{Dream 005 - In the Dirt}
Warning: NC-17 for sexual content.
She smells Sasori's hair, and her own sweat (only hers, because he can't perspirate any more), and sharp metal weapons, an edge on the air. And she smells the earth, too (like the battlefield on which she'd fallen in love with him in the first place)--dirt, which she pushes him down into, her hands tight around his wrists, down, down into the dark soil, and she on top of him, her knees getting smudged on either side of his stomach. He struggles a little, fighting to loosen her hold, but she's pretty sure he doesn't mean it because he's wearing that smirk on his face that has the curious effect of making her insides feel like they've melted into an unnatural consistency.
He's so smug, but he can't break her iron grip.
He can't prevent her from doing this as she slides down, down down, and then Sasori is--
Oh.
A small gasp.
Yes. That's...
Her back curves concave against him, pressing her body flush to his. She feels full but not fulfilled, not yet.
So she rolls her hips once. One movement causes and flows into another: she tilts her head back and makes a noise that is somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
That feels--
--she does it again--
--good.
By the fourth time, or maybe the fifth, she is able to pay attention to him. He isn't smirking any more, and she's pretty sure that if he could sweat his skin would shine with it. She's so close (couldn't be any closer) to him that she feels the way Sasori arches just slightly underneath her and twists his wrists in her hands and tries to suppress his groans.
She kisses him; she wants to taste those sounds on her tongue.
------
[Oh no. Nonono. No, she absolutely did not just dream that, and no, the Hitomi is not broadcasting that dream (which she didn't dream) for everyone to see.
... Damn it.
Sakura shuts off the Hitomi and turns over in bed, pulling the sheets up over her red cheeks. She prays to every deity she can think of that Sasori never ever sees that.]
She smells Sasori's hair, and her own sweat (only hers, because he can't perspirate any more), and sharp metal weapons, an edge on the air. And she smells the earth, too (like the battlefield on which she'd fallen in love with him in the first place)--dirt, which she pushes him down into, her hands tight around his wrists, down, down into the dark soil, and she on top of him, her knees getting smudged on either side of his stomach. He struggles a little, fighting to loosen her hold, but she's pretty sure he doesn't mean it because he's wearing that smirk on his face that has the curious effect of making her insides feel like they've melted into an unnatural consistency.
He's so smug, but he can't break her iron grip.
He can't prevent her from doing this as she slides down, down down, and then Sasori is--
Oh.
A small gasp.
Yes. That's...
Her back curves concave against him, pressing her body flush to his. She feels full but not fulfilled, not yet.
So she rolls her hips once. One movement causes and flows into another: she tilts her head back and makes a noise that is somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
That feels--
--she does it again--
--good.
By the fourth time, or maybe the fifth, she is able to pay attention to him. He isn't smirking any more, and she's pretty sure that if he could sweat his skin would shine with it. She's so close (couldn't be any closer) to him that she feels the way Sasori arches just slightly underneath her and twists his wrists in her hands and tries to suppress his groans.
She kisses him; she wants to taste those sounds on her tongue.
------
[Oh no. Nonono. No, she absolutely did not just dream that, and no, the Hitomi is not broadcasting that dream (which she didn't dream) for everyone to see.
... Damn it.
Sakura shuts off the Hitomi and turns over in bed, pulling the sheets up over her red cheeks. She prays to every deity she can think of that Sasori never ever sees that.]