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A Question of Priorities	By : randomsome1 Category: Naruto > Het - Male/Female Views: 5541 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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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Heaven help me, it's trying to grow a plot.

~~~

Nightfall brought its own set of problems. She had no pack of supplies, no access to a fire for warmth (as they couldn't risk being seen), and no idea where he was taking them. Surely the border was close; surely they could've met up with Naruto at any point earlier. And surely, running around in the dark wasn't the smartest thing either of them could be doing.

At least she didn't hurt anymore. Feeling a little twinge now and then from her newly-exercised parts wasn't nearly as traumatic as trying to figure out if Gaara'd bruised one of her kidneys.

She brought him to a halt with a touch on his arm. "Let's stop for the night. I can't see where I'm going."

"All right." Parts of Gaara almost blended into the shadows, the red of his hair dulling to dark and the blackness around his eyes deepening. In contrast, his pale skin seemed to attract the moonlight as he turned his face up to the sky. "If it were just me, I would hunt. But I promised Naruto I'd keep you safe."

She was no longer innocent enough to think he was talking about hunting food.

"You're sure Naruto will keep safe too, right?" she asked.

Gaara's eyes closed, and his smile was almost lost to the shadows. "I made him promise, on your life and on mine." In a moment his eyes opened again, glimmering like liquid. "You know he loves you, right?"

"Yeah."

"Will you tell him about us, here?"

"I don't know."

He unbuckled the straps for his gourd and dropped it, then unwound the sash wrapped around its middle and balled that into a pillow, creating a makeshift headboard for him to lean against. "Why not?"

"Because . . ." She sighed and plunked down to the ground as well. "Because I don't know how badly it'd hurt him."

"I understand," he said, and closed his eyes again. "I'll . . . feel bad if I hurt him."

Sakura puzzled over his expression momentarily, then took a shot in the literal dark. "You love him, too."

He blinked at her, then smiled and tilted his head back. "Yeah. I think so. But even with that, I have nothing to feel guilty for. Neither do you."

She leaned back on her elbows and pulled at the grass idly. It was something to consider there, in the coolness of the night, amidst the forest's unnatural silence. Feeling guilty for not going out with a guy who'd showed her interest—even if "not going out with" included her sleeping with Gaara—was only a half a step from feeling obligated to put out for someone who'd bought her dinner.

Gaara hadn't bought her dinner—but he had killed it and cleaned it and cooked it quickly over a small, smokeless fire. And it wasn't any sense of obligation that made her eye the space between them. Instead it was a strange sense of longing, belonging that made her want to curl up against him, fit her hands under his clothing for his body's warmth, possibly kiss him a few times, maybe see if he'd want to . . .

The physical distance between them was uncomfortable but easily fixed. "Um, Gaara? I don't have a blanket."

Gaara made a noise that might've been an answer and glanced over at her; then the barely-visible line of his lips tightened into something like a smile as he realized what she was asking. He extended an arm to her and she crawled over, draped a leg over his, and snuggled her cheek against his chest to hear the steady, relaxing pound of his heartbeat. But his warmth and scent reminded her of the last time they'd been this close, and . . .

Well, she did intend to seduce him.

Sakura pressed a fingertip to his chest. "Hey."

"Hm?"

"How long until it doesn't hurt anymore?"

For a second there was silence, and she couldn't make herself look to see his expression. Finally, amusedly, he answered: "How should I know?"

She shrugged against him. "I don't know. I thought you would . . . You know."

"My council thinks I should know everything, too."

She giggled and finally looked up at him. "I didn't know I could hear someone rolling their eyes."

He smiled at her again, and she wondered what it'd take to encourage him—or if he even could be encouraged to try again.

She wondered what he'd do if she just started taking her clothes off. Or his.

"You can relax," he told her. One hand petted her hair clumsily, endearingly. Then, cautiously, as if the phrase was a little too silly for him: "I won't bite."

Sakura remembered his mouth against her neck and shoulders, the feel of his teeth, and shivered. "I might want you to."

He chuckled. "Really." Then, hoarsely: "Where?"

Her throat tightened. Gaara wouldn't string her along, right? After all, doing so would be completely, illogically impractical on any number of levels . . .

She reached for his hand, covered it with her own. "Here," she whispered, and stroked his fingertips down either side of her throat. "And here." She slid them under the collar of her shirt, just grazing the place where her neck and shoulder joined. "And . . ." Carefully, she fit her hand over the back of his, cupping her own body.

He rolled to his side abruptly, his face close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath, and his eyes widened with interest. "Anywhere else?"

"Don't know," Sakura replied, startled by how quickly she was breathing. She leaned in and gave him a little kiss on the lips, just enough to tease—him, herself, it didn't matter. "Maybe we should find out?"

"What if I don't care about that?" His lips began to curve into a dangerous, intoxicating little smile at her sudden caution. "What if I'm interested in something else from you?"

She feigned indifference. "Where's the fun in that?"

"I can make you come," he whispered in her ear. "I can do it quickly. But I want to know how long I can make it take—how hard you'll fight for it, how much you'll beg. And I can make you beg."

Her chin tilted upwards, and she smirked, confidently trusting. "You make it sound like a threat."

"No." And then he rolled and covered her, his lips nuzzling gently against hers. "A promise." Then the kiss deepened until it felt like she'd drown, until she clung to his arms as if he was the only thing holding her to this earth.

By the time he went for her clothing, she'd forgotten any thoughts she'd had about playful resistance.

Despite the lack of light, his hands worked unerringly at her shorts, pausing only to caress her through the fabric. Sakura jerked her hips up to his hand, and he pressed his palm solidly against her. She ground against it determinedly, hungrily, wanting the same release she'd gotten from him earlier. But with a soft chuckle he pulled away, reaching for her waistband and stripping her shorts and underclothes down her legs. "Hold still," he commanded, and pressed her hips flat to the ground.

His palms against her thighs parted her legs, holding them open almost as far as they'd go. Sakura started to pull free, self-conscious, and he set his fingertips against her stomach. "Aaah," he murmured. "Let me look at you."

"You too, then," she returned, and yanked at his shirt. He thumbed open a few buttons and then pulled it over his head with a luxurious stretch. Sakura reached for him gleefully—running her hands up his stomach, over his chest, down to unbutton his pants . . . then back up for his stomach again. She craved him; she couldn't deny it. She wanted him on her, in her—and as he leaned down to her face for a kiss, she arched up to him, demanding.

"Hold still," he told her again, and nuzzled her lips. "And be quiet."

He flattened her again, holding her hips immobile, murmuring soft laughter against her skin as she opened her shirt for him but pausing on his way down her body to give each nipple the attention she craved. Then he rocked forward, pressing the tip of himself against her—not enough pressure for penetration, but enough that she fought against his grip. He became her focus, the crux of her reality—his mouth as he leisurely switched from one breast to the other, his tongue stroking agonizingly slowly, and his body as he barely, just barely started to slip into her—and then pulled back.

She reached for his hips, determined to put an end to this game—and the ground under her shifted, she smelled fresh earth, and sand wound around her wrists to pin her completely.

"Hold still," he reminded her, and licked her stomach. As if she had a choice. Her arms were pinned tight to her sides; her legs held out as if she were ready to take him. And she was—but he wasn't done yet.

He nuzzled her thigh, rubbing his cheek against her sensitive skin; then, still terribly, terribly slowly, began to taste her. This was the pressure she'd wanted; this eclipsed the memory of how it felt to grind blindly against him. But slowly—with long and rhythmic and deliberate strokes of his tongue, as his hands and sand held her immobile despite her struggles.

Two fingers brushed against her, moving in time with his tongue, pressing but not sliding in. Sakura whimpered deep in her throat and fought to squirm, to press herself to him. She'd worried before that it'd hurt to take him again. Now, though? Not having him would be infinitely worse.

This way, though, here and with him and with this sort of game, there would be no shame in begging.

"Shh," he whispered, and came back up, kissing her as his body fitted to her own. And once again the tip of him pressed against her, barely breached her, and withdrew.

"Please," she gasped, and got a wicked chuckle in return as he went back to her breasts. "Please, Gaara, I . . ."

He pressed forward a tiny bit more, his teeth grazing her nipple, and the rest of her words were lost as she moaned.

"Please what?" he rumbled, and slipped back down her body. As she sought, gasping, for a reply, his tongue went back to work.

"I—"

His fingers thrust fully into her, and she thrashed against him, hands clenching, muscles shaking with strain. But it was all so slow . . . He wouldn't move enough, wouldn't speed up enough, wouldn't let her finish, instead forcing her arousal to build until she wasn't sure she could take it.

And to think, she realized, this was all to be sure she'd be able to think on her . . .

It clicked.

Charges of her chakra shattered her bonds, freeing her arms and legs, and as she reached for him he rose, fit himself to her, and plunged. She cried out despite herself at his penetration, deep and hot, smooth and wet, his hips pounding against hers with unrestrained violence. His mouth moved blindly against her face; she raked her nails down his back and arms until sand interfered. Sakura vised her legs around him, then pulled her knees up against his sides, then planted her heels in the dirt and resolved to meet his thrusts, flicking her hips up against him as he filled her so it felt like he was going deeper, deeper—

He pushed her face to his shoulder when she came, muffling her cries in time, but drove his body against hers harder, hammering the rest of the orgasm out of her until her response died down to little moans and whimpers. And after only a few more seconds he hitched, clutching her hips, his back arching and face tilting skyward—then relaxed, stopped, and sank down for her kiss. Sakura squeezed him, smiling against his lips as he slowed, and felt his heart pounding against her chest.

"Wow," she said, more than a little breathlessly.

"Wow," he repeated, and rested his cheek against her shoulder. Sakura stroked his hair, running her fingernails against his scalp—unsurprisingly, there was a ton of sand in there—and he settled a little closer with a mutter of, "Nice."

"This?" she asked, and gave him little scratches down the back of his neck and across his shoulders.

Gaara responded by relaxing his elbows and knees, leaving her supporting his full, limp weight. Sakura laughed and pushed at him, glad he was so close to her own size, and with a little whuff that might've been a chuckle he rolled off of her. His shirt and duster provided some sort of blanket; his body heat kept her comfortably warm. After they'd both settled against each other, him murmuring something comforting about their safety here, she finally remembered one of the questions she hadn't gotten around to.

"Gaara," she said drowsily. "Exactly where are we headed, anyway?"

"Out. Eventually," he said, and contorted until he'd put her hand on his back again. "Do that some more." Then, almost as an afterthought: "Please."

Taking his statement as a promise that they really were getting out of this area soon, she obliged.
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A Question of Priorities