Because the guys get all the jerk-off scenes. Smut.
In the Process of Waiting
by
Redex
Temari was in a bit of a situation.
She woke this morning to an incredible pain in her chest and an overwhelming desire for something, or someone, or a particular part of someone.
And she wanted him now. It didn't matter where, on her bed, on the floor, on the windowsill, against the wall... She needed to feel his hands on her hips, wanted to feel his mouth and tongue surrounding her own, wanted that pressure against her thigh as they struggled to get out of clothing..
A hand strayed dangerously low under the linen covers.
That dangerously casual way that he would look at her across a room, a signal that no one else would notice, completely opposite from her usual tackling method, and yet just as effective.
He liked her absolutely naked when they did it, and he liked the comfort of a bed, but she had discovered recently a fetish in both of them for grassy fields. The smell of wet earth, a summer's day in Kanoha...
She whispered his name to herself, tasting it gently.
He would take off her clothing while kissing her, teasing her hair and a little bit more besides. A hand would brush against her shoulder, slipping the arm of her dress off revealing tempting pale skin and the curve of her breast. Sometimes he would take the time to tease her, running his tongue over that soft surface, making her shiver and moan for him to hurry up.
When he's in more of a forceful mood though, as far as he can be forceful, he just gets it all off her and tumbles her back onto whatever surface they're working with at the time. Neither of them were much for foreplay when he was in this kind of mood. Sometimes he slowed her down just to annoy her and prolong the effect, but now was not the time.
He had a habit of kissing her just as he thrust inwards, capturing that first gasp as if by superstition. She'd undo his hair at this point if she hadn't already, because she couldn't stand not seeing it frame his face and tickle hers as he looked down on her.
He was always excruciatingly gentle and slow, even when she bit him and pleaded for harder, faster, more. Their breathing would both speed up, perforated by whimpers and moans, sometimes words, sometimes not. But that feeling of him, inside her, a part of her, she needed it like the sun. The sound of his lust-lowered voice made her kiss hard those ever-smirking lips to soak it into herself.
And then everything would become even more dizzying as she clung to him, buried her face into his neck smelling of sweat and dirt and soap and maybe blood as he held her there and kept going, letting her finish before doing the same back, the shuddering, surprising feeling at the end always catching her in awe when he looked her in the eyes and whispered 'I love you' like a prayer.
And then he would roll over to the side and either stare up at the ceiling for a while until she said something, maybe falling asleep on his chest, or he would nuzzle into her chest like a child and fall asleep there, holding her firmly almost as if not to drown.
She wanted him. She still wanted him.
The ache in her chest wouldn't go away, and she needed him here, with her, inside her, but she'd have to wait.
Gods she hated waiting.
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