I want him.
God above, I can't stand the way I feel just when I look at him. I feel like my heart grows heavy. I know it's lust, only lust. This inescapable feeling I get when I think of him makes me weak. These fantasies just don't go away.
Closing my eyes, I can see him there, touching the me in my imagination. Making the imaginary me cry out of pleasure. Touching and teasing and laughing at my eager mewls. In my mind, he's the perfect lover. Someone willing to taunt me and not let me come until I beg, beg, beg for it. He delights in my taste, in my sounds, in the feel of me beneath him. Denial makes the affirmative all the more powerful. There's nothing like being told no, no, until finally, finally, you reach it. Those waves of pleasure crash down on your shaking body, making you gasp. The ultimate le petit morte, little death. You shudder, your body pulled taut like a bowstring, until all it takes it a single pluck of his skilled fingers to send you flying again. I imagine him being my first.
And I hate it. I hate him for having this hold on me.
But worst of all, I curse this imagination. Because, really, it's not like I know. I don't know that he can grant me this. After all, I don't really know him.
This me, the one who yearns to be touched, no one can see it. For another to know this part of me, it's too humiliating. But it's what I crave. This is what I want. More than breath, more than life, I want it.
I want him.
I want to run my fingers through his hair while I ride him. I want him to lick me. I want him to love me. Fuck me. Take me. Dammit! I want his arms around me. I want him to possess me. I want him to want to possess me. I want him to know all of me. These yearnings, I want him to know them, too. Before he ever finds out, I want him to love me. But please, there's no way, no possible way he could even notice these feelings I have for him. And even if he did, he would only think I'm some silly girl. He already does.
There's no way I can compare to Kuchiki Rukia, either.
It's better this way. It's better to be alone. At least I have these dreams.
Yes. It's better. After all, nothing will be as good as what I imagine.
But jeez, this small sliver of who I am is so needy, so plaintive in it's cries that I cannot ignore. The other sides of me that love cooking, healing, my friends, and the part that loves to please others, are just as important, aren't they?
Please others…I want to please him too. I want his smile. I want to see him in that state too…desperate. Wanting. And I can't help the annoyed sigh that issues forth from my lips. Already, I'm imagining how he tastes, again. How his skin feels.
Why? Why do I want to immortalize something that's never even happened to me? Why do I have these dirty thoughts? Why can't I just ignore him, why can't I just let it go? But I know that I don't want to ignore him, ever. Five lifetimes and I'm still not closer to him. I'm so afraid that friends are all we ever will be.
I feel so needy, so wanting. I just want this to stop. I want myself back. I need to grab a hold of some sanity before I lose control. But control seems like such a far off ideal. This is Hueco Mundo, and it's madness seeps deep into me. This is Hueco Mundo, and I have no control here.
I can't help but seek relief. My hand trails down my body, rubbing my heated skin in a quest for my core. God, it's so good. I almost beg myself, pretending he's there to fulfill me. My fingers slide inside so easily. I'm far too wet, just from imagining his fingers, prying me open. And I can't stop the sounds. "Ahhh…"
Imaginary him and imaginary me have a lot of fun. Sticky with love, imaginary me sits on his lap, pushing him inside her, her back arching as he slides home. Wet sounds echo as she impales herself on him. Her arms wrap around his neck, one hand tangling in that bright orange hair of his, the other raking down his back as she kisses him. Imaginary him kisses her neck and sucks hard, leaving a mark to show his ownership of imaginary me. Real me, my fingers touch the spot where I wished he would claim me. Real me and imagined me bite our lower lip. We moan in time. And by then, both real and imagined are so close. Imaginary him puts his hand on my hip, moving his thumb to imaginary me's swollen clit. He leans back and watches me. I blush. It's embarrassing, and, nearly impossibly, it makes me wetter. His eyes are dark with passion as they look into mine. I imagine him whisper dirty things to me. And both real and imagined me shudder. We come.
In that instant, my imagination goes away. A blank slate again. Gone. My fingers are still pressed between my legs as I ride out the waves, my thighs clenching. My lip is red now, worried by my teeth and tongue. My face in the pillows, the rest of my body plops down on my side, no longer supported by my knees.
And then, I relax. My breath coming out even again, no more whimpers. I could go again. I want him so badly and don't stop wanting him ever. The distance only mocks me now.
But I don't. I think about less perverted things.
I think of dates and of happiness, and why love is such a silly thing. I think, "There is no way that I am in love with him. It's only lust."
But instantly I know it's not true. I know that out of all the people in this world, I love him the most. No matter how much I want it to only be lust, it's not. It's so much more complicated than that. Even after saying those goodbyes to him at his bedside while he slept, in my heart of hearts, I knew them to be true.
And that's the part that hurts the most.