More GaaSaku! Whoop!
Written in the style of Hold On Tightly but more…angsty? Suggestive? I don't know. Either way, it's a diferent story.
I don't own Naruto.
.
.
.
His damnation.
.
.
.
"You know, you could be my redemption."
Gaara knows that she could save him, if only she'd give him the chance. He knows it in his head, in his bones, in his gut. This girl was his salvation, if only she'd have him.
She's looking at him, peering at him curiously over her glass of wine. "You think so?" she murmurs, casting her gaze out the restaurant window. His eyes are on her, watching. He can sense her anxiety, can feel the tension in the air. She doesn't crack, though, and looks back down at her drink. "What brought this on?" she asks, finally looking up at him.
He's locked onto her gaze when he answers: "You could have been for the Uchiha."
Her response is cold, quick, and punctuated by the slamming of her glass on the table. "And look how he ended."
And as she stalks away, Gaara wonders if maybe that hadn't been the best way to approach the topic.
.
.
.
She didn't even know what she was doing to him.
.
.
.
There were enough similarities between him and the Uchiha for his words – his presumptions – to be justified. But she had come to expect more from him – and that was what she was worrying about.
.
.
.
This girl was killing him, killing him, and she didn't even know it.
She was a disease, eating him from the inside out. A motherfucking parasite, latched onto his heart, in his head, in his soul. One look from her and he was a puppet, a slave. He'd die for this woman – but preferably, he'd live for her.
And the worst part?
She was too blind to see it.
.
.
.
She was completely under his guard. Gaara had been in a sort of self-denial of this, but when she showed up one day with tears streaming down her cheeks, he found himself enveloping her in a rib-cracking hug without a second thought, all pretenses dropped. He held her close and rubbed her back as she clung to him and sobbed. He left an arm around her as she wiped her eyes, and reflected dimly that she could have slipped a knife between his ribs at any given second within the last twenty minutes – and he would have been taken off guard.
This was a startling development.
Gaara wasn't sure how to handle it.
Kissing her senseless seemed to be a good method of operation, however.
Yes, it was. Very much worth the slap he'd received in turn.
.
.
.
If ignorance was bliss and knowledge was power, but only fools fall in love, then Sakura was an ignorant, powerful, fool. It was an odd combination – but, as it was, she knew where Gaara stood, she didn't know what to do about it, and she was definitely an idiot for letting it progress this far.
A smirk. He walked around her, circling her like a lion would its prey. She turned with him, not taking her eyes off his. Still he did not speak.
His smirk widened, and she saw it coming but she couldn't stop it. In a flash he was behind her, hands resting lightly on the dip of her waist, thin forefingers tapping on her hipbones.
"You know," he said, voice low in her ear. A delicious shiver went down her spine. "We could make this into a lovely game."
Sakura's face was bright red, but she did manage to control her breathing. "Oh? And what are the rules?"
She could feel his grin against her neck. "There are no rules."
She nearly balked, nearly bolted then and fucking there, but instead she swallowed and said, "It can't be a game if there aren't rules."
The laughter rumbled deep in his chest. "There's no fun if there's rules. But…" And Sakura could tell that she'd played right into his hand. "If you insist…"
"Which I do. What are they?"
He exhaled against her neck. His lips brushed her ear when he said, "You have to run."
"Oh," she said eloquently.
But he wasn't done. She felt him tense when he said, "And I have to catch you."
Oh.
The hands on her hips tightened, pulled her back flush against his chest. "And when I catch you, I will have you."
.
.
.
She was his. It was as simple as that. The sooner she accepted this fact, the sooner her life would get easier.
She was his.
He could be hers.
That is, if she'd have him.
.
.
.
It was insidious. It was a disease. The more she tried not to think about it, the more she thought about it.
Gaara was growing on her, aqua eyes and red hair and black makeup and all. She missed him when he wasn't around and didn't know how to act when he was around.
And, after Gaara had left (after hanging around for quite a while), Sai informed her that she had been demonstrating four of the six signs of infatuation via body language.
Gaara had been demonstrating all six.
.
.
.
They were watching the horses. It was one of those peaceful times when they were together, all the high-octane vitriol strangely absent. These moments were some of their shared favorite.
In such moments, Sakura would let down her guard and Gaara would curb his administrations. Sakura would pretend to be friends with him, and Gaara would pretend to be okay with just being friends.
The system was good – for short periods of time.
Sakura was standing on the bottom rung of wooden post fence, head cocked to the side. "I feel bad for the horses," she mused aloud.
"Oh?" Gaara stood on the ground, leaning against the fence. He was already looking at her, her expression, her posture. He wished he was more of an artist – if he was, he'd paint her just like that.
Sakura mhmed. "They're wild, you know? They're not born tame. They have to get broken, so they behave."
Gaara shrugged. "The horses are gentled now. They trust their masters."
Sakura shook her head, and when she looked at him, there was so much sadness in her eyes. "The result's the same. And either way," here she hopped off the post, "The horse doesn't have a choice."
"Why the caged bird sings, right?" he said, hints of rueful contempt in his voice.
Sakura mock-smacked him on the shoulder. "If that's what you want to call it."
Gaara snorted. "Why would you complain about being a caged bird? That means you're loved."
"I'd rather have the choice," Sakura said, glancing once more out at the beautiful bay stallions. She looked back at him. "Wouldn't you?"
.
.
.
Her words affected him more than she knew; so much so, that, the next time she saw him he stormed up to her and demanded, "Is this your choice?"
Sakura was utterly dumbfounded. "What?" she said, ever-eloquent.
"This," Gaara waved a hand. His nails were painted black, Sakura noticed. "Is it one-sided?"
Sakura bit her lip. She couldn't not-answer. Saying no will mean it's all over. Saying yes opens up a whole new can of worms.
"You haven't caught me yet," was what she settled on. She watched his reaction with bated breath, watched as the line between his eyebrows smoothed, how his entire face seemed to relax, then fall, then pick up again in a resigned smirk.
"And when I catch you –"
"If you catch me," Sakura corrected.
"Then you'll be mine."
"If," Sakura reminded him.
.
.
.
He would often sit with his head in her lap, looking up at her as they talked. Sometimes he curled himself around her, an arm around her middle, and sometimes then he'd tug her down so she was lying with him. This – this sweet nothing, this moment of peace – it made everything worth it. He could feel himself melt, and he suspected that she could too. He didn't care, though. He could save the venomous pursuit for later.
Because, in these moments – at least in Gaara's head – he'd already won.
.
.
.
It was a gross lack of caring that lead Gaara to be the person he was today, Sakura concludes.
A
Gross
Lack
Of
Caring.
She knows that she really isn't maternal by nature, and that she shows affection by hitting people upside the head, but she promises to herself then and there that she will try to be a place of solace for him.
No matter how damned infuriating he is.
.
.
.
"I'm not him," he told her huskily. She had her back to the countertop and her front to him, and was standing there being small and tempting and green eyes. He heard her breath catch in her throat when she replied, "I know."
"I'm not likeable," he went on, hand pressed against her waist. He had no fucking idea why he was so hellbent on turning her away from him – maybe it was his atonement for relentlessly pursuing her. "I'm not friendly. I can't promise you anything, I –"
"I know." She told him gently, eyes flickering to his chest, this throat, his hand, his eyes. "Why are you…?"
His other hand came up to play with the edges of her hair. Pink. Like her mouth. "Because," he said thickly, lowly, so close to her mouth that he could feel her lips on his own, "I'm playing for keeps." And he leaned down and kissed her.
When she didn't push him away – in fact, she did quite the opposite – he picked her up and set her on the countertop, her knees on either side of him.
When they pulled away, her hands were tangled in his hair and his were somewhere under her shirt; he settled then at her waist and leaned against her, eyes lidded. She was running her fingers through his head and down his neck, tracing patterns at his nape and sending shivers down his spine. Idly, he wondered if this was what people meant by love.
.
.
.
When you're very much attracted to someone who is more or less your only saving grace, it is natural that you would want to ravage them senseless.
Right?
.
.
.
He was a perfect disaster, a veritable whirlwind of probable suffering and anxiety, but he was her perfect disaster. That was what mattered, Sakura knew.
And she - she was what he could fall into when he came crashing down.
.
.
.
She is his. She has always been his.
And he knows that he his hers when she tucks her chin atop his head and wraps her arms around him, hands fisted into his shirt. She doesn't let go, even as tremors wrack his body and he thrashes, cries, eventually falling asleep.
He knows he his hers when he wakes up with her arms still around him.
.
.
.
When he comes up behind her and snakes his arms around her waist and she leans into it like it's second nature, he stands there for a few moments, reveling in the embrace.
She can't find it in herself to be mad when he murmurs, "Caught you," in her ear.
.
.
.
"You saved me," he whispers one night as his hands caress her sides, her arms, her face. He holds her, maybe too tightly, but that's what feels right.
She is his. His.
And he is hers.
.
.
.
His salvation.
.
.
.
Thoughts?