M for Mature. You've been warned.

Not sure how long this one will be yet, but I've got at least four chapters in progress at the moment. This is slightly AU, but I don't really want to give too much away, so I'll leave the description at that. :) There is a short blurb of the plot on my profile if you want a better idea of what's going on.

P.S. I love reviews, so let me know what you think! XD

Kakashi and Sakura are the creation of Masashi Kishimoto.

Flickers

She didn't know who he was.

Didn't know his name. Didn't know his age.

Didn't know what he did for a living.

She didn't know if he had a dog, or two cats.

Didn't know if he was a bachelor, or if he had a wife and six or seven kids at home.

She didn't know anything about him.

All she knew was that she was currently experiencing the most intense pleasure she had ever felt in her life. And he was giving it to her.

The man in her arms groaned as he drew her nipple into his mouth, and she threw her head back as she arched forward involuntarily. Her hands clasped at his strong shoulders, desperately trying to hold on as he pushed her against the tiles, holding her up by her thighs, which were currently wrapped around his narrow, naked hips. Warm water cascaded over her head and shoulders, and streamed over her breasts and into his mouth where pale lips met cerise velvet; lips that were surrounded by a short, rough stubble – it agitated her porcelain skin making the once pearly surface blush furiously. More water flowing from the shower head sprayed directly onto his head turning his gun-metal hair to an unusual smoky-blue.

His strong fingers dug deeply into her thighs, and she hissed at the painful yet strangely pleasurable feeling. He unlatched himself from her breast to crush their lips together again, his tongue swiftly entering her mouth as his arms slowly lowered her to the floor. His fingers spider-walked up over her abdomen to cup her breasts firmly in his hands, causing a long, low moan from her throat; their tanned, calloused surface and the latent power that simmered beneath, a magnificent juxtaposition to the creamy, pliant mounds encapsulated within them.

He turned her, both slowly yet urgently; gently and firmly at the same time, and she turned her head as her body went – trying to keep their lips connected as long as she was able – before all she could do was press her warm cheek to the cool damp tiles. She felt the heat then as his own body met her back, and his arms crossed around her; his right hand sliding over her breasts, squeezing the first in its path before closing over the second and remaining there, her abdomen clenching as his left hand passed briefly over her pelvis before gripping to her furthermost hip.

She gasped as his lower forearm suddenly thrust her upwards and backwards, pressing her firmly against his own groin and the burning firm flesh and muscle that she felt there, then lowering her gently to the ground before thrusting her backwards again and repeating the action. They continued like this – a rhythmic, pulsing, dance of passion, their bodies sliding together, water intermingling with the perspiration of their pleasure, trickling between their skin and dripping into the eddy which swirled at their feet.

She recognised the signs as her breathing began to change, its rhythm rapidly becoming sporadic and disjointed, and although the man behind her had not yet penetrated her, had not even touched so much as a millimetre of his flesh to the cleft between her thighs, she felt a hot flush pulsate out from deep in her belly, and a rolling wave of pure ecstasy tremor through her.

His pace increased as he recognised the change; the rocking forward of his hips more intense, each pressing together of their flesh applied with greater force than its predecessor. Not only the friction of the actions themselves, but the very concept of what was causing this sublime feeling had her turned on all the more. She didn't know anything about him, and yet she knew everything about him. She was as empty as she had ever been, yet she was full to the brim. They were fucking, yet they were not fucking. In some ways, they were barely touching more intimately than if they were two strangers standing pressed together in an overcrowded bus on a bumpy road. Apart from their obvious nudity of course. Although she had a feeling that it wouldn't have mattered if they were fully clothed, she would still be writhing in ecstatic pleasure.

Her eyes squeezed tight and her mouth fell open as she felt that familiar starburst within her, and the world around her faded from her senses as she feebly tried to grip the slippery tiles against her fingers, and her legs turned to jelly beneath her.

The first sensation she felt again was his wrists, slipping beneath her armpits, and she slumped into them as she felt the last of her orgasm fade away. He waited patiently, still moulded to her back, his face pressed into the curve of her neck. He would know exactly when she was ready – he always did – and then he would turn her gently to face him and she knew that this time, when he finally entered her and they were joined in the most intimate of ways, it would still be no different from the last. Although they would be connected as superlatively as any two people physically could be, their pleasure could not be bested. Every time they were intimate he took her on a journey that rose to the heights of Everest, till her ecstasy threw her from the peak and she floated back down.

Now, as she felt his hand drop to turn her, and once more she felt the rising anticipation begin to slowly throb deep within her, she could not wait to climb back up, and do it all over again.

He sat, perched in a tatty occasional chair next to the inside front door of the very small and tastelessly decorated motel room. He was pulling his socks back on as she walked back into the room from the ensuite, wearing a small white towel around her body and another around her head like a turban. Both items looked thankfully a lot newer and cleaner than their current accommodation. Her clothes littered the floor, evidence of the eager state in which they both usually arrived, and she bent to pick the items up along the way back to the other side of the room, following the trail which lead like breadcrumbs from the bathroom to the foot of the bed. When she got there, she tossed the towel around her body casually aside and stood completely unclothed, clearly comfortable with her own nakedness, unlike most of the other women he had been with.

He watched as she pulled her skirt on. It was black, and pleated at the base like a fan, coming to rest at her mid-thigh. She then lifted her arms up and pulled the towel on her head loose, letting her long damp hair spill onto her shoulders, before rubbing it furiously into her hair in an attempt to dry it. It was such an unusual colour, a rich magenta at the moment, though he knew that it would dry back to a very pale pastel pink shortly. The vigorous movement shook her whole body, and her breasts jiggled in a way that reminded him of the heads of those little toy dogs. Like the ones that you stick on your dashboard.

Finished, she tossed the towel on top of the other on the bed and pulled her black shirt on – it had just occurred to him that she had been wearing no undergarments when she arrived - and reached for her keys and purse.

He stood from his chair, as he always did – a long ingrained propriety instilled by his mother no doubt – although, as usual there seemed to be no need for such pleasantries and courtesy. She spared no glance for her recent lover, as she took the three or four steps to the door, turned the handle and abruptly exited his life. Not to be seen again for the next (he did the math swiftly in his head), roughly . . . one hundred and sixty five and a half hours.

As swiftly and as incomprehensibly as it had begun, their act was over.

They were strangers once more.

Kakashi flopped back onto the couch in his cheap one-room apartment and let out a deep sigh.

He looked around the dingy abode and thought, not for the first time, that he really was a bit of a loser. His lounge was a mess. Last week's washing still lay in a heap on the couch, there were cigarette butts crammed to almost overflowing in the ashtray on the coffee table, which also served as a platform for several empty Ichiraku Ramen containers which were on display, piled high like a bizarre 'nouveau' art sculpture. And when he looked through the alcove to the kitchen he could see it wasn't much better in there either. Dirty dishes were stacked up in the sink, and he imagined if he opened up the fridge right now there would be at least four things that would be inedible, if not unrecognisable.

He wasn't really a naturally messy person. It was just that his job was very demanding. He would often get a knock on his door late at night and have to take off immediately on a week long mission. Sometimes even months long. He didn't even want to think about what he'd discovered in the fridge after coming home from those missions. He had been unusually lucky over the past few months though. Most missions had been short and sweet and most only lasting a day or two, and, incredibly none had so far interfered with his standing Thursday afternoon appointment.

He sighed again as he thought back over the last few months. This was how it played out every Thursday night. Every time he arrived home after his weekly rendezvous he would flop down onto that very couch and let out a big sigh.

Of course, in the beginning, his sighs were different. They were full of accomplishment, and contentment. Full of that feeling that you get when you think you've finally found something that you're really good at.

That was back in the good old days. Back when this had just been a harmless bit of fun.

Kakashi sighed again, and was immediately reminded of its subtle change. No, now when Kakashi sighed it definitely sounded much more like regret, with a little bit of discontent thrown in. Not to mention confusion. There was a whole lot of that in there.

He had let it happen. He had let happen what he had promised he would never let happen.

He had let her get into his head.

He didn't know how someone who hadn't said more than two words to him in the entire time he'd known her could be so damn irritating. He was fascinated by her, yet every little thing that she did in their small amount of time together eventually became very frustrating for him. He wasn't talking about the sex – the sex was, as it always was, fantastic – he was talking about the little things that she did. The habitual things, the nuances, the subtleties, all what he collectively referred to as the 'flickers'; the small glimpses into the real woman. These were the moments that she wasn't just putting on some act. When it wasn't just some harmless game that they were playing, and she let go of herself, and that unbreakable mask would slip, even if only for a fraction of a second, and he would see her for the person that she truly was.

The way that she would habitually bite her bottom lip when he touched her just right. The tiniest curl of the corner of her lip when something tickled her. The way she dug her nails into his shoulders when she came.

They were like her poker tells, and Kakashi had always been rather good at poker. He had been told he had a great poker face himself. Although that could have had something to do with the eye patch and face mask. It was easier to hide your glee when three-quarters of your face was covered, after all.

Regardless, he knew each and every one of her tells, and had enjoyed them up until recently, when she had begun to do something else that was sure to drive him insane before long.

It was the way that her eyes had begun to, very infrequently, flick up to lock onto his own, and for some reason every time they did his heart began to beat a little faster. To him it seemed only natural for her to look at him, hell, he was looking at her all the time. But because she had not looked at him once during sex before, and she still did it so rarely now, it had become like a sacred event for him.

When their eyes locked for that briefest of moments, Kakashi felt like he was looking straight into her soul. Her eyes were so beautiful, a clear, bright jade colour that complimented her unusual pale pink hair perfectly, and her thick black lashes and kohl-lined lids were like ornately framed windows to her identity. She was inside that beautiful cage, and he found himself becoming more and more curious about what was locked inside.

He was dying to look at her with his Sharingan, to study every inch of her with his incredible visual ability. He hadn't up till now because he didn't want to frighten her. He managed to keep it closed easily while they were together, even when he took his mask and eye patch off, because it was like second nature to him. She hadn't asked about it, to his relief, and he imagined the long scar cutting through his eye and down his cheek must have frightened her enough not to want to know. More likely she just didn't care.

The more he dwelt on the situation he was in now, the more it seemed like a bizarre dream. He still couldn't fathom what would have caused her to choose him over all of the other more 'normal' looking men in the pub that day. He had just been relaxing in a corner booth, his mask drawn down below his chin as he sipped slowly at his sake, when he had been overwhelmed with the feeling that someone was looking at him. He didn't brush it off as easily as some would, because Kakashi had learned over his years that if there was one thing he could always rely on it was his instincts. And sure enough, when he casually glanced around the bar he caught a bright pair of green eyes with his own; eyes that looked quickly away the second they made contact.

She had looked again, and he had looked back. A few purposeful glances later and she had sauntered over to stand next to his booth. He'd smiled up at her, and asked her if she wanted to sit down.

"No." Came the unexpected reply, and for a moment Kakashi wondered if he had entirely misread the interaction. Until,

"Would you like to come with me?"

Kakashi had to check himself not show his utter surprise at her boldness. She was stunning, of that there was no doubt. But her confidence . . . it had been her confidence that had drawn him to her. She knew what she wanted and she did not hesitate to ask for it. Kakashi had never met such an audacious woman, and it fascinated him immediately.

And so he said nothing. Just stood and deposited a small stack of notes onto the table to pay for his tab, and followed her out the door.

That first day he had thought all of his birthdays had come at once, and when she had slipped away afterwards with nothing but a small smile goodbye, he had bid adieu to a beautiful girl and one memorable afternoon.

Or so he told himself.

So why had he found himself suddenly indulging in a slowly-sipped drink in that bar every afternoon that following week? And if he was just there for an innocent drink, why did he find his eyes wandering the punters there, and why did his gaze fix so avidly on the doors whenever they swung open with a sigh?

And why, oh why on the Thursday afternoon following did he rejoice at seeing the coral haired beauty who once again sauntered towards his booth?

But it had just felt so good again that second time; and Kakashi had found himself rushing through Friday to Wednesday, just waiting for the next Thursday to come. And again she was there. And he soon found himself craving each interlude as quickly as the last had ended.

He rubbed his face wearily as he was brought back to reality. He had thought he had hit the jackpot. No tongue-tied beginnings. No tiresome small talk. No uncomfortable silences, or awkward moments when you realise your lover is on an entirely different page. No arguments about who loves who more, or who's cheating on who. A silent sexual relationship seemed to be the answer to all of Kakashi's hesitations to fulfilment.

He hung his head and laughed darkly.

If only he'd known.

He was a fool.

And he was living his life around Thursday afternoons.