A/N: First try at all things M-rated. Enjoy.

DO NOT OWN NARUTO


"Ah-!"

She grips harder onto his bare back, spreading bruises that quickly bloom on his skin. Her fingers press in between his bones, massaging his ripe muscles, and she buries her head at the crook of his neck to muffle a moan.

"Mmmph," she sighs out, controlling herself.

Sasuke lets her cling to him, lets her pull on his dark, dark hair and lets her squeeze onto his arms until they redden from the assault. She explores him as though seeing is not believing; it is only through tactile means, through heat and sweat, through skin and bones, that she can claim him to be real.

He lets her cling to him—but only because she lets him clutch onto her just as desperately.

And when he begins to move in and out of her, she moves her hips along with his. The pace settles into an erratic pattern that they create together where one doesn't dominate the other. They rock against each other, holding onto each thrust and sounds that they produce, because soon, the comfort will end.

Sasuke grunts as her walls squeeze around him tightly. He resists closing his eyes and seeing the blinding flash of pleasure explode from the build-up, and instead he looks at her. Amidst the halo of pink hair, he finds her green eyes and soft lips, that chokes out—


"I

Need

You."


Neither came first.

As much as they would like to believe that the other initiated it, they acknowledged the truth.

They simply converged in the middle and incidental or not, they began to cross roads much more frequently after the first—and in much more significant ways.

Sasuke and Sakura both walked in fairly straight paths parallel to each other, as traveling life-companions destined to not come together. Sasuke appreciated his own calculated, organized nature, and Sakura, though emotion-prone, was not one to sway under impulses. It was a mundane pattern of sort, that set not only the boundaries but also the given of their interaction.

But every routine must come to change. Theirs was no exception.


His lips descend onto hers, and their tongues continue their unresolved feud.

Sakura's hands tangle in his hair and as Sasuke snakes an arm around her waist, the other slips into her black slacks. His fingers brushes against her core through the fabric, and instead of discarding her garments, he pulls aside the damp underwear and plunges two digits into her warmth.

She works harder against his lips, open mouthed and inviting, and Sasuke receives her brutal kiss as he continues to pump her. He adds a third finger, and as the squelch that it makes reaches his ears, he revels in how wet she is—as wet as the blood that had covered her hours ago.

She begins to pant louder, her chest rising rapidly to meet his, and his hand accelerates. Sasuke dominates the kiss, caressing her tongue with his own as Sakura loses herself under his touch. He has broken their original pact of mutual standing in bed, but he does not care.

Right now, she needs him more than he needs her.

He concentrates on helping her ride out her orgasm, on taking her to a new high, to a place above the revolting gutter they live through: a place far away enough that she can forget the viscous shame that follows a killing. He wants her to escape from the gravity of their livelihood, even through the fleeting ecstasy he brings her.

But even he knows after the heat has cooled and their bodies have tired, they will find themselves in his cold bedroom, their soiled uniform parts scattered around his floor and a few less living strangers in the world.


...

Helping each other is always a good thing.

We're helping

Not using

It's mutual

We're helping we're helping we're helping

We're Helping we're HELPING

...

...Aren't we?


In the morning, when he wakes, Sasuke opens his eyes to an empty bed.

He has never been one to sleep in nor sleep heavily, and he still wonders how she manages to slither away from betwixt their tangled sheets.

He guesses that she's back in her own bed by now, getting some real rest now that she has found stability once again through him. As he brushes his bangs out of his face, the smell on his fingers startle him—it still smells like her, of her. Sasuke feels heat starting to pool at his loin, and growls. He barely got any attention last night because he was busy consoling her through his ministrations.

Sakura had just returned from an S-class mission, and by the blank, crazed look in her eyes, casualty had been high, both on Konoha and the enemy's part. But it never matters who had died, because either way, Sakura's hands were stained and she stank of slaughter. She sought him, as she usually did, to prove that she was amongst the living, to feel the vitality that she had seen people lose in a slash of a sword.

During these encounters she takes from him, selfish for once, and gives nothing back.

Sasuke does not mind because this isn't a singular occasion. She has comforted him before as he did for her last night, as they will do it for each other again.

They began one night, when she had lost a patient, and his family had visited him in his dream again. With Naruto out of town, Kakashi unavailable and Sai asleep, Sakura took refuge in Sasuke's apartment. For a while, they sat on the couch, and exchanged short conversations as she hiccupped to control her sob.

As silence and frustration ate away seconds, night embraced them both and as Sasuke brushed Sakura's hair out of her face, something snapped. The dam built between their two roads crumbled, and they flooded into each other's world in an agonizing frenzy. Before they knew it, they ended up on the floor, an intertwined mess of limbs, confusion and a queer sense of contentment.

Since then, they have found themselves in each others' bedrooms occasionally, turning frequently these days.

Sasuke breaks out of reminiscing and sits up, searching the floor with his eyes for his clothes.

It was and is a decision made with clear conscious, though when it happens, one is usually drunk with despair.

Last night, however, she definitely needed him and he has given it to her, whatever it might be. He finds satisfaction in that fact. Though when they meet on the street, they will act as friendly teammates, conversing a little or not at all. When their act is done, they return to walking their own straight lines, not sparing the other a glance.

It has been that way for three, four months. But even back in their normalcy, when he sees her, he does not forget, as she doesn't, that they have once again leaned on each other for support. And when Sasuke takes over her watch, or Sakura does not scold Sasuke as harshly as she does with Naruto, they are expressing small signs of gratitude.

Sasuke pushes off the bed, and saunters to his slacks resting on the floor by the dresser.

Gratitude.

Is that all this is? Are they simply lending each other a helping hand?

As he pulls up his pants, Sasuke ponders the same question he began to ask weeks ago: what exactly are they?

Fuck buddies.

He cringes at the term. That implies that they use each other for animalistic pleasure. But he and Sakura are different—it is more than a fit of lust. It isn't love either, but something like it. They come out of their encounters feeling a bit lighter, a bit less disgruntled.

Maybe it's their form of friendship. Friends with benefits, he thinks, stretching his arms over his head—although sometimes neither knows what the benefit exactly is.

But he remembers her delicious lips, from last night, and from other multiple nights, repeating the same words to him over and over again—

I need you.

She needs him, he concludes, and he needs her too. He has yet to figure out in what way and whether they will one day come to be whole on their own. Nor does he know whether they will walk separate paths again or whether she will live on with this need, but simply with someone else to help her tame it.

Remembering Sakura's pleasure-contorted face and her soft groans begin to stir within him the unquenched hormonal drive. He abandons the task of putting on his clothes, and instead heads to the bathroom for a cold shower.

Turning the knob, he repeats to himself:

She needs me. She needs me.

The water beats down on his skin. He convinces himself that it is the frigid water turning his body numb, but a hollowness rings inside as he considers the possibility that when Sakura says I need you, it does not necessary mean him.

He swallows a sour taste in his mouth, repeating the thought to himself.

She might just need someone, not specifically him.


This isn't a want

It's a necessity

Then you don't want me,

You just want somebody…?


A/N: Thank you for reading.

Criticism welcome, reviews welcome, anything goes.

I would also like opinion on as to whether I should continue.