Most times he would fuck her gently.

Like she was something fragile. Breakable. Pressed against her skin, deeper, ever deeper, not deep enough, but close as close can get.

"I love you," he would whisper, the only times he would whisper, teeth biting skin on shoulders, necks, jaw; Sakura would gasp, never reply, never able to formulate words, arms wrapping, legs quaking, and she would try for his name.

"Sasuk-"

But the rest that he loved so much, the rest that let him know she was his and he was hers and they belonged would always be cut off by a hot, feverish, desperate (oh, there are not enough words to describe) kiss. Nibbled lips, pressured tongues, rocking hips–

"Sas–"

This time, she stopped herself, sea green nails pressing so hard into his chest, back, arms, until she found herself on top. Sasuke liked the way the moonlight highlighted the moisture on her curves; sweat, kisses, bites – all of it his, all of it hers.

She'd kept him in through the flip. She always could and always did. She's strong like that. Strong enough to handle the width, the girth, the rocks, the thrusts. Sometimes she'd press one arm into his chest to hold him down and balance herself at once, looking into his mismatched eyes without the fear that so many held. She would always be determined – despite the quivers, moans, eye rolls that gave away her pleasure, she'd consistently ride him to tip and rock herself down, down, down to his base, her base. Other times, she would grab both sides of his neck, forget the times when he'd once choked her and it wasn't to bring her to heaven, and bring her lips crashing onto his while he hammered into her, little moans rolling from her mouth, growls murmuring through his.

"I love you," he would murmur every time. "I love you."

And most times he would bite her, softly, like the treat that she was. Eyes low and mouth wet, he'd suck her skin like it was the sweetest thing he'd ever known – because it was. There would never be enough of her that he could have. From the times that he would lay himself down and take her, all for himself, warm, wet, needy smells inhaled like oxygen before breathing, "Tell me how you want it," hissing into her shivering inner thigh, ignoring how hard, deep, low, fast, slow his drive for her wanted. She was more important, most times, every time, and he was there to make sure his tongue lapped every bit of dew, flicked each fold, arched each vertebrae of the strong back that she would always twist, always turn, always. And when she'd start crying please, please fuck me, he would smile, not smirk, but actually grin, because no, he wasn't ready, besides he throbbing dick, no, he wanted to feel her on his fingers, turn her like a needle to his every twitch, bring her ass up higher and higher to the heavens in need to be closer.

"Shhhh," Sasuke murmured, snaking his hand out of her, past her panting breasts, and pumping his fingers – soaked in her, drenched – into her mouth hushing her eager sounds. "You're making too much noise."

Most times, Sakura would suck his fingers like the treat that they were, eyes dazed, half there and half way to get orgasm, but wholly focused on him. Everything was him, most times.

But other times.

Other times he'd just lay with her in between his legs, head on his chest and book propped on her knees. He'd kiss the top of her pink head, and their daughter would tease that's so gross as they sat ahead the fire, loving their heat, no matter the temperature.

I love you.