Author: Rasengan22
A/N: Hm. I wrote this for a very special (genius) author friend, but it went in a different direction than I intended, so I will write her another one eventually.

Voyeur

I… don’t like this. This thing inside me that isn’t me. But it is me. This swelling tumor of frustration and helplessness that builds, ready to burst. The catalyst, the metaphorical scalpel being the sharp tension cast between us. So palpable, the bitter, seductive taste lingering on my tongue like lemons when I go to bed at night.

It’s you that does this to me.

And you feel it, too. I know. When we touch. When my hand secretly glides against yours as we pass in the crowded corridor at school, your fingertips alight with sparks like lightning, sending shivers down my spine. That thrill me. The smallest parts of you touching me, and my skin is suddenly alive and on fire for the rest of the afternoon.

It’s addicting, right?

Everything you encompass. The gentle sway of your jet black bangs recalls their shaggy texture as my fingers slide through them when we’re alone. The scent, the dance of moonlight across your smooth skin as it shimmies through the open blinds of my bedroom. My room still smells of fresh paint from the other day when you came to help me impulsively “remodel.”

That coy breeze when I leave the window cracked for you, waiting. In my bed; on my back. Counting the endless invisible stars on the ceiling like I’m counting down the seconds until you arrive. The window creaks as you lift it and crawl through, careful not to wake my guardian sleeping downstairs. His face covered by a sentimental paperback novel you would, no doubt, sneer at.

Dark, reflective eyes catch the moonlight, imprisoning it like a nightmare in a dream catcher. You’re a thoughtful specter as you float across the thin carpet, soundlessly until your knee rests on the edge of the bed. Bare arms, strong hands find home on either side of my shoulders, coolly waiting for a reaction. The orange t-shirt I’m wearing has ridden up to just above my belly button. The palm of your right hand presses down on the heated skin below, a daring pinky creeping under the waistband of my sweatpants. You’re always so quiet. You never say much of anything. I used to say a lot of things before we started this until I realized how pointless words were.

The end of your layered bangs tickle my nose, and I fight back the urge to sneeze. I see the smirk in your eyes before I notice the curl of your lip. You crawl on top of me, the collar of your navy blue shirt hanging low, and, shamefully, I visually devour the expanse of exposed skin. Except, then I close my eyes because your now warm hand skirts painfully slow up my trembling stomach, lightly tracing the muscles of my abdomen; skimming my side and teasing my ribs. I blush at the near squeak that escapes my mouth, but you chuckle; a low, rumbling against my body as you rest your forehead against the hollow of my breastbone. I can tell you’re taking in my smell, and it makes me smile wistfully. It’s the same satisfied sniff I give when I bury my face in newly laundered towels, scent fresh and bright. It’s a smell that makes me feel safe, and I have to wonder: Is that the way you feel now? Your nose pressed to my rumpled shirt as my fingers tangle willingly in your hair, combing through it while your hands are on either side of me, moist palms pressed to the ivory bed sheet.

There’s a sigh that escapes you. A breath incarcerated in your lungs, perhaps held hostage all day. Its bond is the mutual sanctuary we have together by way of this frumpy, antiquated brass twin bed with its wiggling head and broken footboard. Unlike you, I’m a sloppy sleeper. The sheets kicked long ago to the foot of the bed, and the deep blue cotton comforter already struggling to keep its place, like a passenger of a sinking luxury liner attempting to climb up the side of a lifeboat in rough, frigid waters.

I return the sigh you released as if it had merely passed through my skin, and desperate for its re-escape, it slips unheeded through my own lips. Good thing it was a quick and clever enough exhalation since your hand moves swiftly to cover my mouth. Perfect timing, too. Because when your tongue runs its course down the side of my neck, I moan into your hot palm. Your nose presses against my rapid pulse, and I squirm deliciously underneath your weight as you settle on top of me, between my legs. Our slim hips are aligned perfectly. You brace your weight with your raised elbows, nuzzling and biting at my ear.

A dog and its favorite chew toy, I think with an amused and lop-sided grin. I tell you this is what you remind me of. Your answer is a snort and an authoritative command.

“Take your shirt off,” you say gruffly and, without much argument despite your annoyingly commanding tone, I move easily to slip it over my head and throw it to the side with all the other dirty, discarded clothes lining the floor.

How good this feels.

Your own t-shirt is tugged up as you lower your body again, and this time the skin of our stomachs press together. This isn’t anything new for us, but it kills me every time. The first touch of our naked skin. And I can never express to you what I want in proper words, so instead of trying, I link my roughened, ruddy fingers together at the back of your slender neck and pull you into a deep kiss. Where my tongue is impetuous and abrasive, yours is sly and cunning, both teasing and punishing me for my impatience. You let me slide my tongue inside your mouth after nipping gently at your swollen bottom lip. Your talented tongue overlaps mine, licks under it. The building flame of passion kindling inside me explodes into something more furious and excitable. Your kisses are always like that, like adding wind to a brush fire. The flames begin to spread to every part of my body. Even the dirty beds of my blunt nails reverberate with the anticipation.

We’re young, you and me. Hormonal. It’s all still an experiment to us. Two rebellious, ironically opposite teenagers trying their best to act like they know what they’re doing. Instead of being the ones to guide our tempestuous urges, the urges guide us. You roll your hips against me, and I groan deeply and appreciatively into your open mouth. It encourages you, and so you do it again, shifting so that our groins rub directly together. It’s so good I have to pull out of our kiss and bite my lip. Shut my eyes tightly together like a kid in the dark who fears a monster in the closet. Your mouth travels to the dip of my collarbone, sucking, laving as your hand flattens on the side of my chest, a nipple caught between your index and middle finger. I shift under you as you rock your hips in a slow, drawn out movement, and I get what I want as your hand accidentally moves, coarsely scraping against my neglected nipple.

A light, late spring breeze kisses the heated skin of my front as you crawl off of me and move to sit on the edge of the mattress, smoothly removing your shirt, incidentally dislodging that otherwise perfectly asymmetrical emo haircut of yours. You turn your head, half of your features enshrouded in shadow, the other in a translucently opaque glow from the omnipresent moonlight. Three pieces of thick slanted bang cover your right eye. Spontaneously I bounce up on the bed to sit behind you, leisurely wrapping my tan arms around your waist and lodging my chin upon your shoulder.

You’re never one for cuddling or too much affection. And maybe neither am I. But you allow me to kiss your throat, and it strikes me that even though we’re both half naked… in my bed and with my guardian in the house… how innocent I feel in this moment. With you.

The thought is only in transit, however. A dazed tourist. I ignore it in favor of the present, gracing the strong line of your jaw with another couple chaste kisses. You have your head bowed in what may be deep contemplation, and I murmur inconsequential, silly things into your ear as I reach to unbutton the fastening of your jeans. You inhale sharply as my fingers touch your already burning skin, both of us tensing at the sound accompanying the lowering of your zipper. I can feel several of your muscles stiffen as my fingers remain there, teasing along the coppery-colored metal grooves. You turn your head swiftly, nearly knocking into my chin, but as that would have been clumsy (and you are never clumsy), of course you miss and instead manage to snag my bottom lip in your teeth and bite down. I groan huskily. And not that I meant to, but my fingers wiggle just enough inside the parted piece of denim to touch you.

I smirk at the way you jump because of the contact. The playful bite turns into another scorching, smoldering kiss as you shift your body, hips rising slightly off the bed, oddly excited at the stimulation barely out of reach. We haven’t ever gone all the way. We’ve never even discussed what happens outside of these private moments, but I’ve never been left unsatisfied by your visits. Brazenly, I let my hand work its way inside your pants, pressing my palm against the bulge inside your boxers. I rub you. Slowly. Up and down. Your tongue snakes into my mouth with the urgency of prey escaping a stalking predator. The comparison amuses me. Distracts me from your insistent tongue though my hand continues to move against you. Cupping you in a nearly possessive manner.

Your breath. My breath. They come in heavy pants. Warm like two humid, colliding fronts.

“Naruto…”

My eyes shut half way. You murmuring my name causes my hand to still. Only because it’s less a murmur and more of a broken groan against my chin. You catch yourself, biting and latching down onto my chin, body twisting. Just as I remove my hand, yours pushes at my bare shoulder, shoving me flat on my back. I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as you take off your jeans. I admire the skin that always reminds me of cream. Sometimes I taste it just to see if it’s as sweet. It’s not though. Your skin is something spicy and exotic, pungent with sweat and a growing, addicting musk. Much, much better than anything saccharine.

Your eyes tell me what you want. You climb back onto the bed, wasting no time as you hook your fingers under the waistband of my sweatpants, pulling them down. When they’re to the middle of my thighs, you stop to kiss the bit of hipbone exposed when my boxers got caught up with your tugging. I lift my hips, and you remove the sweatpants the rest of the way. You stop long enough to carefully fold them and place them on the corner of the bed, even though it’s highly likely I’ll kick them off in my clumsiness.

I barely have enough time to stretch out and smirk before you’re between my legs again, pushing the inside of my knees further apart to make room for yourself. So smug as my inner thighs hug your ribs, and you kiss at my lower stomach. I’m hard, and I can’t help but attempt to rub myself against your chest, desperate for more friction.

It’s like you don’t notice, but I know you do. You’re a bastard like that. Tortuously, unhurriedly kissing and licking slightly above the folded down waistband of my boxers, and I wonder if you mind that your tongue bisects a trail of coarse blond hair in the process. I arch my back, and you raise your slitted eyes to my equally heated, glossy gaze. It’s sexy as hell when you do that. Those dark, superior eyes filled with lust and satisfaction. I couldn’t hide how much you turn me on if I tried.

“Sasuke…” I groan at the touch of your lips as they trail further downward. It’s much more like a whine than when you say my name, but that’s the only way I can get you to acknowledge my need. Plus, I know you like it. That it lets you feel in control, and honestly, I don’t mind. So long as it’s you and your agile hands or tongue doing this to me, I don’t care how cocky you get.

Getting the message, you inch your way back up my body, darting sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along the way, the wet noises sending all kinds of shocks of pleasure to my crotch. You hook your arms under mine, right near my armpits, hands reaching around to find a better grip at the front of my biceps. This causes our hips to align more closely together. Only the slim fabric of two pairs of boxers separates us. But it’s still a bridge enough that we won't fool ourselves into thinking this is any more than it is.

What is this though? Nothing is the last thing this feels like.

“Aah…” My lips part, and I don’t have much time to react as your hips begin rocking down harder, in a steady rhythm. I can’t help but let my legs wrap around your waist, locking at the ankles. It doesn’t take too long before I’m rushing to meet your movements as we grind together.

A careless piece of my hair has glued itself to my forehead, which is covered in a light perspiration. You brush the fringes away with a fluid flick of the wrist, tugging me harder around the arms and forcing me to arch more against your body. I love how you feel against me, but I would never dare to tell you this. The flat, muscular plane of your front so slick and hard as we rub against each other mindlessly. My fingernails begin to claw down your back, starting at your shoulder blades. I dig deeper when you begin to thrust more violently against me. You grunt, suck on my neck and bite, whispering my name as well as other things that only turn me on even more.

I shut my eyes and let myself succumb to the intensity of such overwhelming emotions. I have to wonder if this is what a star feels like right before it goes supernova. The heat between us and my desire to cum--for you to cum with me--is like an excruciating build up so agonizing that it's as if I'm running the last few miles of a marathon on adrenaline alone. But you, like this, moving and rubbing against me, needing me, clinging to me like I’m your sole salvation. I pull you to me, rubbing my hand down your back and tracing the line of your bowing spine until I sneak it under your boxers to grab an ass cheek.

You groan, shove forward, and nearly cause me to be sucked into the center of the dipping mattress like a victim of a whirlpool. You rock some more, and I’m close. I bite my lip, nails digging into your flesh as your hand presses the side of my face and forces our mouths together in one last throbbing kiss that sends me over the edge. It’s all sloppy, awkward, and ineloquent as I cum in my boxers, shaking and writhing underneath you, squeezing your butt in both hands now like you’re not only my best friend and rival but a thing I need. In order to feel a certain completion and unrepentant elation.

You use me, too, as I’m coming down from my own orgasm, my body twitching spasmodically in spent pleasure, dazed eyes cracked open half way and blurred, my spotty vision doubled. You’re not far off as I look at you, the corners of your mouth tightened in concentration. Then your lips part a little, and you bite down on the left corner, muffling a determined groan as you give two hard jerks against my hips that set my eyes rolling to the back of my head. Suddenly the mess between our sweaty, heated bodies has multiplied.

We’re both panting, my breaths more evenly paced. Your face is lodged into the side of my neck, your hot breath overheating my already sensitive skin. Neither of us move. That would be painful. I realize my hands are still inside your shorts, gripping your ass. And so, with a sheepish, tired, half-grin, I retract them and place my limp arms at my sides. After a minute, I still want to touch you so I move a hand to the small of your back, rubbing mindless circles as your breathing evens out against my neck and you raise yourself up in order to look down into my face. Your cheeks are flushed red; saliva staining glossy, swollen lips. I merely grin up at you, because how can I not when I’m this happy and satisfied?

“Well?” I ask finally, feeling cocky and much like an explorer in deserving of acclaim because I navigated territory I usually did not trespass.

“Not bad,” you answer with a smirk, a puff of air escaping your mouth to blow stubborn bangs out of your sight. I brush them aside for you, tucking them snugly behind an ear. I leave my hand on your cheek, eyes roving over your face with reserved but genuine affection.

But the almost intimate moment is broken like a fragile teapot in the hands of a lumbering gorilla as you roll off of me, the rush of cool air creating goose bumps along the skin of my arms, stomach and legs. I wiggle onto my elbows, watching you. You work your way into your jeans even though I tell you you’re more than welcome to use the upstairs’ shower. In fact, we can even do it together, I suggest. Only half-joking.

You shake your head and smirk, mentioning something about having to get up early because of a test in the morning. As if we didn’t share the same first period class, but unlike you, I don’t care as much about my grades. I try to hide the unremorseful disappointment I feel.

“Sasuke,” I call you because I can’t help it. You pause at the window, fully dressed, returning my questioning look with an impassive, somehow warm glance.

I tilt my head, noticing the stickiness between my legs already starting to itch against my thighs. Distractedly, I wonder how comfortable you’ll be walking all the way to your house several blocks away.

I don’t need to say anything more than that though a part of me wants to. It’s enough that I was able to get your attention. We share another meaningful look, but I really have no clue at all what might be running through your head, and I doubt you have any idea as to what’s going on in mine. But that’s okay.

“G’night,” I say quietly, waving a tired hand and then shoving it between the back of my head and the pillow. Your farewell is a simple grunt of acknowledgment, and then you leave the same way you came in, sliding down the roof where there’ll be a metal ladder waiting for you.

Once again, the night is mostly silent, save the hollow whistle of the breeze as it brushes against the cracked windowpane. The moonlight still streaks in horizontal lines against the carpet like disconnected railroad tracks.

I rest my hand on my chest. I observe as it rises and falls with my steady breaths. The room reeks. Briefly I consider letting it go until morning, but it’s likely my guardian will be up here bright and early to wake me for school. With a sigh of exasperation, I roll to my side and get off the bed, yanking all the sheets off and shoving them into a plastic hamper inside my closet. Hopefully I’ll remember to do the wash tomorrow. With a furrowed brow, I walk to the linen closet in the hallway to find a new set of sheets. Light blue with tiny pinpoints of navy blue dots. I take a shower. Warm and relaxing as I press my forehead against the tiles. Dressed in another t-shirt and clean pair of boxers, I fall into the center of my mattress on my stomach, smelling fresh and clean.

I grab hold of the closest pillow and hug it to my chest, nuzzling against it as I shut my tired eyes, a heavy fatigue settling into my muscles and bones.

I don’t know what you and I are, and there’s a part of me that knows it could end at any time…

But for now, I feel pretty content with the unknown. Attempting to predict the future is like trying to catch up with the horizon when chasing after it means it only grows further and further away. So I don’t attempt to explain, understand, or rationalize. As long as I leave the window open for you every night, I’m willing to risk any inevitable, ambiguous conclusion there might be. Because… to me… the uncertainty is all worth it.