Naruto Fan Fiction ❯ Full Circle ❯ One-Shot

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

I don’t know where it started. I don’t know where it ends. All I know is that I’m here with you now: in your house, on your sofa, your body hovering over mine.

You run your hand along my side, the other positioned on a cushion to brace you. Your touch sends shivers up my spine, and I know you feel them. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never missed anything—not the sound of footsteps around our camp at night, not the hiss of a kunai slicing through the air. That’s probably why you’ve made it this far, why you’re here with me now. You’re smarter than the others—faster and stronger, too. I should feel safe in your arms. But I don’t…

You lean in closer as if to protest this thought, and trace the callused tips of your fingers across my lips and jaw before tucking a few strands of rose-coloured hair behind my ear. I can’t hide from you now, and our eyes meet. Viridian on a mix of red and black.

My blood ignites when you look at me this way: your gaze dark and smouldering, your sharingan spinning like the inside of my head. Slowly, so slowly, I reach up and curl my fingers around the edge of your mask, unable to stop my mind from drifting back to more innocent times when I would fight tooth and nail for a chance to see you exposed. I was so childish then, so wrapped up in stupid things like Sasuke’s affections and the size of my forehead. God, so much has changed. Sasuke’s been gone for years now, and Naruto… Well, Naruto’s still searching…

The feel of your hand beneath much shirt, palming my breast, drags me back to the present and I pull your mask down all the way and let it dangle beneath your chin. You’re beautiful, so beautiful, but as your breath ghosts across my neck, you tell me that I’m the beautiful one. You lean in to kiss me, and your tongue dances with mine.

It’s a strange sensation, kissing you… You’re lips are soft, but they aren’t smooth. They’re a bit rough, but that’s okay, because there’s nothing wonderful in this. It’s just you and me—two messed up people, searching each other for things we’ll never find.

Your fingers flick across my nipple, and you gently pinch it before burying your face in my neck. There’s a spot just beneath my earlobe that fascinates you, and you suck at it, taking care not to graze me with your teeth. The gesture is so typical of you—you’ve always been careful with me. At first I thought it was because you were my teacher, and I was your student, but now I know better. The dynamics of our relationship have never concerned you. Deep down, you’re just afraid to break me anymore than I’ve already been broken.

I’ve failed at so many things in my life, but I have never failed at this. I know how to bring you pleasure, and as you press our hips together, I thrust up at you in the way I know you love. I’m rewarded with a ragged groan from you, and your hand snakes down between us. You run circles over the seam of my panties before pressing your finger against the bundle of nerves beneath.

I moan incoherently and rock against your hand, seeking the friction I so desperately crave. I can feel a heat pooling in my stomach, a spring coiling in my core, but it’s not enough. You seem to sense this, and you pull the scrap of fabric aside just enough to run your finger across my slit. Your touch is infinitely soft, but my sensitised nerve endings could never have missed it. I jerk upwards, and you sheath the lengthy digit in my heat.

I moan again, louder this time, as you pump the digit in and out of me—once, twice—before withdrawing it altogether. I hiss at the loss of contact, but the sight of you lifting your finger to your lips is enough set me on fire. You slip it into your mouth, and I see my essence combining with your saliva. The look on your face would suggest that you are tasting ambrosia, but I can’t believe it. I’m not good enough for you. I’m not good enough for anyone. All I ever do is get in the way…

You pull your finger from your mouth with a ‘pop’ before swooping in to kiss me. I taste myself on your tongue, and the flavour is the same as always—a non-descript musk. You seem to disagree, however, whispering in my ear that I taste: “Sweet. Oh god, Sakura, you taste so sweet…” Your hips shift then, and I can feel your hardness beneath the fabric of your pants. It’s pressing into my thigh—thick and long as ever.

I wrap my legs around your waist and rub myself against you. Your length connects with my heat and we both groan at the feeling. Things begin moving faster now, and before long, my shirt is halfway across the room. Your shirt follows it, as do your pants, and I get a quick glimpse of the scars on your chest before you thrust at me again—nothing between us but the fabric of my panties.

In a moment, they’re gone too, but rather than sink into me as others are want to do, you scoot down and grab a hold of my calves. Your thumbs run circles around my ankles as you spread them apart, but I barely feel them as you kiss my thighs and rub your nose against my mound. I shudder as your breath washes over my most sacred of places, its coolness only bolstering the fire within me. A long moment passes, and I know that you’re staring. You’re drinking me in, and I feel incredibly exposed. But then, I feel your tongue, and everything drifts away. All the hurt, all the pain. There is only pleasure.

You run your tongue along my slit and push into me once before honing in on my bundle of nerves. You flick it over and over, and then draw it into your mouth—pulling and tugging—sucking it like it’s the finest candy you’ve ever tasted. I hiss in pleasure, and nearly cry out when you add your finger to the mix. You slide it in as far as you can before adding another digit and curling them both into the spot that drives me crazy. I feel like I’m about to explode, and I can tell you are too. You’re rubbing yourself against the cushions of the couch, your hips bucking in an effort to relieve yourself.

“Please…” I whisper. It’s the first word I’ve spoken all night. Sometimes, when I visit you, I don’t say anything at all. But that’s okay. You understand. You understand, even if I don’t understand myself.

Kissing my hips, my stomach, my breasts, my neck, you crawl your way up my body and position yourself at my entrance. The tip of you is already inside, but as always, you pause for a moment to ask if I want this. I don’t bother to answer. Or rather, I respond by pushing my hips flush against yours. My body sheaths your length and you swear at the heat all around you: “Fuck, Sakura. So tight… So fucking wet…”

You pull out nearly all the way, and slam back in all the way to the hilt. I whimper in response for this is my favourite part. I feel so full with you in me. There’s no room for emptiness.

Grasping your hair, I angle my hips as you pick up the pace. I meet you thrust for thrust and your chest reverberates as you growl in my ear. The sound of it combined with the thundering of my heart is all I can hear as the spring within me coils tighter and tighter. I’m close, so close, when suddenly, you reach down between us and run your hand through my curls. Your expert fingers find my clit. You stroke it. Pinch it. And the feeling is enough to send me over the edge. I yell as my world transforms to stars, and you follow me soon after, crying out my name as my walls milk you dry.

It’s only an ingrained sense of chivalry that keeps you from collapsing on top of me as our shudders subside. Kissing my forehead, you gently pull out and roll to one side as you snuggle into the couch. I like this bit too—lying in your arms—but it’s not too long before I feel I have to leave. You’re doing me a favour, giving me this. And this is your house… I don’t like to overstay my welcome.

Untangling my limbs from yours, I go to stand, but you hold me back. Stroking my wrist with your thumb, you gaze up at me, a few silver hairs plastered above your sleepy eyes. “Stay…” you say, but I shake my head. It’s better this way, or at least I tell myself so.

Pulling away from you, I gather my things and go to let myself out. I’m just about to open the door when the weight of your hand settles on my shoulder. I open my mouth to protest, but you cut me off. “Don’t,” you say as you always do when I leave. “Just let me finish… I love you, okay? I know you don’t believe me, but I do…”

Tears prick my eyes as you say this, and I curse myself the millionth time for having let you get involved. You can’t help me. No one can. I can only hurt you. I can only turn you into a replica of myself.

Squeezing the door handle, I step outside without looking back. Your voice wafts over my shoulder. “I’m always here…” I know. That’s the problem…

I don’t know where it started. I don’t know where it ends. All I know is that I’m hurting. And if you’re here, I’ll keep coming back.