Title: Intoxicating
Pairing:
Kakashi/Sakura
Rating:
NC-17
Summary:
Kakashi knows it's not good for either one of them, but he stopped caring when she stopped calling him sensei. Complete PWP drabble.


It starts with a kiss, smoldering sensually slow, broken apart right into a moan, swallowed down hungrily as the heat grows, and the intensity becomes a tempo that drums faster each downbeat.

And sometimes it's too fast, violent and needy and desperate; hips thrusting hard, skin slapping rough with each thud of shoulderblades hitting against the wall you fuck her against.

(It's not good for either one of you, but you stopped caring when she stopped calling you Sensei.)

Tonight, you take your time memorizing each breath, categorizing each moan. Some sound lustier, hungrier, than others; a hitch of air coupled with a whine of sound; a lower, throatier, hoarse vibration of a groan; the tender vulnerability of a whimper -- you like these the best, so you slow your pace and drop your face into the moist valley between strong, muscular legs.

(It's not going to last forever, and you want to remember this, even if you tell yourself you don't.)

Your hands are warm as they glide over her body, mapping each rise and dip far too slowly. She's trembling, impatient, before you even let your breath steam across swollen lips, and you smirk against skin when you feel her body twitch as your tongue slowly dips between wet folds to taste her. It's intoxicating, that musky flavor, rich and full and strong enough to knock you back like her fist against your chest, and just as sweet. So your fingers glide down to press apart and expose that fleshy pinkness, quivering petals and ridges and grooves, to the heat of your hungry mouth.

She undulates, a wave, against your mouth, when you capture the slick, swollen pearl of her clit between your lips, then suck and roll and gently pull, lapping up her flavor around the root, plunging into her hot, velvety core, before your tongue flickers back to graze in slow, steady swirls around petals heavy with dew.

And then she arches -- a shock, her nails -- digging harsh into your back before sliding into your hair. Those hands could break you into splinters if you're not careful.

(You never are, but somehow you're not broken yet.)

"Kakashi," a whine of desperation.

(This was how it started a rainy night half a year ago -- with a plea and her nipples rock hard against your chest through the flimsy wet material of her shirt, as you fought the urge to fuck her right there in the training field, with the earth broken up from her fists, hiding you both from the world that tries to look in and doesn't understand what it sees.)

"Ah, but I've only just begun."


Fin