"The n00b" - Report#5 8D
N00b reporting.
No art this time. D: No time to do much lately but type in between work.
Due to all the gorging down of "le fine KakaSaku" buffet we have been given, my drabble bone starting biting at my ankles like a little puppy craving attention. A puppy with tiny needle sharp teeth.
So, to purge my mind out of the idea, I had to type this down, so I can comment wholeheartedly at the wondrous entries. Part One of a Two Part Story.
Title: Battles
Rating: M
Word Count: 3.624
Summary: There are different kind of battles throughout one's life. They are fighting their own. Victory can taste like defeat. But sometimes defeat is the sweetest of victories...
Disclaimer: I own nothing but two very sweet Kakashi plushies. <3
We're alive.
It's that rush of adrenaline that fills me now, as I feel the rough breath scratch my throat.
I feel winded. The breeze that suddenly picked up, the feeling of it hitting my face is exquisite.
The throbs of my heart are felt in every little scratch, every sore muscle.
We're alive.
It paints a smile on my lips.
Victorious, glad, overwhelmed, exhilarated, insane, you, you, you.
My eyes wander to the side, where you are, walking beside me.
Dirty, bloodied, and I'm still smiling. I know your wounds are minimal. I know more than half the blood isn't yours. As the one that decorates my uniform in splatters isn't mine.
We're alive.
I want to laugh, and scream, and jump up with this liquid rush of something too strong that courses through my veins.
That something that is warm, no, scorching, filling me up with strength and weakness.
We're freaking alive, and this feeling keeps burning me.
And my eyes can't seem to be able to go anywhere else but you, you.
'You.'
"We're alive." I state, and my voice has a slightly higher pitch than usual. It sounds as insane as I feel.
You nod and the smile upturns the corner of your lips slightly.
I can see it, only that corner, because the black cotton that usually covers your face has been broken, severed, and the moon, in a silver slit of light allows me now to see a peek of it: not like the glance I caught in the midst of battle, filling me up with awe and shock and fear because that kunai had been a little too close.
It had hit her with the same force as the punch that had landed on her side, making her turn around, and use the momentum of the motion to throw her chakra charged fist directly at the enemy's chest, before her head whipped back to look for him again. To make sure that what she had seen was in fact true, and not a trick of her mind.
The thought races through my mind: how the hell can you keep the severed cotton from falling completely off your face?
Your pigment-less hair is also bloodied, splotches of red that seem even darker when in that bed of silver that falls over your face, hitae-ate missing, ripped: I know it's inside your waist pouch.
I keep watching you. Taking you in. Taking in that glimpse of a smile.
My skin prickles with an intense inner warmness. Like I have come down with a fever. Maybe it's shock. Maybe I am entering shock, and the simple idea makes me want to laugh now, but I seem unable to: I only chuckle darkly. It rattles my breath and my chest.
My hands fist at my sides, and I realise it isn't stopping.
All that blood, all those screams, all those wheezing sounds of almost there hits of sharp deliverers of death that passed close to my ears, so damned close but never hitting, and I am alive and you're alive. And we are alive and I can't believe it.
Dancing from but giving away death.
The remembrance of your fit body crouching, leg outwards in a swipe, tripping the enemy - the clenching bicep as you deliver sharp death to the enemy's chest - the haunting chirp of a thousand birds, lighting the last moment before the poor soul that has had the misfortune to engage in battle with you is given a quick death - and that feeling, that warm feeling of blood splatter seems to overrule me again.
Born within my loins and steadily going lower. Bleeding. Running. Pulsing.
The friction of my thighs as we walk making me laugh now, not chuckle, not suppressed.
I keep laughing because I know I will moan if I stop it.
It's wrong, so wrong, deliciously wrong and my eyes half close as I look ahead, my head tilting to one side, and the smile on my lips hurts me.
And like blood from a wound, full of life, and warm and slipping between a seam of flesh, I feel myself pulse and drip. And clench, and I continue laughing because, right now it just hits me as being so ridiculous.
Ridiculous and right and... logic. Flawless logic.
It's want. It's a mechanism. It's normal. Standard.
It would happen, even if there was another at my side... It's the deeply ingrained survival instinct, the proliferation of the species.
It isn't.
It's that hidden feeling that runs rampant without restraint, because she is too wired up with sensation to keep them tamed.
Overload.
That evolving feeling, 'I'm a good student, just watch me!', fast forward, 'thank you for saying what I need you to', fast forward, 'thank you for being there for me', fast forward, 'look at me, I'm here damn it!', fast forward, 'stop saving me because I'm weak, save me because I mean something!', fast forward, 'I'm strong now, look at me!' fast forward, 'Let me in'. Fast forward...
.
.
.
'I love you'.
My legs stop moving for some reason. My slit eyesight suddenly seems to clear, as I look at a sole black-grey eye frowning at me.
Scar, left eyelid closed, corner of your lips, which move because you're talking to me.
The rattles on my chest don't stop, you shake me, and my mind realises your hands are over my bare shoulders. I can feel the rough calloused fingers peeking from the black leather that encloses your palms.
It's rough, the touch, but instead of snapping my mind away from the shock... it enhances it.
I squirm under that touch, because I want it. More more, more.
My hands come up, in wholehearted automatic mode. They want to feel. My eyes keep watching your lone onyx one, your frown deepens for seconds. Confused, because now I realise my hands are sliding over your chest, up, up, the flak jacket gone, so it's lean musculature under them, only separated by a thin layer of cotton. Up, up, until the pads of my fingertips reach the beginning of your neck. Spread fingers: I feel the strong heartbeat under my middle right fingertip as I reach your pulse point.
I'm not laughing any more.
Your jaw slacks minimally: lips parted maybe...? Moving.
And probably you're asking me something, but only the sound of my own lust seems to reach my ears. From within.
You're probably trying to ask me something, but I don't listen, as my hands slide upwards cupping your jaw.
You're probably trying to push me away with your hands on my shoulders, but I don't let you.
Transfixed, ensnared. I really want to rip that already tattered piece of cotton and feel the vibrations of your words with my fingertips. Against my bare lips.
My breathing is rapid, compared to your composed puffs of breath that fan across my face, warm, tickling whatever skin they are able to slide across.
My heaving covered chest, constricted against my pushed together arms, swells: my left thumb swiping over the little piece of uncovered skin.
Soft stubble.
Corner of those lips.
I make no sudden move to push the fabric aside: I simply enjoy this new piece of visual information, of sensory discovery.
My eyelids flutter, as my hands can feel your jaw move, my eyes catch the telltale motion under black cotton as words come out, your breath carrying them to me, and I realise what you're saying.
"...you're in shock. Stop that."
My eyes snap up to yours, and within that aloof darkness, in that never-ending darkness of charcoal and onyx I see something dancing. Or maybe it's just the reflection of my own. That fire inside that is curling on the pit of my stomach, on the seam of what I am, making me pulse and feel like something is missing. My skin up in goosebumps, tugging as if it's reaching out for you.
For contact.
Any kind of contact.
My touch spreads out from your jaw, within hairline, as I feel the pale locks running between my fingers, kissing the sensitive skin between them, and again my eyelids flutter. The jolt of feeling whips through my arms, and my back arches.
"We're alive..." I whisper, raspy and even the sound of arousal in my voice is enough to push it even further. My front all but collides with yours, as I rub myself upwards, almost on tiptoes, hands in fistfuls of your hair, and the friction, the closeness, your own warmth is enough to intoxicate me.
It takes me two seconds flat, to realise the hands on my shoulders are sliding over my arms, and my spine stays in that arched position, taut muscles. It's almost as if I can crawl inside you, as the feeling of smooth leather climbs my skin, and the grazes of your fingertips on the inside of my arms make my nipples as taut as my muscles, rebelling against my brassiere.
My face gravitates closer to yours, you're speaking again, and yet again I disregard it, because I am mourning the loss of your sliding touch: your hands reach my elbows and totally bypass my forearms, clenching at my wrists. Your tight fingers on them burn me. I sense motion from you, so before you have the opportunity to pry my hands off, I press my lips to your covered ones. Forcefully: the friction of the damned fabric I didn't pull down bothering and yet teasing me. The feeling on the corner of my lip, as it presses against yours, promising so much more than the warmness of your covered skin.
I try to pull my right hand out of your grasp to be able to tug it down, to feel your lips fully against mine.
Something, anything, I need to feel some sort of contact.
I saw people die today.
I saw dreams being ripped from writhing bodies.
I myself carved pain, and reaped some of those dreams.
He could have died, and she would never see him again.
She could have died, and she would never feel him against her.
So easily, automatic. Robotic, unfeeling. Precise and cold.
I don't want that coldness any more. I want warmth, your warmth, but you keep your hold on my wrists. Worst, you gather both of them between us and push me back, making me stagger.
"Sakura, stop that."
Your voice is raspy, low. Do you have any idea of what it does to me? Your eye roams over mine, squint look. Your chest moves slightly faster than usual, and even if you say that...
That lone eye is telling me something, isn't it? Or do I want it to?
You shake me again and release my wrists that I cradle against my heaving chest.
The pang of rejection fills me.
Why do I want to have you in me so much? Even after this, even knowing full well this is just an instinctual reaction...
Why do I want to feel your bared lips against mine, on my chest, on the soft skin of the inside of my thighs...?
The pang of rejection hits me, hurts me, and like a wounded dog, I attack.
My arms fall at my sides, as I smile. You're still watching me, weary, eyebrows slightly creasing. And the throbbing, that relentless throbbing between my trembling legs ('when did they start trembling?' I wonder for a mere second), is still fuelling my streak of rashness.
"Stop?" I put as much venom as I can compile at the moment, even if the smile stays on my lips, and my head tilts ever so slightly to the side. Your expression is impassive. It's almost like I'm not even here. It hurts. It shouldn't hurt this much. Nothing should. "No thank you."
I watch as your eye squints further. I pulse, and my lip curls in contempt. Damn it. It must be your fault somehow; this feeling that is raking through my body. I hate you.
No, she doesn't.
I continue: "If you aren't willing, there are others who will."
Silence. The wind blows. My breath is still heavy.
Your eyebrows crease to a full frown level. Your jaw clenches. And that lone black eye shines, with something I identify as... anger.
My heart stutters (stops?) and, am I hurt? I am. And sad. I need to get away. I can't take it anymore, looking at you looking at me like that. Because, God damn you, I still want you. Only you. Why?
It takes everything in me to turn around. I do, and my leg gives the first step away from you, with the heavy foreshadow of this being the end of so much more than this conversation. It is the end of that little hope I harboured for a stronger kind of "us".
I admit it now.
It's the end of your eye-creasing smiles and light banter when we are together. The end of the "us" we had. And, as my heart plummets to my stomach I blame you-no. I blame myself for letting my treacherous body betray me like that.
I blame my tongue for slipping those words.
I blame myself for ruining that which you gave me, in my desperate want for something more.
It surprises me when I feel a hand grab my left wrist: your hand, almost yanking me off my feet to follow behind you. Your strides are purposeful, strong and long, and I find myself tripping over my boots to try and keep up.
My heart races and I don't know what to expect. I am pushed against a wall before I have time to catch my mind. And I let it slip through my proverbial searching fingers, as your left forearm presses vertically against the wall behind me, followed by the right one that still holds my wrist, pinning it to the wall beside my shoulder, caging me. You're so close. So close.
I pulse. My heart skips a beat.
Your eye roams mine. Predatory? Suspicious? Conflicted. Intense.
You whisper something, rasp, but my thundering heart prevents me from decoding the vocalized pattern into words I can understand. I can only stare at your eyes: yes, because the red sharingan pierces me, with that conflicted look. A wave of arousal fills me, rising higher.
Because you are close, because you are touching me, because you are looking at me, because a few moments ago I thought I had lost you, because I want you, you, you... My lips dry with my frantic breathing, my eyebrows crease and my free hand rises up to grab the side of your shirt at your waist, pulling, feeling the fabric yield under my fingernails, wrapped around my fingers as I tug at it. I demand more closeness. My body demands it, in cramps that surge on my lower region.
Your knee presses between my legs, and they open in a wordless invitation. The strong flesh of your upper thigh pushes against the middle of my parted members, and my eyelids flutter as my body moves in automatic, abdominal muscles clenching to change the angle so I can rub myself on the warmth there. The hand on my left wrist pushes it up on the rough surface of the wall, over my head: I can hear the scratching sound of the leather that shields your knuckles. I can hear your breath itch; I can feel the pressure that grabs a hold on the middle of my chest. I feel so light-headed, and yet completely alert.
"...Don't do this to me."
I can hear yours words, said with a lower tone than the one I am used to, and it does wondrous, tortuous things to me. I don't answer; I wouldn't know what to anyway. My hips sway again in a rub, doing very little to calm the clenching of my inner walls: it only ignites the hot liquid fire that starts at the pit of my being. Your free hand, the one not grabbing my wrist comes down over the wall, to slide on my neck, not rough but strong.
It rips a forced exhale from my lips.
Spread hold, curling fingers that reach the back of my neck, before your thumb slides over my earlobe in a pressed caress and your fingers' hold shift on my skin: that same thumb slides over my cheek and down to hover at the corner of my lips.
"Don't do this to me Sakura..." The warmth of closeness turns into the warmth of touch. Caressing my upper lip, I feel the flesh yield under your touch. "I can't..." Reaching the opposite corner from where you began, and sliding now on my lower one. I can't stop looking at your eyes. "We can't..." Your voice sounds so broken, defeated, vulnerable and yet strong with longing, and I almost can't believe it. Your thumb catches the moist on the inner lining of my bottom lip, as you again roll it to slide over my upper lip, that moistness making me crave for yours on them.
I need it. I really need it.
Your thumb stills, pressed vertically on the middle of my lips, and your eyes close. I blink, as I sense the tension in your body; every part of you that touches me is high strung. Your eyebrows are fully creased, pained looking expression marring your features.
You are fighting it.
I can't let you. This is one battle I won't let you win.
"Take me."
Your breath stops. The hold on my wrist tightens for seconds.
"Take me..." I am asking, commanding, demanding and pleading.
Your shaken exhale wafts across my face. I see your head shaking minimally. I sway my hips against your thigh again, grinding myself on you, the hand fisting your shirt pulling it. My still bound wrist fights for freedom; my palm tickles with the need to burry in your hair because, as your leg moves to reply to the motion of my hips, a soft little groan escapes your lips, and it's the damned most sensual sound I ever heard in my life. My tongue slides to press a lick over the skin of your thumb. And your eyes snap open, looking directly at my mouth.
"Take me Kakashi…" I whisper out, before my tongue grazes your skin again, and I can see your mismatched eyes glazing over for seconds before you close them again tightly, and I feel the relieving of pressure on my wrist, against my lips, and between my legs.
You are moving away. I can't let you. I don't even see as your hands press against the wall at my sides for you to push yourself away from me.
My hand fisting your shirt leaves it, and in a quick motion I slide it inside, feeling muscles that contract as the back of my hand slides over your skin - the roughened peak of a masculine nipple almost makes me forget what I am aiming for - the material stretching as it snakes between you and the high turtleneck, makeshift mask, and hooking my fingers on the edge of it, pulling down to uncover your lips, and for me to bring you closer.
It's a clash of lips and teeth, and I barely manage to contain a moan from escaping my chest; it rolls deep in my throat. I don't know where your hands are, I don't care if I didn't even take my time to see your face. Your taste teases me in a rough exhale that I pull in an inhale to fill my mouth and my taste buds; your scent fills my nostrils like never before - and it's beyond wonderful.
My now free hand finally reached its destination and I fist it on your messy silver locks, pulling you even closer as I tilt my head for the sake of angling my lips over yours, my tongue shooting out with all the desperation I'm feeling.
Sliding past your lips to search for your own tongue, that remains unresponsive at the first flick of mine. I continue moving, frantic: you're still not moving towards me, but you are not moving away either. You are still fighting, but I won't let you win. Not this battle… not like this. Not this time. If you are to fight with me, fight inside me. I really don't care, and the selfishness of this act will probably haunt me later: but I need you. To hell with propriety, to hell with age, to hell with status and society's rules.
This is simply another rescue I ask of you. You always save me from every danger, even if I don't ask you to. Well, I am asking now: I am in serious danger of going mad if you don't take me here, against this wall, after a battle, in the middle of a deserted alley, in the middle of the night.
I say these words without vocalizing, as my tongue slides over the edge of your upper teeth, tickling your palate to dive down to yours again, and try and coax it into moving against mine.
I say it as my hand, the one that slid inside your shirt, cups your jaw in a clawed caress; as the other runs and fists over the slightly rough locks, dusty from battle.
I say it as my hips move towards you, rubbing, it's not enough, my leg rises and my foot locks on the inside of your leg, the angle of my core now a little more satisfying than before.
She is fighting with all the strength one uses when fighting for one's life, but...
So is he.
Can also be found over at www.fanfiction.net/s/6453385/1/
The n00b out. +salutes+
No art this time. D: No time to do much lately but type in between work.
Due to all the gorging down of "le fine KakaSaku" buffet we have been given, my drabble bone starting biting at my ankles like a little puppy craving attention. A puppy with tiny needle sharp teeth.
So, to purge my mind out of the idea, I had to type this down, so I can comment wholeheartedly at the wondrous entries. Part One of a Two Part Story.
Title: Battles
Rating: M
Word Count: 3.624
Summary: There are different kind of battles throughout one's life. They are fighting their own. Victory can taste like defeat. But sometimes defeat is the sweetest of victories...
Disclaimer: I own nothing but two very sweet Kakashi plushies. <3
We're alive.
It's that rush of adrenaline that fills me now, as I feel the rough breath scratch my throat.
I feel winded. The breeze that suddenly picked up, the feeling of it hitting my face is exquisite.
The throbs of my heart are felt in every little scratch, every sore muscle.
We're alive.
It paints a smile on my lips.
Victorious, glad, overwhelmed, exhilarated, insane, you, you, you.
My eyes wander to the side, where you are, walking beside me.
Dirty, bloodied, and I'm still smiling. I know your wounds are minimal. I know more than half the blood isn't yours. As the one that decorates my uniform in splatters isn't mine.
We're alive.
I want to laugh, and scream, and jump up with this liquid rush of something too strong that courses through my veins.
That something that is warm, no, scorching, filling me up with strength and weakness.
We're freaking alive, and this feeling keeps burning me.
And my eyes can't seem to be able to go anywhere else but you, you.
'You.'
"We're alive." I state, and my voice has a slightly higher pitch than usual. It sounds as insane as I feel.
You nod and the smile upturns the corner of your lips slightly.
I can see it, only that corner, because the black cotton that usually covers your face has been broken, severed, and the moon, in a silver slit of light allows me now to see a peek of it: not like the glance I caught in the midst of battle, filling me up with awe and shock and fear because that kunai had been a little too close.
It had hit her with the same force as the punch that had landed on her side, making her turn around, and use the momentum of the motion to throw her chakra charged fist directly at the enemy's chest, before her head whipped back to look for him again. To make sure that what she had seen was in fact true, and not a trick of her mind.
The thought races through my mind: how the hell can you keep the severed cotton from falling completely off your face?
Your pigment-less hair is also bloodied, splotches of red that seem even darker when in that bed of silver that falls over your face, hitae-ate missing, ripped: I know it's inside your waist pouch.
I keep watching you. Taking you in. Taking in that glimpse of a smile.
My skin prickles with an intense inner warmness. Like I have come down with a fever. Maybe it's shock. Maybe I am entering shock, and the simple idea makes me want to laugh now, but I seem unable to: I only chuckle darkly. It rattles my breath and my chest.
My hands fist at my sides, and I realise it isn't stopping.
All that blood, all those screams, all those wheezing sounds of almost there hits of sharp deliverers of death that passed close to my ears, so damned close but never hitting, and I am alive and you're alive. And we are alive and I can't believe it.
Dancing from but giving away death.
The remembrance of your fit body crouching, leg outwards in a swipe, tripping the enemy - the clenching bicep as you deliver sharp death to the enemy's chest - the haunting chirp of a thousand birds, lighting the last moment before the poor soul that has had the misfortune to engage in battle with you is given a quick death - and that feeling, that warm feeling of blood splatter seems to overrule me again.
Born within my loins and steadily going lower. Bleeding. Running. Pulsing.
The friction of my thighs as we walk making me laugh now, not chuckle, not suppressed.
I keep laughing because I know I will moan if I stop it.
It's wrong, so wrong, deliciously wrong and my eyes half close as I look ahead, my head tilting to one side, and the smile on my lips hurts me.
And like blood from a wound, full of life, and warm and slipping between a seam of flesh, I feel myself pulse and drip. And clench, and I continue laughing because, right now it just hits me as being so ridiculous.
Ridiculous and right and... logic. Flawless logic.
It's want. It's a mechanism. It's normal. Standard.
It would happen, even if there was another at my side... It's the deeply ingrained survival instinct, the proliferation of the species.
It isn't.
It's that hidden feeling that runs rampant without restraint, because she is too wired up with sensation to keep them tamed.
Overload.
That evolving feeling, 'I'm a good student, just watch me!', fast forward, 'thank you for saying what I need you to', fast forward, 'thank you for being there for me', fast forward, 'look at me, I'm here damn it!', fast forward, 'stop saving me because I'm weak, save me because I mean something!', fast forward, 'I'm strong now, look at me!' fast forward, 'Let me in'. Fast forward...
.
.
.
'I love you'.
My legs stop moving for some reason. My slit eyesight suddenly seems to clear, as I look at a sole black-grey eye frowning at me.
Scar, left eyelid closed, corner of your lips, which move because you're talking to me.
The rattles on my chest don't stop, you shake me, and my mind realises your hands are over my bare shoulders. I can feel the rough calloused fingers peeking from the black leather that encloses your palms.
It's rough, the touch, but instead of snapping my mind away from the shock... it enhances it.
I squirm under that touch, because I want it. More more, more.
My hands come up, in wholehearted automatic mode. They want to feel. My eyes keep watching your lone onyx one, your frown deepens for seconds. Confused, because now I realise my hands are sliding over your chest, up, up, the flak jacket gone, so it's lean musculature under them, only separated by a thin layer of cotton. Up, up, until the pads of my fingertips reach the beginning of your neck. Spread fingers: I feel the strong heartbeat under my middle right fingertip as I reach your pulse point.
I'm not laughing any more.
Your jaw slacks minimally: lips parted maybe...? Moving.
And probably you're asking me something, but only the sound of my own lust seems to reach my ears. From within.
You're probably trying to ask me something, but I don't listen, as my hands slide upwards cupping your jaw.
You're probably trying to push me away with your hands on my shoulders, but I don't let you.
Transfixed, ensnared. I really want to rip that already tattered piece of cotton and feel the vibrations of your words with my fingertips. Against my bare lips.
My breathing is rapid, compared to your composed puffs of breath that fan across my face, warm, tickling whatever skin they are able to slide across.
My heaving covered chest, constricted against my pushed together arms, swells: my left thumb swiping over the little piece of uncovered skin.
Soft stubble.
Corner of those lips.
I make no sudden move to push the fabric aside: I simply enjoy this new piece of visual information, of sensory discovery.
My eyelids flutter, as my hands can feel your jaw move, my eyes catch the telltale motion under black cotton as words come out, your breath carrying them to me, and I realise what you're saying.
"...you're in shock. Stop that."
My eyes snap up to yours, and within that aloof darkness, in that never-ending darkness of charcoal and onyx I see something dancing. Or maybe it's just the reflection of my own. That fire inside that is curling on the pit of my stomach, on the seam of what I am, making me pulse and feel like something is missing. My skin up in goosebumps, tugging as if it's reaching out for you.
For contact.
Any kind of contact.
My touch spreads out from your jaw, within hairline, as I feel the pale locks running between my fingers, kissing the sensitive skin between them, and again my eyelids flutter. The jolt of feeling whips through my arms, and my back arches.
"We're alive..." I whisper, raspy and even the sound of arousal in my voice is enough to push it even further. My front all but collides with yours, as I rub myself upwards, almost on tiptoes, hands in fistfuls of your hair, and the friction, the closeness, your own warmth is enough to intoxicate me.
It takes me two seconds flat, to realise the hands on my shoulders are sliding over my arms, and my spine stays in that arched position, taut muscles. It's almost as if I can crawl inside you, as the feeling of smooth leather climbs my skin, and the grazes of your fingertips on the inside of my arms make my nipples as taut as my muscles, rebelling against my brassiere.
My face gravitates closer to yours, you're speaking again, and yet again I disregard it, because I am mourning the loss of your sliding touch: your hands reach my elbows and totally bypass my forearms, clenching at my wrists. Your tight fingers on them burn me. I sense motion from you, so before you have the opportunity to pry my hands off, I press my lips to your covered ones. Forcefully: the friction of the damned fabric I didn't pull down bothering and yet teasing me. The feeling on the corner of my lip, as it presses against yours, promising so much more than the warmness of your covered skin.
I try to pull my right hand out of your grasp to be able to tug it down, to feel your lips fully against mine.
Something, anything, I need to feel some sort of contact.
I saw people die today.
I saw dreams being ripped from writhing bodies.
I myself carved pain, and reaped some of those dreams.
He could have died, and she would never see him again.
She could have died, and she would never feel him against her.
So easily, automatic. Robotic, unfeeling. Precise and cold.
I don't want that coldness any more. I want warmth, your warmth, but you keep your hold on my wrists. Worst, you gather both of them between us and push me back, making me stagger.
"Sakura, stop that."
Your voice is raspy, low. Do you have any idea of what it does to me? Your eye roams over mine, squint look. Your chest moves slightly faster than usual, and even if you say that...
That lone eye is telling me something, isn't it? Or do I want it to?
You shake me again and release my wrists that I cradle against my heaving chest.
The pang of rejection fills me.
Why do I want to have you in me so much? Even after this, even knowing full well this is just an instinctual reaction...
Why do I want to feel your bared lips against mine, on my chest, on the soft skin of the inside of my thighs...?
The pang of rejection hits me, hurts me, and like a wounded dog, I attack.
My arms fall at my sides, as I smile. You're still watching me, weary, eyebrows slightly creasing. And the throbbing, that relentless throbbing between my trembling legs ('when did they start trembling?' I wonder for a mere second), is still fuelling my streak of rashness.
"Stop?" I put as much venom as I can compile at the moment, even if the smile stays on my lips, and my head tilts ever so slightly to the side. Your expression is impassive. It's almost like I'm not even here. It hurts. It shouldn't hurt this much. Nothing should. "No thank you."
I watch as your eye squints further. I pulse, and my lip curls in contempt. Damn it. It must be your fault somehow; this feeling that is raking through my body. I hate you.
No, she doesn't.
I continue: "If you aren't willing, there are others who will."
Silence. The wind blows. My breath is still heavy.
Your eyebrows crease to a full frown level. Your jaw clenches. And that lone black eye shines, with something I identify as... anger.
My heart stutters (stops?) and, am I hurt? I am. And sad. I need to get away. I can't take it anymore, looking at you looking at me like that. Because, God damn you, I still want you. Only you. Why?
It takes everything in me to turn around. I do, and my leg gives the first step away from you, with the heavy foreshadow of this being the end of so much more than this conversation. It is the end of that little hope I harboured for a stronger kind of "us".
I admit it now.
It's the end of your eye-creasing smiles and light banter when we are together. The end of the "us" we had. And, as my heart plummets to my stomach I blame you-no. I blame myself for letting my treacherous body betray me like that.
I blame my tongue for slipping those words.
I blame myself for ruining that which you gave me, in my desperate want for something more.
It surprises me when I feel a hand grab my left wrist: your hand, almost yanking me off my feet to follow behind you. Your strides are purposeful, strong and long, and I find myself tripping over my boots to try and keep up.
My heart races and I don't know what to expect. I am pushed against a wall before I have time to catch my mind. And I let it slip through my proverbial searching fingers, as your left forearm presses vertically against the wall behind me, followed by the right one that still holds my wrist, pinning it to the wall beside my shoulder, caging me. You're so close. So close.
I pulse. My heart skips a beat.
Your eye roams mine. Predatory? Suspicious? Conflicted. Intense.
You whisper something, rasp, but my thundering heart prevents me from decoding the vocalized pattern into words I can understand. I can only stare at your eyes: yes, because the red sharingan pierces me, with that conflicted look. A wave of arousal fills me, rising higher.
Because you are close, because you are touching me, because you are looking at me, because a few moments ago I thought I had lost you, because I want you, you, you... My lips dry with my frantic breathing, my eyebrows crease and my free hand rises up to grab the side of your shirt at your waist, pulling, feeling the fabric yield under my fingernails, wrapped around my fingers as I tug at it. I demand more closeness. My body demands it, in cramps that surge on my lower region.
Your knee presses between my legs, and they open in a wordless invitation. The strong flesh of your upper thigh pushes against the middle of my parted members, and my eyelids flutter as my body moves in automatic, abdominal muscles clenching to change the angle so I can rub myself on the warmth there. The hand on my left wrist pushes it up on the rough surface of the wall, over my head: I can hear the scratching sound of the leather that shields your knuckles. I can hear your breath itch; I can feel the pressure that grabs a hold on the middle of my chest. I feel so light-headed, and yet completely alert.
"...Don't do this to me."
I can hear yours words, said with a lower tone than the one I am used to, and it does wondrous, tortuous things to me. I don't answer; I wouldn't know what to anyway. My hips sway again in a rub, doing very little to calm the clenching of my inner walls: it only ignites the hot liquid fire that starts at the pit of my being. Your free hand, the one not grabbing my wrist comes down over the wall, to slide on my neck, not rough but strong.
It rips a forced exhale from my lips.
Spread hold, curling fingers that reach the back of my neck, before your thumb slides over my earlobe in a pressed caress and your fingers' hold shift on my skin: that same thumb slides over my cheek and down to hover at the corner of my lips.
"Don't do this to me Sakura..." The warmth of closeness turns into the warmth of touch. Caressing my upper lip, I feel the flesh yield under your touch. "I can't..." Reaching the opposite corner from where you began, and sliding now on my lower one. I can't stop looking at your eyes. "We can't..." Your voice sounds so broken, defeated, vulnerable and yet strong with longing, and I almost can't believe it. Your thumb catches the moist on the inner lining of my bottom lip, as you again roll it to slide over my upper lip, that moistness making me crave for yours on them.
I need it. I really need it.
Your thumb stills, pressed vertically on the middle of my lips, and your eyes close. I blink, as I sense the tension in your body; every part of you that touches me is high strung. Your eyebrows are fully creased, pained looking expression marring your features.
You are fighting it.
I can't let you. This is one battle I won't let you win.
"Take me."
Your breath stops. The hold on my wrist tightens for seconds.
"Take me..." I am asking, commanding, demanding and pleading.
Your shaken exhale wafts across my face. I see your head shaking minimally. I sway my hips against your thigh again, grinding myself on you, the hand fisting your shirt pulling it. My still bound wrist fights for freedom; my palm tickles with the need to burry in your hair because, as your leg moves to reply to the motion of my hips, a soft little groan escapes your lips, and it's the damned most sensual sound I ever heard in my life. My tongue slides to press a lick over the skin of your thumb. And your eyes snap open, looking directly at my mouth.
"Take me Kakashi…" I whisper out, before my tongue grazes your skin again, and I can see your mismatched eyes glazing over for seconds before you close them again tightly, and I feel the relieving of pressure on my wrist, against my lips, and between my legs.
You are moving away. I can't let you. I don't even see as your hands press against the wall at my sides for you to push yourself away from me.
My hand fisting your shirt leaves it, and in a quick motion I slide it inside, feeling muscles that contract as the back of my hand slides over your skin - the roughened peak of a masculine nipple almost makes me forget what I am aiming for - the material stretching as it snakes between you and the high turtleneck, makeshift mask, and hooking my fingers on the edge of it, pulling down to uncover your lips, and for me to bring you closer.
It's a clash of lips and teeth, and I barely manage to contain a moan from escaping my chest; it rolls deep in my throat. I don't know where your hands are, I don't care if I didn't even take my time to see your face. Your taste teases me in a rough exhale that I pull in an inhale to fill my mouth and my taste buds; your scent fills my nostrils like never before - and it's beyond wonderful.
My now free hand finally reached its destination and I fist it on your messy silver locks, pulling you even closer as I tilt my head for the sake of angling my lips over yours, my tongue shooting out with all the desperation I'm feeling.
Sliding past your lips to search for your own tongue, that remains unresponsive at the first flick of mine. I continue moving, frantic: you're still not moving towards me, but you are not moving away either. You are still fighting, but I won't let you win. Not this battle… not like this. Not this time. If you are to fight with me, fight inside me. I really don't care, and the selfishness of this act will probably haunt me later: but I need you. To hell with propriety, to hell with age, to hell with status and society's rules.
This is simply another rescue I ask of you. You always save me from every danger, even if I don't ask you to. Well, I am asking now: I am in serious danger of going mad if you don't take me here, against this wall, after a battle, in the middle of a deserted alley, in the middle of the night.
I say these words without vocalizing, as my tongue slides over the edge of your upper teeth, tickling your palate to dive down to yours again, and try and coax it into moving against mine.
I say it as my hand, the one that slid inside your shirt, cups your jaw in a clawed caress; as the other runs and fists over the slightly rough locks, dusty from battle.
I say it as my hips move towards you, rubbing, it's not enough, my leg rises and my foot locks on the inside of your leg, the angle of my core now a little more satisfying than before.
She is fighting with all the strength one uses when fighting for one's life, but...
So is he.
Can also be found over at www.fanfiction.net/s/6453385/1/
The n00b out. +salutes+