Authoress Notes:

Second and last chapter. Came a little sooner than I expected. Probably because it has been haunting me in my sleep. D:

SHAME ON ME.

I said in the previous authoress notes: POV play. Which means, while the first was on our very own Cherry Blossom's POV... this one is from Kakashi's POV. Hope to rise up to the occasion. +ahem+

Thanks to all that reviewed and put this on story alert: it's due to the feedback that this slid out my fingers so rapidly.

Lot's of love and virtual-cookies.

Rating: M (this rating makes oh! so much sense now... . )

Summary: There are different kind of battles throughout one's life. They are fighting their own. Victory can taste like defeat. But sometimes defeat is the sweetest of victories...

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Battles - Part Two of Two - Kakashi

Yes…

No.

Yes…

No..!

Don't do this to me.

Don't do this to us.

This isn't supposed to happen. Not now. I am too weary and tired and filled with the satisfaction of having eluded death once more, with you by my side.

I am thrown off balance, as the feelings whiplash against my sore muscles: the constant thrum of my less than honourable thoughts about what you would feel like (under, over, around me), suddenly leaping to the front of my mind with too much force for me to drown them out efficiently. Like I always do.

This equation where the end result always spells disaster in big flashing letters is jumbled: have I really been so blind?

Or was it simply a countermeasure of my mind, to keep my control in check when around you?

You want me. You looked into my eyes, your emeralds glazed with a shining veil of unsuppressed want, which my body recognizes and acts upon without my consciousness' mediation.

You are not supposed to feel this way. You are not supposed to want me.

That line should have never been crossed by me in the first place.

I feel like I just took a step on a non-existent patch of ground. And I can't leap away, skirt away, or use my chakra to dodge the hit.

I scramble to put my defences up. To keep them up. They waver. The Infamous Copy-Nin: I'm failing. I am fighting and God, I will continue fighting because…

My name...

Sakura…

Damn it.

…Don't do this to us.

We can't go back if this continues.

You can't say my name like that, with those words attached to them.

I need to move away…—I am stilled in shock.

Those words coat your tongue with sweet desperation, that tongue that now slides inside my mouth and I can't stand it. You overload my senses, and my thought pattern scatters, as I am rendered to something too akin to stupidity.

I barely manage to keep my control; I can only see you. My eyelids close again. It's a reaction fuelled by idiocy, I realise belatedly: for with the lack of that sense, all others rise up to compensate and I drown in you.

Even on the screen of my closed eyelids, I still see that longing for me in your eyes. It's burnt in my mind's eye.

It has filled my dreams, pushing me to the edge of insanity. It's more beautiful than my imagination provided… I am a devious, perverse, unworthy man. You were my student. I can't… and yet… it's exactly what I want.

My name dripping from your lips like that.

Just like that.

Or lower. Breathless… Hoarse… Screamed—no. Stop that.

Shameful.

I shouldn't have lost control: I shouldn't have let the idea of anyone else touching you anger me so much. I have no business wanting you. I need to reign in my self-control.

My hands stay still over the wall, as I can feel every single one of the mental equivalents of that rough surface I clench my fists against fall apart: those walls that have taken me so long to rise up around myself, since the very time I first felt the clench on my chest when looking at you smile at me.

The new sensation that sprouted, as your hands lay over a fresh wound, feeling your chakra slide soothingly in every fiber of my being; when you chide me for not being careful.

Since the very first time I felt the bite of jealousy when you smiled at others in a way I am sure would melt even me, if I was the one that upward tilt of your lips was meant to.

Since I found out that someone had already experienced the warmth of your loving embrace, seen your face as you rise up in climax.

Since the very first time you slid into my dreams, since the protagonists of the already worn out copies of Icha Icha morphed into a beautiful pink haired, jade colour eyed temptress.

Since the first time I realised you were not a child anymore: that you grew into this brilliant kunoichi, this more than competent medic…

This powerful companion, this equal, this… woman. This beautiful woman.

Fortified walls, that crumble, dilapidated by your gentle desperation, by the taste of you against my lips, tickling in slides over my own tongue; by the tortuous acknowledgement of similar moist sipping through to the fabric that covers my upper thigh, as you rub against me.

The pleasurable tingle that borders pain as you tug at my hair, pulling, the hand that clenches over my neck and cheek: I am sure they will leave crescent shapes behind them.

The warmth of your skin against my chest. That leg that curls around mine, your scent that swirls around me like opium, trying to make me forget, and remember, and just surrender—no, I can't relinquish my control like this.

I can't…!

His body rebels against him, even if he desperately fights against the sensations. His skin warms at the relentless touches of her tongue, of the swaying of her hips, of the little sounds he tries to muffle out with the logical streak of his analytical mind. His heart is drumming against his ribcage, his own hips are fighting to move. So do his lips. And his tongue.

I am stronger than this. I am wiser than this. I can see where this will lead to: the scenarios have replayed in my mind, over and over, time and time again, since the very first time it hit me. Since the small devious part of my brain whispered to me like a damning siren: 'you want her'. I was always able to silence it. Because you were Sakura, and Sakura doesn't want her ex-sensei, fourteen years her senior.

Why did you have to ruin this carefully elaborated equation?

I can't do this.

Not for me. I couldn't give a damn about what people talk behind my back. I have outgrown it. Let them say what they will. But it will destroy you…you.

Oh God, you.

I can feel the groan that desperately seems to want out.

I don't want to want you to stop.

I want to forget all the reasons why I shouldn't give in to you.

Why I shouldn't let you embrace me… Why I shouldn't allow myself to be embraced.

I am reduced to this, pleading for you to stop. Wanting you to continue.

Wanting to embrace you and revel in the scent of you, in your warmness, let my tongue slide in every little crevice of your smooth curves, mapping every dip, in the realization of those dreams where your voice echoes in screams around us, as I drown in you, slide in you, feel every inch of you…

Your hand slides, cupping my face, to my neck, pushing me closer and my jaw moves on its own accord.

Once.

Don't moan that brokenly…

Twice.

I've never felt so weak. I never felt so empowered either.

The friction of my lips against yours—and your hips move again and rub against me, jolting my tongue into action, swirling once around yours.

His own engorged with veins desire is weeping for her. For the embrace of hot walls of comfort and pleasure and completion.

Want knows nothing of rules.

It simply is. And demands like a petulant infant.

My hands snap to your face as I break the connection of saliva coated lips, bringing our foreheads together. I try to gather as much breath as I can, feeling my lungs burn with the lack of oxygen I forgot to take in. I think I'm shaking. This is ridiculous. I am a grown man. I should have better control than this…

"Kakashi…"

Heavy with longing, breathless and pleading. It makes my heart thump violently inside my chest; it makes my blood run faster… it makes me acknowledge I can't run away.

While my mind tried to save us both from this, your body has already taken mine hostage.

No. Damn it! My mind swirls in a string of expletives I wish I could rasp out. I am losing.

I let a breath out, as shaky as I feel, as my eyebrows crease and my eyes remain closed. My hands cradle your face as if you're made of the finest porcelain. Precious. As if…? No. Because you are precious. Because what I feel is so much more than lust.

Still…I can't pull you down with me. I am old, and broken, and you deserve something better.

"I'm old." I need you to understand. I am tired of fighting. I can't fight against you. Please, see what I see. Please, fight alongside me.

"I know." It almost makes me laugh for some reason. Your hands mimic mine, the arm against the skin of my chest moving.

"People won't understand." I try to reason. Your elbow grazes my erect nipple and, like it never did, the sensation spreads throughout me with uncanny force. It robs my breath. It makes me wonder what else you will be able to rip out of my throat.

"I don't care." Both your thumbs move softly against my cheekbones, following a line parallel to my ear; I can hear the soft scrapping of the day's stubble against your skin. It sounds so intimate.

You sound too sane. You sound too damned sane, even as your body moves against me, now minimally, in mere echoes of the desperation before.

Everything I do backfires, like a badly conceived plan.

My leg that had breached between yours only fuelled you instead of waking you from what I thought were instinct and shock before.

My words only make your touch turn gentler, longing, and I can try to fight against aggressiveness: it's easier to fight against rashness. It's easier to be angry at myself for wanting you. It's easier to be angry at you for meeting me across that line that society thrusts upon us, if you attack like a lioness in search for prey.

But saying my name like that, touching me like this, wanting me…

Your gentleness, as your hands keep caressing my face, your breath that tickles the lower portion of it allied with the latent salaciousness of your leg now moving over my side, the ambivalence of raw want and intense caring is too much for me.

I am not losing, I realise. Belated epiphany: I was already lost the first moment you touched me tonight.

I can feel more than hear the rasped curse word that slips from my lips. I am about to chastise myself for saying it, in this situation of them all, when…

…one of your hands cupping my face slide inside my hair – the scrapping of your nails on my scalp eliciting goosebumps that spread in a spider's web pattern over the entirety of my back — fisting and pulling me back for my eyes to meet your emerald ones, half lid, fully tempting;

… the other slides down, following my neck, thumb swipe over the sweaty skin of my collarbone before it dives down over my left pectoral, for your fingertips to skim over that abused nipple, one at a time in rapid succession before your thumb meets it;

… your leg around mine strengthens its hold, your hips swaying in a deep roll against me, the decadently arousing warmth of your covered core against my hardened length;

… and you respond to it, in a deep whisper, the word dripping from your shining swollen lips with the consistency of honey:

"…me."

I am a perverse, unworthy, wicked, lost man: the padlocks of my restraint shatter.

Lust roars inside my veins, like some ancient all encompassing monster.

My hands snap into action: one sliding within those roseate locks I am so damned fond of, spread hold as I cup the back of your head, and pull you closer. The other coming to the skin of the thigh of your leg draped over my side — I curse my fingerless glove as the skin of my fingertips mocks the one of my enclosed in leather palm, revelling in the softness of it — sliding until I hook it on the back of your knee, pulling it to me, as my hips ground against you, in the same way my lips collide with yours, having the soundtrack of a groan from me and an excited little moan from you, trapped between the moist caverns, playground for our writhing together tongues.

I am defeated: greedy with my hands, greedy for your body, and the force with which you respond to me quiets every single thought that was once bounding my mind and my body. I would be ashamed if that feeling was an option.

It isn't. The instinctual animalistic part of my brain takes over; bypassing everything I can call logic, cheered on by you, melting against me.

It's a flurry of motions and sounds and scents I almost lose track of.

Your teeth that nip at my lips, after yours entrap my tongue in a suctioned caress connecting with my lower region, which demands similar moistness and feeling.

Your hand, thumbnail previously treating my nipple and skin with nearly hurting scrapes, slides around me to claw at my back, leaving behind red parallel trails; they burn with the sweat that starts to slide down the expanse of them.

Your other hand doesn't leave my hair, be it in pulls that I realise I truly enjoy almost sadistically, or in caresses that rip low hoarse sounds from my throat.

My hand over your hair slides down between us to pull the zipper that keeps your shirt together, parting teeth zinging with my haste, reaching the hem of your shirt, fingers sliding up feeling the slick with sweat burning skin of your torso, fingertips hitting and pushing fabric up to bundle over your breasts, for me to meet the soft roundness of your breast, teasing the rough peak with the leather cladding my palm—damn it, I need to take it off.

That sweet scent that I have come to identify as simply you, envelopes my sense of smell, now bulked up with another one that almost makes my eyes roll back inside my eyelids: floral, sweat, blood and arousal in a devastating combination.

The groping caress on the sensitive skin of your breast makes your neck arch back, breaking our lips' frantic motions: my eyes open as I am adamant in seeing your expression, in committing it to memory with every little detail my sharingan can store.

Your flushed cheeks, your lips shining with the combination of both our saliva, swollen and red; parted in a soundless sound that remains trapped inside your throat.

Beautiful.

Gorgeous.

Your eyes open, barely managing half mast, and I see the request there before it moves past your lips in a plead.

"Please…" Your hand slides to my lips, your eyes following the motion of your pressed caress over them, framed by creasing eyebrows, that make you look all the more desperate, and pained, and so incredibly tempting, before coming back to mine. "Please Kakashi…"

How do you do it? How can you push me even further, when I think I can't want you more than I already do?

My hand loses the almost bruising hold on your leg, and I move my hips back minimally, as, with all the dexterity of my fingers, I pull the skirt up, feeling the fabric bunch on the skin past my wrist: damn it, I realise my glove is still on, and I don't want to feel you through it. I hesitate for a second, two at most, before my hand comes up to my face, and I bite down on the edge of my glove, pushing it off my sweaty palm.

It falls between us, as your eyes widen and darken even further in desire.

Cut scenes:

My hand snaps down, fabric easily avoided, fingertips over the skin of your abdomen, lower, you're so warm, lower, soft curled hair, moist, your breath gets caught inside you, lower, I burry a groan on your neck, my lips parted, tongue sliding out to taste the complex taste you carry, lower, my fingers shake and encounter the silken soaked folds of your body and a gasped moan meets my ears. My middle and forefinger roll in that hotness, and the coil of desire wrapped tightly around the base of my spine fuels my tongue that slides upward on your neck, teeth entrapping your earlobe. I forget to breathe.

What glorious sight. She rises her leg, bent, her heel hooking in the space of a missing brick on the wall her shoulder blades are pressed against, and her leg opens outwards to receive his touch, her hips lash towards the hand hidden inside her clothes, on the apex of her body as she holds on to him in pure unleashed want. There is no turning back. The battle of wills is over. A new one arises, battleground of sweaty skin that procures more contact. A mindless search for completion in each other.

Rising downfall. My engorged desire claims the feeling my fingers revel in.

"More…" You rasp out, and I can only comply, a slick finger sliding inside you. I can't really track the owner of the sounds that echo around us, as my face rubs sideways against yours, until our lips meet again, in a poor excuse for a proper kiss. It's a messy jumble of licking tongues outside the privacy of our mouths.

Heavy breathing, thumping hearts, sways of hips and another finger joins inside the clenching walls of your womanhood.

"More…!" You groan again, between pants, demanding now, and I am thrown off track for a moment, before you make it painfully clear: one of your hands snaps down to my own pelvis, and you grab me over the already constricted fabric of my pants, as the other slides from inside my shirt, and tugs at the side of your shorts as your leg comes down.

My fingers slide from within you, not without a feeling of loss, my hips move towards your hand, but it moves away, and I hear the feeble sound of unzipping your fingers fumble to accomplish. I throb at the sensation of your fingers so close. My moist hand slides to help yours in the tugging down of your shorts: I angle my body, bending for my hand to bring the stretchy black material close to your knee. The pseudo osculation is broken, but my lips don't lose contact, they slide over your chin, neck, collarbone as I bend lower and feel your leg flex for the fabric to slide over your booted shin and foot. And the hand that was in the process of freeing my aching member snaps to my shoulder for support.

Your scent is stronger now and it makes me growl, as my mouth closes in on a perk nipple. Your shorts along with underwear are no longer an obstacle. The hand on my shoulder slides inside my hair again, your hand cupping the back of my head pulling me up. The roughened moist nipple slides from my lips, as I let you guide me upwards after a flick of my tongue, scattering kisses over your chest and neck before I come face to face with you again, your eyes boring into mine.

You're anxious.

I'm… nervous. It's ridiculous. I feel like a pubescent virgin boy. I have dreamt about this… so many times…

My hand slides over your leg, that I realise is bent, having some sort of leverage to keep it so, to the point of your thigh creating a right angle with your torso. I let my bare hand slide over the curve of your hip as I step closer, and your eyes keep glued to mine. I can't look away.

"Sakura…" It's a whisper, as I feel your free hand sliding between us to palm my fully erect member, once over clothing, my breath itches, my own hand moves over your thigh, to meet your parted and exposed lower lips, as your fingers slide inside my unzipped pants, snaking inside my underwear, and touching me. Skin on skin, fisting the throbbing flesh, freeing me from fabric and suddenly sliding in a stroke, which makes me loose focus on your face. My eyes roll back inside my eyelids, my other hand clasps itself on your side at your waist, before my body falls against yours, and our lips meet again in an uncoordinated kiss.

Both our wrists are pressed against each other, trapped between us. I pulse in an upward tilt, almost as if my member is aware of the inviting moistness of your core, and reaches out for it. That same moistness against my fingers, that move in a teasing motion over your quivering entrance, before I move them: they roll around your wrist and pull it from between us, making you relinquish your hold on my own sex, before my fingers slide upwards to twine them with yours, and bring your hand to the wall, at your head level. Panted breath from both of us, mingling between our parted lips.

Anticipation.

My hips roll, legs bent slightly; trembling muscles. Breath is refused to us both.

Shock.

You kiss me, tongue-less mouth of silky lips, over the blunt tip of my desire, that nudges you softly, your breath escapes as you part for me slowly, involving me in more and more incredibly moist tightness.

Pressure.

Of your fingers clinging to mine, of my hand on your waist, of your own on my hair, of my forehead against yours, of my entry within you. Of your walls around me. Slowly, painfully slow.

Of our pelvises as they connect, and I reach the very bottom of you.

Hot and clenching and throbbing. Wet, slick and moist.

I release my breath, you shakily take it in.

Roll.

Of my hips, and yours against me, as if I can get any deeper. Buried inside.

Of tongues, for mine lashes and your meets mine half way.

Friction.

As I move out—slowly—in. Once. Twice.

As tongues move languorously against each other, softer and rougher side of them.

Sound.

Of our breathing, of our moans, and groans, or whatever you call this vocalized language we are using, a whole new lexicon built upon pleasure.

Of my entry inside you, sinful little wet notes: writing a symphony where we are the instruments.

Again. Roll, Friction, Sound.

Fiercer. Roll, Friction, Sound.

Harder. Roll, Friction, Sound.

It repeats, building into a crescendo of sensation.

It jumbles, and melts together.

Just like we do.

You claw at me, your voice rising with every thrust of my hips. Our lips part, and I look at you, again starved for your expression. For the flutter of your eyelids, for the pleasure filled frown on your flushed face, the harsh panting that slides between your lips.

The way your body climbs up the wall at each push inside you— the way your pink locks get caught in the rough surface of it— and you whimper and I groan along with you, as quietly as I can, for I want to commit your sounds to memory as well.

My muscles stiffen, and your thighs quiver: so do your walls around me, and like a loving milking hand, they suddenly clench around me as your breath, sounds and body ceases up. For a second.

Heartstopping.

It's the most gorgeous sight I have ever come across in all my life. Then, as quick as time stopped, it continues, spilling haphazardly like the sand from a broken hourglass.

The feeling building on my lower body suddenly explodes within me — with only the forewarning of the skin of my sack tightening — and I spill myself within your madly undulating body, your hoarse scream – my name – ringing in my ears. All the little control we had is sent to hell as we ride the wave that came over us both, mine triggered by yours.

I press you against that wall; and myself in a rolled grind inside you, as your name also slides from my lips without my conscious awareness. My mind blank and yet filled with the sight of you the moment before my eyes had rolled inside my eyelids, due to the force of the feeling.

My arms roll about your waist, as my face buries again in your neck, your arms roll around mine, as if we are holding on for dear life.

I'm shaking, and my muscles almost give up on me, sated. You are also shaking I realise groggily, mind sluggish with the force of our climax.

I stagger on my feet, and take a soft step back: your legs wrap around my waist and I wonder where you got the force to do so, when I can't feel mine.

Before I realise it, I push a small amount of chakra to my knees as I fall on them on the floor, breath knocked out of both our set of lungs at impact.

I don't want to let go of you.

Your hands slide to my face again, pulling it from the nest on the crook of your neck, and your eyes, brimming with something that makes my heart clench and soar at the same time, tell me you don't want to let go either. I tilt my head, as you tilt yours, and our lips meet: it's not a rushed kiss. It's calm, mellow and sated. Sweet, speaking of something that transcends the act we just engaged in.

It's not a kiss tasting of end.

It's the kiss of my defeat, which tastes like the most prized victory.

It's a kiss of promise.

There are no winners. There are no losers. In this moment, there is only "them".

...

The End

Thank you for reading.