Title: The First of All Pleasures

Author: beyondthescenes

Rating: M // NC-17

Summary: [SasuSaku, one-sided SasuKarin] She propositions him yet again. Warning: kink.

Disclaimer: No profit is being made from this work. All characters belong to Masashi Kishimoto.

Author's Notes: Inspired by the Naruto Anonymous Kink Meme Version 3.0. If you are a minor under the laws of your country, proceed no further. You have been warned. XD

She propositions him yet again.

The usual silence meets her thinly-veiled suggestion, as if she hadn't been standing there at all, and again she wonders why he rejects her. Karin knows she is attractive in an edgy, rebellious way, with fiery red hair and even redder eyes, and that she can hold her own in a fight. Her body is nothing to scoff at, and her legs – displayed to advantage in tight micro-shorts, short even for a kunoichi – have earned her many leers and wolf-whistles and sleazy pickup lines. Her shirt is unzipped from hem to mid-stomach, exposing a tantalizing patch of skin, and her voice is smooth, rich velvet. A willing woman – especially one who looks like her – should have no problem getting a man to bed her, she muses, and any man would gladly take her up on her offer.

But apparently, Uchiha Sasuke is not just any man.

He has never looked at her with anything more than indifference, hasn't said anything to her that wasn't related to a mission in some way. In their travels he has never stopped by a brothel, has never paid any attention to the starry-eyed girls of the villages and establishments they pass by.

She turns around to leave, but before her hand touches the doorknob Sasuke makes a sound that has come to be understood by all as a sign of assent, and she is so surprised – and triumphant and pleased – that she almost doesn't hear his question.

He asks if she can do a decent henge.

Curiosity overpowers the faint twinge in her chest as she wonders what sort of preferences Sasuke has. Obviously not redheads, if his request for henge is anything to go by; does he favor blondes or brunettes? Does he like older women or underage girls? Aggressive femme fatales or delicate damsel types? She tilts her head to the side, waits for him to speak.

His specifications are unusual, to say the least.

Pink hair – "pink like cherry blossoms," – cut below the ear – "like the hair on the right side of your head," – the ends jagged and uneven – "as if cut by a kunai," – and a hitai-ate used as a headband, tied right above her nape. Green eyes, almost-pale skin, a wide forehead, and a host of other requirements far too specific to describe any general class of girls.

There is a girl, Karin realizes. Just one.

The twinge in her chest flares into a pang of something sharper, and envy for this specter's hold over Sasuke rises like bile in her throat. Karin has never deceived herself into thinking he cares about her, but still it stings, this bitter knowledge that she will never be what he desires, that even for mere physical release he wants another woman's face, another woman's body, in place of hers.

But Karin is nothing if not practical, and she will take what she can get from her brooding, dark-eyed object of lust. She has vowed to have him in her bed, and ruthlessly suppresses any lingering feelings of jealousy. He is here, and that's all that matters.

She transforms, makes the necessary adjustments, stands across him expectantly. A brief flash of disappointment flickers in his obsidian eyes.

"Turn around," he orders, so that he only sees the back of her head.

Karin has never seen her before, so Sasuke knows he cannot expect an exact likeness. Every detail of her face has been tucked into memory and he will only end up drawing comparisons, so he decides it is better if he doesn't see the face of the girl standing before him. She is a poor facsimile of the real thing – her eyes are not as bright, her features not as fine, and the air around her not as vibrant, but the pink hair is satisfactory and if he concentrates hard enough, focuses just so, he can imagine it's her.

His fingers slowly rise along the smooth skin of her thighs, drawing small circles right above her hipbone. They run across her stomach, ghost over her ribcage, up and down her sides. His touch is surprisingly tender.

"Sasuke," she murmurs, and his hands stop dead in their tracks.

"It's –kun," he corrects coldly.

Her desire-addled brain barely comprehends it. "Wha- what?"

"It's Sasuke-kun."

"Sasuke-kun," she says slowly, testing the sound of his name with the honorific, and she feels him tighten his hold on her waist once more. She is playing a role, so she decides to experiment with the pitch of her voice. "Sasuke-kun," she says again, her voice slightly higher and lighter, her tone less sultry, more innocent and breathy.

The reaction is immediate.

Suddenly his lips are on the juncture of her neck and shoulder, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses on her skin, choppy pink strands of hair caressing his cheek. She rolls her hips backward to grind against his growing hardness, and is rewarded by a harsh intake of breath.

"Sakura," he half-groans, half-whispers, and later she would recall that there was something vaguely heartbreaking about it. He manages to pull away for a second, and some hand seals later the world shimmers around them to form a forest clearing, a cluster of trees surrounding them, lush grass beneath their feet, and if he closes his eyes he can hear a burbling stream in the distance. For a few blessed moments, he allows himself to believe he is in one of Team Seven's old training grounds, back in Konoha before everything went downhill, the girl he left behind writhing in his arms.

As always, he wastes no time. He unzips her red dress with remarkable speed, tears the rest of it from where the zipper stops, then tugs the dress off of her and lets it pool at her feet.

"Sasuke-kun!" she protests, and the corner of his mouth rises in a smirk.

He takes a kunai to her bra, slices it away, watches in satisfaction as it joins her dress on the grass. With his left hand he covers her breast, kneads the warm softness of it in his palm, the scratchy bindings wrapped around his hand creating a delicious friction against her aching nipple.

His other hand toys with the elastic of her underwear, dips lower to cup her between her legs. She gasps his name, and the wetness he meets makes him increase the pressure of his touch, makes him rub himself against the curve of her rear. In response, she reaches behind her, brushes across the front of his pants, then shoves her hand inside the waistband to enclose him within the circle of her fingers and she feels him, hot and hard even through the leather of her glove. An inarticulate growl escapes him at the contact, but before her repeated strokes become too much he grips her wrist to stop her. He nuzzles her ear, catches the lobe between his teeth.

"On your hands and knees, Sakura," he commands, voice husky, and she obeys, unable to deny him anything. He positions himself behind her, grasps her hips to steady her. She pushes back against him impatiently, begging him silently to fill her. So he does, entering her in a quick, deep thrust that tears a soundless scream from her throat, knocking the air out of her lungs like a punch to the gut.

It is all heat and pure sensation, pleasured sounds in tune with fevered movement. Before long, she convulses around him with a keening cry, and the fluttering tightness pushes him closer to the brink. He withdraws, moments before he comes with an almost-inaudible "Sakura…" on his lips, and then she feels sticky warmth dotting the backs of her thighs instead of spilling within her. Later Karin would wonder if it was to avoid the risk of her – someone Not Sakura – carrying an Uchiha child, or if it was to mark Sakura with his stains.

She decides it was both.

They collapse to the ground, breathless with release. He is warm and heavy on her back, and she savors these last few minutes of suspended time.

Too soon the weight of his body on hers is but a memory, an evanescent waking dream. There is a rustling of clothes, and the forest clearing dissolves into the drab gray sheets of the rundown inn the team is staying in for the night.

The quasi-fantasy has ended, and so must she shed this spring goddess' skin. Pink bleeds to red, and emeralds turn to rubies.

By the time she is Karin again, he is gone.


Illusion is the first of all pleasures.
Oscar Wilde

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