And he's at your back again, breathing in the sweet smell of your raven-black hair as he holds you close to him, treating you like a fragile object that may break if he squeezes you too hard
And he's at your back again, breathing in the sweet smell of your raven-black hair as he holds you close to him, treating you like a fragile object that may break if he squeezes you too hard. How strange. He isn't usually this way with you.
You little shit.
"Jiraiya," you say warily. He doesn't let you go, and instead he simply intertwines your legs, hands just above your lower stomach. You can feel his fingers twitch from the desire to go down even further. His body is pulled against yours so tight it actually terrifies you how it fits perfectly to your back, as if he belongs there.
You relish the very idea of leading him on.
You haven't yet given in, but now you turn around. How you manage too in his iron grip is amazing, but what's more amazing is the amount of caution you have locked in your serpentine eyes.
Your hands rise, itching to touch his face, but you lower them. You wait for some sort of reaction. You're still debating the possibility of this being some sort of trap set to humiliate you.
He stares back at you, poker faced, eyes void of all emotion. You can't even begin to guess what he's thinking, which is strange, because Jiraiya has always been an open book before.
Hesitantly, you bring up your hands again, jumping as he moves his head closer. You swallow, ignoring that burning desire to trace the markings on his face with your thumbs... no, wait, you actually are doing that.
You incline your head, self-control beginning to deteriorate as you press your lips together with utmost care. He welcomes you eagerly.
He quickly gives into the lust that is boiling in his stomach to cup the back of your head with a growl of pleasure and engulfs your mouth with his own. Given the amount of room, you slip your tongue between his lips and lash it across his teeth. From there you plunge it into that warm cavern, flicking it, waiting. He responds almost immediately, and now you're both gasping and groaning, ever so often having to part slightly in order to fit everything.
Oh, but you are elated, aren't you?
You don't quite know how it happened but you're both bare, and he kisses and licks every pale patch of exposed skin he can find. He leaves bruised, reddish imprints all over your snowy white skin, as if to say, Mine.
His hands are sliding everywhere now, as if he is too overwhelmed by the thought of touching your naked body to choose what to do first. And, in all truthfulness, you're not ashamed to understand the reason why he wants you so, and why he finds no wrong inwanting so much. It's simply the prospect that you do, indeed, look exactly like a woman. From the slight curve of your waist to your long, slender legs, you seem female. If it wasn't for that bit between your legs and the fact you lack breasts, you could definitely pass as a girl. You're certainly prettier than most.
Now, he begins.
You wonder how on earth a boy like Jiraiya knows how to do this. True, he has feelings for you, but to what expense? Has he even done this before, let alone with another man? And just how jagged could he be, if the answer to that last question was yes? You are, after all, not exactly the summit of manliness.
He pushes your legs back and positions himself comfortably so he has room to work. He brings his free hand up to his mouth a moment before sucking three fingers. After a few seconds he inserts one.
"This isn't my first time, you know," you hiss through grit teeth. He shrugs before adding a second.
It's damn painful, especially as he begins to slide them about, in and out, pain on, pain off. He does it so slowly you almost cry out his name at the top of your lungs in hope the utter agony would subside. But on top of this, it feels utterly amazing, and for that reason alone you don't want him to stop.
He removes both fingers with a smirk, figuring that you're wound up enough. It takes you a moment to register the fact he never added the third. He kisses you on the forehead before pushing your legs back again and, after the very slightest sign of hesitance, he thrusts.
You were wrong before, absolutely wrong because this, this, is the ultimatum of pain and pleasure.
You yell, you moan, and you whimper his name like a frightened dog that has just been hit by its owner, except there is no contempt whatsoever in your voice, just utter joy at this sick, physical contact. Every-so-often he will release a miniature string of profanities, so low you can barely make out the word 'fuck'. But you don't mind.
He goes slowly, just so damn slowly, to see how worked up he can manage to get you. Not only in a screaming sense, either.
He pauses just before one of you two has an orgasm, panting, as he waits for you to settle down and calm yourself.
But just as it started, it ends slowly. It may just be your twisted imagination screwing up the time inside your head, but it sure as hell seems like infinity to you, the one on the bottom, the one being tortured.
He flops down beside you, sticky with sweat, still groaning with the faintest hint of a laugh hidden behind.
You reach out to touch his hair when his hand shoots out and he drags you beneath the covers to join him.
It isn't over yet, you think, and slide those spindly, milky fingers between his legs. He purrs.
You run your hand along the sensitive skin, stroking it and occasionally squeezing it gingerly. His face is overjoyed, euphoric almost, and you half wonder why. He tugs you close, kissing you passionately on the lips. He takes you as he started out and holds you. You release and fold your arms up in almost a protective way, hands on his collarbone and elbows pressed between your bodies.
"Please don't leave."
The words are shock to you, but you know deep down that that was half the reason he wanted this so badly. You were going to run away, and he wants you to stay there. The idea of you leaving is too unbearable, but his words make you want to throw up. You don't want to have to lie again.
He's looking at you like that again, eyes stony and cold, and you wish you could somehow force the expression off his face. He never makes that face except around you, and you won't miss it when you're gone.
You want to find an excuse. You want to avoid the question. But he cuts in before you can think up a solution.
He grasps you tight, pressing his face between your shoulder and the mattress. From there, he whispers;
"I... I love you."
I'm glad to say, you got the excuse you wanted. It certainly wasn't a lie. But it was the cold, hard truth of the matter.
You broke down, and began to cry.
True, it was embarrassing. But he seemed to understand as he caressed you, kissed you, almost anything to try to calm you down.
He did not, however, tell you everything was going to be all right.
I was (and still am) sick when I wrote this. Not just in the fangirl sense of the word, but meaning I literally couldn't go to school today.
All flames will be mocked.
5/20/08 – I was reading this and found so many grammatical errors it pissed me off. So, while fixing that, I did some proofreading, too.