When he woke, there was a distinct sense of deja vu. He felt rested, amazing, and there was his little cuttlefish, snuggling him, again, except this time she was awake and tracing patterns on his skin. His abdominal muscles twitched and jumped, exciting a pleasant tightening, warning him of the impending inconvenience that was reappearing rather often. When he moved his hand to hide himself, her head shot up to his face with a shocked expression. Her playful fingers stilled, her hand pressing flat down out his midsection so that she could lift herself up, while she looked at him with some sort of anticipatory confusion.
Her face was a marvel to him, yesterday it was all amazement and joy and pleasantness, and now it was skeptically perplexed. He wondered how long she had been up to give way to this doubt, this questioning. He tried to focus on her face, as the picture her body painted was inspirational to his libido and he needed something dull to keep from embarrassing himself or concerning her. Even still, devoted to memorizing the line of her brow and nose, the small purple diamond, his eyes saw, and his brain processed. One breast was slightly flattened, compressed against him. The other, closest to the arm lifting her, was deliciously round and plump and at just the right height for the nipple to rub his chest, causing the pretty pink areola to tighten and the peak to tautly pebble from the friction of skin on skin. He willed himself not to breathe, as the movement caused her soft temptations to tickle his skin at every inhale, and made him feel desire inappropriate to the energy of the room.
Madara was not one to cower, but her unblinking stare was making him feel as if he was being chastised, that she could see and hear his dishonorable thoughts. And considering all the promises he made to the universe in tribute of her kindness, he had the impulse to apologize. That too, felt uncannily like his morning with her yesterday. As he decided his course of action, trying not to over aggrandize what he perceived, she slowly blinked, and her countenance melted into a look he was quite adapt at invigorating, and deciphering. With peachy cheeks and demure shyness, she turned her face down and hid from his gaze with a whispering, girlish gush. So quiet, it would have been lost to the noise of the distant waves if he wasn't keenly focused on her and equipped with morning fresh hearing.
He chuckled in response. Her cheeks were warm against his stomach, and he found his pride swelling in comprehension. His uncharacteristic mental deficiency, his slowness, was undoubtedly disappearing with full, uninterrupted rest. Her warm and confectionous aura clued him, he caught her doing something she thought forbidden and the naughty girl perceived herself in deep waters and was waiting for his reprimand or correction. He used his other hand to pat her back, exhaling a rough but merry, "good morning to you too, Sakura," with his dayspring voice. Amused, he wished he hadn't moved and alerted her to his wakefulness, curious about what she might have done, or been doing. Her parroting voice was muffled against his own body, but her voice was new and sweet and welcoming, "good morning to you, Madara."
Her reply gave him delight, he liked hearing his name from her lips, it having a happy note rather than a disparaging or foolish one. His fingers begged for another opportunity to enjoy of the softness of her back, and as he was not a man to withhold without reason, he danced the digits along the feminine lines of her body. As he did the previous evening, he leaned to examine her face for an adverse reaction. He half crunched, engaging by flexing his midsection, and gave himself the space to spy her face. He heard her repressed gasp, then saw her turn her face away, whipping her hair and effectively hiding in a pink veil. He chuckled again and leaned the opposite way to look at her face, determined to see her. And maybe mock her for being a pervert, not that she would know what it meant or that she truthfully owned such a title, but he was feeling a cad this morning and would enjoy teasing her. Again, she turned, and he followed. Together they played the game, bobbing back and forth, until she was giggling and kittenish and he was laughing at his ease.
Eventually, she found her comfort and courage to look him in the eye, shamed still, but less nervous about the aspect of his reaction or potential punishment. The turn of her head and freshly tousled hair, healthy rosy cheeks, bright eyes glistening from laughter's tears, all came together to a lovely image for his viewing. Fondly, he engaged in his rouge, teethy smile, putting the message of intent as 'caught you,' with a knowing look and bouncing, suggestive brows. Sakura's face of darling beauty was dispelled by her poutily ballooning cheeks, like a fish puffing up in defense. His hand, as established as a great big thing to her, had an easy time of quickly compressing both cheeks with a pinch of his thumb and forefinger, so that she made a wet 'pfft' sound and spittle gathered on his pectorals and her lips and chin. Puckishly, he laughed louder than before, while she took to looking mortified and withdrew behind her coral curtain again.
He found himself feeling the need to satisfy more of his impish behavior, and gently moved her hair for his pleasure. With a clear view of her unobstructed face, he chortled. Without the pink shroud, she sought alternatives to visual seclusion and was trying, most valiantly, to hide behind a muscled ridge. And while he was a man of brawn by design of his responsibilities, even he could easily admit his physique was not up to the task of hiding her profile. The excessiveness of her smushing cheeks made him laugh openly and loudly and without restraint, causing her face to bounce. She became rather grumpy then, glaring at him in as threatening a manner as a bunny with carrot stuffed cheeks, which is to say, in a manner that was so wholly adorable and lovable he was inclined to laugh all the more, hardly able to breathe with stitches forming in his side.
At great length he was able to clutch and regain his reserves, all the same, he felt the aggressive need to squish her and her cute little face while she paired her grumpiness with embarrassment. He even had the conflicting urge to coo sweetness or squeal delightfully at her adorableness, which made him feel that he was becoming too silly for the morning. Truthfully, he could not recall a time in his adult life where he engaged in so many open, happy expressions. He was unused to the sensations, and was edging close to discomfort at his lack of restraint.
So, he sat up with a long, skyward reach, canceling out all that nonsense with purposeful distraction. Yawing loud, as is his preference when he has slept in friendly company, he stretched until the standard crackling and popping symphony sang throughout his spin and neck and his body was energized.
The pivot meant he carried her up with his chest. She straddled him exactly as he positioned her last night; the only difference was that her knees were bent so that their calves were still, more or less, aligned. She innocently sat fully weighted on his leg, looking at him through her hair, hiding while not hiding as she observed him. His moment of livening his muscles and blood flow as a distraction faded into obscurity when he cockily leaned back on his elbows, ready to tease her just a bit more before they roused for breakfast. The effects of the relaxing stretch finished, gone, lost, forgotten, and everything nullifying in the universe. Washed away as if caught in sudden and chaotic flooding waters, along with his ability to think or properly blink, when he looked upon her once more.
The way she was spread at her leg's apex atop his thigh… to near the position… with her hair mussed and face flush. When he tried to swallow his throat was so tight and uncooperative, his mouth so dry, he was, at best, maiming the act. His face was warming up like the sunrise, starting at his neck until his entire face was red in a fantastical display of hot, ruddy colors. He couldn't look away, and could feel her… intimates, on his leg with startling detail. Warm and fleshy and, oh gods, damp.
He knew, knew, not to breathe through his nose, yet his traitorous nostrils scented the air all the same. Arousal, not his own, lingered in the back of his throat, robust and earthy, but with a sweetish tinge. The network of muscles under his skin tensed together, making his hair stand on end in response. His flaming face was practically smoking and the sleeping beast, rested nearly two days now, was suddenly awake and rioting for action. Her sweetly coy look as she questioned him with her gaze could not prepare him for her scoot, the drag of herself up his thigh, as she adjusted to get into a favorable position. While he was dumbly frozen, she reached her arms up high, elongating like a siren meaning to entirely wreck him. She diverted in her mimicry, not yawning loudly, but instead softly with an unsure "ah." She looked at him with a mystified wonder, silently asking 'was that right,' while simultaneously deciding it wasn't. He could see it, her intentions, her curiosity driving her to experiment, to try another scoot and stretch.
She was so close, he could help her scoot where he most wanted, help her relieve her tensions in the best way…
Overloaded with too much too soon after waking, blast him for those thoughts and her for being such an eventful thing at the first, Madara almost tosses her across the space with his sudden, panicked standing. To endure her accidental temptations would be a trial suitable for a saint or eunuch, and he was neither. Needing distance to recenter himself before he does something terribly, splendidly, bad, he stocked out of the cave. Calling behind him a gruff "be right back," not knowing if she understood enough not to follow and not caring to explain it until he had his moment.
Control was found after a cool wash and cleansing fire breath, his frustrations burning in front of his face in magnificence. His leg was a raw red where she had sat, as he excessively scrubbed the area to delete the phantom sensations. He was annoyed at himself for being a ninny, for ruining what was a jubilant time full of so much laughter that his side still carried a pleasant dull ache. And for not being able to control himself, like some lowly hormonal civilian or rutting shifter. For just one instant, when he comprehended that she was being inquisitive with his body while he slept to the realization that her human form physically reacted to him, to the unintentional seduction and experimental moan-wannabe-yawn, he allowed himself to become base. And that would not do.
He burned several more breaths of air before turning back to the hideaway's direction. He saw she did follow, but only so far as to the beach. His eyes, superior to all, found her to be an easy distance away to absorb and read her expressions. Her shining eyes, as bright and shimmery as the stars, concerned, looking to him for answers. His body automatically responded to her precious gaze with a fast and large gait, he moved to consul, holding her straight on, rather than to the side as yesterday, and tucking her under his chin. He had much better control than this and he was tired of his responsive reactions, he would not allow her to doubt or suffer. She would continue to do as she did, innocent of all implications. It was up to him to be better, and he would.
Little did he know that this pattern would never, never, never cease. Damn him for it, but as much as he meant to be gentlemanly and honorable, the dissolution of the innocuous fun happened so suddenly, so absolutely, he hardly had time to divert back to proper decorum.
He had gotten a fix on the approximate direction, distance, and time it would take him to get to the mainland. He even did a trial swim, testing his human form and his beast form against the water and the currents. Sakura had expressed a number of faces with varying degrees of concern as he wadded waist deep before the dive, and he responded with arrogance, strutting his prowess with pride, ready to show off. It was fifty meters out in the water that he truly understood her worry. Nature, without intent, chaotic and wild, was homicidal. The water's cold temperatures licked body heat away while the current pulled from below and the waves crushed from above, disorienting his axis and perceptions. Then the hidden dangers, the things he knew of, but did not properly account for. The sunlight, blinding him from above and below as he surfaced for air. The sporadic reef or volcanic rock shredded his skin as easily as he tore wet paper. Then there were the opportunistic predators frenzying at his blood, stealing his attention and his fitness. And all of this combined against existing stamina, skill, and adaptability.
He made it back to land on his own power, but his rehearsal wasn't a stellar display of athleticism, and he caught a momentary sparkling dazzle, glinting distantly in the dark water and knew she came to rescue him after seeing his lacking performance. That information came with an array of feelings he didn't wish to acknowledge. It also revealed a weakness, he was not a champion swimmer by any means. He collapsed on the beach, similar to his arrival, and went through the stages of grief for his manhood. His glistening companion fussed around him, checking for injuries, healing them with the same softness and mint and cinnamon coupling energy, smelling so delightful, his salt-water burned nostrils and throat greedily sucked her air. With her twittering about him, stitching him back together and revitalizing him, he found his dramatics couldn't endure, and he laughed at his own continued hubris.
To think, he would defeat such a thing as the sea. Surely, he would have to train before he could imagine himself able to best the ocean. That made him chuckle more, ready to banish the unhappiness of failure and enjoy the rewards, he pulled Sakura, who was healing some minor injury, on top of his person. Thankfully, he would have an opportunity to train with an exemplary sensei, this need not badly stall him. He rolled them over, covering them with sand and grit, and laying on her like a blanket. She laughed all the way until the crushing, where she then grunted like a lamb attempting to escape through the poorly gaped pin planks. Her writhing and wiggling might have hurt, if she meant it too, instead it made him involuntarily laugh at the sensation, finding himself tickled by her efforts. In a moment of inspiration, he did something he had never done before to anyone, he attacked her sides with teasing, playful fingers, and tickled her back.
Her normal laugh, or the laugh he was acquainted with, was as clear and pleasant as a twinkling wind chime's blessing. But this laugh, loud and untamed, without harmony, was so honest it filled his heart with joy. He went at her until she was gasping for air and so undone, she could fight no more and only held fast to him, lowering the attackable surface area to just her back and sides. Her chest heaved for air, like a normal person and not the deep delayed breathing he saw her commonly do, between chortles, giggles, and guffaws. When he felt his chest become damp from her laughing tears, he felt merciful and stopped, allowing her recovery.
And there was his mistake, when he stopped he took notice of the compromised position. She was a ribbon and he the wrapped maypole, enveloped and warm and welcomed into her naked embrace. He could not reasonably flee from this circumstance, not without carrying her with, which wouldn't be fleeing. It would be him stupidly running with bowed legs and no sense. Nor could he guard against her notice of his reaction, though he still feebly tried by bending weirdly. His protracted perception of the contact between his disloyal parts and her guileless ones was taking years from his life with how hard his heart worked. He counted and counted, imaging all sorts of boring things to kill the pulsing blood, to ignore the crease of her rosy dimpled bottom, encasing him with exciting softness, like bean paste between buns they were a perfectly matched sweet and savory combination for maximum enjoyment. When her arms and legs lessened in grip, dropping her back into the sand beneath him and freeing him with a rebounding spring, she curiously looked down to examine the change in him.
The worst part of these types of encounters was that she was so wholly unassuming, while he was invested and hoping and battling himself to remain appropriate. And in so small a time they've been together, he found that it was rather unfair that it repeated so frequently. Although, their nudity likely had a great impact in that, (what healthy man wouldn't respond to an attractive, nude woman) he was a man of control. Still, against his will and control, everything in him reacted to everything she was. And when her gaze landed on his angry and eager groin, he could not bear to see what she would express. The gods help her and him if it was interest, the earth swallow him if it was disdain and tears. This would be the second time he ran in retreat, diving back into the water with enough stupidly it put him equal to Hashirama's intelligence, which pained him deeply. Sakura spent more time healing the sand burns from that one dive than she did from his entire swim shortly before, and there were creatures attacking him then and only inert sand now. The humiliation.
Madara choose to sleep after that debacle. The morning too eventful, the early afternoon too eventful, it was time for his afternoon nap, balance the scales with something dull and calm and UNeventful. So devoted to this notion, he almost refused Sakura's immediate snuggle. But she was a sweetness he would not refuse, not for all the comforts in his loins. It was then he decided it wasn't too much of a burden to have so much activity, even if it was not his preference, and if he could just calm down everything would be sunshine and roses.
When he woke, he did not savor the cuddle and instead leaned on his goal focused mind. He began the lessons eagerly taught by Sakura. Loathed as he was to accept more, he found learning the art of water, from her, to be its own reward. She moved with speed and power, and he found his 'impressive' inner commentary to be redundant, but that was all he could think of. Every action, impressive, every navigation, impressive, every deduction, impressive. How his impression of her deepened and broadened, and when she was acting beyond the criteria of an otherworldly idol of perfect beauty, she was cute with her adorable expressions and concerns for his safety, and glorious with her knowledge and wits and instant adaptations to the dynamics of the waters. And also, life, if he considered that he was the first wildcat shifter or human form she ever met. All of this in her human form too. What he would give to see the marvel of her performance in her empowered half form.
After mastering the basics, of which he mistakenly thought he had complete proficiency prior to this fiasco turned banger, she moved him onto the intermediates lessons. The intermediates were fun, invigorating, challenging. Very challenging. Which meant, he finally had a stage to demonstrate his finer characteristics. If his ego were a balloon, it would have popped from how great it grew when she gave her underwater clairvoyant opinion of 'impressive' when his fluency in supremacy of all arts was proven infallible, only a little delayed.
After that, her no-nonsense attitude with respect to his safety and education made way for easy, playful games. While practicing his newly learned techniques to navigate the water's force, he would grab and hold her for the sake of closeness. It took her no time to weaponize the activity, making it a reward for his successes. And when he got frustrated or winded, she would motivate him in the best way, already knowing that he would favorably react to her touch. He liked that so much, he planned, then optimized, intervals of his 'bad attitude' to better receive her affectionate touch. It was a wonderful time, beautiful and adventurous.
And so it went, days and days, of swimming practices. Seasoned with perfect sunny mornings, lazy afternoons, and hot moony nights. Skin, healthy and glowing and beautiful, filling his eyes and body with energy. Her innocent touches, sometimes seducing him to complacency and almost allowing a cross in boundary from her curious nature. Other times, so affectionate and loving that he felt uniquely complete and found his face hurt from the smiles. He was a cautious man by nature, but here he has demonstrated more openness than he has ever before done, finding that he was able to touch without fear of reproach, smile with confidence, overall emote without fear.
Which was a silly thought, and discovery, that he was fearful of any action, let alone his own feelings. Which then, made him try to undo his natural attitude and concur the fear of over expression. And when he did that, thinking on ways to express all his feelings as he felt them, he became too concentrated, earning another, new type of affectionate touch.
Her fingers rubbed the lines on his forehead and under his eyes. She liked his face, he thought, or maybe she just found his eyes special. Her fingers painted a mask around the orbitals, her thumbs rougher than her fingers, felt very nice, so nice he closed his eyes and simply was. After some time, presumably when his wrinkles relaxed, she simply held his face. When he opened his eyes, he found the calmness was perfectly sublime. He very much wished she was educated and not so unknowing, that he may freely kiss her and know that he wouldn't be taking advantage. For a kiss would be the natural conclusion, but he could not. So, he diverted.
Some diversions were simpler, holding her close to his heart while he burned holes in the walls with his stare and counted cracks or pebbles. Or playfully tickle her or bring her to the water for a swim. For other, more compromising positions he employed the tried and true tactic. He would run away and not hide per se, but go far enough to buy time for respite.
Something he found to be a necessary evil, even if he was loathed to accept that he was acting in fraudulent nobility. He had to lower his standards and seek isolation for undisturbed relief as his body was starting to ache from the lack of fulfillment after arousal to the point he worried she would attempt to heal him down there. He owned that it was necessary that he took time for self-abuse, gaining some temperance from his involuntary erections.
Aside from that minor inconvenience, each day, they learned more and more from one another, and she was as fluent as he thought a person could possibly be with only one conversationalist and less than a fortnight. Although, he realized, he was biased and unable to find fault with her. When he noticed his failing at finding failure, like when he tried to correct his fear of expression, he over compensated. He tried to criticize something, anything, she did. He opened his mouth several times as if to do it, but he found nothing of substance, and felt he was being petty, at best, with the way he was going on in his head. And, unerringly, if there was something he may have normally disliked, he reasoned it away gently and fondly. There was something to her that made it so even her ticks were enjoyable to him.
If she gripped him too tightly, he thought it was sweet she wished to hold him so, even as his side turned red and swelled after she released him. If she belched in his face, it was acceptable because her breath wasn't so unpleasantly fragrant, and he found the action too cute. If she followed him during his private time and asked him what he was doing, he was glad for the company, for the vision of her beautiful naked flesh, even as he graciously asked, one note away from begging, for her to fetch him clams for breakfast/lunch/dinner to buy him time to finish, least he causes painful tensions in his testicles, and before she returned to ask him more invasive questions about the change in his form, his smell, his languid posture. Even burning in humiliation, he thought her actions reasonable and sound.
Well, they were reasonable, she didn't know the manners of society, or rather, of what her station would require if she were part of his world. That thought was an interesting one, as she wasn't of his world and therefore had no station, no expectations, so it was rather obvious that he meant her station when connected to him. He took that, compartmentalized it for later, and decided to ignore it. Melodramatics were, normally, a fanciful tool that he used to offset opponents, but he needed to stop utilizing that skill while on this island. It was doing him no favors, and setting ideas in his mind that were better off not being there, especially in relation to matrimony.
During their morning ritual, Madara was taking count of the days. And as if summoned by his own calculation of time passed, something occurred which called her away and disrupted their tranquility. Madara saw it as an ill omen and felt a terror grab at him when a morning red tide tainted the pristine sand. Ever sweet Sakura, reassured, said all was well, and that she would be back. He must have looked shamefully devastated, for she turned round to sooth him. "Tonight," was the parting message as she flitted off into the deep pool of her cave. Leaving Madara alone, with plenty of time to address his wildfire libido and train. And at evening he realized he should have taught her more of the time telling, as tonight could mean any point when the sky was dark.
And so, Madara looked at the partial, but near full moon with seedy melancholy, unable to appreciate the perfection of scene with how full he was of other things. The growing crescent shining with cool, radiant light. The same light reflecting off the black, turbulent water in a sparkling glitter, the warm summer air battling against the chilly ocean breeze, the sounds of ambient waves washing away worldly cares. The type of night to remember for years, fondly recalling the peaceful perfection and aching in nostalgia. Everything here represented the best parts of the world; nature, abundance, serenity, beauty, harmony. And it was all wasted on him.
Alone, it made the fish taste bland and the twinkling stars uninspiring. Even waves annoyed him with their never ending peripheral twitching while the moon straight up pissed him the hell off, being happy and bright when he wanted to be broody and dark and anything but positive. Impatiently waiting, like a homebody, in the arch of his temporary home was making him that much more reactive and poutier. He longed for company with the marm, she would surely keep his ill mood at bay and make this night blessed again, but the longer she delayed in returning the rougher his edges became. He was his own bad company and a dark impurity to the virgin sand, tainting the surrounding white with a dark shadow of putrid energy, miasma oozing out of him in an unseeable, but perceivable way. His negative aura was potent enough it even dimmed the Uchiha made firelight. And it was well known that Uchiha fire was the brightest and strongest burning fire, so his dark mood was something to behold.
And if he wasn't thinking about her prolonged absence having bad, underlining meaning, which is why he seethed like a hot tea kettle, he was ruminating about how he would leave this island soon, with no foreseeable plans for return in the near future. No, not near or soon at all.
Every inch of him felt heavy with dread when he considered that truth. The thunder moon would occur in three evenings from now, and mark the beginning of the star festival, a most important time for the Uchiha to connect with their deceased ancestors and kin. And if the opportunity to speak to the ascended during the celebrated ceremony didn't urge him to leave, there was war to consider, and if not that, resources to procure for their entire species, and if not that, then his clan responsibilities. The list went on and on. Before, not so long ago, but what now felt like another age, Madara had not been inclined to change his path and relished being an unrestrained man of privilege, enjoying his obligations either at his leisure or at his delegation, but never at his burden. A master among masters, he was heard and obeyed and lived at his preference.
But that was before the war. He had known that things would alter, patterns would shift for new routines, as was natural, but he had not considered that his outlook would change quite so much, quite so quickly. Now, he was slave to the conditions and all his selections were limited.
He wanted to stay, he had never felt such a possibility before, and it was budding and new and unexplored. It was everything good, but he had to leave. And that guaranteed the bud would never bloom, the good would dim to nothing but a memory. That was his inevitable truth. He should leave before the lunar cycle comes to fruition, he should have left days before now, but he bargained against it all. One more day, he would argue, it won't hurt to take one more day. And now, sadly, there weren't many more days left to steal those precious moments, and that one more day may indeed cause injury.
During their time as beastly things, he knew that they were peering beyond boundaries, each sampling another world, but that they were distinctly separated without reconciliation. After waking from their first night together as humans, Madara felt conditioned. And, like rehydrated clay, he had softened to the fair water maiden. That, during the night, while she sweetly cuddled him, she also seeped through his pours and under his skin, settling warmly into a recessed part of him and kneading him to pliability. Making it easy work for him to sculpt himself anew. And since then, with every day in her company, his attitude lightened, his attraction grew, and his connection to her strengthened.
For certain, he realized and recognized and steadfastly hid or ignored answering his carnal appetite for the bonnie lass, loyal to upholding her honor and him maintaining his duties, no matter how available her naked flesh seemed or how freely she offered him her trust. And perhaps it was due to the fact that he had to act in restraint, labeling her as something unattainable, that made him so much more interested. Some other part of him, cowardly, yet realistically dour, worried that his depraved inner fantasies wished to take what he saw as pristine and bright and lower her to his level. Dirty her with more than sand and earth and make her, not just aware, but a servant, a slave, to her lust for him. To hunger for his physical touch, his connection.
His baser side, animal instincts without consideration, was a conflict he would always fight to overcome. That was the nature of the beast, something for something. Power for compromise, it was a burden all shapeshifters carried. Well, all land based moldable beasts, as his maid had not yet shown that she was inclined to such stormy, deviant moods. He wondered if that was a benefit of the half form she adopted, no part was completely stored in the in-between void to be tainted by the creeping nothingness. He might think of trying it, her method of transformation, if the idea of half cat half man wasn't so utterly ridiculous.
But, that didn't matter, nothing really mattered in that regard. For, wholesome or unwholesome, logical or illogical, he was here, yearning for her company and worrying for her safety. To see again, her eyes that had innocent curiosity and sharp intelligence, her hands that softly cared yet expertly disemboweled their catch, for her smile that never diminished to absence. Not at his surly manners or depressive episodes.
Madara took a deep breath, closing his eyes to the diamonded sky, and exhaled at the exceptionally slow rate he observed Sakura naturally maintained. Pacing his breath so, after a time, he got lightheaded copying her lowly rated interval, which made him chuckle. Absurd as it was, it made him happy to be deficient to her in this respect. That she would process air more efficiently than he. She had such an impact on him that he felt no competitive spirit to outshine her in this. Giving up on the exercise, as Madara felt his temple thrumming, he performed recovery breaths. Practiced deep inhalation with fast expulsion, used commonly in fire breathing, to resaturated his body with oxygen, before he returned to normal breathing. And back to boredly waiting, glaring at the moon and gaining white, spotted vision for the effort.
He thought the night sky being a natural wonder would remind him of her, yet the darkness was just too much, even with the dazzling starlight. Instead, he decided, it was the dawn that reminded him most of her, the dusk the second closest reminder. The pink rising sun passed so quickly too, it perfectly represented their time together in all things but the recurrence.
He would grievously miss her. And even the hinted idea that he had already said his last goodbye and not known it? It was starting to feel as if he was mourning her. Mourning her and the death of his heart.
If he was given unrestricted, consequence free choice, right now, he was sure he would stay on this island, waiting an age if required, just for his lovely Sakura. Leaving his distant kin, who lacked border control and therefore basic strategic intelligence, to reestablish their own territory and finish the war with the humans. Even if it meant that he committed an original sin, for truly, an attack on one was an attack on all. But as long as the Uchiha were safe…
No. A nice idea, to live his life out in such a place with no conflict and never-ending love and openness. But, no, this conflict of his spirit made him hesitate, made him bargain and doubt, and made him guilty for it. But his core truth was absolute. He could never, would never abandon his family or kin, even kin so far removed. He would finish the war, he would ensure the glory of the wild beasts, and uphold the passionate culture of the Uchiha. That future was as secure and factual as the promise that the sun would rise tomorrow, and always thereafter.
His heart held no special consideration for the magicless species, but any dislike was satiated on that other beach, mended over a thousand times by their actions securing him a meeting with his lady. And now, even if his future with her was questionable, near impossible with no words or promises shared, he wanted to change and act in charity, as a commemoration of his absent balm's noble example. Show compassion, mercy. He wanted to emulate his gentle lady's preference of meeting aggression with care, disinterest, or a smile. Although, it is doubtful others would rejoice in his smile, it being a harbinger of his unhinged, battle hungry state.
Madara gave up his sitting position and dropped to lay down, exhaling in a drawn out sigh, as he pictured her in his mind's eye. He could see his future laid out in woeful clarity. He would fight and bleed and then rest if just to dream of his time on the island. Lounging in the sand, foraging, fishing, laughing and learning and exploring. Perhaps he would daydream while recovering between skirmished, so that he may embellish and improve upon truth. Adding them knowingly looking at each other with deep and confident love, kissing and making love under the sun or stars. A simple life, yet it was full, or so his dreams would tell. And in the sleep or day vision, his brother would visit, and his friends would bring gifts, and they would make a merry party. Sometimes, in the background his mind would add the laughter of naughty children. And maybe Madara would wake from these dreams with great promise for the future, even if the dreams were false. And that would give him drive to move forward, to fight and dominate, until his duties were fulfilled, and he could seek her out once more, to finish what she started so kindly, so sweetly.
The loud, angry, reprimanding grunt was directed totally at himself.
Or, he was being a pathetic, pining puppy, imaging within his imagination. Painting an unrealistic picture of silly futures within minds, within dreams, like a Matryoshka nesting doll. Acting as useful as a farmer pulling shoots to help them grow. Perhaps he should take the whelp basics from Hashirama, bitch training from Tobirama, and nipple clinging lessons from Izuna to round out his new persona. For sure he would be a full-fledged wimp with their combined expert knowledge and certainly accepted into the Inuzuka clan as one of their own. If there was better earth than this unstructured sandy beach, he could practice creating a burrow right now, to better compliment his new pooch reputation. And when the hole was sufficiently large, he could bury his ridiculous head in the ridiculous sand instead of doing whatever it was that he was doing.
Dissatisfied with laying on the ground, it being too passive and lowly for his current mood, (canines laid in the dirt, not felines, not as much at least) he sat up again. Madara raked his hand through his messy hair, snagging his fingers and forcing them through, leaving several black strands strung between his fingers. Looking at the mess, he recalled how she liked to play with his hair, styling him with delicacy and never pulling at knots or tangles. Just like how she healed, how she ate, how she explored him… all soft touches. How was she, his lady of the healing waters, where was she? He worried for her, what was keeping her? Would he see her before leaving?
URG. Could he do anything without being prompted to pine for her, without being reminded of her?
The force that Madara used to stand was enough to send sand flying several meters. He was agitated that he was fixating on the same thing, over and over, all for her. It was disgusting to him that he would be so…so… lovesick. He needed to do something, to occupy his time and give him focus, purpose. Glorious purpose. He walked into the cave, wondering if there was something he could enhance. There was nothing, he was no dwarf to improve the rock, no artisan to make something with sand or stone. It was a cave with no greater purpose for him. The pearls she gifted him sat in a pile behind the bolder, he hadn't touched them since he sadly nosed them for meat, and that seemed cheap to gift back.
But it gave him inspiration. The creative idea came from the notion that pearls were worn, and had little use besides their beauty, that he knew of at least. And from the moment he thought of turning the pearls into an ornament for her and then deciding it was a bad return, he realized he had something she liked that he could give her, and he had just been yanking on it. His hair was favored by her, could survive reasonably well in water, and he had enough know-how to pleat her a trinket as he had skill in laying as a roper. His hair was also a coveted item, young studs would target his mane during skirmishes and demonstrations, vying for glory by dethroning his scalp. Some young and foolish cocky bucks would even collect stray strands as they naturally fell out, claiming they managed to get one during a fight. She would be the first he ever gifted a lock to, and it carried the added benefit of his scent, something he could track and find later, as long is it wasn't leagues underwater.
Madara turned to leave his shelter, buoyant in his step as he thought of searching for the hive wax he spied some days ago when the most subtle, minute change in the sounds of the water trickled an anticipatory zing down his spine. His human form was as impressive as his beast form, albeit, slower in regards to reactions (and impressive only if he compared beast to beast and man to man, and never to beast to man). Still, he was on Sakura in a beat, pulling her still transforming body straight up and out of the water with a pair of rejoicing yells. His heart constricted in the most sublime, empyreal, breath stealing manner when his ears heard her responding, resonant laugh. She, more than half-way done with the transformation at the time he lifted her out of the water, to fully human by the time he stepped back from the water's edge, and still the powerful voice of her form nearly knocked him out flat.
His blood stuttering and stalling, suddenly confused from the instructions of the heart. His body was so overcome by the tittering note, he fell to his knees, clinging to her while quivering like a dry autumn leaf. As he tried to center himself, he could hear his own manic giggles in a projected, out of body sort of manner. This was the first time his human ears perceived her voice in any respect to her beast form, and it was as terrible as it was amazing. While his equilibrium returned, he held her, compelled by fear or desire or something not quite himself, to not to let her go.
As the pounding in his ears subsided he could hear her speaking it was in a soft lulling whisper, without any compulsion or mockery. And, for certain his next act was largely in part driven by her lingering voice inadvertent command prompting his beast to act, but he needed his mouth on her. Needed to consume her, defend himself. His mouth was fully open, overwide as if attempting to unhinge, when he sunk his teeth into her shoulder. The pressure would make a nice, dented arch of aligned dashes, but not bruise or draw blood. He could have bitten rabidly then, yanking meat off the bone, and it would have disabled her, likely killed her with how near her vital neck he was. But the instinctual drive vanished once his tongue glided on her skin. No slime, no scales, no otherworldly unnatural taste. Just soft, smooth skin with the lingering taste of salt water, accompanied by the hint of vibration as she continued to speak gently to him.
He was thankful she was as unperturbed as she always managed, her demeanor supporting his return to thoughtful reaction. It was a silly spot to be in, naked and embracing and near cannibalizing, but it seemed he would be in one of these situations for as long as it took for them to fully learn each other. He removed himself with care, wiping away the saliva on her with a sweeping motion that spread it out more, making him feel a sense of dread and shame that he was bathing her with his spit. When he was done and the glistening was gone, he planted a chaste kiss to the faintly red spot as an apology.
It felt like he walked into a cool room from the blistering hot day as he was momentarily transferred back to the past. In his home, young, with his father and mother and brothers, most of whom were deceased, and in his memory he could hear his mother's voice clear as a glass, firmly but kindly admonishing "kiss it better," right after he had walloped his second youngest brother over the head with a playing board. He had fat tears running down his chubby face and Madara remembers kissing his forehead, magically silencing his brothers hysterics. And again, he was here with Sakura, hugging and sand dirty and floored.
He slowly released his desperate hold, moving back to examine her. His everything felt like the leather on a drum, taut and mercilessly beaten. The thrum lingering, he drank her up. He could read her well, better than they could communicate, even with the learned languages, but nothing would compute as he dwelled on one glaring detail. He had given up their first kiss to her shoulder, and without her consent, though she didn't seem to mind. But he did, he should have done better. And if he was to be a thief, he should at least steal something of remarkable value, rather than swiping something as he passed. Madara licked his lips and found his long resolve, silent.
For all the desires he felt, the sordid tales he spins in his head while touching himself to ward away his increasing burning madness for coupling when she was so pliant and easy, they always started with a kiss. A tender, loving, devoted kiss. How he wanted that most. And now, now it seemed, he crossed the threshold, why not take the next step? His heart, his poor poor heart, pounded with ferocity when he found his resolution. No time left, the end was near, this was more than the opportune moment, it may be the only moment.
He leaned down, intent on her mouth. His body felt fluttering, like wings beating just under his skin. If it was her open and virtuous expression, ready and waiting for him with care, or his subconscious control winning the battle against her lingering beguiling call, he found himself turning his aim from her lips to her cheek, not truly resolved or ready to steal a kiss, even as he just settled in favor of it. Her rosy apple face was soft and cool, and moist from the water. It was not an intimate gesture by the common understanding, but it was the most tender gesture he had ever expressed and that filled him with some foreign, yet great emotion. He smiled in joy when she mirrored his stance, cupping his face with soft hands, and gently pressed her lips to his face.
"I missed you." He stated with shyness, suddenly feeling a fool. For more than just his reaction to her.
"No, you got me." Was her whispered response. They were in each other's ears, and so tenderly close.
It took him a moment to understand, before smiling his rakish, casanova smile. He was not much of a seducer, and yet she has proven to be susceptible to his charms as he was to hers. Nevertheless, the language barrier meant that some messages were literally understood. And now, she did not hear his confession, instead gave a response that filled him full. He leaned back, just enough to see her clearly. Her exquisite, nebulous eyes, such a color, such a beauty, a tried again.
"I wanted you." Madara said, placing that deeper meaning behind his words so that she would comprehend. He held her, in arms and gaze because he knew she would understand him better from it. Her face became warm under his hand and his smile grew at her flushing. Her reply, although not so soundly declared as his, set off the explosion of butterflies, lifting him to hovering just above the ground. "I wanted you, also."
Laying down that night, it felt like he was arriving home when she fitted against him, like a long lost piece that livened the whole image with color and joy. The gloom of the inevitable, forgotten, he surrendered to sleep.
The last days with her, he vastly, villainously, celebrated nearly accidentally devouring her as she now used her lips in all her curious explorations. He received many kisses on the cheek, which always summoned his smile, but also on his chest and shoulders, arms and hands, fingers and fingertips, which summoned more than his smile. Doing his best to stop the flip flopping between his responsibilities, he was still determined to follow his set decorum and allowed for no more than that, even when she explored the edges of his own lips with hers, a hair away from a true kiss. But the addition of her pillowy, pink lips left him breathless and achy. That she couldn't know what she did, what it meant, another element to his suffering and longing.
At times, she seemed to look for more from him, and would pull him to her shoulder. He knew what she wanted, or thought he knew, but pretended otherwise, which was no great feat as he himself was rather scatter brained. Instead, he buried his head to hide away from the world's watching eye, praying to hold out until he would leave, and begging simultaneously that the end would never come. She easily gave way, and would play with his hair or rub her hands down his back when he refused to explore her with his lips. Even as he ignored her implied requests, they hardly parted for the last two days, no more swimming practice or exploring the island or even private time. Only food and touch.
During their laying, sleeping, napping, leisure time, he practiced plaits. Counting hairs and combining them to form different thicknesses and patterns. She would meticulously pick them apart when he was done and by this method he found the best, most sturdy combination to adorn her when he left. He would be bold enough to say it would be a rather pretty rope, as his hair had a navy shine when in the sun that so nicely complimented her coloring.
The last night, the last moment, he walked with her to the hive where he calmly and gently pulled a small part of a cluster to warm by the fire. A buzz of two or three insects flew about in shock or defense, but he walked on and let them be, which drew a mysterious smile from her. He tried not to make a big ceremony of it, but the way of things between them made it impossible to do anything but be somber at a time like this. He anointed his braid, like a rite of his heart, and worked it around her wrist. He wasn't feeling joyous enough to laugh, but nearly there when he realized how many wraps his hair would make around her dainty wrist. The extra length gave him the ability to create a weave between the layers, and the reinforcement necessary to hold fast, and then some. He briefly wondered on the tipping point of his hair getting so long.
She was so serious with him; in a way he never saw her before. And when he was done, she so gently cradled her wrist to admire the band. He couldn't stand to see her so morose, so he opened his arms to her and they held each other and watched the dark night sky glowing with the magnificent moon, one night away from full. He slept with her under the blanket sky, not really knowing when he dropped off the cliff of waking to sleeping. They came back to life together, both confused and knowing. Slowly, but surely, moving along their routine, with the addition of his preparation of departure. He hoped it would take a long while, but it didn't.
And now, he was set to leave. This was the end of his time away from clan and creed. For all the developed attachment and understanding, here he was again, awkwardly standing and trying to decide what to do. Sakura seemed struck mute, unable or unwilling to communicate. He longed to embrace her, but he feared that she was too tender, too reactive to accept him. She appeared to him as delicate as spun glass, fragile to his touch, and he couldn't tell if he was imaging it or wishing it, but she looked tearful.
She wanted something, he could see her trying to ask, and stumbling. Their learned adaptations made it so she knew to combine hand expressions with shapes in the sand to convey her meaning when words were not enough.
This time, he didn't understand her miming, words, or pictures. Her drawing looked like an angry misshapen pineapple, but she said no to that when he asked if she wanted him to fetch her one, and reconfirmed when she drew the same thing again. No indeed, not a pineapple.
His extended confused face made her greatly sigh at the hardship, shifting her methods, she made the most adorably impish, faux fanged, ferocious face and he, finally, what she wanted. Simple and sweet, to the end, she wanted to see his beast form. He vaguely wondered if he should be offended that the pineapple was a combination of his hair and what she perceived of his other form. A fat, amorphously chubby, overly round cat body?
Chuckling, his mood momentarily lightened, he supplied, finding this to be as endearing as all her other quarks and attributes. Sitting he was still taller than her. She wrapped herself around him, her face nuzzling at the approximate location of his chest. He gave her a lick on her shoulder, and when she leaned back to give him a pouty grimace he lathed her entire face in one sweep. She wasn't as delicious now as when she was in her other form, but there was always something tasty to her. And something to like about her, just as now with that hilariously puffy face.
Angry, she tucked her face back into his chest, and gripped him harder. To him, it seemed that she was trying to make them one. So long she held him, he thought she might never lower her arms to let him go, but she did, to his disappointment. Somewhere deep and cowardly, he wanted her to say something to him, something he could directly interpret or misinterpret as her asking him to stay, even if he knew he had to say no.
His last touch of her, he wanted it as a man, and transitioned the one last time to embrace her. Like a flower, Sakura seemed to wilt at the prospect, seeing his human form marked the start of him leaving. This was it. The final goodbye was depressive, sucking the atmosphere of all good things. He wished he could ask for a lock of her hair; it was unique and pretty and the only token he could take for the same reasons he braided his own for her. But who was he to ask for more, so he didn't. On her little wrist sat the bracelet he weaved, and he clung to that as the hope he had to find to her, as he had no trust in the wandering nature of islands.
"I'll return one day," manifested out of his mouth before he could stop it, and it rang empty and untrue, even though he sincerely meant it. He would return, he would look for her again. But when, he was unsure.
She accepted his words with the same serene grace, with no ounce of doubt or disbelief. That made it worse for him and his own doubt. She wasn't gone a full day and he doubted her return, he gave no reassurances or timeline, and she was unwavering.
They were so close he would only need to lean down. This was his last opportunity for a proper kiss, a promise. He peeled himself away and left without it.
About an hour out, Madara is kicking on his floating board in tandem with the flow, a gloomy cloud of forlorn misery following him with annoying loyalty. His focused mind nagged at him, not allowing for absolute surrender to the culmination of the task at hand. When he takes stock of his bad attitude it gives him a sensation, a reminder, of when he first saw Sakura.
He thinks back to the kind of water folk she is, and how he forgot his inquiry, lost to the joys of knowing her rather than the part kept in the void. Even when he learned, and survived through luck and compassion, that she had a call to sway the hearts of men, he asked no other questions. He was happy to conclude that she must be inherently gentle, but her voice disproved that easily, if he had taken the moment to actually unravel the mystery of her shapeshifting powers. It was obvious now; it was her choice that she was tender and empathetic.
Then, if she had the gift of subjugation, of control, did that balance with a curse as well? There were water kinds that drowned seamen, stealing their seeds and hearts, or so it was told. The other things he knew from tales, ones who granted the wishes of their paramour by giving up parts of their immortal bodies, soulless ones who were granted a spirit to join their lover in the pure lands only after they proved themselves true through a thousand yearlong arduous trial, the kind that died from giving their heart away to an unworthy or unfaithful lover.
If he analyzed it, and thought these stories rang true, he might reason that the purpose of killing a seaman was to avoid accidentally falling in love, as the end of all mermaid stories was pain and suffering after finding an unrequited love. He knew she had special gifts, like he his clan with their eyes. And he knew his clan had a curse, a balance of power. His family learned their way around the curse centuries ago with, and that was why it was so important he returned home now, instead of later. He had to pay homage to his clans curse, and reunite with his lost ones to replenish the love, least the grief turns love to hate. She may choose not to use her gift, but that didn't mean she could ignore her curse. Was he part of the solution to her curse?
His heart suddenly hurts, constricting with a force that makes him feel like he had inadvertently foretold her death. She didn't give him a reason for her interference, why she healed him in the first, and he was not clued by her mannerisms or the surroundings, or maybe he wasn't paying the right kind of attention to solve the enigma. They only spent pleasant and fun time together. Companionable, yes, but silent to purpose. She was a curious, explorative creature, and at times a bit grabby. But never forceful or driven, never with hidden meaning. She harmed herself to better him, nothing of her actions indicated that she was anything but an angel, sent to save him in more ways than one. He only wanted to be considerate and safeguard her.
His people were at war, and it would be wrong to pull her into the skirmishes. An inexperienced fighter would only get in the way, and if he did bring her, even with those healing skills, any and every mistake would hang upon his witting. Then there was his own weakness, to bring her along would distract. This and more told him to spare her, leave her. But with the freezing cold numbing his body, cooling his fire and flame, he finally thinks that she deserved a choice. Give her the choice and ask her many things because he couldn't leave it. Not with the ominous premonition in his blood and bones.
And now, now he feels he had betrayed her to pain and suffering and death. He may have killed her by callously leaving. All the evidence and all his knowledge, admittedly small in all regards, alluded to her being the lovesick kind of merchild, the kind that devoted themselves and gave away their hearts to the undeserving. What was he thinking? How could he leave without ascertaining the details of her kind?
He turns and goes back to her, Madara's strong legs carry him, beast form manifesting instantly to go that much faster. The speed would shred him if he ran into a hidden rock, but what was some pain to the possibility of death. The journey back was reduced thrice fold, and he nearly vocalized his relief at seeing her still in the cave, sitting upright and alive. Next to her were the pearls she tried to gift him, being handled in a sad, uninspiring manner. Like she couldn't be bothered with the effort, but was busying her hands. Her scales had not fully reformed around her upper body, nor had the violet skin come to full color, but the tail was reforming in the water, small and swaying at the top of the pool.
The beast in him had receded when she proved alive, and for an extended moment, he wondered if he made a foolish decision again, he was concerned that maybe she was the other kind, and he was about to be drowned because she expertly enticed him to willingly return. But, as quickly as the fear came, it left. How laughable, that his lovely creature would intentionally harm him. As silly as thinking water was not wet. Silent as a lengthening shadow, he approached his sweetheart, for that is what he now knows she is to him, the sweetness within his killer heart, and calls out her name.
Supernaturally she whips, creating an afterimage for the speediness of the movement. Her large eyes, larger in shock. Then glassy and crinkling as a smile overtakes the shock, her expression morphing into happiness. The cave isn't silent when her tail whips behind her, and it is the first time he has heard her make any real noise with water. Yet, that doesn't matter when she tackles him, ecstatic to the max, and all for him.
Madara receives her embrace with more than acceptance, he meets her with his own joy at seeing her alive. Idiotic that it was, the sudden realization that he may never see her alive again brought to light the very real truth that he wished to keep her, and be kept by her. In so many days, he found trust and affection in a place that had been void of it. The idea that this could happen at home was laughable, he was never at ease with anyone or anything. He saw wickedness in people when there wasn't any, if only to anticipate the what if's and prepare contingencies. The exception to his deep paranoia was isolated only to his surviving brothers. And now, it would seem, Sakura as well.
It took his own mistake to open him to vulnerability, and then a lucky coincidence that she would be who found him. It had to be someone fair and beyond reproach, someone without any possible ulterior motives, but someone with skill. Someone who would not lower him and his clan. This had to be divine intervention. For in a moment of great weakness, she came forward encompassing everything needed to break past his iron guard. And compassionate as she was, instead of declaring her victory when she bested him, she turned and mended his defenses for the better.
He had held her plenty, and became expert on proper holds to maintain proprietary. Even now, he was careful, but at last he felt he could take that liberty, make that promise. He held her with one arm and freed the other to lightly hold her face in his palm, pulling her close while lowering himself to speak intimately, quietly. To keep the secret. He rejoiced in the way she leaned into his touch.
His voice was strong and unwavering, like his resolve. "Come home with me. I will never stop thinking about you. I would worry for your safety. I would be troubled by the idea that you would find some other to keep your attention, and forget about me. I could never forget about you. And, for certain, you are the only one who could occupy my heart like this, you precious thing. I would repay you, cherish you, take care of you, for as long as you would allow. Come home with me. I will make you as happy as you make me. Come home with me, please, please my darling."
She is vacant in a way that worries him. It was the longest, most complex speech he has ever given to her, but he was oozing with intent out of his pours. The thumb moved from her cheek, lowering to pluck her bottom lip in warning. He is so slow when he places his mouth over hers. He is as tender as he has ever been, as he ever could be, pecking before making full contact. Pulling out to give her time and space to refuse him, before he goes back in, building up to her comfort to the intensity of him. In between each kiss, he speaks. "Come," kiss, "home," kiss, "with," kiss, "me." Over and over again, until she starts to return his affections, timidly at first, then more confidently pressing her lips in return. Making a little gasp for air when he kisses her longer, opening her mouth a little wider to gently taste him in return.
He loves to see and experience her learning. How she absorbs, unravels, then mimics his lessons, and here it is the same. She learns his kisses, then returns them with her own special signature. Not all kisses are puckered connections, some are her lips gently caressing his, rubbing and enticing, before aligning for full contact. Her tongue, so slowly, tantalizingly, touching his lips and tongue.
His human form delights at all the senses filled with her, his beast form howls in triumph. Soft to touch, beguiling fragrance, juicy taste, beauty to behold, and a sweet melody for all her sighs of contentedness. All too fast, he has to withdrawal, becoming overexcited. A tale as old as time, as far as he is concerned. He wishes not to frighten her, but coming with him would be scary, no matter the promised rewards. So, he will be honest in all things, including this. If she comes with him, his excitement will be hers to contend with, so he doesn't withdrawal like he normally would.
He tries again, this time with a touch more space between them, and he feels his face blushing at his embarrassing condition. Her eyes, ever inquisitive, look at the change in his physique with curiosity, and his ears burn greater as he responds further and further, unable to tame that excitement from her gaze. He calls on his inner peace to subdue his damnable anatomy, and like a prayer, he repeats one more time, "come home with me."
He finally gets to see her expression in regards to his dynamic groin. It's rather disappointing, yet wholly in character. She is interested, but finds it unimportant to his questioning, and only spares his junior a glance. He was rather hoping she would be wanton and desperate for him, her womanly instincts calling out at forcing him into a frenzied coupling, but alas, he has no time to contemplate on that and his masculine pride has no time for wounds of that nature while waiting for the truly important response.
She looks contemplative. Her eyes and body turn to the pool of water in her cave retreat for a drawn moment. Finally, she turns back to him, decided. He waits and is baited in absolute concentration for her answer. The world turns slower, he knows it. Then, she is nodding in agreement, and everything is fast again. He smiles, a real genuine smile so big his face hurts. He nods back just in case she needed his confirmation too. They close the space together, welcoming in open arms, and during their second kiss Madara thinks that this feels like a true, honest start.
When she pulls his face back, prematurely ending their embracing kiss, he wonders for just a beat, what, what could this be? What now? Could he take any more abuse to his heart? And then she is directing his face to her shoulder, where she sighs a long and fulfilled breath, when he kisses the area. He could die of laughter trying to interpret what she is mimicking here, but he thinks he will save that for another day, or perhaps forget it, as he continues to shower her with kisses and affection and adoration, before finally interlocking their fingers and announcing, "let's go home."
He made two confident, very confident, steps with her when her lovely, darling voice responded with more confidence and purpose than his stride. The tone carried profound meaning, sensual and exciting, with a wholly commanding like energy, making his knees jelly and his body tingling and his gentlemanly reserves flaky and weak. "I wanted you," she said to him with powerful intent burning behind her vibrant green eyes.
His poor heart. His poor poor heart.
End.