They've been playing this game for far too long.
The start was subtle, innocent enough that he saw no harm in playful banter. More missions as comrades together meant they spent more nights in each other's company than anyone else's. Nights stoking camp fires, eating food, and chuckling over bad dates. Summer days spent taking random nearly-naked dips in lakes because the trek was just so goddamned hot. Winter nights huddled together on a limp bedroll, broad shoulders hunched over a more petite set; shielding her lithe body from the biting wind.
Body.
Then it started with her body.
He began to notice her curves; the strength in her calves, the swell of surprisingly full breasts. An ass he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from, the sway of those hips an old grandfather clock; hypnotizing and mesmerizing him. The shrill pitch she offered Naruto was not the same husky hum she offered him.
That goddamned hum.
He was never meant to hear it to begin with.
He knew she was having a rough day, so he thought he'd be nice and bring her some dango. Sure, it was late—but he knew she was a night owl, no matter how early she had to get up.
He knew a lot of things about her.
He knew she had a birthmark on the top of her shoulder that was oddly shaped like a Sakura blossom. He knew her patience easily wears thin, he knew she preferred books over television; he knew she had a high pain threshold and he knew she'd only slept with three men in all of her twenty-six years. He knew she was a picky eater, he knew she drank green-tea like water; he knew she had the faintest dusting of freckles from cheek bone to cheek bone, he knew when she was lying because those jade eyes always told the truth.
He knew her.
So showing up at some odd hour of the night was both not unlike him and within reasoning. What he didn't know was that it was her fucking hums that solely became Kakashi's downfall.
He had knocked on the door, but it wasn't unlike Sakura to be absorbed in some book—she had a small reading nook in her apartment that was pretty closed off from the world. The pair had reached a comfort in their relationship that it was okay for Kakashi to walk in; it was okay for Kakashi to sneak around, settling for scaring her and surprising her with the sweets. He did, after all, enjoy getting a rise out of her because her cheeks were the prettiest kind of pink when she was flushed. He felt her chakra in the bedroom, where her nook happened to be, and crept his way down the narrow hall.
It was okay for Kakashi to commit acts of kindness.
It was okay for Kakashi to have Sakura's happiness in mind.
What wasn't okay was the chill that ran down his spine like nails across flesh when the first symphony of hums slid from the cracked bedroom door to the canals of his ears.
What wasn't okay was the burning of his skin as he moved closer to the door.
What wasn't okay was the flutter in his stomach as the door creaked open.
What wasn't okay was how heartbreakingly beautiful she looked sprawled on her bed, fair skin painted by moonlight; dainty hands delved deep in between her thighs, hips rolling forward with a crumpled expression of both focus and pleasure.
What wasn't okay was the name she moaned so breathily; panted so needily.
"Ka-ka-shi—please..."
She was begging.
She was fucking begging, pleading; her ministrations as slow as roll of her hips, the tender love and care she gave herself—the intuitive give and take. She was teasing herself; she was whispering his name, begging a man that wasn't touching her to touch her more—kiss her deeper, fuck her harder.
Every nerve in his body lit when her head picked up and dark, burning forest green eyes blown out at the pupil took him in; gazed at him, sized him up...
Beckoned him.
"Kakashi," she rasped. "Please."
How could he possibly deny her?
How could he possibly say no?
Feet carried him to the edge of that bed; hands grabbed her ankle and drug her body towards his own. Eyes took in her achingly wonderful frame, a spring goddess laid out before him. Hands touched skin that smoldered as hot as the flames of hell waiting for him. Lips molded over her own; tongues danced for dominance, long lean legs wrapped around his waist—breasts so wonderful pressed against his own hard chest, demanding his attention. He could still recall the whine she emitted when he sucked in a dusty pink nipple; he could still recall the moan that tore itself from the cavity of her chest when he took another pink part of her body into his mouth—feasting on her, a man starved, a man unglued, a man needy. The hot tight passage of her body took him in so easily, her hips followed the lazy fuck of his own in a swinging tandem. Their moans harmonized, their souls tied, their hands clasped; their bodies shattered, an earthquake that stripped him bare leaving him empty and full.
He told himself he was lonely.
He told himself she was lonely.
Yet, as he made his way through her open window on a cool autumn night—he knew the truth.
She was a drug to him.
She was a hit, leaving him high for days; leaving him feigning for more.
She was temptation, a grinning demon in the blanket of night coaxing him over with the promise of wet kisses and soft bodies.
She was duality, soft and hard; fierce, frightening, darling, and inspiring. His heart soared when she begged him for release, his heart soared when dilated eyes took him in and made him a man.
His heart soared and yet—as he gazed at her relaxed form stretched across her bed and he stripped himself of his shirt—he knew the truth. As pink lips grazed up the length of his neck in small bites and pecks, the whisper of her smoky feminine tone echo along his senses, "Fuck me, baby..."
He knew the truth.
He was going to hell.
Yet, he wondered as her mouth stretched over the head of his engorged cock if she was leading him there.
Yet, he wondered as he pressed two fingers deep into her wet canal and plunged if he was dragging her down with him.
But then she'd hum; and moan, and whine, and cry, and beg, and his sensibility would leave him.
But then she'd shudder; and twitch, and throb, and shiver, and tremor, and all he wanted to do was see her shake some more.
He wanted to be the reason she felt just as damned as he did.
He wanted to be the reason she never bothered to think of heaven, if it was right here with him.
He wanted to make his mark.
Claim her.
Own her.
Dig a grave big enough for two.
And, when he pressed his thick cock into her weeping entrance and she cried out—he was positive she wouldn't mind.
And, when he thrust his hips forward so hard the bed moved with them—he was positive she knew as much of her fate as he did.
And, when she clung to him; both bodies facing each other under that same ray of moonlight, foreheads touching the other, eyes locked...When she came, screaming and trembling so violently—stripping him again of all argument...
He knew...
Hell was a joke, as long as god was the woman wrapped in his arms.