Ok, so. This one is... kinda NSFW. Not, make that DEFINITELY NSFW.
So, kiddies, away!
Srsly, it's NSFW.
I don't even know if the prompt was met, oops?
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. No matter how much I want them to be.
"could be, should be, would be"
pretending to hate each other au - Sorato
A light tingle starts to build at the base of her spine, slowly, burning. It travels up, running the length of her spine and forcing a breathy gasp out of her. Her forehead presses harder against the wall supporting her weight; she lets out a shuddering breath. A single drop of sweat slides down the side of her face, tickling but not enough of a distraction as her body falls prey to wicked, wicked manipulation.
She tries for control, and fails. Another shuddering breath and she tries again.
And fails.
Her body shakes, once, twice, and then her legs quiver and she has to place both her hands flat on the wall, each at either side of her head, for added support because she knows, she can feel her legs giving in—can feel herself giving in. Pressing her left cheek to the cool surface, she searches for some reason, some clarity to her thought that would allow her to—
She finds none.
And then, she is almost there.
Looking over her shoulder, she plans to plead, beg, for release, but stops. What she finds makes her stop, revel against the thought; makes her skin tingle in delight and her body hum in pleasure. The moan spills out past her lips before she can properly contain it.
That damnable lopsided smirk of his, it is always her undoing although not this time; not this time—she curses him.
"Methinks thou art taking this pretending game a little bit too far."
His tone, light; every word laced with humor. His blue eyes, intense; they pierce with unspoken words. Revenge, she's sure; she'd been teasing him all week, now… it is his turn.
The hand holding her hips in place, steady, drifts up her side; it tugs her shirt free of the skirt and slips under it. His fingers trace the little oval that is her navel, lightly, and the splay wide over her abdomen, pressing hard and moving up, up, up. But her focus is elsewhere, farther south, where his other hands remains placed firmly between her thighs, where his fingers go from hard and unforgiving strokes that build her high and leave her tethering at the very edge to lazy caresses that soothe and deny her what she wants most now.
It is torture of the most beautiful kind.
"I so… loathe you right now…"
His lips press against her neck, his chest against her back, and she feels his chuckle rumble through her own body. His tongue graces her skin, licking the sweat away before his lips latch on. Sucking, he always did like to leave his mark on her.
She's about to berate him for torturing her so, when his hand's movements speed up, fingers sliding in and keeping a maddeningly fast tempo. He pushes fast and hard towards her peak, again, she's feeling her body anticipate the glory, again; she's so close she can almost grasp it, almost, almost…
"Just a little bit more…"
And then it stops, his hand slowing it frenzy, his fingers going back to drawing lazy circles; and she curses herself this time, for breaking like that.
"Dammit, Yamato…"
"Say it nicely."
The whimper that escapes her is a perfect mix of both pain and pleasure.
.
The pretending game; that stupid decision to make it seem as if they hate each other had just been the product of a lack of forethought and the rumor mill of their school. They had argued, she had refused to acknowledge his very existence for the rest of the day, had ignored her classmates inquiries about their current status, and that had been it.
And later, suddenly, they had somehow proclaimed to hate each other. Or, that is what everyone said.
Yamato had wanted to clear such misconception right away, stating the school would find out once they saw them the next day, as neither—especially her—were capable to hating one another. A sincere comment, innocent in nature, it had been truthful. But Sora had risen to a challenge that had not been there, saying she could fool everyone and their mother is she so desired, and Yamato…
Well, he had never been one to back down.
A month, they'd decided, to pretend, and the loser would be the first to crack and seek out the other. And Sora, she had used every weapon in her arsenal, and spent a whole of three week teasing and tempting, playing with the raging inferno she knew Yamato could be.
It had worked; Yamato cracked first, and corralled her as she'd been leaving the locker room after her tennis practice. The moment he'd engaged her into a bruising kiss Sora knew she had won.
Now, she is not so sure.
.
She bites the inside of her cheek, resisting, deciding she will not give him the satisfaction of watching her this undone. The elastic of her underwear stretches painfully against the outside of her thighs, as she braces her feet farther apart.
Laying soft kisses along her neck, with a tenderness contrasting the wickedness of his teasing hands. He is waiting, for her to crack now; Sora tries to resist, but the pressure—the frustration—she cannot.
"Say it nicely."
He repeats and she relents. And later…
Later she'll call it a draw.
end.
You know, I've no beta, so please let me know if you catch any mistakes, yes?