Building a Fantasy

I can think of few things more horrifyingly embarrassing than screaming out the wrong name on orgasm.

Sure, it's clichéd. But as much as we'd all love to deny it, it happens to the best of us.

Once in awhile. This was getting ridiculous.

Hell, it's not even like it hadn't happened to me before. Just after Asuka died, I offended a hell of a lot of women while trying to use meaningless sex to forget her. But I got over it.

Lately, though - gods, it's getting to the point where I'm reluctant to even make a date with a pretty girl, because I know that if the evening gets intimate, I'm just going to make an ass of myself again.

So, okay. Get to the root of the problem. Calling out the same person's name over and over during sex can only mean one thing.

You're in love. Or at least in serious lust.

Oh, no. No, no, no. That was the thought I'd been avoiding since the whole thing started a month or so ago. There was no way. Just no way! Never mind the fact that I thrived on the attentions of my various lady friends. Forget that I swore I'd never fall in love again, when Asuka died.

I was not, I absolutely was not, attracted to men. Period. End of story. Certainly not to frigid, uncaring men, whose glares were as cold as the steel of their swords. Regardless of the way muscles slid along the lithe frame when he was using said sword, or how crimson locks just begged for you to find out if they were as silky as they looked...

I curse and roll over, burying my face in the silky cover of my pillow. You'd think after the way I'd been sent packing with my tail between my legs by my furious date, I wouldn't be up for anything other than collapsing into bed and falling asleep. Apparently my frustrated body had other ideas.

A moan escapes me as the movement of my hips grinds my half-erect cock into my mattress. I did my best to keep it wordless, but my lips shaped themselves around that damned name despite my best efforts.

"Aya..."

I suppose I should be grateful he's got such a feminine name. At least my dates hadn't clued in to the fact that it was a man, not another woman, who had possessed me with something perilously close to obsession. My reputation was intact, if a little ragged around the edges.

God dammit, I didn't even like the man! He'd rubbed me the wrong way since the day he'd first joined Weiss. He'd disrupted the easy camaraderie between Omi, Ken and I, coolly inserted himself into the position of undeclared 'leader' without consulting any of us, and nearly driven us all insane with his unwavering obsession with destroying Takatori. The way he was stringing Sakura-chan along was inexcusable, and the cruelty with which he'd treated Omi when the boy discovered his heritage was criminal.

And beyond all that, was the fact that I just was not attracted to guys in general! I was hardly what you'd call homophobic - homosqueamish, maybe. I mean, if that was what got your motor running, fine with me. Just leave me out of it!

Oh, I knew what people said about me. That I was blatantly in denial. They'd been saying it all my life. Hell, the mere suspicion of it was what drove my father to kick me out of my home when I was fifteen. I'd even wondered about it myself, once upon a time. I spent two months making myself watch the guys around me, instead of flirting with the girls. I learned that while I could objectively appreciate the beauty of some of those guys, the thought of bedding them - or being bedded by them - left me cold. So I returned to my girls, and never looked back.

Until now. Until a certain tightass redhead caught my body's attention with a strength beyond anything I'd ever felt before, even for Asuka. And frankly, it scared me shitless.

And what the hell was I supposed to do about it, anyway? Ask him for a date? Get him drunk and confess my feelings? Seduce him, for crying out loud?

Let's be generous. Let's assume he's interested in guys. Let's even assume he's interested in guys like me. Unlikely, given the way I seem to irritate him without even trying, but hey, I'm being generous here.

Even assuming all of that, I still didn't have a snowball's chance with him. He was a man with a mission, and he would pursue that mission to the exclusion of all else. Including - no, especially - personal relationships.

And who the hell was I to try to interfere with that determination? We'd all learned about what happened to his family, to his sister. Who could blame him for withdrawing that way?

So where does that leave me? I don't like him and don't want a relationship with him, and wouldn't have a chance of one even if I did. It was just screwy hormones. What's the cure for a bad case of lust?

Get it out of your system.

Well, shit. That led me right back to square one. I've got about as much chance of getting him into my bed as I did of convincing Ken to never touch a soccer ball again.

No chance, no hope, no way. Forget about it. Better yet, forget about him, and do it quick. Before he realizes something's going on.

Easier said than done.

All right, take it one step at a time. The skill of tackling problems in pieces was what had made me a good enough P.I. to attract Kritiker's notice. So, break it down. What's the first problem that needs to be solved?

My body answered that one fast enough. All this thinking about him had left me in a pretty uncomfortable state, as usual.

Well, the solution for that problem has been known since the dawn of mankind. I roll over and kick off my sheets, exposing my skin to the cool night breeze from the window. I was already sensitized enough for that alone to send a thrill of arousal through my system.

I moan again, and this time I at least managed to keep his name out of it. That's a good start. Let's keep it that way.

Building fantasies is sort of a specialty of mine. Despite my playboy reputation, I end up partying with Mother Thumb and her four daughters more often than not. It was sort of a point of pride that I never indulged in the same fantasy twice, at least not once I got over Asuka. Keeps my mind sharp, and keeps the boredom at bay.

Blonde tonight? No, my disastrous date had been blonde. Brunette, then. Sable hair, dark as sin, falling in waves to her shoulders. Flashing fire in sapphire eyes, passion just waiting to be unleashed. Full, pouty lips accentuated by high cheekbones, pale skin like a china doll. Sweetly rounded breasts, just big enough to cup in my hands. Trim waist, not anorexic but slender, and nicely curvaceous hips. Lush and lovely, just the way I like 'em.

Once I have the image firmly in mind, I close my eyes and let myself slide into the fantasy. The fingertips sliding along the skin of my chest weren't my own large, calloused ones, but her slender soft digits, touching and teasing in all the right places. I can see the seductive intent in her azure eyes, feel her body brushing against mine, as she sets to torturing my nipples. I'm one of those guys who could very nearly get off just from having my nipples played with enough, and she seemed determined to try.

I arch up off the bed, offering myself. She accepts the offering like the goddess she is, taking all I have and more. One hand was sliding down to explore lower territories, and she leans over to brush her hair teasingly over the sensitive skin on my chest. Slitting my eyes open, I can almost see the fiery locks, looking even more crimson than usual against my gaijin-pale skin as he dips his head to suckle at one nipple...

My eyes fly open and I wrench my hands away from my body, cursing. Where the hell did that come from? Was the man going to invade my conscious fantasies now? Was he not satisfied with occupying my every dreaming moment? Was there no escaping him?

I'm panting lightly, a sheen of sweat on my body evaporating rapidly into the night air, leaving me chilled and yet feverish at the same time. No way am I going to be able to roll over and go to sleep now, not after working myself up that way. But there was also no way in hell I was going to submit to fantasizing about him!

Try again. Honey-dark hair, just a few shades lighter than my own, in a short pageboy style cut. It should make her look masculine, but the pixie-like features of her face save her. Elfin cheekbones, pointed chin; eyes slightly slanted upwards, green as the leaves in the rainforest. A perfect match for me - we'd look stunning together. The rest of her body follows the pixie image - small, slender and spritely, few curves but a strong impression of femininity. Mischief seeps from every pore and sparkles deep in her eyes.

She'd be a teaser, for sure. Licking slowly over the column of my neck, then blowing on the wet spots, raising goose bumps on my skin. Running feather-light fingertips over my chest and stomach, down over my thighs and back up over the hips, circling but never quite touching where I need it most. Sliding up to straddle my thighs, throwing her head back and looking like a wild wood nymph, summoned forth from her tree for my passion.

Though my subconscious knows that it's my own hands doing the stroking, the teasing, the image is so real to me that I can inhale deeply and catch her scent, the sweet, heady perfume of roses and musk, a deep, earthy scent that will always be associated in my mind with Aya...

Ah, gods! I'm doing it again! For the second time I clench my fists in the sheets, panting harder now. My entire body is tingling in anticipation, cock rock-hard and dripping with sticky precum, demanding that I grant it the friction it so desperately needs. But I will not jerk off with Fujimiya Aya in my head!

For the third time I turn my mind to my fantasy. For the third time the image arises. Platinum blonde hair, so light it's silver, gleaming in the moonlight, plummeting to her waist in a straight, silken waterfall. Blue-grey eyes like the center of a storm cloud, and just as turbulent and volatile. Voluptuous body, the kind you see in the centerfolds of dirty magazines, but held proudly, not tarnished with shame. She's direct and to the point - she knows I'm close to the edge, and she wants to see me writhe in ecstasy beneath her.

Slender fingers wrap around my cock, sliding slowly up and down, letting the pearlescent drops that have already formed lubricate the motion. I muffle a sharp cry against the corner of my pillow as her other hand finds its way further down, teasing briefly over my balls before smoothly inserting one finger deep inside my body. I tense and squirm away from the invasion, then stifle a gasp and push back against it as the finger finds that magic spot deep within me.

One thing I had decided during my boy-watching phase was that even if I wasn't interested in having sex with one of them, there was no reason they should get a monopoly on the pleasure afforded by this deep stroking! It didn't make me an uke, just a hedonist. Right?

She murmurs low in her throat, voice husky with passion, and for a second, it almost sounds like his voice. But I force it away, unwilling and unable to withdraw from the fantasy now, when I'm so close to the edge. Deliberately I imagine her voice sliding up the octaves, until she's whispering dirty nothings into my ear in a sweet soprano.

Triumphant, I open my eyes and find myself drowning in the violet of her gaze, that soft colour that could be so frozen and hard most of the time, but that I just knew would melt into vibrant pools of purple if I could just get through that frozen shell...

By the time I realize what's happening, it's too late. The fingers sliding into and out of my body are his, only his, and all I can see is his whipcord body looming over me. That intense look on his face, the one he gets just before he goes into a mission, only this time it's focused on me. His strong hand wrapped around my shaft, pumping and sliding and driving me to the edge with precise, measured strokes. He's as fanatically controlled in this as everything else, but I fancy I can see a crack in that perfect mask, a hint of passion and desire showing through, lust for me breaking down his barriers.

Ah, hell. If I'm not going to have a choice in my fantasy lover, I might as well enjoy it. I throw myself into the dream, imagining those thin, sensual lips parting to utter things I would never hear him say in real life. He urges me on, telling me how sexy I look, how fantastic my face is as I near orgasm, how much seeing me like this, hovering on the edge and panting beneath him, turns him on. How he wants to take his fingers away and thrust into me, driving into me and filling me with him and only him, until there wasn't room in me for anything or anyone else.

The stroking fingers still, and I cry out, bereft. That dark chocolate voice slides over my skin, demanding my complete surrender, ordering me to beg for what I want. And I do. Oh, how I beg.

"Oh, Aya, gods, take me, fuck me, suck me dry... Aya, I want you, only you, only ever you I swear... Aya, please, please, I can't take it any more! Let me go, let me come, please, oh, Aya..."

And it's enough, and he starts moving again. My hips are pistoning upwards now, no longer under my control, driving my cock into that tight tunnel formed by his hand, thrusting my ass harder against the invading fingers. Once, twice, three times - and I scream, unable to control it, forgetting in my passion to muffle the sound in my pillow.

"Oh, gods, AYA!"

The fantasy continues, as I slowly come down from an earth-shattering climax. He leans over me, face soft and words tender, stroking my chest and stomach and thighs, leaning down to taste the residue of my passion, eyes half-closed with pleasure that he could reduce me to such a shivering wreck.

And then, though I try with all my might to hold on to it, the phantasm begins to fade. First I lose his scent, then his touch becomes my own fingers against my sticky flesh. I forget just how his face looked, open and expressive in passion, how the scarlet flame of his hair looked and felt against my skin. I can't remember exactly what colour his eyes had been as he watched me come.

And it was gone. And I was alone, as I had always been, as I always would be. Stomach and fist coated in a rapidly cooling mess of my own making, tears leaking over my cheeks despite my best efforts to stop them. And all I can think of is how pathetic I am like this, how completely unworthy of him. Even if he were attracted to men, even if he were free to love, he would never chose me. Never.

Grimacing, I force myself out of the bed. A heavy lassitude pervades my limbs, and I want nothing more than to fall asleep, but I know if I don't clean up I'll only ruin my sheets and regret it in the morning. Thankfully it's late enough at night that no one will see me in my bathrobe, traipsing down the hall to the bathroom to erase the evidence of my indiscretion.

I shove open my door and stalk into the hallway, mood hovering somewhere between foul and melancholy. I turn towards the bathroom - and freeze.

He's standing there, in the hall, just inside the living room. For a moment I almost think I'm imagining him again, but the scowl on his face tells me this is no dream quickly enough. What the hell is he so pissed off about, anyway...

My eyes widen despite my best efforts to keep my face neutral. Oh, gods. Oh fuck! He heard me. I'd forgotten to bury my face in the pillow at the end, and gods know I'd never been quiet during orgasm. I vaguely remembered shouting out his name - and he'd been awake, probably getting a glass of water from the kitchen, and there was no way he could have missed hearing me. I felt my heart stop in my chest.

For a long moment we just stand there staring at each other, and for one crazy second, I feel hope rising wild in my heart. He hadn't said anything, he wasn't declaring his disgust, or renouncing me as a pervert... maybe, just maybe...

Hope dies as quickly as it was born as he shifts forward, coming more into the dim light of the hall. His eyes are as cold as slivers of ice, nearly bled of all colour in his fury. The look on his face is one of pure rejection, and there is disgust somewhere in there, I'm sure of it. He stalks by me without a word, without even turning to look at me or really acknowledging my presence in any way. In a way, it's almost a relief that he's said nothing. His obsession is working in my favour for once - he won't do or say anything that might upset the team dynamic, that might render us unable to work effectively together. So long as I don't say anything about it, I know that he never will.

Still I'm frozen in place in the hallway, probably looking utterly absurd in my green bathrobe, smelling of sex and trembling from the force of his glare. Only when he pauses at his door do I move, and then I do the most stupid thing I possibly can - I turn to look at him.

He's standing rigid in his open doorway, and I swear the look in his eyes drops the ambient temperature of the hall about twenty degrees. "Don't. Ever." The words are clipped and precise, piercing as deep as his katana, as he intended them to. Then he's gone, door closing behind him with a finality that speaks even louder than his words.

No hope, no chance, no way. Not with Asuka, and not with him. Trying to convince myself that the tight feeling in my chest isn't the beginning of a broken heart, I make my way to the bathroom, clean myself up quickly, and hastily tuck myself back into my bed.

There, the tears come at last, despite my best efforts to hold them at bay, and I cry myself to sleep, feeling like a fool. Alone, always alone.

I can think of few things more horrifyingly embarrassing than screaming out the wrong name on orgasm. This is definitely one of them.

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