WARNING!! The following story is rated NC-17, due to graphic sexual content.
I stand in my window, looking down at the courtyard. Watching him, as he sits on the stone bench, polishing his blade. Dressed only in jeans, his dark head bent over the deadly steel, stroking it with firm, deliberate movements. Idly, I wonder how many times I've watched him labor over that same task. In how many different lands, through how many different centuries and incarnations. And yet, I stand here, mesmerized by the sun's play over his back muscles as they flex and relax. As if I've never seen it before. As if I've never felt those same muscles moving under my hands.
He runs the cloth over the steel with a sure hand, and knowing him as I do, I know that he's not thinking of the tens of thousands of lives he's ended with that sword, or another like it. It would never enter his mind.
And, as I watch him, I try not to think of it either. Because then I might be forced to rationalize my place in his life. I might have to account, to myself at the very least, for the fact that not only do I accept what he is, but that I also become what he wants. Over and over again. Just to keep him near me.
Kronos is my addiction. My drug of choice. My curse. And my salvation. My raison d'etre, if you will. I fight it off and on, have done so for millenia. But, I always come back. Always.
I feel my pulse inevitably quicken as he pauses in his work to stretch. He sits up straight and rolls his shoulders, and...gods...he's so fucking beautiful. I run my hand over my own bare chest, but what I feel is the softness that curls around his nipples. The solid, warm strength of him. I know the powerful feel of his heartbeat under my palms. I know how his nipples harden when I kiss them.
His skin shines with sweat, and I swallow, almost able to taste him. I rub my stomach hard in a vain effort to still the spasms as he reaches for a bottle and upends it, letting the icy water run down over his head.....along his throat....down his body. I want so badly to run my mouth over him, to lick away the drops that are clinging to his belly.
Laying the blade aside, he stretches out to lie on his back along the bench, and I'm lost. My fingers are clumsy, but I don't look away from him, and finally am able to open my jeans. His hand lies splayed across his groin, but I feel it close around my cock, and it's hard to breathe. I watch the rise and fall of his chest as he lies there in the heat of the day, and I reach down to cup my balls as my other fist works furiously.
Even from this distance, I can see his tongue dart out to lick the water from his lips, and my fevered brain draws that mouth around me. Feels its warmth sucking on my cock as it fills and stretches and crawls desperately down his throat.
I'm panting now, my heart's banging against my chest, my gut is clenching, my dick jumps against my hand, and I'm climbing...climbing...
He knows, of course. And when he calmly opens his eyes and they lock onto mine, I come like a freight train. Over my hands, onto my jeans, splattering on the stone floor. As my legs threaten to give way, I sag against the cool glass of the window, and he smiles.
I hate him. I do. I do.