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Strange Sleeping Arrangements (PWP version)	By : randomsome1 Category: Naruto > Het - Male/Female Views: 1950 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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- 1-Strange Sleeping Arrangements (PWP version)
- 1
Strange Sleeping Arrangements
Originally posted in a non-smutty format at ff.net in March of '08.

Naruto and associated characters are not mine, and I make no money from this.
____
ooo
Gaara still wasn't good at sleeping.
It hadn't mattered very much to him, really—he'd gone for so long without it that he hadn't immediately felt like he'd need that change. But it still called to him, a terrible bone-deep weariness compounded by the chattering of Sand's medics, telling him that yes, he'd have been taller if he'd been able to sleep. Yes, he'd weigh more. Yes, he'd have better health and yeah, there's a chance he might not have been as irrational or wanted to kill people quite as much.
So he gave it a shot.
He woke up screaming.
It had to be the years he'd been without, the medics told him. It was a post-trauma reaction, they said, and of a degree they'd never seen before. But he could almost hear their unspoken words: Unless they were able to walk him through sixteen years of being too terrified to ever sleep, he might never get a few calm hours let alone a full night.
They coaxed him into specialized meditations, gave him tea when he woke in cold sweats. They talked to him, droning endlessly, trying to convince him that his fears were years past. He locked them out of his newly furnished bedroom rather than see their expressions as he jolted, terrified, from another brief and uneasy slumber.
They gave him a specialized sleep aid, hoping it'd ease him enough for rest. But there'd been someone in the room that time, and when they came too close he'd attacked them before he'd even been fully awake.
As a group, Sand's medics stepped back. They gave up.
He knew he shouldn't have mentioned it to Naruto. But somehow it came up, and Naruto—being Naruto, and being determined to care for his friends no matter the nature of their problems—cajoled, threatened, pulled strings and twisted arms, and finally sent the person he considered best able to deal with any sort of medical dilemma: Sakura.
She read the previous medics' notes and talked to him for a little while as he weighed the gravity of her expression against her age and that ridiculous pink hair. Then she set him up in a hospital bed and sat down beside him in a chair for better observation.
His recent practice meant he'd gotten a little better at sleeping. He managed to remain unconscious for almost half an hour before he struggled out of the subsequent blind rage to find her gripping his wrists, her blood dripping onto him from the claw marks on her arms.
She apologized to him even as she bandaged herself up; she made him another cup of tea and sat on the edge of his bed, her hand gentle on his shoulder, until he'd fought past his own self-disgust and gotten a hold of himself. The next cup she offered him contained a mild sedative, one created specifically to promote calmness; one, she told him, she'd successfully used on shinobi who'd gone into battle too young and come out with symptoms almost like his.
Gaara watched the way her gaze skimmed away from his and guessed: this was something she herself had used, as well.
His stomach tightened with worry—he was getting sick of this; the stress of all his wakings felt even worse than his not sleeping. But for the hope of something normal he accepted anyway, gulping the mixture down in one go and leaning back to rest, closing his eyes and letting the faint sound of her tuneless humming lull him into an easy, soft drift . . .
He must've dozed. That was the only explanation for the strange heaviness of his limbs, the sense of time having passed. But for the first time he wasn't waking terrified or already on his feet. Instead he remained prone, puzzled about the lack of fear . . . and the warmth pressed against his back, the heaviness draped across his side, and the damp rhythmic breath against the nape of his neck.
Yeah, he hadn't attacked anyone this time. But that didn't change the fact that there was someone. In. His. Bed.
For a second he was sure it was one of Sand's kunoichi, who'd snuck in for the chance to be near him when he couldn't drive them away. He'd drive them away now—he'd pitch them out the damned window. But when he looked down at the arm wrapped around him, the bandage covering the scratches he'd left just a short while before gave the girl's identity away.
And now he had a dilemma.
Whatever Sakura'd done had worked. But whatever she'd done had come with the added price—bonus?—of this strange arrangement.
He should probably pitch her out the window, too.
But he didn't particularly want to attack her again, intentionally or no.
He sighed; and as she snuggled a bit closer, he decided he could let it be for a little while longer. It wasn't sleep, but it was close. Warm, comfortable, he drifted, lulled by Sakura's warmth against his back and the slight weight of her arm over his waist, the soft crush of her chest against his shoulders and the light pressure of her fingertips against his stomach. Vaguely, he was aware of his body reacting to the situation, felt himself press, half-hard, against the fabric of his pants—but sometimes that operated independently of his conscious will. It wasn't anything to worry about.
Until her hand shifted against his stomach and bumped against him.
Now he would try to control it, willing down the flush of arousal at the contact. She was asleep. So if she accidentally groped him in her sleep, and he happened to like it—
Her hand moved again: starting to pull away, then sliding lower, her fingers feather-light as they encircled the tip of him, then delicately traced down his length. And as he hardened completely under her touch, he realized this wasn't an accident any more.
That was it; this was too much.
"Kunoichi, what are you doing?"
She jumped, jerking her hand away from him and scuttling almost completely off of the bed, and when he twisted to see her face she didn't seem able to look him in the eye. "I . . . I was, I . . ."
"You were?"
A pause; then the words came out, rapid-fire: "Just leaving."
Gaara expected her flight attempt—and when she tried to escape he caught her by her waistband and the back of her shirt, dragging her back to the still-warm spot she'd just vacated. "That's not a reason." Temper and lust, he found, were not a good combination, so he let her go and sat up rather than follow his first instinct and hold her down for the questioning. "Why are you here?"
"I . . ." She sat up as well, hand to her face as if to cover her embarrassment. "The sedative wasn't working. You made a . . . a noise in your sleep. It sounded like you were having another nightmare. I tried to calm you. You seemed to settle when I touched you, and . . . I was tired from the trip, and thought it'd be okay if I just sat there for a minute, and . . ."
And he'd ended up with a snuggly bedmate and half a hand job. His erection strained against his pants, reminding him that he'd very much like the rest of that hand job, and he reached down to adjust it to a more comfortable position.
Her eyes followed the motion, then remained there. "And . . ." A mutter that he couldn't decipher.
"What?"
"And I didn't mean to, but then . . . You . . . It was an accident and—and . . . I'd never, well . . ." She didn't stop watching. "Does it . . . Did you do that because . . . I was there?"
"It's complicated," he grumbled, then slouched and glowered. Explaining the intricacies and quirks of his anatomy to her wasn't nearly so interesting a proposal as putting her hand back into place and letting her work things out on her own. Sand might be well and good as an ultimate defense, but it wouldn't do a damned thing to keep him from getting blue-balled by a curious kunoichi with wandering hands.
Sakura looked up at him, then back down, then up again. "Did it . . . upset you?"
Quite the opposite. He glowered more, shook his head once, and looked away.
"Gaara . . ." Her voice steadied, and he looked up to find her gaze steady on his. "We can keep this between us, right?"
That she, the supposed specialist ninja from Leaf, had abandoned all professionalism to grope him while he was supposed to be sleeping? Hardly a fair trade.
He could think of a better one.
"I won't tell anyone," he said. "On one condition."
Sakura hesitated, and he held out an arm to her. "Come here."
Hesitation shifted to alarm. "No."
"Not for that. That—" He gestured downward, speaking in part to order his body to behave. "That'll stop on its own."
"Then what?"
"I slept and it was all right." He shook his head, reminding himself to talk to her like his medic and years-long friend instead of a new warm, snuggly, frustratingly arousing toy. "No attacking anyone. No screaming. If that's what it takes . . ."
Gaara stopped, realizing that her look of trepidation wasn't directed at his face.
It seemed a guy with a hardon wasn't to be trusted, no matter his title.
"Would it make you feel better if I took care of it first?" he grumbled exasperatedly.
"Well, I . . ." Her forehead furrowed. "How would you—Oh."
He leaned back on his elbows—and because her touching him was vastly more interesting than his touching himself, he made the offer. "Unless you intended to continue satisfying your curiosity."
Sakura's expression shifted through a kaleidoscope of emotions: Horror, disbelief, curiosity, more horror, confusion, a brief second of consideration . . . and finally, resignedly, she sighed. "This bed is for sleeping, Gaara."
He thought of his bedroom, with its new futon and crisp sheets, and looked at her with renewed interest. "Which one isn't?"
Sakura rolled her eyes at him, though her lips quirked into a faint smile. "We can talk about that some other time." And with that, she lay back down at his side. "No ideas," she muttered, and fitted against him face to face, her forehead against his nose, one arm under his neck and her thigh between his.
"Like yours?" he countered, and felt her shoulders shake with a little chuckle.
"You know what they say about curiosity."
"It never killed anything of mine."
He felt her head move as she looked back down, her voice lilting sarcastically. "I can tell."
This was a lot more interesting than being unconscious.

Gaara squeezed her, then fit his fingertips under the bottom hem of her shirt and inhaled against her skin. While his mind couldn't immediately identify the combination as anything other than fascinatingly female, something more primitive in him recognized it—warm, rounded, faintly musky—and responded accordingly.

And to think she'd told him not to get any ideas. Gaara stifled a chuckle. She was far too late—and still in bed with him. And fantasy was only so satisfying when the real thing had curled against him, put her hands on him, and almost, almost—he was sure—been talked into doing even more.

And since she hadn't protested his fingertips against the small of her back, he continued—tracing down over her hip to the solid warmth of her thigh, briefly caressing the inch of exposed skin at her side; then back up along her ribs, skimming the tendons of her throat to just brush against her jawline and oh-so-delicately tilt her face up to his—

"Gaara, if . . ." Her voice steadied; her hand shifted to his side and she finally met his eyes. "What if I change my mind?"

His breath caught with the hope of release—and amusement. Apparently he hadn't been the only one getting ideas. "I won't be upset if you change your mind."

"I . . . I won't tell anyone."

Damn it, she was asking. And promising that she'd be discreet, and . . .

Would it be so wrong?

He reached out, fingers curving around hers, and slowly, waiting for her to balk, led her hand back down between them. But Sakura was gentle as she touched him again, smoothing softly, and his attention abruptly focused on the sight—his body outlined by fabric, with her hand careful and pale against the dark brown. He gripped double handfuls of the thin blanket and let out a shivery breath, and when she paused he encouraged her as best he could: "Don't stop."

Both of her hands fit around him, squeezing gently, and he reached for her, cupping the back of her skull in his hand and pressing careful kisses against her cheeks, her forehead. She met his eyes again with a small, abashed smile; then her lips were against his, her mouth opening to his own, and her fingers tugging surely at the fastenings of his pants. The room's cool air did nothing to dampen his arousal—if anything, the contrast between it and the warmth of her hands only served to sharpen his craving. He wanted more—her hands, her mouth, her body, these little soft kisses and the near-frustrating gentleness with which she caressed him—whatever she'd be willing to give.

Sakura's knees parted, her thigh hooking high over his hip, and as his free hand skimmed down the curves of her body to the warmth between her legs Gaara realized she might also want the same from him.

She squeezed deliciously harder, and he murmured approvingly against her throat; then she paused, stretched over, and grabbed her bag from off the floor. He sat up and waited, running his hand from the back of her knee to the small of her back and down again, as she rummaged in a pocket until she found some sort of lotion. "What about this?"

His throat tightened and mouth went dry. It'd be wonderful. "Okay."

She smiled, coating her hands, and went back to work on him.

At first it was cold, and he set his teeth against her neck as the chill of it made him shiver. Then their body heat fixed that problem; and as her grip slid up and down, wonderfully slick and tight, his bite turned to another kiss. He rubbed more firmly against her, wanting her to feel the same way he did—and as she rocked her hips against his hand, he knew he was doing something right.

"I think," she murmured against his cheek, "That . . . That we should . . . consider a trade-off."

He paused, hoping he hadn't misheard that statement, and she raised lotion-slick hands to her top. His got there first. Sakura went back to touching him as he stripped the shirt off of her, then followed suit with his own. And she was beautiful that way, half-clothed, her knees parted for his touch, her hands wrapped around him—and because he could, he reached out to kiss her again. The hand not against her cheek went for her pants.

"You too," she giggled, and squirmed free of him for just long enough to strip completely. Gaara took the space to get rid of the remnants of his own clothing, then reached for the bottle and slathered his fingers in lotion as she straddled him. He reached between her parted thighs and felt her shiver and moan against his mouth at the contact, felt her own wetness as he slipped his fingers inside her—and then she reached for his wrist, adjusting the place he touched her.

"There," she whispered, rocking her hips against his caress. Sakura left a trail of little wet kisses along his throat up to his ear, drawing his earlobe between her lips with a little gasp. "It feels . . ."

Her back arched as she moved in, bringing her breasts up for him, encouraging his kisses with soft murmurs and the speed of her hands over his skin. "Feels," she started again, and he cut her off by pulling her down for another kiss. The next buck of her hips brought them closer to his, and he felt her shift closer, start to raise herself up. "Gaara, I— I need—"

She lowered just enough to touch herself to the tip of him, and it took everything he had to not force the heat and wet of her the rest of the way down. Even the thought of being sheathed, enveloped in her made him moan, his hips straining up against hers. And at his wordless approval she let go of him with one hand, using the other to guide him even as she continued to work against his fingers, taking him slowly, excruciatingly into herself, just a fraction of an inch at a time.

The slowness was too much. The arm he'd wrapped around her waist clenched as he fought to not pull her down, wanting to not hurt her, whispering a plea against her skin as her weight helped push the last bit of himself in. Sakura's thighs clenched and she gasped out a small sound that could've meant anything, her muscles fluttering around him and fingertips digging into his shoulders. Gaara obliged her, matching the strokes of his tongue against her skin to those of his fingers. At last she started to move—first short, almost hesitant motions; then, as her body clenched around him, rocking wildly against his fingers. And finally she took control, lifting herself up with her knees so their movements became long and liquid and smooth.

This . . . Gaara pulled her face back down to his, trying to express the sensations he felt through his kiss, trying to replicate them by working his fingers harder against her. She hissed softly into his ear, her hand closing around his wrist to stop him. "That's . . . a little too much."

"Sorry," he murmured. But he wanted to please her, wanted to hear the sounds she made and to watch her react. And if that was what she'd liked . . .

Something of worry or confusion must've made it to his expression, because Sakura smiled gently and kissed him as her hands flattened against his chest, pushing him back. He went willingly, fascinated by the sight of her, the way their bodies slid together. This new angle didn't work with how he'd been touching her, so Gaara grabbed onto her thighs instead.

"Better?" he asked.

She ground down against him, sheathing him fully as her eyes closed in concentration. "I . . . I think so."

With her cheek against his he could hear her breathing speed up, could hear her start to choke back little noises as she tightened around him. And when her rhythm broke he grabbed her hips and moved her, fast and hard, sliding her along almost his entire length and driving himself deeper into that wonderful, clenching wetness until her little noises became moans and her fingertips dug into his arms—then Sakura shuddered and dropped, pressing her face to his throat and covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a string of sounds which otherwise certainly would've given them away to anyone on the same floor.

The sounds gave way to short, panting breaths; the rise and fall of her hips slowed in pace and intensity but didn't halt. Sakura planted her elbows to either side of his head and rose up to look him in the face, her voice hesitant. "Are you still . . . ?"

He smiled. "I'm not done yet." But if she kept moving like that, her downstrokes sliding smoothly into the lifts in such a way that he could see her move as well . . .

"Emphasis on 'yet.'" Sakura smiled back and sat up completely, the fingers of one hand splayed on his chest for balance as she continued to ride him. Gaara closed his eyes to concentrate on her, then gave up in order to watch instead—her half-lidded eyes and parted lips, the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, her body as she took him as deep as he could again and again and—

The hand not on his chest circled around behind her and up between his legs, her still-slick fingers cupping and caressing. And as Gaara's eyes widened—she'd had a trick up her sleeve after all and he couldn't say he was the least bit upset—her smile turned devious. "What about this?"

The first tingle of chakra through her fingers made his toes curl and every little hair on his thighs stand on end. The second matched her downstroke, and his fingers clutched spasmodically at anything he could reach. Sakura's pace picked up, leaving him lost in a blur of sensations—hot wet cool wet tingling wet clenching wet—and he arched up to her hard, clutching her hips and gasping as the pink-haired medic brought him to the strongest climax he'd ever experienced.

Eventually he was able to force himself to loosen his grip on her, and she leaned back down. Stray strands of pale hair tickled his face as she smiled wonderingly at him. "You . . . Wow."

Well, that was a word for it. He had no words, so he pulled her the rest of the way down for another kiss—which turned to two kisses, which turned to more kisses, which turned to him starting to wonder if she'd want to try again later.

Later, he told himself. Later they could be back at his place, on his new bed, and she wouldn't have to worry about holding back.

"Later" seemed like a very good idea.

"So," she finally said, "you ready to sleep again?"

"Maybe." Although . . . Well, hell. He was drowsy after all. Maybe with a few more tries he'd be worn out enough that he'd get a full eight hours. He wondered briefly about how she'd explain that sort of mission success—then stopped considering that in favor of considering different positions. For later.

Sakura chuckled quietly and settled down on top of him, snugging her head under his chin, her fingertips brushing against his shoulder. "The door's still locked, right?"

Later, later . . . Why wait for later?

"My door is," he said—then wrapped an arm firmly around her before she could protest, summoned sand with a quick combination of hand seals . . . and dropped the two of them onto his own bed. Sakura gave a little shriek, her hands clenching against his arms—then, as she realized they weren't in the hospital anymore, she tried to sit up.

"Gaara, this—"

"This bed," he told her as he rolled her and pushed her back, "is not for sleeping."

"The other medics—"

"They'll get over it."

"And our clothes—"

"Never mind them. Now," he said, settling himself between her thighs and leaning down to her, close enough to kiss. "When you came, you held back. I heard it. I want to know what it's like when you don't."

Sakura paused; then her expression warmed with gentle, sensual amusement as she reached up to touch his face. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Call it curiosity."

It took a little while longer this time, but in the end he found her happy to oblige.

He hadn't wanted to sleep that much, anyway.
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Strange Sleeping Arrangements (PWP version)