Temari gives out some kind of grunt-groan as she rolls over onto me, her sweaty body seeming to heat up even more as it made contact with my burning flesh. Nonetheless, I wrap an arm around her and survive her glare. Because Temari of Suna does not cuddle. She never will, she never has, and she never wants to. At least, that's what she tells me, and then halfway during the night, our naked bodies somehow get intertwined with themselves, curling up around the other and her head is resting on my shoulder and we're cuddling.

Yeah, go figure.

There's actually a lot that Temari refuses to admit for fear that I'll laugh, take advantage, or find unbelievable. Like the fact that she's an incredible cook, loves to play scrabble, has an unexplainable talent for dancing, and has some kind of fetish for me in low slung pants. The last one I will never understand, as I've only ever worn high slung pants except for once. The troublesome woman was banging on my apartment door early one day and I pulled on a pair of sweatpants to answer it, forgetting to tug the drawstring fully closed. That was the day she decided that seeing the tops of my bony hipbones was, somehow, attractive. I don't mind, of course, it is her decision in the end, and I have to admit that I love plenty of strange things about her, but it's not as if I'm some kind of manly Adonis, not like she's really some fertility goddess.

Seriously, I swear. She has this weird habit of just slinging her hips everywhere and it reminds me of a ritualistic mating call. I don't mind in the slightest, especially in the early mornings, when I'm half awake and blearily open my eyes to see her dressing.

Women are weird. While all I have to do is pull on a pair of pants and fishnets, sometimes pressure shorts, they use bandages. Long, white, (or what color you wish) strips of gauze that just wrap around your thighs up to the tops of the hips and tie off at the side or front. It was strangely erotic seeing her wind them up her sides, carefully and quickly passing through the cloth with her nimble fingers. Then, she'd take more of the damn stuff and wrap her chest up, which should just be a crime, in my opinion. (It rendered her ample cleavage to a much flatter proportion, more adequate for combat, but certainly not sexual prowess.) Depending on what she was going to wear, she adds straps or not. She even admitted to me that she knew how to wrap them in an "easy access" way. For the longest time, that completely puzzled me.

Until my birthday, that is, when I found out that dark purple looked fantastic on her thighs, and even better in contrast to her lush pink accents.

I'm a genius, I know that. Hell, everyone's known that for the longest time. But, I cannot, for the life of me, understand women. My mother still gets dolled up for my dad sometimes, putting on dark red lipstick, outlining her eyes in sharp black kohl. I never got that. They'd been married for so long, what was the point? But, without fail, they'd leave me alone in the house for the night and hitch a hotel room, every, damn time. For that matter, why do parents have sex anyway? It's relatively disgusting. In fact, really disgusting.

Actually, once, I saw an old picture of my mother and I had to admit that she was gorgeous. She had this moon face, bright mocha colored eyes and short black hair, cut in a bob at her chin, flicking the smallest tendrils around her face. She had full, berry colored lips and a gentle smile. She just looked like trouble in the photo, wearing red bandages wound to her mid calves and elbows, under a knee length skirt and plain black tanktop. Mom looked like the kind of woman who could rip you a new one in ten seconds flat.

And then there was dad. Dad was weird. He was scruffy and rough, completely gruff, almost like a wolf. And yet, without fail, I see my mother grow flustered when they have the smallest of moments when their eyes connect. My father looked dangerous while my mother looked soft, but I suppose that was part of their appeal.

The main reason I mention this isn't for sentiment, not even close. In fact, I only say it because Temari reminds me a lot of my mother and I'm the spitting image of my father. I often wonder what people think when they see us walking down the dusty roads, my hands in my pockets, slouching so I don't look nearly as tall. I have my faults, plenty of them that she, consistently, tells me of. I, apparently, make the goofiest faces, get embarrassed very often, and have a habit of growling low in my throat when I'm agitated. In return, I inform her of how she swings her body in a way that is like a desperate call for sex, how she giggles in a completely sweet and girly way, and how she's beautiful when she smiles.

We both get irritated.

Because if there's one thing that the both of us do, it's hide things. For me, it's too troublesome to tell her what's so obvious in the first place, and she's just so damn proud. And I never tell her I love her because it's in such plain sight. Every glance I give her, every hit I take, every time I straighten my shoulders and move up in rank is a sign that I'm head over heels for her.

And she? Well, she probably thinks I'd burst out into some kind of deranged laugh. But, it's obvious on her part too. It's evident through her hostility toward Shiho, when she hooks pinkies with me, and now, when her slick, naked skin cools against mine, and I curl my arm around her, playing with the hair she grew out at my request. (Just as my mother did at my father's, when they had dated for two years.)

I stroke her back through her long, winding blond locks, and lick the shell of her ear. It's such a lazy move, but she still gives me a faint smirk, light twinkle in her eye.

"I'm severely attracted to you." I tell her, almost grinning at my own dorkiness. She snorts and inclines her head to look at me, her fingers tangling in my hair.

"Wow, crybaby, is that the best you can do?" She asks, playful banter never faltering.

"Of course not. I'm a genius, remember? I could tell you how I feel about you in a million different ways."

"Talk is cheap." She grunts, her light, lilting voice against my throat makes the air in my esophagus vibrate. I make a "mmm" noise with closed lips and she grins, licking the base of my neck. "In any case, crybaby, I'm severely attracted to you as well."

"Good." I say, my hand compressing into a fist, grabbing her hair between the fingers. I tug, not too hard, but enough to make her do what I want, and make our faces meet. She's all tongue and teeth, and I just want lips at the moment, but I give in to her at the end, as I always do. When we pull away, she grins.

"Tell me you love me, crybaby. I dare you." And her smirk is so perfect, the organic sex appeal raw and unfiltered in her eyes, and I growl in my throat (apparently, I don't just do so when I'm agitated) and move to her neck.

"We'll see who says that first." I see, through my dark eyelashes, that she splits her mouth open in a grin and slides her eyes closed, practically purring.

"Yes, we will." She answers, flipping me over.

In the end? She said it first. It was one of the most troublesome confessions I ever had to get out of someone, with so much work being put in, but can I honestly say that I wouldn't do it again? No, probably not. In fact, I'd do it a few more times just to elicit her gradual surrender to my mouth and my hands, to my gaze and the bed. Because, when you get to the bones of our relationship, me and Temari hardly ever admit much of anything to the other.

But sometimes, it's just nice to know.

...I like it. I like it a lot. Fluff and all.