KakaSaku drabble fic!
I promised my poor Kashi muse that he’d get some relaxing sexy time after being put through the metaphorical wringer in CrazySickBeautiful. (Which, btw, is an awesome one-shot written by me. I think it’s awesome anyway. Go read it. It’s on my account :D )
This one is quick and flirty and fun, and my first attempt at KakaSaku. I really do love them; they are just so daringly, deliciously, poignantly wrong. It’s waiting to happen. In another world. Oh well, the thousands of fan girls who adore this pairing, myself included, can dream right?
Knowledge
Do you know me?
Do you know my skin?
Do you wanna?
X
Her eyes speak like singers most eloquent words, her lips quirk up at the corners with a delicate blades shine, and he thinks he should know better than this. Should know not to let himself hear and see and acknowledge, should stop.
But what does he know of the world anyway?
“I want you in my bed, between my sheets. They smell like honeysuckle-did you know that?”
People, a lot of people actually, would argue that he knows a lot, that he’s a genius. Damn them.
But they are right. How annoying.
He knows a lot of things...
He knows the hand seals of a thousand jutsus, and then a thousand more, each one perfect with the placement of knuckle and nail and finger casually perfected with a blink and a red spin of memory.
“You love honeysuckle.”
He knows the tangy taste of blood and body fluid that splashes up against the face and into the mouth without a sound as your knife slits and the bodies fall noiselessly, knows the exact way to twist the blade so that all the lights go out at once. He’s done it more times than he can remember, and he’ll do it again more times than he can imagine.
“I want you to peel me out of this dress and I want to peel that mask down with my teeth.”
He knows the mission, always the mission, the objective that always comes first. The way a split-second decision can ravage or save a hundred lives on both sides. He knows the brutal clutch of a ice glove around the soul as he lets the mask on his face strip away his self and become something nameless, the lethally detached clarity that pours through his mind as he systematically tears apart a subject until they don’t know their own mother and they don’t know their own name but oh, do they know their secrets, all their secrets, and they let them tumble out of mouths faster than rain hitting pavement so that Kakashi can hear all about it and listen until he’s heard enough to make everything end with a silky-smooth goodbye.
“Do you wonder how I would taste? I wonder how you would taste; I wonder how it would feel when your tongue runs down my neck.”
He knows the choices no one should ever have to make, knows how it feels to leave the teammate who is dead or dying or a traitor, knows the will and fire and the burn to keep the mouth shut when someone else is above him wearing the nameless drape, whispering to him of secrets and endings. He knows not give in even though you’ve probably died twice by now, stripped raw and gaping. He knows how to zone out into a whole new world of his making, sing canary tunes for the gamekeepers and smile with bloody teeth.
“I’d press my hands to your chest and dig in, I’d arch just like this and what would you do then? I’d rake my nails down your stomach just to see what color your skin would turn-would you like it?”
Kakashi knows the crushing, breathless, aching pain of loss, the blockage of the heart of lungs that never goes away, that refuses to ease and that moves from your mind to your throat to your heart and then nestles there for forever and a day. Guilt has never been subjective, and memory less so, espcially when one has an eye that waters red tear. He has been nursing his loss for years on years now, and he will continue to do so for years on years on years...
“I want to have your tongue on me, your teeth, and I want to feel what it would be like to have your hands and mouth on my body. Everywhere.”
People have begun to think he is some kind of saint, the copy-nin who saves the day with white lightning instead of a white horse, but he knows this is far from the truth. He knows sin, he knows booze and drugs and all the ninja mechanisms of coping with a bitter laugh. It wasn’t the most pleasant fix in the world, but in a life lived in the blood-haze, what was a shinobi to do? He knows the buzz of alcohol, the acid of liquor steaming down the throat and leaving it raw. The lazy softness that comes from being stoned. He knows when they each is necessary, if the hastily wrapped joint between his lips right now is any indication.
But that’s for the mission. Focus you idiot.
“How would your skin feel against mine, hot and slick and sweaty? I want to press against you until your eyes roll and I see you shudder because you want me.”
And maybe the drug is making him overestimate, but he knows women. There is a thin line between the moral and immoral of the comfort a body heaving next to you, and Kakashi treaded it lightly, dancing like a leaf on the wind. Like the millions who have fawned for the man behind the mask, he knows what he wants. What they want. It’s not that complicated really. He knows the heady rush of joint bodies, knows the bliss of joint orgasms. He knows the plush curve of a breast, the silkiness of the thigh, the downy skin behind the ear and on the stomach. He knows the lashes and laces and skies and eyes of love.
“I’m a curious girl you know. What would I be like if I took you in my mouth until I taste you on the back of my throat? How would it feel to be pressed between honeysuckle sheets and hot skin with you inside me?”
He could say he knew how people think, and he’d be right. Unlike how most seem to believe, humans aren’t as complicated as most would previously stipulate. But the Copy-nin wasn’t exactly concerned about whatever the fuck people were thinking. Too many missions with too much pointlessness had beaten it out of him.He pays attention to his dogs and books instead of dealing with the humans who would fuss and grab and pull. Feelings are supposed to stay minimal, because Kakashi knows in the end, it is only safety that matters, the amount of times no one dies that matters, the amount of times that he can stare at a name on a stone without stinging in his eyes.
“I want you. You said I should try and go for what I want, didn’t you? I seem to remember that.”
But....
Orange citrus scent curls in his nose, Lips smile dangerously against his cheek, a tinkling laugh flutters by his ear, and delicate fingers brush tantalizingly along the back of his neck.
He thought he knew Sakura, his pinkette teammate, his student. Here was where he was starting to think he was wrong.
“Do you want me too Kakashi- sensei?”
He was wrong. He was deliciously, gloriously, terribly wrong, because his innocent-or perhaps not so innocent-kunoichi was currently up against him, lap against his groin, pressing her body flush against his and whispering in his ear things that made his mouth go hot and dry and sweat bead in salty drops on his forehead, cathing in the strands of filigree hair. Her fingers were on his neck. He could feel all of her buzzing beautiful body lithely on his person, and going all at it. She was whispering naughty things, dirty things, shivery and tingling and igniting hot flames that slid with molten speed down his spine into his groin.
Mission,you fucking idiot.
He reminds himself that this is an act, just one to blend in with the crowd at the hotel bar so Sakura --Sakura who’s tongue had just fucking licked his ear and made his stomach drop out him -- could gather information through a listening chip unobtrusively.
It’s for the mission.
He knows, he knows, he knows, he knows...
But who does she think she’s kidding? Who does he think he’s kidding? He listens to her words and bites back groans and tries to focus on the Objective, the Target, the other patrons of the dingy bar, even the hit he smoked that helped their cover, any of the other vital details he knows are really far to simple to botch, instead of focusing on his citrus-smelling, red-wine-drinking student who was perched in his lap with her lips by his ear.
He knew Sakura. He is a very knowledgeable man, and he knows..the intricate beading on her dress, could feel it catching against the edges of his palm resting on her back. He knows the feeling of her muscles, trained under his hands into streamlined effeciency, muslces that could bathe him in a warm mint-green chakra glow or slam into an opponent. He knows the freckles on her shoulders, tiny and so pale they were almost blush pink, a delicacy he'd never noticed before untill she was here on his lap and her dress was falling off of one shoulder and he could see them standing out like new-fallen snow. He knew the pungent peach curve of her smile, the way her lips curled from her teeth and made him twitch his hands with the urge to run his thumb along the line of her bottom lip. He recalled the way she'd worn her hair shampoo smooth and long around her shoulder-blades as a gennin, and now he knows the choppy graceless beauty of pale locks framing a small face, the way wisps of that cotton-floss hair are brushing his cheek and feel like ragged ends of angel wings. He knows the way she ate her ramen; quick small bites as she glares at Naruto with every other mouthful, the way the broth makes her fingers shine with grease and how she sucks off the flavor with a small pink toungue. He knows her, he knows her he knows her...
And an hour later, when Sakura has gathered everything she needed from the listening chip placed inconspicuously in the targets clothes and he is a hard frustrated knot of repressed intent combined with a vague, slightly boneless smoke haze he seriously wonders if perhaps he never knew Sakura at all.
She pulls off of his lap, all long legs and low backed dress and impish smile that she'd always had perfected, But now it looked different, because those lips making that smile had been on his ear and whispered things in his ear and even though she was off his lap he knew she had left behind her lipstick stains and spicy orange-peel scent because he could feel them cracking on his skin and curling in the back of his throat.
He considers her with lazily heated eyes and she considers back, lips quirking up again- slow and pink and tip-toeing on the edge of unknown things that she holds preciously close.
He knows women.
He doesn’t know her. Anymore, that is.
So he follows her up to her room in a hot-smoked daze, and he follows her through her door in a hot-smoked daze, and then he attacks her lips and trails them down her throat and feels her angel-bones under his fingers, feels her small delicate hands claw right back at him and push him down onto her honey-suckle sweet- smelling bed.
He moans out loud when her tiny, pretty-pale nails rake over his chest and tongue flicks over his craving knowing skin. He peels her out and she peels him out and he never knew her skin tasted this good did he? Like tangerines dipped in rain and drizzled in honey-spice. She moves quick and insatiable and dirty, just as when they are sparring, student and teacher, oh he did know that about her, and when she lets out cries and breathy sighs of “Kakashi-sensei!” at his knowledgeable fingers, he reflects that he really should know better.
"Fuck, that's good. K-Kakashi-sensei, god, K-Kaka-"
But she is starting to whisper again, brokenly against the side of his head as her little nails dig into his shoulders and slim legs spasm.
“I knew I’d love your taste.”
Her lips are quirking up, up, up. He feels himself dragged back down into citrus-orange and kumquat-lime, tangerine and lemon-spice, pink and green swirls, honeysuckle air, a hot coiling need and small hands that feel fucking good on his hot flushed skin.
Ignorance was bliss in a ninja world sometimes, when it can be salvaged from the wreckage of a paraody of ruin.
And really, what does he know of the world anyway?
Fin
X
A/N: I loved this one. Sakura being dirty gave me a special kick. XD I think Sakura is picking up a trend in my writing as being a tad on the naughty/mischievous side. Anyway I adored it, but that’s cause it’s mine. ;P It is definitely subject to editing (everything is), so don’t hesitate to give your thoughts!
Scratch that, PLEASE give your thoughts. I need’em. I’m a struggling writer over here…*puppy dog face*
Thankyou for reading!
This one is quick and flirty and fun, and my first attempt at KakaSaku. I really do love them; they are just so daringly, deliciously, poignantly wrong. It’s waiting to happen. In another world. Oh well, the thousands of fan girls who adore this pairing, myself included, can dream right?
Knowledge
Do you know me?
Do you know my skin?
Do you wanna?
X
Her eyes speak like singers most eloquent words, her lips quirk up at the corners with a delicate blades shine, and he thinks he should know better than this. Should know not to let himself hear and see and acknowledge, should stop.
But what does he know of the world anyway?
“I want you in my bed, between my sheets. They smell like honeysuckle-did you know that?”
People, a lot of people actually, would argue that he knows a lot, that he’s a genius. Damn them.
But they are right. How annoying.
He knows a lot of things...
He knows the hand seals of a thousand jutsus, and then a thousand more, each one perfect with the placement of knuckle and nail and finger casually perfected with a blink and a red spin of memory.
“You love honeysuckle.”
He knows the tangy taste of blood and body fluid that splashes up against the face and into the mouth without a sound as your knife slits and the bodies fall noiselessly, knows the exact way to twist the blade so that all the lights go out at once. He’s done it more times than he can remember, and he’ll do it again more times than he can imagine.
“I want you to peel me out of this dress and I want to peel that mask down with my teeth.”
He knows the mission, always the mission, the objective that always comes first. The way a split-second decision can ravage or save a hundred lives on both sides. He knows the brutal clutch of a ice glove around the soul as he lets the mask on his face strip away his self and become something nameless, the lethally detached clarity that pours through his mind as he systematically tears apart a subject until they don’t know their own mother and they don’t know their own name but oh, do they know their secrets, all their secrets, and they let them tumble out of mouths faster than rain hitting pavement so that Kakashi can hear all about it and listen until he’s heard enough to make everything end with a silky-smooth goodbye.
“Do you wonder how I would taste? I wonder how you would taste; I wonder how it would feel when your tongue runs down my neck.”
He knows the choices no one should ever have to make, knows how it feels to leave the teammate who is dead or dying or a traitor, knows the will and fire and the burn to keep the mouth shut when someone else is above him wearing the nameless drape, whispering to him of secrets and endings. He knows not give in even though you’ve probably died twice by now, stripped raw and gaping. He knows how to zone out into a whole new world of his making, sing canary tunes for the gamekeepers and smile with bloody teeth.
“I’d press my hands to your chest and dig in, I’d arch just like this and what would you do then? I’d rake my nails down your stomach just to see what color your skin would turn-would you like it?”
Kakashi knows the crushing, breathless, aching pain of loss, the blockage of the heart of lungs that never goes away, that refuses to ease and that moves from your mind to your throat to your heart and then nestles there for forever and a day. Guilt has never been subjective, and memory less so, espcially when one has an eye that waters red tear. He has been nursing his loss for years on years now, and he will continue to do so for years on years on years...
“I want to have your tongue on me, your teeth, and I want to feel what it would be like to have your hands and mouth on my body. Everywhere.”
People have begun to think he is some kind of saint, the copy-nin who saves the day with white lightning instead of a white horse, but he knows this is far from the truth. He knows sin, he knows booze and drugs and all the ninja mechanisms of coping with a bitter laugh. It wasn’t the most pleasant fix in the world, but in a life lived in the blood-haze, what was a shinobi to do? He knows the buzz of alcohol, the acid of liquor steaming down the throat and leaving it raw. The lazy softness that comes from being stoned. He knows when they each is necessary, if the hastily wrapped joint between his lips right now is any indication.
But that’s for the mission. Focus you idiot.
“How would your skin feel against mine, hot and slick and sweaty? I want to press against you until your eyes roll and I see you shudder because you want me.”
And maybe the drug is making him overestimate, but he knows women. There is a thin line between the moral and immoral of the comfort a body heaving next to you, and Kakashi treaded it lightly, dancing like a leaf on the wind. Like the millions who have fawned for the man behind the mask, he knows what he wants. What they want. It’s not that complicated really. He knows the heady rush of joint bodies, knows the bliss of joint orgasms. He knows the plush curve of a breast, the silkiness of the thigh, the downy skin behind the ear and on the stomach. He knows the lashes and laces and skies and eyes of love.
“I’m a curious girl you know. What would I be like if I took you in my mouth until I taste you on the back of my throat? How would it feel to be pressed between honeysuckle sheets and hot skin with you inside me?”
He could say he knew how people think, and he’d be right. Unlike how most seem to believe, humans aren’t as complicated as most would previously stipulate. But the Copy-nin wasn’t exactly concerned about whatever the fuck people were thinking. Too many missions with too much pointlessness had beaten it out of him.He pays attention to his dogs and books instead of dealing with the humans who would fuss and grab and pull. Feelings are supposed to stay minimal, because Kakashi knows in the end, it is only safety that matters, the amount of times no one dies that matters, the amount of times that he can stare at a name on a stone without stinging in his eyes.
“I want you. You said I should try and go for what I want, didn’t you? I seem to remember that.”
But....
Orange citrus scent curls in his nose, Lips smile dangerously against his cheek, a tinkling laugh flutters by his ear, and delicate fingers brush tantalizingly along the back of his neck.
He thought he knew Sakura, his pinkette teammate, his student. Here was where he was starting to think he was wrong.
“Do you want me too Kakashi- sensei?”
He was wrong. He was deliciously, gloriously, terribly wrong, because his innocent-or perhaps not so innocent-kunoichi was currently up against him, lap against his groin, pressing her body flush against his and whispering in his ear things that made his mouth go hot and dry and sweat bead in salty drops on his forehead, cathing in the strands of filigree hair. Her fingers were on his neck. He could feel all of her buzzing beautiful body lithely on his person, and going all at it. She was whispering naughty things, dirty things, shivery and tingling and igniting hot flames that slid with molten speed down his spine into his groin.
Mission,you fucking idiot.
He reminds himself that this is an act, just one to blend in with the crowd at the hotel bar so Sakura --Sakura who’s tongue had just fucking licked his ear and made his stomach drop out him -- could gather information through a listening chip unobtrusively.
It’s for the mission.
He knows, he knows, he knows, he knows...
But who does she think she’s kidding? Who does he think he’s kidding? He listens to her words and bites back groans and tries to focus on the Objective, the Target, the other patrons of the dingy bar, even the hit he smoked that helped their cover, any of the other vital details he knows are really far to simple to botch, instead of focusing on his citrus-smelling, red-wine-drinking student who was perched in his lap with her lips by his ear.
He knew Sakura. He is a very knowledgeable man, and he knows..the intricate beading on her dress, could feel it catching against the edges of his palm resting on her back. He knows the feeling of her muscles, trained under his hands into streamlined effeciency, muslces that could bathe him in a warm mint-green chakra glow or slam into an opponent. He knows the freckles on her shoulders, tiny and so pale they were almost blush pink, a delicacy he'd never noticed before untill she was here on his lap and her dress was falling off of one shoulder and he could see them standing out like new-fallen snow. He knew the pungent peach curve of her smile, the way her lips curled from her teeth and made him twitch his hands with the urge to run his thumb along the line of her bottom lip. He recalled the way she'd worn her hair shampoo smooth and long around her shoulder-blades as a gennin, and now he knows the choppy graceless beauty of pale locks framing a small face, the way wisps of that cotton-floss hair are brushing his cheek and feel like ragged ends of angel wings. He knows the way she ate her ramen; quick small bites as she glares at Naruto with every other mouthful, the way the broth makes her fingers shine with grease and how she sucks off the flavor with a small pink toungue. He knows her, he knows her he knows her...
And an hour later, when Sakura has gathered everything she needed from the listening chip placed inconspicuously in the targets clothes and he is a hard frustrated knot of repressed intent combined with a vague, slightly boneless smoke haze he seriously wonders if perhaps he never knew Sakura at all.
She pulls off of his lap, all long legs and low backed dress and impish smile that she'd always had perfected, But now it looked different, because those lips making that smile had been on his ear and whispered things in his ear and even though she was off his lap he knew she had left behind her lipstick stains and spicy orange-peel scent because he could feel them cracking on his skin and curling in the back of his throat.
He considers her with lazily heated eyes and she considers back, lips quirking up again- slow and pink and tip-toeing on the edge of unknown things that she holds preciously close.
He knows women.
He doesn’t know her. Anymore, that is.
So he follows her up to her room in a hot-smoked daze, and he follows her through her door in a hot-smoked daze, and then he attacks her lips and trails them down her throat and feels her angel-bones under his fingers, feels her small delicate hands claw right back at him and push him down onto her honey-suckle sweet- smelling bed.
He moans out loud when her tiny, pretty-pale nails rake over his chest and tongue flicks over his craving knowing skin. He peels her out and she peels him out and he never knew her skin tasted this good did he? Like tangerines dipped in rain and drizzled in honey-spice. She moves quick and insatiable and dirty, just as when they are sparring, student and teacher, oh he did know that about her, and when she lets out cries and breathy sighs of “Kakashi-sensei!” at his knowledgeable fingers, he reflects that he really should know better.
"Fuck, that's good. K-Kakashi-sensei, god, K-Kaka-"
But she is starting to whisper again, brokenly against the side of his head as her little nails dig into his shoulders and slim legs spasm.
“I knew I’d love your taste.”
Her lips are quirking up, up, up. He feels himself dragged back down into citrus-orange and kumquat-lime, tangerine and lemon-spice, pink and green swirls, honeysuckle air, a hot coiling need and small hands that feel fucking good on his hot flushed skin.
Ignorance was bliss in a ninja world sometimes, when it can be salvaged from the wreckage of a paraody of ruin.
And really, what does he know of the world anyway?
Fin
X
A/N: I loved this one. Sakura being dirty gave me a special kick. XD I think Sakura is picking up a trend in my writing as being a tad on the naughty/mischievous side. Anyway I adored it, but that’s cause it’s mine. ;P It is definitely subject to editing (everything is), so don’t hesitate to give your thoughts!
Scratch that, PLEASE give your thoughts. I need’em. I’m a struggling writer over here…*puppy dog face*
Thankyou for reading!