fic: Thorns
Apr. 30th, 2011 07:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Thorns
Series: Naruto
Character/Pairing: Ino centric. Implications of of Ino > Sakura, Ino/Shikamaru fuckbuddy sex, and past Shikamaru/Temari.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3056
Author's note: write for relief charity. The request called for future!Ino being a torturer. Thus, there's an explicit torture warning here. Also het sex. Thanks to Joss for betaing.
"He's waiting for you."
The animal mask hides the man's face. She doesn't let it daunt her; nothing does, these days. She nods ever so slightly with a smirk as she shoulders her weight.
She's the extractor, not that she looks it. Most people walk on by her without realizing that she can–and will make their lives agony beyond their imagining to get what she wants. She comes in looking like little more than a florist's daughter: low necked shirt, mesh, a short skirt and a bundle of flowers wrapped up. Her gloves are long and made of thick leather which the poison can't quite get through. She plucks a hybrid rose and examines it a moment. Let the prisoner think a geisha has come to him; she's had training in that manner as well. Unlike Sakura who wore her heart on her sleeve, Ino could be the honeypot, the poison thorn.
It's one of Sasuke's men. Ever since Naruto died, and Sasuke's legacy remained, they've had to throw away the things Naruto fought so hard for. Love, acceptance and kindness have no place in war.
She flicks back her hair in irritation more than the coquetry to give her subject. It's funny when she thinks back about the plans to become part of the Uchiha clan–how she wanted nothing more than to be the wife who was supportive, who did ikebana on the side. One who bore his children and reaped the results of being the good wife, the one who brought him back from the dark.
Now it seems nothing but a stupid crush from long ago.
She slowly unwraps her bundle. Hidden among the flowers are scissors for trimming she keeps sharp at the whetstone. They come in various sizes. Some for pruning bushes, others for delicate cuts.
"W-who are you?" The boy asks. He's so young--barely in his teens. He'd be the age of the sons or daughters she would've had if she'd gone and become a medic-nin and gotten married, like Sakura did. There's a long cut across his jaw ending at his lower lip, his left eye is bruised black and swollen shut. His left eye is a reddish color, his hair–what isn't singed, that is–resembles Sasuke's own. She wonders if this is some clone, or truly his son. Hard to believe Sasuke could have a son this weak. If so, this might have been a suicide mission. Sasuke does not allow failures to live.
He isn't a soldier, just a boy stripped away of all his bravado and dreams. But then, she's killed children who'd have set out to kill her if she hadn't struck first. This is the way of life– their life.
She levels her gaze at him. "I'm the extractor–the one who is going to get the information out of you, no matter what the cost."
It sounds like something out of Kakashi-sensei's novels, but she finds a larger than life approach works well here. If they laugh at her, then a punch to the gut will shut them up quickly.
"I'll never tell," he says, more determined this time.
"Oh, I think I'll find a way," she says. Her voice is sugar and honey with the underlying strength of one who has earned that confidence.
He struggles at his bonds, but they're tight enough, and tinged with a paralyzing agent that specifically targets the limbs. She helped pioneer this poison herself. Somehow this is how it went: Sakura became the medic-nin, the wife, the nurturer. Ino stayed alone, with thorns, withered, cut leaves, and the poisons she lovingly helps make.
The rose is a sickly purple color, almost black. She carefully clips off each thorn. She hums as she does so, as if she has forgotten all about him. Then, she takes one, and so quick he barely has time to react, she shoves the thorn into his arm. He lets out a startled cry as the thorn buries itself deep under his skin.
"It's poison," she explains. Needlessly, as the sickly sweet stench gives it away, but it helps erase any doubts.
His eyes widen as he cranes his neck to see his arm. She forcefully pushes his neck up, demanding his full attention.
"I'm very fond of this one, myself. There's a caustic sort of acid in it." She pulls away one purple petal and lets it fall to the floor. "It causes your insides to feel like they're melting. It's a very slow, painful death."
He draws in a shaky breath.
"I can hasten along with death with more thorns. To say nothing of other things..."
She pulls out a long needle, the sort Sakura has used for acupuncture. However, this is no matter of benevolence. She's dipped them in an acid of her own creation. It is a beautiful thing.
"I could take complete control of your body," she says. "It's a family trait."
She gets in close, and shoves the needles into his arm, one by one, directly into the vein to put even more of the toxins in.
"I could shove your soul out into the ether to wander eternally, never finding the peace of death," she says. "There are worse things than death."
She doesn't mention the limits; she doesn't feel the need to. His lower lip quivers. Perspiration forms on his forehead.
"But if you tell me, I'll be able to spare your life," she says, casually. She glances down at him, a rose in hand.
He groans, and shakes his head over and over.
"No," he says, with a hoarse gasp. "No"
She shrugs. "So be it."
Each thorn will hasten his demise. She has to balance it so the pain is unbearable enough for him to spill the knowledge, but not so much that he becomes a gibbering moron turned mad with pain, or dies too early on her.
She steps back, admiring her work. He takes shallow breaths. Blood pools around the thorns and spills down the sides of his arms.
"Changed you mind?" She asks. He shakes his head. He looks so young, on the verge of tears. But then, she's seen younger die. Ten-year-olds who were brutally slaughtered before they even got to try for their first Chuunin exam.
She pulls out the one of the kunais she's kept just for this purpose. She begins to idly toy with it, and make him wonder what else she has up her sleeve. Then, in a sudden movement, she throws it. It hits the wall behind him–by her design–but nicks his arm on the way. He's quivering now, his face pasty and now entirely covered in perspiration.
She takes each one and throws them in turn. Some miss, but go just close enough to leave a scratch. Others embed themselves in his arm, or leg. So far, he's been holding up pretty well to this. Nothing but muffled cries–not even a scream. Sasuke must really frighten him. But she knows he will break. The quaver in his voice gave it away.
"You could've made it so easy and just told me," she says reproachfully. "I suppose I'll just have work a little harder."
She steps forward and takes a kunai to his skin. The blade is sharp enough that it peels away like the skin of an onion. This finally brings a scream out of him–though she thinks the poison has begun to set in too. She finishes off by twisting the kunai in the red muscle stripped of skin to the sound of another cry of pain. She dips her kunai in corrosive acid of her own designing. She sees him revert, as if he has turned younger. He whimpers something she can't quite make out. Perhaps it's a call for his mother–they often do that under her knives and poisons.
"Now, are you rethinking your strategy?" She asks. His head lolls down. She lifts his chin up.
"Do you have anything to tell me?"
"Antidote...." he breathes out.
"Tell me first," she says.
And he does. A secret hideout somewhere about the village of the Hidden Sand. A place missed due to the shifting sands. He looks up at her, hopefully.
Her lips quirk into a half smile. "I lied; there is no antidote."
She gathers up her flowers and tools, wrapped up in a bouquet. For a moment he is left stunned and silent. But as she leaves, the screaming starts anew at a fever pitch.
She closes the door behind her and the screaming dulls a bit. The cell isn't entirely soundproof, though they've worked as hard as they can to muffle the sounds the prisoners make. It isn't something the younger ninjas should know about yet. Wait until they're a little older. They lose their innocence fast enough as it is.
Shikamaru waits for her outside the room. Unlike Naruto, he is a pragmatic; he does whatever he has to in order to keep Konohana safe.
"Were you successful?" He asks.
Ino tosses her long blond ponytail over her shoulder. "As if you have to ask."
Shikamaru waits. Ino looks to the wall and sighs. "I think he's a bluff. He looked like Sasuke...I think it's his blood. There's no sign of the Sharingan...must've been a failed experiment that outlived its usefulness."
Shikamaru sighs too. He takes a drag of a cigarette. He started shortly after Asuma's death.
"Those will kill you, you know," Ino says. She takes one out of his pack and takes a drag too. The smoke rises up. The boy must be delirious by now. On the verge of dying. Calling for his family. She's heard worse. The sounds don't go away–they return to her in dreams.
"You know how it is," Shikamaru says. Because it's him, he doesn't finish the thought. We'll never live that long.
The cleaners will be coming soon, but her job is done. This boy–this failed experiment will be erased from existence. Just another day's work.
"Got a few minutes?" She asks. Glancing towards him.
"There'll be paperwork," he says.
"There's always paperwork," she replies.
She stubs out the cigarette. He glances to her, and doesn't respond.
"I'll be waiting, if you can bother to come," she says.
She leaves without waiting for his reply.
*
When Ino gets home, she rips out the lacings of her shirt and tosses it to the refuse pile outside for the incinerator. She needed a new one, anyways. Too much blood on this one; the poison has seeped right on through in spots. She'll have to whip up some new ointment soon, but for now she has just enough.
She absently rubs the ointment in. It has a tingling sensation, and overcomes the dull burn that has been setting in ever since she spilled some of the acid on herself. Sakura has taught her a few ointments and antidotes for what Ino hasn't gained immunity for. The healing life never fit her, though.
Ino doesn't bother putting on another shirt. Not when he's just going to take it off her. If the bastard ever shows up, that is. The air is chilly against her skin, making her nipples hard. There's a large scar from her left shoulder to her navel. It leaves a jagged gash over her breasts, but he never seemed to mind.
She waits long into the night for him to arrive. She passes the time by taking sips of homemade wine until she's tipsy, but hardly full out drunk. She's been trying her hand at winemaking. Shikamaru says it's just another form of poisoning when she does it, but she's found some quite potent recipes. Taking care of her plants is soothing after a hard day's work. She's rasing rice for sake now, in the low swampy ground outside Konohana.
Her family has long ago left her. It isn't a surprise; ninjas rarely live long. Years of working with poisons have left her barren. Not that she'd have anyone to raise a family with anyways.
Shikamaru isn't like most men, who feel like their masculinity is being threatened when she takes charge. He never quite outgrew his laziness, and as a plus, he's used to being bossed around in bed and out. He doesn't ask for more, and she likes that. He understands her well enough, and together they fill the void in their lives left by the absence of who they really want.
If she says Sakura in a moment of passion while they fuck, he doesn't hold it against her. He's called Temari before, though when that happens, he's always withdrawn afterwards. He smokes and looks off into the distance, remembering the only girl he ever loved. Temari's been gone for five years now, but she's learned that time doesn't really heal any wounds. Time only makes life slightly more bearable, but the wounds are still there. Scarred over, perhaps, but grief is a constant presence. It may fade into the background, but it never truly leaves.
When he finally does come, she has half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself, but she doesn't want to be alone tonight. She pushes him to the wall, kisses him, bites his lips until they bleed. Her hands hold his wrists and keep him pinned. She lets her nails dig into him until they leave marks on the skin.
"Took you long enough," she mutters when they break for air.
"I told you, paperwork," he replies.
She scoffs and reaches down to undo his pants and grip his already hardening cock. She begins to pump his cock, and grazes her teeth against his neck.
"Try to leave some skin on me when you're done," he mutters.
"Try to not bitch so much when I've got my hand on your cock," she says.
She kisses him to shut him up. He tastes like cigarettes. He slides his hand under her skirt until he's stroking her through her panties. And she pretends, because she can't help it when she's a little drunk and had a bad day, that it's a softer hand working its way inside her. Soft pink lips, her fingers twining through pink hair–it's all great until the fantasy Sakura says something like oh, Sasuke or oh, Naruto. She can never really enjoy fantasies–she's grown too cynical to believe. As it is, Shikamaru isn't a half bad substitute. He knows how to please a woman; Temari saw to that.
He pushes his fingers in and out of her in quick motions. At the same time, she works him, treating it more like a battle than any mutual expression of love. It's about the same as the times they took to each other with kunais and shurikens in training.
His breath is coming more quickly. She lets go of his cock, and he grinds against her. They twist and turn until he's around, squeezing her ass. He isn't really strong enough to hold her up against the wall–they tried that once and all they got for it was a lot of bruises. Through the rushing and nothing in her mind, she can almost forget the sound the boy made as she tortured him.
But it never truly leaves her, not when she sleeps or fucks or gets drunk. She's good at her job, but she's never quite been able to erase her humanity.
She blames Sakura most of all, just like she blames her for everything else. There she is, setting aside their differences, calling her strong and independent, healing wounds and making up after petty fights.
Shikamaru spreads her legs apart, and she guides him inside. He's firm, the solidity in her life she wants right now. She sets the pace, makes him push into her so deep and hard until it hurts. A bite to his shoulder, nails raked down his back–she always leaves him marked.
They move together and for a while, they forget. But all too soon, it's over and they're slightly awkward in their sticky, messy way on whatever surface they ended up on.
Shikamaru runs his finger through his hair. His ponytail has come undone.
"Geez, you're going to make it look like I got mauled by a wild animal," Shikamaru sighs.
"Oh, cut it out. They'll know you got lucky. Or think you got lucky with the cat."
He just gives her an irritated look as he sets himself in order. They don't talk after sex, and he doesn't stay over. She never has, and never will, make him breakfast or share a morning bath together.
They're not that kind. Or to be more precise, they're not like that with each other. He's sure he'd share a thousand breakfasts with Temari–hell, he might even make them himself. He'd do so many things to have her back with him, alive.
But at least you had her, she thinks. He has memories. All she has is fantasies she can't even believe.
*
She has a bundle of flowers with her. None of these are poison. She brings blue roses without thorns, lavender roses mixed throughout. Unrequited love; I can't have you, but I can't stop thinking about you.
Sakura never understands these gestures. She always was clueless when it came to the things that really mattered. When she was younger, she sent Sakura yellow roses. Sakura only knew enough of the language of flowers to understand jealousy–she didn't understand who or what the jealousy was for.
She was the one who arranged the flowers for Sakura's wedding. She was there when Sakura's first son Takahiro, died. She was a helping hand through first fights and other marital strife.
Sakura's got laugh lines at the corners of her mouth. She's self-conscious about them, but Ino thinks they are one scar worth having. They are a sign of laughter, of a life well lived.
Sakura's fingers are always stained purple from the medical herbs Ino grows for her. Ino's hands are stained purple from tending poisonous plants.
It seems fitting, somehow.
Series: Naruto
Character/Pairing: Ino centric. Implications of of Ino > Sakura, Ino/Shikamaru fuckbuddy sex, and past Shikamaru/Temari.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3056
Author's note: write for relief charity. The request called for future!Ino being a torturer. Thus, there's an explicit torture warning here. Also het sex. Thanks to Joss for betaing.
"He's waiting for you."
The animal mask hides the man's face. She doesn't let it daunt her; nothing does, these days. She nods ever so slightly with a smirk as she shoulders her weight.
She's the extractor, not that she looks it. Most people walk on by her without realizing that she can–and will make their lives agony beyond their imagining to get what she wants. She comes in looking like little more than a florist's daughter: low necked shirt, mesh, a short skirt and a bundle of flowers wrapped up. Her gloves are long and made of thick leather which the poison can't quite get through. She plucks a hybrid rose and examines it a moment. Let the prisoner think a geisha has come to him; she's had training in that manner as well. Unlike Sakura who wore her heart on her sleeve, Ino could be the honeypot, the poison thorn.
It's one of Sasuke's men. Ever since Naruto died, and Sasuke's legacy remained, they've had to throw away the things Naruto fought so hard for. Love, acceptance and kindness have no place in war.
She flicks back her hair in irritation more than the coquetry to give her subject. It's funny when she thinks back about the plans to become part of the Uchiha clan–how she wanted nothing more than to be the wife who was supportive, who did ikebana on the side. One who bore his children and reaped the results of being the good wife, the one who brought him back from the dark.
Now it seems nothing but a stupid crush from long ago.
She slowly unwraps her bundle. Hidden among the flowers are scissors for trimming she keeps sharp at the whetstone. They come in various sizes. Some for pruning bushes, others for delicate cuts.
"W-who are you?" The boy asks. He's so young--barely in his teens. He'd be the age of the sons or daughters she would've had if she'd gone and become a medic-nin and gotten married, like Sakura did. There's a long cut across his jaw ending at his lower lip, his left eye is bruised black and swollen shut. His left eye is a reddish color, his hair–what isn't singed, that is–resembles Sasuke's own. She wonders if this is some clone, or truly his son. Hard to believe Sasuke could have a son this weak. If so, this might have been a suicide mission. Sasuke does not allow failures to live.
He isn't a soldier, just a boy stripped away of all his bravado and dreams. But then, she's killed children who'd have set out to kill her if she hadn't struck first. This is the way of life– their life.
She levels her gaze at him. "I'm the extractor–the one who is going to get the information out of you, no matter what the cost."
It sounds like something out of Kakashi-sensei's novels, but she finds a larger than life approach works well here. If they laugh at her, then a punch to the gut will shut them up quickly.
"I'll never tell," he says, more determined this time.
"Oh, I think I'll find a way," she says. Her voice is sugar and honey with the underlying strength of one who has earned that confidence.
He struggles at his bonds, but they're tight enough, and tinged with a paralyzing agent that specifically targets the limbs. She helped pioneer this poison herself. Somehow this is how it went: Sakura became the medic-nin, the wife, the nurturer. Ino stayed alone, with thorns, withered, cut leaves, and the poisons she lovingly helps make.
The rose is a sickly purple color, almost black. She carefully clips off each thorn. She hums as she does so, as if she has forgotten all about him. Then, she takes one, and so quick he barely has time to react, she shoves the thorn into his arm. He lets out a startled cry as the thorn buries itself deep under his skin.
"It's poison," she explains. Needlessly, as the sickly sweet stench gives it away, but it helps erase any doubts.
His eyes widen as he cranes his neck to see his arm. She forcefully pushes his neck up, demanding his full attention.
"I'm very fond of this one, myself. There's a caustic sort of acid in it." She pulls away one purple petal and lets it fall to the floor. "It causes your insides to feel like they're melting. It's a very slow, painful death."
He draws in a shaky breath.
"I can hasten along with death with more thorns. To say nothing of other things..."
She pulls out a long needle, the sort Sakura has used for acupuncture. However, this is no matter of benevolence. She's dipped them in an acid of her own creation. It is a beautiful thing.
"I could take complete control of your body," she says. "It's a family trait."
She gets in close, and shoves the needles into his arm, one by one, directly into the vein to put even more of the toxins in.
"I could shove your soul out into the ether to wander eternally, never finding the peace of death," she says. "There are worse things than death."
She doesn't mention the limits; she doesn't feel the need to. His lower lip quivers. Perspiration forms on his forehead.
"But if you tell me, I'll be able to spare your life," she says, casually. She glances down at him, a rose in hand.
He groans, and shakes his head over and over.
"No," he says, with a hoarse gasp. "No"
She shrugs. "So be it."
Each thorn will hasten his demise. She has to balance it so the pain is unbearable enough for him to spill the knowledge, but not so much that he becomes a gibbering moron turned mad with pain, or dies too early on her.
She steps back, admiring her work. He takes shallow breaths. Blood pools around the thorns and spills down the sides of his arms.
"Changed you mind?" She asks. He shakes his head. He looks so young, on the verge of tears. But then, she's seen younger die. Ten-year-olds who were brutally slaughtered before they even got to try for their first Chuunin exam.
She pulls out the one of the kunais she's kept just for this purpose. She begins to idly toy with it, and make him wonder what else she has up her sleeve. Then, in a sudden movement, she throws it. It hits the wall behind him–by her design–but nicks his arm on the way. He's quivering now, his face pasty and now entirely covered in perspiration.
She takes each one and throws them in turn. Some miss, but go just close enough to leave a scratch. Others embed themselves in his arm, or leg. So far, he's been holding up pretty well to this. Nothing but muffled cries–not even a scream. Sasuke must really frighten him. But she knows he will break. The quaver in his voice gave it away.
"You could've made it so easy and just told me," she says reproachfully. "I suppose I'll just have work a little harder."
She steps forward and takes a kunai to his skin. The blade is sharp enough that it peels away like the skin of an onion. This finally brings a scream out of him–though she thinks the poison has begun to set in too. She finishes off by twisting the kunai in the red muscle stripped of skin to the sound of another cry of pain. She dips her kunai in corrosive acid of her own designing. She sees him revert, as if he has turned younger. He whimpers something she can't quite make out. Perhaps it's a call for his mother–they often do that under her knives and poisons.
"Now, are you rethinking your strategy?" She asks. His head lolls down. She lifts his chin up.
"Do you have anything to tell me?"
"Antidote...." he breathes out.
"Tell me first," she says.
And he does. A secret hideout somewhere about the village of the Hidden Sand. A place missed due to the shifting sands. He looks up at her, hopefully.
Her lips quirk into a half smile. "I lied; there is no antidote."
She gathers up her flowers and tools, wrapped up in a bouquet. For a moment he is left stunned and silent. But as she leaves, the screaming starts anew at a fever pitch.
She closes the door behind her and the screaming dulls a bit. The cell isn't entirely soundproof, though they've worked as hard as they can to muffle the sounds the prisoners make. It isn't something the younger ninjas should know about yet. Wait until they're a little older. They lose their innocence fast enough as it is.
Shikamaru waits for her outside the room. Unlike Naruto, he is a pragmatic; he does whatever he has to in order to keep Konohana safe.
"Were you successful?" He asks.
Ino tosses her long blond ponytail over her shoulder. "As if you have to ask."
Shikamaru waits. Ino looks to the wall and sighs. "I think he's a bluff. He looked like Sasuke...I think it's his blood. There's no sign of the Sharingan...must've been a failed experiment that outlived its usefulness."
Shikamaru sighs too. He takes a drag of a cigarette. He started shortly after Asuma's death.
"Those will kill you, you know," Ino says. She takes one out of his pack and takes a drag too. The smoke rises up. The boy must be delirious by now. On the verge of dying. Calling for his family. She's heard worse. The sounds don't go away–they return to her in dreams.
"You know how it is," Shikamaru says. Because it's him, he doesn't finish the thought. We'll never live that long.
The cleaners will be coming soon, but her job is done. This boy–this failed experiment will be erased from existence. Just another day's work.
"Got a few minutes?" She asks. Glancing towards him.
"There'll be paperwork," he says.
"There's always paperwork," she replies.
She stubs out the cigarette. He glances to her, and doesn't respond.
"I'll be waiting, if you can bother to come," she says.
She leaves without waiting for his reply.
*
When Ino gets home, she rips out the lacings of her shirt and tosses it to the refuse pile outside for the incinerator. She needed a new one, anyways. Too much blood on this one; the poison has seeped right on through in spots. She'll have to whip up some new ointment soon, but for now she has just enough.
She absently rubs the ointment in. It has a tingling sensation, and overcomes the dull burn that has been setting in ever since she spilled some of the acid on herself. Sakura has taught her a few ointments and antidotes for what Ino hasn't gained immunity for. The healing life never fit her, though.
Ino doesn't bother putting on another shirt. Not when he's just going to take it off her. If the bastard ever shows up, that is. The air is chilly against her skin, making her nipples hard. There's a large scar from her left shoulder to her navel. It leaves a jagged gash over her breasts, but he never seemed to mind.
She waits long into the night for him to arrive. She passes the time by taking sips of homemade wine until she's tipsy, but hardly full out drunk. She's been trying her hand at winemaking. Shikamaru says it's just another form of poisoning when she does it, but she's found some quite potent recipes. Taking care of her plants is soothing after a hard day's work. She's rasing rice for sake now, in the low swampy ground outside Konohana.
Her family has long ago left her. It isn't a surprise; ninjas rarely live long. Years of working with poisons have left her barren. Not that she'd have anyone to raise a family with anyways.
Shikamaru isn't like most men, who feel like their masculinity is being threatened when she takes charge. He never quite outgrew his laziness, and as a plus, he's used to being bossed around in bed and out. He doesn't ask for more, and she likes that. He understands her well enough, and together they fill the void in their lives left by the absence of who they really want.
If she says Sakura in a moment of passion while they fuck, he doesn't hold it against her. He's called Temari before, though when that happens, he's always withdrawn afterwards. He smokes and looks off into the distance, remembering the only girl he ever loved. Temari's been gone for five years now, but she's learned that time doesn't really heal any wounds. Time only makes life slightly more bearable, but the wounds are still there. Scarred over, perhaps, but grief is a constant presence. It may fade into the background, but it never truly leaves.
When he finally does come, she has half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself, but she doesn't want to be alone tonight. She pushes him to the wall, kisses him, bites his lips until they bleed. Her hands hold his wrists and keep him pinned. She lets her nails dig into him until they leave marks on the skin.
"Took you long enough," she mutters when they break for air.
"I told you, paperwork," he replies.
She scoffs and reaches down to undo his pants and grip his already hardening cock. She begins to pump his cock, and grazes her teeth against his neck.
"Try to leave some skin on me when you're done," he mutters.
"Try to not bitch so much when I've got my hand on your cock," she says.
She kisses him to shut him up. He tastes like cigarettes. He slides his hand under her skirt until he's stroking her through her panties. And she pretends, because she can't help it when she's a little drunk and had a bad day, that it's a softer hand working its way inside her. Soft pink lips, her fingers twining through pink hair–it's all great until the fantasy Sakura says something like oh, Sasuke or oh, Naruto. She can never really enjoy fantasies–she's grown too cynical to believe. As it is, Shikamaru isn't a half bad substitute. He knows how to please a woman; Temari saw to that.
He pushes his fingers in and out of her in quick motions. At the same time, she works him, treating it more like a battle than any mutual expression of love. It's about the same as the times they took to each other with kunais and shurikens in training.
His breath is coming more quickly. She lets go of his cock, and he grinds against her. They twist and turn until he's around, squeezing her ass. He isn't really strong enough to hold her up against the wall–they tried that once and all they got for it was a lot of bruises. Through the rushing and nothing in her mind, she can almost forget the sound the boy made as she tortured him.
But it never truly leaves her, not when she sleeps or fucks or gets drunk. She's good at her job, but she's never quite been able to erase her humanity.
She blames Sakura most of all, just like she blames her for everything else. There she is, setting aside their differences, calling her strong and independent, healing wounds and making up after petty fights.
Shikamaru spreads her legs apart, and she guides him inside. He's firm, the solidity in her life she wants right now. She sets the pace, makes him push into her so deep and hard until it hurts. A bite to his shoulder, nails raked down his back–she always leaves him marked.
They move together and for a while, they forget. But all too soon, it's over and they're slightly awkward in their sticky, messy way on whatever surface they ended up on.
Shikamaru runs his finger through his hair. His ponytail has come undone.
"Geez, you're going to make it look like I got mauled by a wild animal," Shikamaru sighs.
"Oh, cut it out. They'll know you got lucky. Or think you got lucky with the cat."
He just gives her an irritated look as he sets himself in order. They don't talk after sex, and he doesn't stay over. She never has, and never will, make him breakfast or share a morning bath together.
They're not that kind. Or to be more precise, they're not like that with each other. He's sure he'd share a thousand breakfasts with Temari–hell, he might even make them himself. He'd do so many things to have her back with him, alive.
But at least you had her, she thinks. He has memories. All she has is fantasies she can't even believe.
*
She has a bundle of flowers with her. None of these are poison. She brings blue roses without thorns, lavender roses mixed throughout. Unrequited love; I can't have you, but I can't stop thinking about you.
Sakura never understands these gestures. She always was clueless when it came to the things that really mattered. When she was younger, she sent Sakura yellow roses. Sakura only knew enough of the language of flowers to understand jealousy–she didn't understand who or what the jealousy was for.
She was the one who arranged the flowers for Sakura's wedding. She was there when Sakura's first son Takahiro, died. She was a helping hand through first fights and other marital strife.
Sakura's got laugh lines at the corners of her mouth. She's self-conscious about them, but Ino thinks they are one scar worth having. They are a sign of laughter, of a life well lived.
Sakura's fingers are always stained purple from the medical herbs Ino grows for her. Ino's hands are stained purple from tending poisonous plants.
It seems fitting, somehow.
