Title: Strong Hold
Summary: ( Sakura x Kakashi ) You build off of each other and hold one another. Short Drabble.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. If I did, I'd make millions in Kakashi pull-string dolls. 3
Author's Note: I hate grammar. I watched the movie Casablanca and my mind wanders. Go fig.
--
So she stood in a Casablanca strong hold, grasping the tree to keep her upright and gaze as his form lay overlapping of her own: bruised and battered from the whip marks that caused his grunts of pain. Looking down with an eye of darkened twilight, choking with pain and suffering but not of the regret to see how beautiful she was now.
Flushed and tear-stained cheeks that made her eyes alive and alert, emerald fields within those depths. He could die happy now, knowing that would be his last image he saw. Nails digging into the bark above her head and he could feel them cracking from the pressure he kept giving to keep him upright. Knuckles white from stress and his lanky form quivering from the total need to shield her body. Hide her form from craving lust filled eyes and the jeering laughs of men's wicked innuendo. Save her heavy breathing, you could only hear the drop, drop, drop of his blood from his back.
It was an easy mission. Go north, escort a lord, and be back by sunrise. Easy-breezy, and they could crawl back into bed together eating donuts and make love again. Too bad the bandits that crashed the party had other plans, taking out the guards and trapping the last two. They saw a woman with him and I think you can guess the rest.
Humphrey Bogart moments making love were her scattered thoughts in a black and white color scheme when his head snapped back from the sudden pain. His mouth parting from the fallen mask and his gurgled choke followed from the loud snap on his back. It was silent then, she could almost hear her cotton candy locks becoming wind chimes around her ears from the thick air. Watching as he stops himself and the flare of his other ruby irises: wheeling and twirling as he let out a roar. Turn and thrashing the ones behind him. He wouldn't be weak, he would never be weak for her, and he could prove that time and time again. No one would touch her save him; no one would take her hand when loving than his. No one would write letters from the battle-field, saying --
'Dear One, I'll be home soon, I'll be home soon…'
He would keep those promises and never second-guess the love he knew. She saw through his mask, past the lazy façade and emotionless stance that he always did. She could make the novels of fake desire come down and remind him why his bed was always warm at night.
Petal colored hair haloed around stained bed sheets would burn in his mind with clouded meadow eyes. Even when the bandit's blood flowed into the earth and their last cries of pain faded into the pale dawn. The sun hit her form, clenching her medic-bag and dirt marking her small, slender form -- letting the oranges and golds paint her pale features, china doll. Stilling and tracing across her lips when the wind blew across her shivering form: clothed in sun streams and beaded with his blood.
Here's looking at you kid expressions in their eyes with tomorrow kisses that she mailed three weeks ago on his cheek. Her fingers traced her lips and stroked the hair tips behind her ear. Feeling the words crumble at her lips as she takes in his battered form and no words are then needed, she realizes. Just the steady hand of her healing and the claiming heartbeat in her chest when his ear rests between her breasts.
Still blushing and scarred of lipstick marks when she kisses his forehead, letting her arms roam to his wounded back. They had nothing to prove to the world and the sunward wings begins, she'd hold him when the shakes began. They'd stumble back to their Hidden Village and throw their hats off to the world tomorrow.
Fin