Leen says: It's yaoi. Bad language and naughty thoughts, baby. You have been warned. And I know, it's been done who knows how many times before, I just wanted to do it again, is that such a bad thing?

Disclaimer: Imagine how frightening it would be if they were mine. Luckily, they're not.

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Part 1

I hate Sakuragi Hanamichi.

I hate that he keeps messing up games, I hate that he seeks attention that is rightfully not his, I hate that he boasts things that he has no right to boast, I hate that he keeps calling himself a tensai, I hate his stupid red hair, I hate his stupid song, I hate everything there is about him.

And I hate that I want to fuck his brains out.

It is really much of a surprise if I do? Have you seen him? Really seen him, up close and personal? He's just so alive, every inch of his body bursting with spirit and fire, so much so that he screams to be tamed. "Look at me. I'm Sakuragi Hanamichi. I live for me. No one owns me. No one controls me."

And he's got an unbelievable body. Trust me on this, I've been close enough to it more times than I can count.

Surprised? Thought I hated him? Well, you're right on that account. I do hate him. I still want to fuck him, too.

It just happened one day, it's not like I'd bother to remember when, during some practice or the other when my own body just woke up and said, "Hey, Rukawa, check out the do'aho. Severely fuckable, isn't he?" I'd never ever gotten that hard that fast before. It hurt and I had to ease it quick, so that was the start of Rukawa Kaede's "bladder problem".

And life has been hell ever since.

Not that he would notice, the stupid prick.

He doesn't know that the reason I provoke him every day is to get those precious moments of when his attention is all mine, stealing those seconds to lock away in my head for usage later when alone in bed, or in the shower, or whenever I get hard in my pants which is rather often, curse the libido of an athletic sixteen-year-old male.

Nor does he know that when he undresses after practice I inch imperceptibly closer to him just to inhale his scent, or that it takes every ounce of my self-control to prevent myself from jumping him in the showers, or that I have had more cold showers in the past few months that the rest of my life altogether.
He doesn't know how much I want to taste him, own him and ruin him.

I'm afraid that one day I'll lose my control, be it during practice, or in school or in a goddamned game, and then he'd finally be able to experience first-hand all these lusts I've clamed up inside me. It does seem promising, as finally living out what I've coveted might finally free myself from these demons that seem intent on keeping me permanently horny.

But no, I won't. I know that if I cross that line and there'd be no turning back, and I cannot simply walk away from the do'aho, because I can't imagine cutting off my visual supply of him, delicious little smut machine that he is.

So I shall suffer. You play your little games, do'aho. Do your stupid antics, laugh all your like. I'll just stay right here watching you quietly from beyond the safetyline, keeping your screams for mercy nothing more than fantasies in my head.

The things I do for you, you ungrateful bastard.