[Fic] soft comes the night
Apr. 7th, 2011 10:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
suchacharmerSoft Comes the Night: Heat drives Naruto to indulgence.
Category: One-Shots
Status: Complete
Rating: PG-13ish
Pairing: NaruSasu.
Characters are property of Kishimoto.
****
Naruto had never seen a purple sunset until he fell in with the mountains. Some of the men, ones with bent backs and wrinkled skin, say the rain washed down from the mountains is colored in cerulean, violet. The mountains dye the skies.
Somewhere, Jiraiya keeps watch down the road braced behind a tree. A quarter of a mile, less, more, Naruto can never tell. He can only bet that the old man has a roll of parchment, much like the ones he uses for summoning, propped up on one knee and a stick of charcoal between his fingers. Posed, ever ready, should inspiration strike, and listening, like Naruto, to a chorus of raucous mountain tree frogs.
He shifts on top of the sleeping bag on the floor of the tent, waiting for his body temperature to err of the side of caution and not beg him to strip down to defenselessness. Like so many of Jiraiya’s promises, the mountains let him down. They’ve been erected in the same spot for going on three weeks and there is practically an imprint of his body in the dirt by now, a shallow scoop in the earth full of bugs and dried blood and brittle hair and sweat from all the promises.
And Jiraiya took the sake with him. Crafty old lecher.
Lingering heat from the throes of the summer day hangs in the air, heady and unforgiving like the training regiment that left his muscles screaming catatonia. He left the tent flap open on the off-chance that a breeze might wander in, but if the last few weeks are any testament at all, then he hopes too strongly. The mountains seem to keep the breezes for themselves.
He has no energy to make his way into town. No energy to scratch at the itch on his ankle. No energy to get a sip of water from his pack. Nothing in him to move his hand from the skin beneath.
The flat plane of muscles under his palm is hot. Hot and slick.
Purples of the sunset flood the tent suddenly, all at once and too much too soon. He wants to unravel the flap and get some of that light out of his eyes. No stained-glass canvases, no prayers tonight.
He closes his eyes instead, blocking out the white of the sheets that catches the violet hues in all of its folds. What is it about porcelain that always catches the light? It’s something in the portraits Jiraiya makes with his charcoal: reflection, dimension, curves going down, down, down under his hand. So soft so close to his underbelly. That’s skin that no one else touches.
His fingertips edge closer to the dark hair and up again, liking the slide of it almost as much as sex. It’s gentle and slow, like a recollection of something one of them must have done right. The game is in finding a purchase on the sweaty surface, not slipping off and away.
The game is in the way light reflects off his skin.
Fin
Category: One-Shots
Status: Complete
Rating: PG-13ish
Pairing: NaruSasu.
Characters are property of Kishimoto.
****
Naruto had never seen a purple sunset until he fell in with the mountains. Some of the men, ones with bent backs and wrinkled skin, say the rain washed down from the mountains is colored in cerulean, violet. The mountains dye the skies.
Somewhere, Jiraiya keeps watch down the road braced behind a tree. A quarter of a mile, less, more, Naruto can never tell. He can only bet that the old man has a roll of parchment, much like the ones he uses for summoning, propped up on one knee and a stick of charcoal between his fingers. Posed, ever ready, should inspiration strike, and listening, like Naruto, to a chorus of raucous mountain tree frogs.
He shifts on top of the sleeping bag on the floor of the tent, waiting for his body temperature to err of the side of caution and not beg him to strip down to defenselessness. Like so many of Jiraiya’s promises, the mountains let him down. They’ve been erected in the same spot for going on three weeks and there is practically an imprint of his body in the dirt by now, a shallow scoop in the earth full of bugs and dried blood and brittle hair and sweat from all the promises.
And Jiraiya took the sake with him. Crafty old lecher.
Lingering heat from the throes of the summer day hangs in the air, heady and unforgiving like the training regiment that left his muscles screaming catatonia. He left the tent flap open on the off-chance that a breeze might wander in, but if the last few weeks are any testament at all, then he hopes too strongly. The mountains seem to keep the breezes for themselves.
He has no energy to make his way into town. No energy to scratch at the itch on his ankle. No energy to get a sip of water from his pack. Nothing in him to move his hand from the skin beneath.
The flat plane of muscles under his palm is hot. Hot and slick.
Purples of the sunset flood the tent suddenly, all at once and too much too soon. He wants to unravel the flap and get some of that light out of his eyes. No stained-glass canvases, no prayers tonight.
He closes his eyes instead, blocking out the white of the sheets that catches the violet hues in all of its folds. What is it about porcelain that always catches the light? It’s something in the portraits Jiraiya makes with his charcoal: reflection, dimension, curves going down, down, down under his hand. So soft so close to his underbelly. That’s skin that no one else touches.
His fingertips edge closer to the dark hair and up again, liking the slide of it almost as much as sex. It’s gentle and slow, like a recollection of something one of them must have done right. The game is in finding a purchase on the sweaty surface, not slipping off and away.
The game is in the way light reflects off his skin.
Fin
