not describe, not even in my own journal. The memory is a treasure I jealously hoard.

I am greedy for more. I want to know how his skin feels after a day spent sunning himself, not confined in a chemsuit. How he smells under a layer of ground-in dirt and grass stains, once we have rutted like beasts under the sky, what his cries sound like blending with my own when we are freed of the duty of stifling our ecstasy.

An uncomfortable realisation: I want to give him more of myself, as well. I want to be with him at all times, to feed him the cheese made only in my home town, to offer him a taste of every wine in France. This is deadly perilous, not because our employer might find out- I trust my ability to keep a secret is greater than her ability to discover- but for its own sake. It creates a weakness. He could be used against me, of course, but more sobering is the thought that I could be used against him.

That is, of course, provided that he feels the same way. If all I am to him is a body in the darkness, he may yet be safe. That thought, though, is sharper than my own blade turned against me. If a Spy loves, the Pyro is in danger. If the Pyro does not love, the Spy may die.