Evening Primrose

A/N: So this is a short bit of porny ficlet that's been floating around on my computer for weeks and weeks, with the current Naruto arc prodding me to finish it. It's a bit reptilian (coldblooded and rearbrained, not scaly) and not the feel good kind of sex. So, warnings, warnings, warnings.

NC-17, current manga spoilers, angst (or some slightly less motivated cousin there of), First/Second person address to the dead.

Oh, and it's Ino/Kakashi.

Evening Primrose

---

This is one of those things it’s hard to know how to say. It shouldn’t have happened to begin with. It wouldn’t have, if things had been different, but that doesn’t mean much, does it?

I thought she was down the hall with Shikamaru. I’m sure that’s where she came from before slipping into my doorway, pale and quiet as a ghost. She was the least injured in the fight, but that just meant that afterward, she had the more work, more stress. Shikamaru came home between her and Chouji. You didn’t get to see it this time, but she stayed with her boys for hours. I don’t know if Shikamaru had stabilized when she left, or if she just couldn’t be there anymore. Maybe the nurses kicked his visitors out after awhile and she wandered my way.

There’s a lot I don’t know. Girls and women never make that much sense, do they?

Kunoichi do, sometimes, but I didn’t know which Ino was just then.

She’s a pretty girl, your Ino. Young, though. Fatigue and wear made her look older just then, giving the illusion of fine lines where there weren’t any. She looked at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed; they look greener that way.

I cocked my head at her. I couldn’t see any reason for her to be here. I’m not her sensei. I don’t know her. She had other things to do. She stepped inside and closed the door after her, making sure it clicked closed.

Her lower lip moved a little before she spoke, and I realized she was chewing on the inside and trying to hide the fact. “I wanted to thank you,” she said softly.

Maybe that’s all there was to it. I doubt that, though.

I should have told her she was welcome and sent her back out. I knew that then as much as I know that now. There’s not much point in pretending I didn’t. I didn’t know what she had in mind. Is that an excuse?

She came closer when I didn’t answer, movements tired and heavy and just a little slow, still graceful because she’d trained to be so long that it was in her muscle memory. Like a kunoichi. Sakura never moved like that. She’s business most of the time, and when she’s not, it’s because she’s happy enough to seem girlish or sad enough to weigh her down, or hurt enough to stumble. I never appreciated it before, but watching Ino’s careful, quiet toe-heel steps, I finally did.

She stopped by the side of the bed, looking down at me. There was a resolve in her expression that I saw but didn’t know.

“Is this a thanks?” I asked. I was tired. I hurt, my Sharingan more than anything else, and the tight throb was enough to make me good eye feel strained and weak in sympathy. My chakra was nearly spent. It had been a hard fight in the bad way. I wanted to know why she was there, and I told myself I wanted her to leave so I could rest, but if that were so much the case, I would have made her leave, wouldn’t I?

She licked her lips. Nervous or intentional, I couldn’t tell. It wasn’t a sensual lick, but it drew my attention to her face, to her lips, giving me a hint. “It can be,” she said, “if you want.”

She put her knee on the edge of my bed, and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know why she was there then.

I should have stopped her there, I know. I shouldn’t have tried to talk to her, or assumed she’d change her mind herself, or let her get this out of her system, whatever it was. I shouldn’t have done what I did, which was stare at her, and frown, and wonder why a fifteen year old girl was climbing into my bed while I was injured.

She has nice legs, your Ino. You probably knew that, if you looked. You probably didn’t want to, if you didn’t already know. They are nice legs though--long and well proportioned enough to make her look like a woman if your eyes are sore and you want to see a woman. She has nice legs, and a short skirt, and defined hip bones, and a flat stomach. I could see the shape of her ribs, not hidden by layers of muscle or fat, floating loosely under her skin. She worries too much about being thin, I’m sure. She’d look fine with a little more substance. She didn’t look bad without it though.

I was paying attention. I think she had done this before. Maybe it was just her training though. Did she have those kinds of missions? ...Do I even want to know what that meant for you and your team? I think, probably not. I’ll just assume that I was lucky that way too, and not worry about it too much.

In the end, I did reach to stop her. Her hands were going for the buttons on her top, and that was too much. I grabbed her wrist, pulled her motion short.

She reached back with her other hand, not trying to pull free of my hold. Softly, fingers light as a woman touching something delicate or a shinobi who suspects a trap, she touched my face. She touched my mask. She traced the edge of it. I could see the lacquer on her nails under my eye, feel the gentle scrape of calluses that even she hadn’t been able to avoid passing over my skin and the tight fabric.

“You don’t have to take it off,” she whispered, as though that had something to do with why I stopped her. Maybe it did, in her mind. Maybe she was right. I don’t know what was going through her mind, and I wasn’t entirely certain what was in my own either. “I don’t mind. Leave it on. Pretend this never happened. Pretend I’m someone else, I don’t care. I’m not a child.

“Just let me,” she said. I swear I could feel her voice, hollow and promising, feel it inside my ear, tickling the tiny hairs, the bones and the nerves. I could feel it on my back, too, trickling down my spine like an unexpected sweat.

You never taught her that.

Then she slid her fingers back into my hair and leaned closer. Her gaze was hooded. Her weight made the bed creak in the quiet room.

I almost told her she didn’t want this, but where’s the point in that? I couldn’t tell her she didn’t want it when in someway, she clearly did. She was a big girl, and she could make her own decisions.

I had to make mine, though.

“Ino,” I said, warningly, and she leaned in and kissed my brow. Like I was a child or something. She was climbing on my bed, and if I didn’t stop her soon...

Well, I didn’t, so we’re getting to that anyway, aren’t we?

Like I said, I didn’t stop her. She inched her way onto the bed, letting it take her a little at a time. No one in the hall would have heard her. I wondered if someone would come check on me soon. She’d have to pull away then. I told myself I hoped for it, but I didn’t entirely believe me. I wasn’t seeming like the most trust worthy guy in the world just then.

Finally, she twisted her hand out of mine and went for her buttons again.

I doubt you want to hear about your Ino’s breasts, but I’ve already come this far, and she showed them off then. And you wouldn’t hear complaints about breasts like hers. She doesn’t wear anything under that top of hers, and I’m not sure how she manages that, but she does. She did. And they weren’t huge, but the were big enough to fill a hand, and round, and sloped up to her shoulders and neck. I found myself with my face halfway to being buried in them. My fingers twitched, almost itched.

She shrugged completely out of the top, and moved to straddle me.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry.

“Are you sure?” I said. Because I’m stupid. And human. And she didn’t look or sound or move like a little girl. If she didn’t know exactly what she was doing, she was a wonderful actress.

She smiled a little. She had a woman’s smile, not a girl’s, and not a kunoichi’s. It wasn’t a happy smile. She wasn’t glad I’d agreed. I thought, maybe, it was your fault she was doing this. Your fault for not being there. It’s not. She has a father, and even if she didn’t, she’s grown enough that I wouldn’t feel guilty if she were killing people.

“I can take care of myself,” she assured me, and her hands moved over me. Fast. She wasted no time pulling my blanket down, touching my chest, my hips. She kept her word, and never reached for my mask. She never tried to kiss me on the mouth. She wasn’t interested in that. I can’t say that though, maybe she was. Maybe she wanted to be kissed and caressed tenderly, maybe she hoped I’d take the lead and stop her, or do this gently. I don’t have a clue. I stopped trying to guess.

I touched her face, looking at her, and she undid my pants. Her hands moved confidently, freeing my cock from my clothes. I was half hard in her hands. At first. She stroked me, made me grit my teeth and hiss. She wasn’t playing around.

I let my hand fall to her shoulder, feeling her under my hand as soft skin and hard, direct angles. Then, as my hand drifted lower, I felt her as full curves. Her breasts were firm, nipples already standing erect. I couldn’t tell if she liked the attention or not, but it made me feel less like I wasn’t bringing anything at all to this.

I should be embarrassed to go so quick, especially with someone her age. She set the pace, though. She sidled up my body, pulling aside her mesh and panties rather than taking them off. She positioned herself over me. She lowered herself onto me, inch by inch, and she was ready for it. She’d done that before, I knew it, the way her face didn’t change and she braced herself on my shoulders, the way she didn’t once flinch or blush, but not as often as she’d say, I think. I hope.

But she felt good around me, and better as she moved, and I lay back and watched her. I felt her. I heard her.

I think you can guess how this went. She rode me, arching and breathing steadily, and flexing. I liked watching the muscles bunch in her arms and thighs and stomach as much as I liked watching the sweat that started to gather on her body, the way her hair mussed with activity, the way her breasts bounced. Her body was slick and tight around me, and I could feel her flexing inside too.

Her hands tightened on my shoulders rhythmically. Her eyes drooped, and I couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or concentration, because by this point I wasn’t just laying on the bed.

It wasn’t mindblowing. I wish it had been. It sounds better that way. But it was good, and I grunted as I curled under her, thrusting up slowly, unable to keep her pace. She did most of the work.

I could say she used me. It sounds better that way, doesn’t it?

I came first, groaning and holding onto her waist. She moved until I started softening, then she gave me a slightly watery, winded look, and nodded. She started pulling back while I was still feeling the last twitches and twinges of aftershocks.

Of all things, that’s what I stopped her from doing. I took her arm and reeled her back in. It seemed wrong to let her just walk away then, whatever was going on in that head. But I didn’t know what to do with her.

I don’t think I’d have asked your advice on that one, even if you were around to give it. I wonder if you know, though. If you knew.

So I did something. Maybe you’d agree. You’d probably laugh. No, you’d probably try to hit me, and there is a not inconsiderable chance I’d deserve it too. That’s why kunoichi are dangerous, even when they’re being women.

I pulled her back down to me, looking up at her face, pale except for the hectic, high spots of color over her cheekbones, her hair falling around it in tangled, uneven hanks. I just looked at her for a moment, and I didn’t know what I was doing any more than she did. Less, if anything.

Then I raised my other hand to my mask. I pulled it down. I kissed her lightly on the mouth. Anything to make this feel more like it should with a girl her age.

Because she is the same age as Sakura, no matter the differences.

She accepted the kiss, but didn’t return it. It’s an odd trick. A softening of her lips, like warming candle wax, a slight resistance, but without mind or solid emotion. It’s a good trick. There was no reading that kiss for a long moment, not until I pulled away. Only then did she follow the kiss, not quite ready for it to end.

It did end there. And I let her go. She left without another word or lingering even a minute longer than it took to straighten her clothes.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell who to apologize to. You know that?

---

Fin