Author: the blanket PM
SasuSaku. M. That night, and every night, Sasuke deconstructs her like a prism—spreads her apart with his long limbs, his thin fingertips, until she’s splayed out and open with all her colors ready for his perusal.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance - Sasuke U. & Sakura H. - Words: 900 - Reviews: 31 - Favs: 85 - Follows: 9 - Published: 12-24-08 - Status: Complete - id: 4740674
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
title: the rainbow
summary: That night, Sasuke deconstructs her like a prism—spreads her apart with his long limbs, his thin fingertips, until she's splayed out and open with all her colors ready for his perusal.
for: Everyone reading this, basically? This is a universal gift!fic. :)
warnings: Language. Sex. Yeah. It's not dark, but uh…yeah. I don't know. Not for kiddies!
notes: This is as close as I will ever get to writing a lemon. Probably. It's a Christmas gift, but there are no trees here. I did, however, manage to fit in a wreath. :D
Freaking hell, I swear I will write something happier for them, though this isn't very sad…per se. It's just…very aptly rated M?
Happy Holidays, all!
disclaimer: Naruto does not belong to me. Woe.
They fuck to forget.
Later, when she slips into his open window, he thinks for a moment that she's still wearing that mask. Her face is all white porcelain, and red-claw marks, two eyeholes for sanity's sake—he thinks perhaps that she pretends.
It's an act, he thinks she thinks—like following a script. I am a performer and I am a spectator. I watch. I do not commit. Like any seasoned veteran, she's distanced herself from the life she leads for necessity's sake. She can't work if she can't sleep, and if she can't sleep, she comes to him.
Sakura paints herself red for him, slips into a different skin: a walking abattoir in shades of white of black of gray (and tiny spots of green to see).
Her hair dries a mottled brown, and there are streaks of it, like dye—like death, like dying—on her face, and she doesn't wipe them down until the after.
He likes her best that way—unwashed and calloused and unbearably human. The sinews in her muscle move slickly under the white veneer of her pale skin. Her eyes are shuttered, her lashes sticky with another man's lifeblood.
She flies apart in his arms that night—once, twice, three times—face-down and neck heavy with a wreath of yellow-green bruises.
That night, and every night, Sasuke deconstructs her like a prism—spreads her apart with his long limbs, his thin fingertips, until she's splayed out and open with all her colors ready for his perusal. He knows she comes to avoid sleep, to avoid dreams—knows she comes to break up and fall down.
Her body is his canvas—far more malleable than that common man's paper, he thinks derisively—and always, he starts with her back.
Her spine curves out—curves in—like an archer's bow. There's a hollow at the small of her back. He dips his tongue there, licks a line straight up, until his breath falls on the back of her neck. There's a spot of dried blood, marring the cold smoothness of her flawless skin.
He bites hard enough to mark her, nips and soothes in alternate strokes until he is certain that there will be a blue-black circle in place of the brown-blood he has just soaked in.
Sasuke knows without looking that her green eyes are shut, so he positions himself behind her, one of his hands molding her full breasts, her white thighs, before it slides up to her hip. She's wet enough by then, he thinks—knows she's dripping when his fingers come up slick, and she moans at the emptiness he's so good at leaving.
He fills her soundlessly, his eyes red and spinning, and she comes into his right hand, her eyes wide, pale pink mouth open in a silent scream.
Sakura fucks him so she forgets who she's ended that night—so the unseeing eyes stay shut behind her lids, so her lungs burn for air, instead of absolution. She fucks him to forget the men she couldn't mend, to banish the cries of newly-made orphans.
Sasuke fucks her to forget everything.
The next morning, Sakura brushes her lips against his brow, his neck, the crown of his head—presses a single open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his throat until his dark eyes fly open and she can feel him, hot and heavy, pressed against her stomach.
She draws herself up from the warmth at his side, knows that she will come again tonight, tomorrow, and every night after—knows just as well that his window stays open for her alone. For know, she'll fold herself up, and put herself together. Her white shirt is half-buttoned, and ripped at the seams, and her khaki shirt isn't any better. She ignores the twinge in her thighs, shoots him a dangerous look promising retribution for her aching thighs. The corners of his thin lips quirk up in a half-smile, far too light for what he has in mind. Sakura shivers, and flushes peach-pink, fixing him with a heady stare, before she leaves without a word.
Outside, the sun plays orange on her skin, burnt and rustic like wet clay. The bruises have faded to indigo.
Um. I don't actually know where this came from, but uh, tell me what you think anyway, yeah? :)
Happy Holidays, all!