Fandom: Naruto (Kakashi/Sakura)
Rating: R (Sexin'.)
Summary: "This is the moment he must decide, when she reaches her hand out and molds his fingers around the curve of her hip."
A/N: I could say that this was a study in characterization or something, but, really. Let's not lie. This is just glorified porn, people. Hope you enjoy the whirlpool of filth that is my mind.
She has done this dance before, and he knows all the moves to her game, waking up moments before she enters the room. In his clouded vision, she's only a shadow against the wall, sliding from one side of the room to the other, the smell of blood and perspiration filling his sensitive nose.
He doesn't move. The night is hot, the moon offering little relief from the heat, and he lies in bed in nothing but a pair of boxers, the elastic tattered at the waist. He is uncomfortable with things that are new and different, that break his routine, and one of these things is slinking toward him, silently singing him a sonnet in the language of sex. Her face that was usually all angles and firm brow and determined chin was soft and pale by light of the moon, making her appear deceivingly delicate, almost porcelain.
As she walks—meanders, really—towards him, the expanse of his room wider than ever, she begins to strip herself of her clothing, leaving a trail of sin and anticipation with every sandal, sock, and glove. She reaches the bed, toying with the thin fabric of her panties, the last article of clothing to grace the visual harmony that is her body. Her skin is bronzed from her recent travels, remnants of dirt and dried blood speckle her forearms.
This is the moment he must decide, when she reaches her hand out and molds his fingers around the curve of her hip. This is the moment where he can back out, when he can pull away and turn over, back to the moonlight, and she will leave. She would give him that much. His choice.
But she knows, by the slight smirk across her pouted lips and the conviction in her soldier-straight shoulders, that the moment she has entered the room, he has lost. He has run out of excuses long ago. He forgets them anyway when she guides his hand between her legs, both pressing against her, both breaking the silence with choked satisfaction.
"Kakashi," she sighs, and she kisses him, tongue sliding against his. He is still fighting—he was always a fighter, and he struggles with himself as well as with her, unable to kiss her without attempting to devour her whole. She could manipulate him with the power of her legs, which had so many more miles to walk than his. She is on top of him and grinds into him with controlled intensity; his hips undulate and pleasure spikes down his spine.
"Sakura," he manages, his own voice unfamiliar—vulnerable and small. He is envious that she has seen him at his weakest, and she has become the strongest woman he knows, her power and discipline flawless. She takes his wrists in her hands and pins them above his head; he acknowledges the shifting of shadows that carve into her biceps. She leans down, her pink hair tickling the side of his face. With the voice that could undo him in mere syllables, she whispers in his ear.
"Don't. Move. Them." Each word is punctuated with a roll of her hips. He inhales sharply, closing his eyes and surrendering.
She presses against him, their bare chests warming with the contact. She smoothes the palms of her hands against the planes of his arms, running her thumbs over years of scars she has memorized since the day this all began. Making brief eye contact, she leans in for a kiss, and deliberately misleads him, tongue gliding along his jawline. He shudders, erection pressed against her inner thigh as she sucks on the spot of skin under his ear that makes his insides twist. A sound escapes his mouth that pleases her; his submission is her delight.
Red lights and warning shots accost his senses, and he opens his eyes to escape his morality. He is merely her favorite toy.
She communicates using her hands and mouth and eyes, her fingernails spidering their way across his chest, lips brushing his ribcage. She sits up; the fabric of their undergarments is borderline unbearable. Without moving his arms, he thrusts against her and she laughs. Her laughter is light and mocking, and he looks away; the evidence of his arousal is hard and hot against the thin material of her panties.
Shifting, she leans down and tongues her way down his stomach, hair pooling across his hips. His breath is quick, and his mind is too foggy to care that she has this effect on him.
"Fuck," he curses as she mouths his cock through his boxers, her thumbs digging into his hips and holding him steady. He balls his hands into fists; the veins in his arms are taut.
She looks up at him, her large eyes following his borrowed eye, her tongue flat against the base of his cock. The sight alone makes his legs involuntarily contract, spread wider.
"You're hard," she says, her voice impassive, almost scolding. He questions his sanity, why he takes part in this twisted degradation.
"Please," he begs. Sweat beads on his brow, on his upper lip, but he won't dare—he will not move his hands to wipe it away. Her desire and reason for returning to him is the product of his perspiration.
She laughs again, pulling his boxers down just enough so that his cock is exposed. She spits in her hand and strokes him in solid, sure movements. He is shaking with restraint, choking on his own breath. She is making small noises; this is turning her on as much as it makes him squirm. His abdominals ripple with every firm stroke.
The air is getting thicker. The blood is pooling to his groin; every touch of hers is scorching. It's too quick to be comfortable, too slow to find satisfaction. His eyes are squeezed tight.
She stops, but he doesn't protest. He opens his eyes in time to see her throw her panties on the floor and mount him, rocking against him, his cock sliding against her labia. She leans forward, breasts brushing against his chest. She is breathing fairly rapidly; she has him exactly where she needs him.
"I'm going to fuck you," she breathes in his ear. Deep down, he loves her, but her love for him is out of focus. As she positions his cock at her entrance, he wonders for a fleeting moment if he is only one of many tools in her collection.
When she fully encases him inside her, tight and wet, all mortal thoughts escape him and he is hers and somehow worthy. A cry rips from her throat; she knows the value of patience and control. His cock is heavy, and stretches her in a way that makes her convulse with pleasure. She digs her nails into his chest and rides him hard. Her rhythm is unforgiving and ruthless, the flesh-on-flesh sounds echoing in his ears and boiling his blood. The pressure between his legs is agony, but the thought of disappointing her is insufferable.
"Kakashi…" she spits out through gritted teeth, her eyes shut tight in concentration. Red imprints are left on his chest and shoulders where she has marked him.
He is moaning with every thrust of her hips, the pleasure too confined by his mortal mind. Noises leave his throat, inhibitions lost to the curves of her body. She would be laughing at him for sure if her head weren't tilted back in ecstasy, back bowed and throat exposed to the open air. He imprints her silhouette in his memory.
From this angle, he can clearly see where their bodies are connected, his cock slick with their combined wetness. His hips will be bruised tomorrow from the power of her pace, but as long as she doesn't stop, he doesn't care.
She falls forward again, frustration on her face. She doesn't ask for his help, but she needs more of him. She frantically grabs his hands and attaches them to her hips, and he gathers what little strength she hasn't already taken from him to brace his feet on the bed and begin thrusting upward, into her tight heat. Their combined thrusts are exquisitely brutal and they are both desperate for release, whines and incoherent moans falling from their lips.
Her face is next to his and he feels her hot breath on the side of his face. He can't breathe—she's smothering him with her cries and curses, telling him to fuck her, fuck her harder. God, don't stop. Do it harder.
She clasps her hands around his face, suddenly, looking into his eyes. Her cheeks are flushed and her bangs stick to her forehead, and he wants her more than she will ever allow.
Her hands weave into his white hair, and she seals her mouth to his; she is coming, screaming into his mouth, vaginal walls contracting around his length. She rips her mouth away from his and continues screaming as he thrusts one last time into her, his cock impossibly deep. Her entire body tenses, and she slumps forward to rest her head on his collarbone. Her chest swells with the weight of her breath, his swollen cock still inside of her.
He presses the pads of his fingers into her thighs. He still needs release, and he strains against her. She rolls off of him, onto her side. He sits up, slouching over the side of the bed, cock in his hand. He knows the routine.
He feels her shift on the mattress as he strokes himself, hears the soft pitter-patter of her feet against the floor. His soft grunts are barely audible to her as she begins to dress herself, careful to not leave anything behind. So close. He watches her as she checks her clothes for lint in the mirror by his nightstand. No eye contact is made.
The door shuts behind her, and he comes; he is sure she can hear his shout from behind the door. He falls onto the bed; his bones are heavy and the night air is humid and overpowering. He attempts to self-translate what happens on these nights that Sakura arrives, how he allows her to intrude so easily, and what kind of man he had become to find comfort in vulnerability. Momentary explanations and static conclusions spin through his mind before turns over on his side, satisfied, for once, with the unknown.
The sound of her sonnet lulls him to sleep.
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