Hormones

In the end, it's really all about hormones. You can kid yourself as much as you want, tell yourself that you're only attracted to certain types of people, even convince yourself for a while that you have control over your own wants and desires. After all, it's your body, right? If you have the willpower, you can control it, right?

Wrong. As I'm learning to my detriment. Sometimes it's not about love, or even like. Sometimes it's not about types, or attraction, or feelings. Sometimes it's just about sweaty, primal lust... pheromones, hormones, all of it conspiring against you to shatter your illusions about yourself. When your eyes meet theirs, and something deep in your gut tightens, sending heat flooding through your body, bringing you to full attention with just a look... THAT is lust, desire in its purest, most potent form. And there's not a god damned thing you can do about it.

In those sappy romance books, this kind of intense physical reaction would be a sign of 'true love'. Bullshit... it's physical, plain and simple. Love doesn't factor into it. I didn't believe in this kind of 'lust at first sight', anymore than I believed in 'love at first sight'... until it happened to me.

I lie here in the bed, struggling with my own body, and all I can think about is him. Schuldig. The name is synonymous in my mind with 'cocky, arrogant son of a bitch'. I hate him so much I can taste it. But I also want him so badly it hurts.

What is it about him that draws me so much? He's gorgeous, yeah, but I've known plenty of gorgeous people, male and female. And most of them have far more appealing personalities. Why HIM? What is that one indefinable difference, the quality that makes my body scream with want whenever he's near?

If he were anybody else, I'd just proposition him and work it out of my system. Need this strong doesn't last past the first few encounters... otherwise you'd burn up in the sheer heat of it. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd agree; whatever it is about him that resonates within me, surely I must strike a similar chord in him. For every action, there is a reaction, and all that.

But he's not anybody else, he's Schuldig. He of the infuriating smirk, the man single-handedly responsible for the vast majority of the current enmity between Weiss and Schwartz. If my teammates ever knew I was even thinking about him this way, they'd probably string me up as a traitor. At this point, I'm halfway past caring. If it would get me one night with him, I'd probably do it.

Gods damn him, anyway. I hope he IS suffering the same way, wanting me just as badly. It's only fair. I groan and roll over on the bed, giving in to the inevitable. I'm not going to get any sleep tonight unless I get rid of some of this tension, and there's only one sure way to do that.

I'm already strung so tight I could have just reached down and finished myself with a few good, hard strokes. But I choose to take it slower, stretching it out, teasing myself until I reach the breaking point. The longer it takes to reach the peak, the more satisfying the release will be... and the longer it will hopefully be before he starts dominating my thoughts again.

The window is open, letting the cool night air blow into the room. I kick off the sheets, feeling the soft cotton slide against my skin like a lover's caress. A tired metaphor, but in my current state of mind, EVERYTHING comes back to sex. The breeze wafts over me, stirring the hairs on my body, making me moan softly. The others should be asleep by now... I don't have to worry too much about making noise, so long as I'm not screaming Schuldig's name at the top of my lungs.

And it WILL be him that I'm thinking of... I know that from experience now. I slide my fingers down over my chest, not even fighting the thoughts anymore. It feels too damn good to indulge myself. To imagine his long, slender fingers touching me, tracing my nipples, pinching at them to bring them to full attention. He's got those kind of hands that you just know are amazingly nimble and quick, and I'm sure he knows how to use them.

And his hair, dear gods, that glorious hair... I've always had a thing for long hair, but his is just out of this world. In the dark, lit from behind by soft flickering candlelight, I bet it would glow like spun strands of fire. I wonder if it's as soft as it looks, if it would drag over my skin like the most expensive kind of silk, soft and supple. If I close my eyes I can see him, straddling my waist, just high enough on my body to deny me the friction I need so badly. Leaning over me, his hair trailing across my chest and throat as he bends down to whisper rough, dirty words in my ear.

That voice... sounds like it was made for the bedroom. All smoke and sex and deep, shivery roughness. I can hear it now, I have no trouble imagining him saying those things. 'Kudou, I'm going to make you come so hard you'll think you'll never be able to come again, 'cause you used it all up in one shot. Then I'm going to prove you wrong... again... and again... and again... until you beg me to stop because it's just too fucking much. When I'm done with you, you'll be ruined for anyone else, because nobody else can make it feel this good.'

I'm already ruined for anyone else. All I can think of is him. Even the others have noticed that I'm not flirting as much or as well as I used to. Until I get this all-consuming fire out of my system, I don't think I'll be able to muster interest for anything less.

I pinch my nipples harder, enjoying the slight pain as a counterpoint to the pleasure. I slide one hand down over my stomach, tracing the soft line of hair there, leading down further into more enticing ground. I picture him watching, sitting in the chair in the corner, legs spread just slightly, his cock standing tall and proud with desire. Desire for me. His intense blue eyes would sparkle in the dim light, hypnotic like the stare of a big hunting cat, pinning me in place on the bed.

Not that I want to move. Dear gods, no. I want to show off, to make him as hot as I am, to drive him into stroking his own cock for relief. That's how I would win this battle... a battle fought not with wires and guns, but with words and touches. If I could make him break down, come before me, I would win.

I stretch, lanky body arched against the dark sheets in a way that I know shows me off to perfection. I know he's not really there, watching, but just the thought of it makes my cock jump with arousal.

Now that wandering hand finds the object of its search, and I hiss through my teeth as my fingertips stroke the sensitive skin along the shaft. I picture him leaning forward, eyes fixed intently on my hand as it slides slowly up and down along the length of my cock. I apply increasing pressure with each stroke, wrapping my fingers around it to get the best sensation.

I brush my thumb against the tip, drawing another involuntary moan from my throat. I'm already liberally covered in precome, have been pretty much since the first moment I saw him tonight. That's what it felt like, anyway. I rub my thumb into it, sliding around and around the tip until my hips jerk up in reaction. I wish it was his hand, his fingers. I wish I knew what it felt like to bury myself in his mouth, to feel him swallow me whole and suck me dry.

Words burst from me, soft murmurs that will travel no farther than my own ears, and the ears of my non-existent watcher. "Gods, Schuldig, fucking hell, you make me so hot I can't stand it. I want to fuck you, I want to BE fucked by you, I don't fucking care, I just WANT you. Please, touch me, put your hands on me, I ache for the touch of you."

But he's not here, he can't touch me. So in my mind, he just smirks that damn smirk and leans back in the chair, stroking himself lightly. It's more of a teasing gesture, bringing my attention to exactly what I'm missing. 'What makes you think you deserve my touch, Kudou? You have to earn it first. Give me a good show, and I'll teach you what 'ecstasy' really means.'

I whimper, my head thrashing against the pillows. I draw one knee up and spread my legs so that I'm open to him, everything revealed to his eyes. I stroke myself a little faster, hot sparks of pleasure jumping from my groin to all the rest of the nerves in my body, making my breath catch and my body writhe. My cock is hard and rigid, dark with the blood straining inside it. I open my eyes so I can see it, watch my hand flying along it, and the sight makes me moan again.

The muscles in my gut tighten, and I feel the beginning of the end coming. The hot, musky smell of male rut permeates the air, an intoxicating scent that always drives me crazy. In my more hedonistic moments, like this one, I wish I had a mirror above my bed so I could see myself... wanton and wanting, spread out in a non-verbal plea, back arched with pleasure and need.

My other hand abandons my nipples, going down to fondle my sac, cupping it and tugging it gently away from my body. That makes me gasp, panting for air as my body fights to reach completion. I slow my hand, rubbing over my cock just hard enough that I can feel every ridge in the skin, just hard enough to pleasure without satisfying. My thumb goes back to the tip, pressing over the slit before sliding down to stroke the big vein on the underside. I'm close, so close I can taste it... forget stamina, when it comes to him there is only pure lust so strong it drives me over the edge before I know it. Stamina is for the second or third go-around.

'Good,' that husky voice whispers in my mind. 'Very good, kitten. Now come for me, show me how bad you want me. I want to see it spread all over your chest.'

I release my balls, bringing that hand up quickly to stifle my final shouts as I tumble over the edge into whitewashed oblivion. I've never come as hard as I do when I think about him... what would it be like to be with him for real? I don't think I would survive the experience... but fuck, I can think of worse ways to go.

My cock twitches as it pumps semen onto my chest, my hand still stroking gently in time with the spurts, milking every last drop from my body. I really do feel empty, like I've come hard enough to totally deplete myself. And as I come back to awareness, I realize there is indeed a mess on my chest, cooling against my skin; visual proof of my need for a certain snarky, redheaded German asshole.

I hate him with every fibre of my being; for what he's done to me, to us, just for what he IS. I hate him... but dearest gods, I would give anything to have him, even for just one night.

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