Ludwig had always been a man of control.

His life was completely structured and organized; everything he did had a reason, every minute of time was planned out, rules and regulation were always set. From the instant he woke up to the moment he returned to bed, his day was scheduled, and the schedule was obeyed. There was no room for deviation; the stern German would take no exceptions.

He was in control.

Control of his life, control of his time, and control of his body. He would work out every day, shaping his body the way he wanted it to be, pushing himself to the limit so he knew exactly what he could do. He read and he studied, learning all he could so he would always be prepared for whatever life would put in front of him.

The German was hard-working and organized, but this left the man with very little free time. He had meetings to attend, papers and reports to write and file, and countless issues to resolve. Even the small amounts of leisure time he found himself with were pre-planned and filled with playing catch-up on any work he had fallen behind on.

And any moment of true leisure time he could catch would be spent reading the newspaper or walking his dogs, occasionally baking a cake or decorating candies.

He was hard-working, he was prepared, he was strong; Ludwig was a man of control.

But every man had faults and weaknesses; and Ludwig was no exception.

He was a man of control, but control was not always the best thing. He had so many pent up frustrations, so many bottled emotions—many of which he wasn't even aware he had—and so much spare energy building up inside of him. Working out had helped to alleviate some of the tension; and if exercise didn't seem to work, the German had a wide variety of DVDs to let off some steam.

Even then, hard work and guilty pleasure weren't enough. He would still find himself restless, disgruntled, and unpleased; something was still held back and causing the blond all kinds of headaches.

Tension would build up. And sometimes…

…Ludwig would just snap.

Some days it would be him surrendering to the relentless affections from the Italian.

The constant kisses, the hugs (no matter if he was clothed or not), the handholding, the touches; there was only so much the strong German could resist before something snapped and he let loose. Sometimes it was in the bedroom, other times in the office, and even occasionally outside in the hallway during breaks between meetings.

And other days it would be him to take the initiative.

Thoughts that would keep him distracted at work would grow too vivid and too lewd to ignore; he would find the Italian—usually on the couch taking a siesta or in the kitchen making pasta—and make sure that his thoughts were made clear. Kissing his neck down to shoulders, hands trailing up his sides while hot breath whispered past an ear, hands clasped and hips pressed against each other; it never took the Italian long to catch on, and lucky for Ludwig, the brunet was usually very willing to comply.

Sometimes he would waste no time, slamming the Italian against the wall, ripping shirts open, lips on lips before any protests could be uttered; hands would pump and hips would thrust, forcing the Italian to ecstasy under his relentless and demanding touch.

And then on other occasions he would take his time. Almost painfully slow as hands brushed and tongue tasted the delicious Mediterranean skin. He took satisfaction in making that body squirm and moan under his touch, making that alluring voice beg for more, driving the man to the edge of release over and over again until the Italian couldn't stand it any longer.

Marks would be drawn across skin; sucking hard until the flesh was red, sometimes with sharp nips to shoulders and thighs, other times with nails drawing down chests and backs. He owned the body beneath him; the marks were his own personal stamp, visual proof of what was his. The squeaks and gasps only spurred him on, driving him into frenzy, wanting to take so much more.

And skin would be worshipped at times; with kisses to every part his lips could reach, fingers trailing gently across a spine and drawing circles over hips. Hands would press all of the Italian's most sensitive spots; the sweet moans he received were all he needed to reach a high, and the man's mere scent was all he needed to cover his mind in a pleasant haze of bliss.

Sometimes he would take control with knots; hands tied together, blindfolds over eyes, gags between teeth, leaving Ludwig free to take what he wanted, do whatever he pleased. He could let loose and enact any fantasy he pleased, let loose of any restraint he had, and no one could tell him otherwise.

And then sometimes he would take control himself. Hands would be clasped together, fingers intertwined, lips on lips, every intimate connection only making the pleasure greater. He was in control, but he was in control to share, to make the Italian feel as good as he did, to bring them both to the edge together.

And sometimes…

Well, actually, most of the time, when the cloud of lust slowly left his mind after he had been satisfied, Ludwig would feel…

…guilty.

He had lost control, deviated from his scheduled, acted out unexpectedly. He was showing his weakness, something he had so dearly tried to hide underneath layers of control. Showing something no one was meant to see, being so lost in a feeling that he would just let go of everything…and worse of all, taking someone along with him?

However, most of the time, the Italian would merely laugh at his mumbled apologies, telling him in his cheerful manner that it was okay to lose control once in a while.

And sometimes, Ludwig supposed...it was okay to lose control.