Anatomy Of A Plan
A dissertation in three acts
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| Vol 2 of 3 |
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Act 2 2/2 – Execution: Complications Management (continued)
Her free leg shot out, trying to hit him blindly, but he avoided it; his hand clamping over the side of that knee, locking her motion and pushing down and upwards, the burning sensation of the side of her knee sliding roughly over the carpet making her hiss as he crawled over her. She could hear the haggard breathing that hit her nape point blank.
The position was as animalistic as one can be: she laying on the floor, one hand still clamped on the leg of the coffee table, her other clawing at the carpet, her right leg flexed at her side, as his knee on the carpet prevented her from straightening it as it was pressed against the back of hers, his other knee on the space in the middle of her legs, and both his hands snapping to her wrists, pinning them to the floor, as he pressed his chest on her back, efficiently keeping her sprawled against the carpet.
"Stop fighting me Sakura." He almost growled, as she felt her breasts smashed against the carpet, tighter at each breath she took. She was about to speak when she felt something that made her stop: there were no pockets pressing on her back, and the nuzzles on the nape of her neck were now nothing like the touches she had felt at the door. No, the breath was warmer; his voice was clearer and the contact sent something trailing down her spine.
Skin on skin.
Somewhere during the chase he had forfeited his vest and more importantly, his mask. Lost in the pink locks of her hair, he inhaled, deeply before exhaling warmly against her. That scent, her scent – that succulent, delicious fragrance of hers – now fiercer slid inside his nostrils like the headiest of perfumes. She tried tugging her wrists from his hold, to no avail.
"Shhh." He gently hissed, cooing, as he brought her wrists down closer to her shoulders. "Stop fighting me Sakura."
"What are you doing?" Her voice was breathless, with the subtlest of arousal in her tone, mixed emotions. "I… you can't do this…"
"Why?"
The query was so softly spoken, so truthfully curious it reminded her of an innocent child for a second. It was slammed into oblivion the moment she allowed her cheek to press against the carpet, his nose that had been hovering close to the nape of her neck finding the little space bellow her earlobe, his bottom lip taking the offering – whether it was one or not – and gliding on the beginning of the corner of her jawbone, before his tongue slid out to taste the skin there, sliding further up to trace the back of her ear.
"I…We… I don't want this…" She managed, albeit shakily.
"Liar." He cut her rant before it became one, his hands on her wrists caressing the inside of them with his thumbs, feeling the strong heartbeat against the rough pads. His head moved for his mouth to slide down on her neck, the same strong beat against them, beckoning his tongue to taste it. "You want it. As much as I do. I can feel it." The brush of his lips against the throbbing vein evolved to a pressing kiss. "I can smell it." This string of words said in a whisper, again making every little hair on her arms rise: almost like they were trying to get her skin closer to his. "Stop fighting it. No matter what you say or claim, my claim on you is already made. I will have you tonight. I will taste every crevice of you. I will be welcomed in your body Sakura, and you will enjoy it. I will make sure of it."
He crowned the end of his words with a motion of his jaw, lips spreading at the side of her neck before she could feel his teeth pressing against her skin, denting it in a mock of a bite and a salaciously wet roll of his tongue over the skin between them.
She whimpered a moan, her fists clenching. His hands slid up her forearms releasing her wrists before one of them set on the floor, for his arm to prop his torso up – a soft nibble with a groan on her earlobe – the other hand drifting over her side and between them for him to tug at her obi. At that time the last shred of sanity from her seemed to kick in: he felt her bent leg moving – her left hand coming to the floor and pushing her up – as she shifted all her weight towards it, probably planning on bolting once more from under him.
But a strategist is always one. The coffee table was now directly in front of her and as he felt her backside propping up with her rising, he thrust his hips against her, causing her to fall against the top of the table with a groaned exhale, magazines falling to the floor along with the remote of the television set that had managed to keep over the surface at her first tug on the piece of furniture.
He pressed himself on her, pinning her to the table with his body, his legs between hers, his hands grabbing her wrists once more before fitting both of them in a steel grip on his left hand, and squeezing them under her – the feeling of her own hands pressed between her breasts and the table, that feeling that made her abdomen clench as his arm rubbed over her left breast, rough – one of his knees urging her legs to part wider.
They both fought – even if hers was such a feeble attempt that could hardly be called fighting – ragged breaths and little expletives and groans filling the air. She could feel his other hand was nowhere in contact with her but his arm was moving diligently, his forehead over the middle of her shoulder blades – 'where had his forehead protector gone?', she mused –, warm puffs of air against her skin; her bare skin, since all the shuffling had managed to drive the fabric down her shoulders. The edge of the table was biting at the front of her thighs, as she wiggled her hips, her cheek pressed on the wood, and suddenly his teeth entrapped the fabric of her short yukata's collar, pulling it down further – with such a deep groan it almost made her eyes roll back in their sockets – his lips pressing on the sweaty skin of her back once before a set of full tongue licks that made her pulse in response.
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Act 3 1/2 - Conclusion
"Kakashi…!" She groaned out. It was hard to tag the feeling it was filled with. His lips suddenly snapped from their contact with her, as he pressed his hips flush against her, and again the feeling of his arousal, so close to her, made a rasp moan rise from her throat. There would be no more fighting, at least to get away: he would have known that if he saw her face, her flushed cheeks, her already swollen lips, and the glazed look in her deep green eyes.
She was being driven by instinct now, primal raw want, which had risen as a top priority in her brain. Her hands twitched under her, as she pressed back against him, trying to set herself free, and feel his skin against her, grab fistfuls of his hair, mark his shoulders with tiny crescent shapes until they bruised. But more than anything else… she wanted him to kiss her.
She wanted those lips on her lips, to devour her, to taste them. She wanted to feel the soft stubble she had felt against the skin of her back seconds before, deliciously scratching her, turning her lips even redder.
"Kiss… me… kiss…" She rasped out between pants, before feeling his hand finally leave her wrists, as his face came closer to hers; one of his hands coming up her side in a groping caress, as her arms came back, one of her hands grabbing the side of his shirt, the other sliding to the nape of his neck, as her face moved against his, corner of lips meeting.
"You're mine." He heaved and the tickling sensation over her lips made her neck move in search for the warmness of his uncovered ones. Almost as if knowing this, his tongue slid out, pressing the seam on her upper lip, making her own pink wet muscle slide out for his taste. It could barely be called a proper kiss, as tongues laced together, in a game of tag where, strangely, he was the one being chased after, outside the privacy that pressed lips could provide. The first aggressive growl rumbled in her throat, at his elusiveness: wild and demanding, both her fists clenched on him pulling – hair and shirt – making his own hands come to hers, prying them off him.
It was a blur of motion after: whereas two seconds ago she had her breasts smashed against the table, with his warmth permeating every inch of her back, after what for her couldn't have been more then a few seconds – his hands had been everywhere, under the back of her knee, clenching on the side of her waist – she was now facing him, her heavily hooded eyes looking up into a pair of mismatched ones, her hands pinned at the side of her hips on the edge of the table.
Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist, since her arms couldn't.
She tried to push her hands free, as she stared into the depths of both charcoal and deep crimson – the sight of the active Sharingan mesmerising – her torso coming up from the table slightly by sheer abdominal strength, pushing his hips closer against her in the process, eliciting a hiss from both, her teeth clenching, lips crashing uncoordinatedly before he thrust his hips against her – the feeling of her warm body, the heat between her legs rubbed fully on his constricted erection jolting his hands in motion as her head tilted back, her arms coming back for her elbows to set on the table, hands now willingly clasped on the sides of it for leverage, as her hips and legs urged him against her, his lips catching her tilted chin in an unexpected but not looked down on offering.
There were curses to clothing, in both minds, as he let his lips press a kiss on the underside of her chin before sliding down her arched neck, feeling her rasp breathing vibrating against them, his tongue sliding on the soft – sweaty – skin as his hands expertly undid the yukata and obi, and slid against the heated flesh there, from her waist up, rubbing his thumbs over the clenched muscles of her abdomen until they reached the brassiere that enclosed the begging to be touched swollen mounds. Pressing caress, as thumbs slid inside the constricting piece of clothing, contouring the underside of her breasts, before pulling it up over them – a gasp from her at the feeling of the tight material rubbing against her more than sensitive nipples – and cupping them both in his hands, nothing short of greedily, as his lips swerved to the side of her neck and bit down.
Her body lashed in a pronounced arch of her back, her heels digging on the back of his thighs, her knees tilted outwards as his lips slid down towards her collarbone, one hand reaching around her torso for his fingers to meet the clasp of her brassiere. Too many clothes: he wanted to see the muscles move under the fragrant expanse of warm skin as he charged her body with tension. Feel them coil under his fingertips, feel the tiny hairs tugging up in goosebumps. Every little detail.
His lips continued their travel over her collarbones – with hints of tongue and sometimes scrapes of teeth – as the clasp was undone, with the soundtrack of their heavy breathing. His body continued swaying against her, rubbing, almost as if he couldn't stop himself from seeking contact, friction. His other hand, which had been massaging the pert breast but avoiding her aching nipple on purpose, slid to meet its sibling at her shoulder-blades' level, as he leant back: kneeled between her legs, bringing her torso up for her to sit on the edge of the table. Her neck rolled to the side and up for her to face him, her hands snapping to his still clothed shoulders, one of her feet falling to the ground for leverage, the other rising further up his thigh, hooking on the beginning of his buttocks, as one of her hands dove inside silver locks, with a crossover between a moan and a sigh slipping past her lips, her eyes meeting his again, fierce.
It was almost solemn, the way their eyes met and kept glued to each others' depths, even as her hair swayed at the almost violent disrobing. She tried to lean closer, but his hands – tugging at her yukata making her hands leave him for moments for clothing to slide over her slender yet powerful arms – those still annoyingly clad hands kept her away, as they rolled about her waist and once more coming up, his thumbs pressing on the hollowness under her ribcage. There was a flicker of annoyance in her deep sea-foam hued eyes, tantamount to the defiance and slight amusement on his mismatched ones as both her hands came to the hair on the nape of his neck, forcing his face closer, but the only result of that was him leaning back – withstanding the slight pain on his scalp from her relentless pulling – and an arched eyebrow.
"Ask me." She would never, for as long as she would live she was sure, ever cease adoring that tone in his voice now. That deep, untamed intonation so different from his usual casual speech.
"Kiss me." She breathed out, her voice alien to her own ears as her hands once more tugged at his hair, this time making him hiss, baring teeth, and the correlation to a gentle beast was not lost on her. His eyes closed for moments and her lips tickled to pass over the lengthy scar that came over his left eyelid and kissed the beginning of his cheekbone.
Cheekbone, jawline, shoulder, clothes.
Off, off, she wanted it all off. It was only fair, since she was completely bare from the waist up herself. Her hands snapped down between them, hooking on the hems of both the shirts she knows he wears, and pulling it up over his chest, her knuckles brushing tight muscles as she did, and now the tickle is not only felt by her lips, but by her tongue as well.
In a smooth but nevertheless quick motion, his hands move away from her to help the discarding of his upper clothing: the sight of the muscles as they contracted almost ripping a whimper from feminine lips, as her hands greedily palmed his abdomen and up to his pectorals, the strong heartbeat drumming against her palms, the length of her little fingers graced by the roughness of masculine nipples in her ascent. There are scars, thin lines that told tales of serious injuries, not blemishing his skin – in her eyes they are a part of him, and beautiful. Following this line of thought, her eyes snap up to his face, as her hands continue their rising over his collarbones – the coal coloured sweaters in a heap of fabric on the floor – rising up his neck, slick with sweat, up, cupping his jawline, feeling the soft stubble on her sensitive skin.
Here was Hatake Kakashi, kneeling between her legs, willingly, wanting her. Here was Hatake Kakashi, his mask gone, his hands on her skin, rising up her midriff, leather enclosed palms once more cupping her breasts – a soft grunt rumbling in his throat – wild silver hair seemingly wilder after the discarding of the sweaters, with the softest of colour dusting his cheekbones from arousal, his lips parted. Here was her ex-sensei, pressing his erection against her still clad moist folds: and that deep possessive feeling made her want to fight as much as surrender to him.
Delicious ambivalences.
Almost as if mimicking her gestures, the heels of his palms pressing her bosoms in an upward caress, his hands come to her own face, thumbs hooking on the underside of her chin and pulling her closer, until eyes lose focus, spread fingers holding the nape of her neck.
"Ask me." He says – demands – as if he hadn't heard her words before. He did. Still, the primal rush of listening to them is something he craves as much as her taste. He wants to taste the breath that carries those words of acceptance from her as his nose rubs hers with their closeness.
"Kiss me." She repeats, now in a feminine growl, leaning closer. She fails to see the devious quirk on the corner of his mouth at her tone, his thumbs pressing on the underside of her chin for his lips to set, parted against her chin, scraping the edge of his upper teeth on her skin before following down her jawline to her right ear, his left hand sliding down to pass the back of his knuckles over her nipple – gasp – before enclosing the flesh within his grasp, thumb pressing the hardened pebble against the side of his index finger's clothed base – moan.
"I am going to slide my tongue on your lips…" He whispered huskily against her ear. "I will gently suckle on them until they are flushed with blood and deliciously wet. Until your spine feels like it's going to snap in tension…"
She trembled, as those words made something quake within her, soft shaky "Yes…" leaving her like a mantra at each exhale, her fingers slipping down his neck, over shoulders, contouring them to clench at his biceps, revelling in the warmth coming from him. The side of her face nudged his, in a motion nothing short of feline, wanting those deviously moving lips on hers, to fulfil the promise she knew, she knew, he would live up to.
A whine escaped her, deep—or maybe it was more like a higher pitched moan, for his lips crossed over her cheek only to ghost over hers once, with the subtlest hint of tongue before his hand pressed on the middle of her breasts pushing her back towards the table, as his other set, palm faced up, on the wooden surface until the small of her back was supported by his fingers.
He followed her, his face diving in the crook of her neck – another bite – and with the same zeal worthy of the most diligent of cartographers, his lips and tongue left pressing kisses, licks on her shoulder, downwards following salient collarbone until it reached the dip between them – lick – continuing down, the tip of his nose following the path of his lips to the valley of her breasts, her deep breaths raising her skin towards the moist caress, her inebriated mind mildly complaining that he has yet to kiss her lips properly. His attentions swerved from their place in the middle of her chest towards her right soft mound, and before she even thinks of claiming the promised kiss, it melts against the back of her tongue: his lips clamp over the hardened darker pebble with a hard suckle that makes her gasp her breath viciously inside her lungs, choking the moan that wants to come out.
Her hands run frantically over his arms, over his shoulders, one keeping there, clawed and fully intent to leave dented marks, the other grabs fistfuls of his hair as his tongue prods the rough nipple between the confinement of his lips, making her muscles tense and her neck snap back in a beautiful arch. Her core clamps in wanton when she feels him move back pressing his hard abdomen against her as the trip continues, before her other nipple is grazed by a full tongue pass and a teasing breath over the moist skin making it roughen even more.
His chin scratches her skin at times, contradicting the softness of his lips and his tongue as their caresses come lower, and lower, over her midriff – and she listens to the unzipping of the side of her skirt between the moistness of his kisses and her vocalized breathing. Tongue twirls around her bellybutton, as his hands move for his fingers to hook on the sides of the top of her skirt – of her shorts, of her underwear – and he pulls them down, lips following the discarding, her feet both planted on the floor now for her hips to rise; be it to help or to keep his mouth on her she doesn't know.
His knees move back, as tongue moistens the skin of her right hipbone, a charcoal eye opening to glance at the cotton candy coloured trimmed hair between her legs, as his hands continue pulling her clothes off making her close her legs. His lips never leave her, following the path on the front of her thigh until it reaches her knee, his hands sliding the fabric down to pool at her booted ankles. He considers, fleetly, to undo the clasps of her boots and relieve her from them, but the heady scent of her arousal, of her centre is too strong to be ignored – his tongue rubbing on his palate demands it.
He straightens his torso, both his hands setting on her rubbing together knees, looking at the result of his labour so far, with the clarity only the Sharingan can provide: the naked expanse of her skin exposed to his sight glistening under the moonlight that seeps in from the windows, tiny droplets beginning to form over it. The fine hair at her apex appealing like candy to an infant – and he feels like the greedy one he never was – her heaving chest rising as her abdomen hollows out at the force of her heavy breaths. Her hands clasping the side of the table, as her head comes up, hooded viridian eyes speaking of want and sweetness and maturity and gods! - want.
It speaks to him, making him pulse, his aching member decadently prompting his mind into visuals of their joining. But an organized mind is an organized mind— he promised her a kiss.
The thought pulls at the corner of his lips, in a devious smile.
His thumbs hooked on the insides of her knees, and even if they pressed his fingers to tilt outwards he didn't let them, keeping them joint still. For as much as he wants to pull them apart, another part of his mind wrestles with him to take it slow. She whimpers, as her back again meets the surface of the table, her overworked abdomen needing a reprise from its clench to keep him in sight, and he leans his torso down, lips levelling with her knees, his eyes shamelessly eyeing the patch of rose hair as his hands pried her legs apart, slowly, breath abated as the sight was revealed to him.
A growl rumbled in the depths of his chest at the sight of moistness – some of it darkening the soft curls – and the correlation of her and candy danced in his mind, as he inhaled deeply. Such a delirious mistake that was – the moment her scent rose up his nostrils, the reaction of his whole body was nothing short of savage, the muscles on his back tensed as his spine curled, his hands on her knees clenching. His senses seized command of him, and the little control he had managed to hold suddenly slipped from his proverbial grasp.
The grip on her knees evolved to a sliding of leather on her inner thighs, pushing her legs apart roughly, one of his knees sliding over the carpet, and as soon as the space between his thumbs and indexes hit the very beginning of her inner thighs, keeping a firm hold on her flesh, he dove, his parted lips clamped over her lower silky ones with the desperation of a thirsty man, tongue lashing out in an greedy onslaught against her quivering folds.
She choked out a scream preceded by a gasp, as her back snapped in a taut arch, her tiptoed feet pushing her hips up, lifting her backside from the surface of the table only graced by her shoulder-blades that slid over it as her legs trembled: her hands clenching on the sides to prevent her from sliding from it altogether even if her palms were sweaty, her head dangling from the edge of it. Her heartbeat that had been racing thumped now violently against her breastbone and for a second she feared it would stop, as the warmth of Kakashi's mouth had closed in on her core.
Even if she had been expecting the contact – craving it – the moment he began his downwards travel on her body, the sudden contact and its ferocious nature had her mind reeling.
A beast, and untamed silver-haired beast wrecking havoc between her thighs, and she really wanted to growl as animalistically as he was groaning against her. So uncivilized, so raw, so primal, so damned good…!
Her eyelids squeezed shut, so hard she could see tiny bright dots on their insides, as her hips ran as rampant as they could, pressing upwards and towards that marvellous feeling of warm slithering wetness teasing her entrance – nevermind the stress on her legs.
Nevermind her slipping hands, nevermind the loudness of her vocalizations, nevermind that his hands parted her to a point it grazed the line of discomfort: the growls that reverberated against her swollen lips as his tongue lapped and prodded and essentially drove her wild was more than worth it.
She could feel the soft strands of his hair caressing her skin – how she wished she could delve her digits in it – as his fingers relinquished their hold, her legs closing minimally to ease the tension, and as she feared they would give up on her, she felt his arms moving before his thumbs hooked on the back of her knees and heaved her legs over both his shoulders. Bare palms, for he had discarded his gloves swiftly in his hunger to touch her again, that slid on the outside of her thighs – his mouth leaving her for seconds, for a bite on the inside of her thigh – before they rolled around her waist, pulling her against him again with almost bruising force, her legs tightly clenched on the sides of his head, her still booted feet crossing at his back, her hands on the sides of the table in a bleached knuckle clench and his tongue once more slid vertically on her intimacy.
Warm, wet, deliciously slick silken folds. His mind is blank to all but her taste, that heady scent that fills his sense of smell, as his tongue rolls around the hooded bundle of nerves preceding her entrance, half lidded eyes watching as her muscles undulate at each flick, his now bare hands on her waist sliding to the small of her back, pressing up to tilt her arched back further.
Her smooth inner thighs clench over his ears, and to his delight, the muffling of sounds – even if he relishes in her moans and whimpers – only enhances the wicked wet sounds of his fondling tongue. For some reason, it makes arousal roar even more intensely at his veins, charging his muscles with tension, his engorged desire surely weeping in the constriction of his pants.
Almost as if to quench his want to give in to his lower body's, his tongue once more rolls, now leisurely on the inner face of her folds, jaw moving in order to delve it deeper for moments before returning to his own mouth, his lips clamping over the swollen with desire nub and suckling at it softly, the softest hint of teeth that he presses on her heated flesh, as the underside of his tongue slides over it – and she trashes, moans, his eyes following the motions as eagerly as his mouth moves, her head thrown back, the dry gulping, the throbbing vein at the side of her neck.
She's close: he can sense it as his tongue once more craves for her taste and searches for it between her legs, shoving as deeply as he can, feeling the quivering of her walls.
More, more, his mind chants, as her breathed moans continue spilling from her lips, and his hands on her back lower her, as well as his torso until her backside sets again over the table, his hands now free.
A roving glance over her, as his fingers set on the top of her thighs and he pulls her towards him on the surface, for her head to set totally over wood; right hand coming close to his chin, for middle and ring finger tips to roll on her slick lips, as his lips against entrap her engorged nub in a suckle, before his fingers swiftly slide inside, making her scream out –the heels of her boots scraping almost painfully against the skin of his back – his other hand pressing in a spread hold over her crunching abdomen as her hands snap to his hair, clenching fists on it as his tongue relentlessly works against her, as fiercely as his digits pump inside her clenching walls, curling upwards and finding that which he had been looking for, stabbing at the point, in a two front attack she can do nothing about but give into.
And surrender she does, as her lips part soundlessly, her brow furrowed in a deeply agonized expression as he feels the first clamps on his fingers, like a mad wave around him, making him groan in desperation at the same time she growls out her release, her whole body quaking. Her hips push against him, her tensed legs pinning his head in place, as the motions of his fingers don't let up, his hand spread over her abdomen sliding up for a gentle cup of her breast, before fingers trap her nipple in a pleasurable roll.
She sobs half moans, half grunts, her hands sliding through his hair, passing over the messed silver locks frantically, nails scraping his scalp as the bucking of her hips calm, as do her walls around his slowing down fingers, that he slides from her core – his member pulsing madly, angered in jealousy of them – fingertips rolling over the wet with arousal and his own saliva folds, that his tongue once more laps in full passes both over his own fingers on her and the silken heated lips, his drenched in slickness fingers then leaving her and coming to his own arousal, for a rough palming of his member over clothing before index and middle fingers roll about the drawstring of his pants, pulling it undone.
Will he ever tire of her taste on his tongue, that taste that saturates his taste buds, addicting like a drug? Will he ever tire of the texture of her on his mouth, of knowing that her body convulsed in pleasure like that with his doings? Will he ever tire of seeing the blush covering her cheeks, the sight of her clenching muscles, of the abandon of her voice as he makes her ascend to that place where nothing matters but him?
Better yet, can he make her do it again so soon, but with the engorged flesh that his hand rolls about right this instant, in a half satisfying stroke over the pulsing column, whose tip weeps: moist that he rolls over the sensitive skin with his thumb.
(End of Volume 2)