x.x.x.x
Title: Unwavering
Prompt: Her head is on his chest when she wakes to the familiar click of his lighter. For a moment, the smoke he exhales hides his face. She wonders if one day, when the smoke dissipates, he'll be gone along with it. He coughs and takes another drag while running a shaky hand through her bare back. That's smoker's cough, she wants to say. She sees the fresh puncture marks on his arm and the empty syringes on the nightstand. She could go on about his unhealthy lifestyle but she isn't here to be his doctor. That's the last thing he wants. So she sits up and looks at his glazed eyes. "Sasuke, talk to me," she almost begs. Nights are the worst. Sakura struggles to compete with his demons.
Idea: Anonymous on Tumblr
Note: I am actually a smoker. I smoke menthol's which are actually way worse for you than regular shorts, and so I am all too familiar with smokers cough. It's not fun during the winter, and is probably the only reason I could describe briefly what it like. The change of season has made me have it currently. Also. I have no clue how we got to where we are. Mature theme became very mature and ended up probably more mature than you were wanting and for that my bad, but this is what flew out and this is what came of it.

She doesn't want to hear the silence or dead words that come from him in this one bedroom apartment. There's his movements when he's dragging his hand from above his head to run beside him. The inhale she can hear with her head laying over his long since closed off heart lets her hear the tell tale signs of it's users continued abuse. The doctor she is knows what this is. The increased heart rate is all too familiar to those who see it as often as she does—was he not the reason she had sought a career in the medical field?

The glow from moon that dares to peek through is all that assists her eyes still worn from the sleep she had been pulled from. He had always been pale and it's that same glow upon his skin that allows her to see more of the abuse he's put upon his body. Fingers twitch slightly with him bringing a cigarette to his mouth having found the open pack beside him. The flick of the lighter sends it's own orange warm glow upon him and her. There's harm in seeing how dazed those obsidian are. The lift of his chest comes with the inhale he takes—it's deep and long within his drag.

Blood still stained when the sheets were washed, and he's still dead when he's finished the bottle.

That glazed over look disappears within the smoke he exhales. There's the smallest of fear that he'll disappear one day when it dissipates. She's lost the ability to smell the nicotine with how long she's stood beside him. She's lost the ability to feel uncomfortable with this lifestyle of his. There had always been concern though. There would always be concern.

After all sex doesn't sleep when the lights are off.

Fingers trail upon his chest sliding down his stomach in hearing the fluid within his lungs with every breath. The clearing of his lungs fill her hears. It's not harsh but it's obvious—smokers cough—he's developed such a thing within all these years. It doesn't halt his fingers in bringing the cigarette back to his mouth and inhaling the nicotine, if possibly, deeper. The moon is no friend in it's glow allowing her to see the small puncture wound that linger within the joint of his arm. There's harm in seeing those marks that he's self-inflicted—there's the flicker of her eyes from him to the nightstand where the empty syringe sits. The tickle that comes with his fingers sliding along her spin causes a stiff noise to fall from her.

He's comforting her within his drugged daze—he doesn't think she's that stupid does he?

The doctor she is could list all of the affects of his lifestyle. She could tell him the damage he's doing. She could tell him the harm he's bringing to himself, but she won't. He doesn't need Doctor Haruno—he needs Sakura Haruno, the girl who continued to stay beside him even in his worst states. He wants the little girl who never backed down even in childhood, and he wants the little girl who would blush. He wants that little girl who's crush had developed through middle school, and then high school. He wants the little girl who pushed herself through college and never once wavered from him. He wants the little girl who filled her world with him regardless of who came and went. He wanted the stability that she encompassed—she would not leave like so many others had done.

She's pulling herself from him allowing the blanket to slide down her form. She's bare and there's no shame in this—she's always been bare to him in more than one way. There's the slowest movement of those eyes so dazed within his high. He's slow to notice her raising form. They've done this dance before. The demon's that haunt him are always there. The pain that lingers in every action he does is there within the setting of the sun. The night is no friend—just like the moon.

It's the next drag and the smoke that flows after from him filling the air around them that has her moving unconsciously to produce fingers within his hair and touch his cheek.

Lips form all the pain she feels in seeing him like this, "Sasuke-kun—talk to me."

She could never compete with his demons. She never held a chance. She never held a victory. She's lost every single time, and yet she's unwavering in her love for this man so lost within his heart. She would take every demon that flickered within his mental state. She would take every piece and every part of him upon her shoulders so small and fragile—if only he could be spared from this world he lived in.

The words she remembers within her psychology courses are an echo within the room. He will either step forward into growth, or step back within the safety he's build with syringes and bottles. She'd inject herself if it would keep him from doing so. She would lick every drop if it would keep him from doing so. She would swallow every pill if it would keep him from doing so.

The pain that comes with loving a man so lost is not something others can understand, and she knows this is her pain to bare behind these closed doors. This is not something she will share when she leaves in the morning to return to the world so much brighter and cleaner.

Those eyes only continue their stare upon the ceiling as he puts out the cigarette within an empty can upon the nightstand. She's going to lose tonight as well. He won't talk—even before the addictions he had never been one for talking. The sting of tears threatening to shed come over her. He doesn't need tears. He needs the little girl who smiled through all that he did.

Swinging her leg over him she's placed herself upon his uncovered form sitting upon his pelvis. He's warm from this high he's thick within. This small action of hers is still not able to bring his eyes to her. It only brings fingers that trail upon her stomach and slide up her form. That grip upon her comes next. He's trying to feel her through the haze his mind is muddled with. It's a desperate action meant to solidify within these demons that she's still here—she's still standing beside him forever.

This battle and this dance is one and the same. The demons that keep their hold on him are weak in this moment here because there's attempt and there's still that little boy that held her hand—through his mother's funeral, held her hand through his father's suicide, held her hand through his brother's arrest and conviction—somewhere within the drugs, pain, and overwhelming sadness.

There's still the boy she had always loved.
There's still the boy that she had always cherished.

She's pressing herself against him as she comes to lay on him running her fingers through his hair once more. She's not going to win this. She never wins after all, but she'll take the weakened state of that which holds him forever at arms length. Noses brush and fingers tighten their hold under her small bust. Inhales are exchanged—he's earthly with a spice only able to be described as cinnamon, and then there's that bitter nicotine smell that comes from him—and she's entirely vanilla and sugary laced in floral flowers they couldn't even name. There's no missing him inhaling her deeply with the rise of his chest and those dazed eyes falling closed to grind into her. Strands far softer than they had ever looked are what her fingers have sought as she lingers so close to his face. Brushing his hair follows this movements and then there's his lips seeking hers.

"Talk to me, please." she's whimpering within his slow kisses to the corner of her mouth.

A noise falls from her as his fingers make their way to cup her bottom and then he's rolling her under him. His arms lay beside her and those tears that had long since sat waiting to fall have finally found their chance to slide down the corners of her face. The bite of her lip comes and those obsidian are keeping their attention to her pale green finally.

"Please." she's begging within a whisper caught within her throat.

He dips his head and then the pressure of his mouth to hers. The bitter taste of nicotine is thicker upon his tongue sliding into hers, and his arm is removing itself from beside her head seeking to trail down her chest passed her stomach and to her leg to give him access to her.

"Sakura." he's groaning into her mouth, and he's rubbing her thigh, "Can I?"

The tremble of her lip follows and does little to hide the shake of her voice, "Always."

The intake of air she has sucked within and the moan that slips passed her is deep and laced in her tears. His thumbs have come to wipe the tears from her with more light kisses to follow upon her cheeks, and nose. He's deep inside her, and while his pace is normal—it's not rushed, and it's not slowed—there's an urgency.

"Don't cry, please." he's pleading within the brush of his nose to hers, "Please, don't."

He's hitting deeper and she's crying out at the feeling of him so close to her. She's lost this battle just as she has known she would. He would not speak of the things that lingered and haunted him within the night. She would not be what he wanted when the demon's came to play. She would not be what he wanted when he swallowed his next pill. She would not be what he wanted when he downed the next bottle. She would not be what he wanted when he punctured his skin with his next needle.

The lick across her neck is what makes her heartbeat against her ribcage painfully, and her arms come to wrap around his neck. He's pulling her hair with his need to get more of her neck. It's painful, and yet so sugary sweet—just like them.

Blood still stains when the sheets are washed. Sex doesn't sleep when the lights are off.
He's still dead when he's finished the bottle.

The sound of skin against skin bounces from this apartment of one bedroom. Her cries, and moans overwhelm his own grunts, and groans. Those eyes are still fogged but they're gaining their clarity within his repeated thrusts, and repeated displays of affection. It's a touch to her breast, a lingering upon her stomach, the cupping of her thigh to bring her closer with each attempt to push himself deeper inside her, and the kisses that fall upon her closed lids.

There's no preparation when he's pulling from her and placing her leg upon his shoulder. Those eyes are drinking her in, and his free hand is running across her dewy skin. His motions have finally given into that hiding urgency she knew lingered within him. His motions have become rushed and desperation hangs upon every thrust and touch he gives.

He's addicted to so many things—and then there's the wide doe-eyes as she throws her head back. He didn't need a doctor. He didn't need Doctor Haruno—no he needed the little girl who had been the only constant bright spot in his world. He needed the little girl turned woman who allowed him to cling to her in the most unforgiving of ways.

The look of pain crosses his face with brows pinched as he does not allow her to come down from the euphoric high he's given her. Those pale green glow within the moon so unfriendly, and so unkind.

He's addicted to her—and he hates himself for it—that's why he won't talk to her.

Her own look of pain flashes across her face at the realization within her now fogged mind. This is why his eyes would not clear the glaze that had settled over him. This is why he would forever stay dazed within the night. There's no stopping the fresh tears that spill from the corners of her eyes within her pants, and there's no stopping the call of her voice, "Hug me, please."

Brows pinch deeper as he curls to her keeping her leg over his shoulder. He is soaked within desperation to give her what she's asked for.

She's the only constant and unwavering force. He's become addicted to that little girl who never walked away. He's become dependent on the hand that holds his.

Forehead to forehead is how they are as he continues to become rougher and his voice hits her face in panicked and urgent breaths. Those eyes so dazed and fogged refuse to leave her own, and her moans of his name mix with the sharp intakes of air he's taking. He's going harder into, and she's threading her fingers within that hair so unbelievably soft.

There's still the boy she had always loved. There's still the boy that she had always cherished. There's still the little boy who had squeezed her hand when tears had threatened to spill at his mother's funeral. There's still the little boy who had clung to her within his room and laced their fingers together after his father's suicide. There's still the little boy who had gripped her hand in it's vice like grip as he watched them take his brother to prison.

There's still the little boy she loved here as his hand presses hers to the mattress.
There's still that same little boy even if he's turned into a man.

He's here and he's crying over her as he hits his own euphoric high. The noise that comes with it is laced in those tears that he had dared not voice within his groans.

—and those tears are still present as he rides out his high deep within her, "Sakura."

Can I?

She can hear the question within his gasps, and within the drip of his tears upon her skin, "Always."