The ghosts you left behind

His lips crashed against hers. His teeth already worked her bottom lip, drawing out the moan that had been building for weeks. She whispered his name, each syllable caressing his skin, as one hand slid under the fabrics of her shirt. His fingers slid up her stomach, cold and clammy against her heated body. They left trails of ice, then fire, as he let them dance along her back – the curve of her spine, the flatness of her stomach.

Damn, she thought, ignoring the background yells of Gai and Lee and instead collapsing onto one of the several tree-stump "seats" in the area. When they were summoned for training, she hadn't taken into account the soreness that shot up her legs. She pressed a few fingers gingerly against the insides of her thighs, wincing again as her muscles flared.

She could sense he was behind her, but he approached slow enough that it didn't bother her. "Taking a break?" He asked, his voice low and polite – not that it was much different under other circumstances, but his tone was almost sheepish.

Gai's enthusiastic shouting and Lee's determined grunting faded once more into the background, mere whispers in the breeze that played with her hair. She gave him a half shrug and scooted forward, faint rustling against her back told her that he too, sat down behind her.

"You destroyed me," she joked, though there was a lack of response on his end. Typical – she didn't expect him to respond, really. Though she did feel one of his hands by her side. Before she could question it she could feel his stare against her, down her hairline, towards her jacket…

She shivered when she felt fingers against her skin, dancing lazily against the tenderness of her neck. She felt him slowly peel away the collar of her shirt.

"Did I leave those?" He asked mutedly. She winced into his palm as she felt him lightly caressing her skin, fingers rubbing the dark discoloured patches against ivory.

"You destroyed me," she repeated, though the words caught in her throat as she felt his lips them.

Their clothes were already on the floor – she didn't remember who undressed who and who undid what; all she could recall was the flurry of moment in between brief touches and chaste kisses. Her chest bindings fell into a pooled heap at her feet, his lips already roaming up and down her shoulders, nipping along the collarbone, leaving fire in his wake. She arched her back and moaned as he suckled on the tender flesh of her neck, biting and nibbling but always leaving a loving peck before moving along. She could feel his nose trace her jawline, his breath ghosting into her ears, the way his mouth would always find hers again.

Her hands skimmed along his hips, strong and defined, as she grasped the fabrics that held him back. With a shove, she couldn't help the grin that spread on her lips as they fell away, though he didn't seem abashed. He merely pulled away, his milky white eyes staring into hers, and he'd press against her – she could feel her cheeks heat as warmth would spread against her stomach.

She wore a scarf, tightly wrapped around her neck, when winter came around. When would leave her house for an evening stroll, she always made sure she didn't walk out the door without first wearing one. No one noticed – it was always a preference of hers, after all – but he always knew different. When he waited for her a few paces down her street, his eyes downcast and his long hair turning white in the snow, he'd always glance at her briefly before they'd join hands and continue on their way.

Every time afterward, when they were alone, he'd reach over. She had long since stopped resisting as his fingers would slide around her scarf, tugging back on the fabric until it pulled away, loosened. His expression would always be unreadable, but she'd give him five seconds before she'd shrug his hand off and redo her scarf.

"Sorry," he'd always murmur.

"Don't be," she'd always reply.

He treated her like a princess, always asking if she had a pillow, if she was comfortable, if she wanted the lights on or off, and she'd always reach the point where she'd roll her eyes. "Go on with it already," she murmured, and that would be that.

He didn't waste his time with foreplay. Luckily for them, they didn't need it – just the sensations of his fingers against her bare skin, his face in her hands, his warmth in hers, was enough to keep her happy. His satisfied grunts in her ear told her that he felt the same. He filled her completely and then pulled out, but before she could miss him too much, he sank back in. All the while she could feel herself building, she could feel her head digging into the back of her pillow, her senses overridden by everything about him. His lips would be back on her neck, each bite and suckle only augmenting her pleasure as he groaned into her skin, his voice vibrating like electricity shooting down her spine. She wouldn't feel it when his teeth sank down once more, this time in the more fleshy part of her shoulder, as he climaxed, her fingers scrapping against his back and her eyes brimming with tears. He'd brush them away with clumsy fingers, before they touched and caressed her cheek, her lips, and then always, her neck.

After a while, he'd stay in her bed, or she his, instead of hastily dressing and continuing on like nothing had ever happened. Truthfully, it was a lot more relieving that way, for when she'd wake up he'd still be there, arm clumsily thrown across her torso, his face somehow youthful and peaceful as he slumbered.

And every time, she managed to stir him awake as she shifted. He'd mumble a good morning and she'd smile back, until his milky eyes would widen with alarm as he finally saw the damage he caused.

She giggled as his fingers traced the discoloured skin, only for her to reach and do the same against his. "I got you this time," she said in a singsong voice, and though his lips curled into a frown, he leaned his cheek against her hand.

"You destroyed me," he mumbled, and she smiled at the fond memories.

"You can take my scarf."

"Don't need it," he breathed as he slid out of his bed, shrugging on a shirt. She found herself motionless, transfixed, as he shook his long black hair from outside of the clothing, letting it fall loosely down his back. "You're gawking," he said, a hint of playfulness colouring his normally serious tone.

She blushed and looked away, her fingers unconsciously skimming the bruising along her neck.

She slowly unwrapped her scarf, letting the fabric caress her skin as it slid off her body.

The soft cotton just wasn't the same, as comforting, as his fingers, his lips, even his left phantom aches as she remembered his passion, his love. Her neck was cold — exposed — the scarf a heap in her hands.

"I think you need this more than I do," she murmured.

In one fluid motion, she wrapped the scarf around his gravestone.

The hickeys have long since healed, anyways.