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There is no love in this room tonight.
Your kiss is loveless, rushed; touches against his skin that will leave him battered and bruised and make him cry out in both pain and pleasure. You’re not gentle; you can’t be, not with Kabuto, but his regenerative abilities make up for it and then some. Every word out of his mouth makes you want to crunch glass, shove his head into the wall behind him until he sees stars. The very smirk that graces his thin lips, pulling at the corners of his mouth and your heartstrings; the same smirk, you think, that got you here in the first place, straddling his hips on the floor of an unnamed room in the hideout.
The only words exchanged are from Kabuto’s lips, smarmy as usual and dripping in the venomous desire that makes your belly do flips. The words he speaks are taunting, teasing, directed at your very soul as they bite.
Little devil, he calls you as his hands roam, snake under your shirt, pinch at a nipple in a way that makes you grit your teeth, suck in a sharp breath. It’s these names that leave you burning hot in a way that you will not bring to light.
You can’t.
You feel no love as you let him rub you, you tell yourself, arching your back in the wake of his hand, grimacing as he runs his nails along your spine, pulses his chakra just enough to slice through the first few layers of your skin. His chuckle is dark as you cry out, his fingers working overtime to the beat of your heart.
The first time you cum, he steals your lips in a loveless kiss, leaving you breathless and gasping as pleasure ripples through you, caused by his fingers alone in skilled, practiced movements. He says something in that low, husky voice that betrays his thoughts, his desires; he wants you, he needs you, craves you with his entire soul. Needs to be inside you, he says. Needs to feel that connection, that warm feeling in his gut that he says he feels when he looks at you with heavy lids and lips parted by panting, gasping breaths.
It makes you want to gag, the way he speaks about you, like you’re useful only until his release, the only thing that will allow him to give up that control, that composure that he so desperately clings to. The carefully curated mask that he dons as he works, the dutiful doctor persona that’s kept him going all this time, the cloak that you see slip as you bite his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. He croons into your ear and you can hear the arrogance in his voice as he does, and it makes you want to bash his brains in but you can’t because that would be too damn easy.
So you settle for the next best thing.
You settle for fistfuls of hair, for tugging until a few silver strands come away with your hands, which ghost along Kabuto’s bare chest, the loose hairs tickling against his skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. You settle for his fingers, expertly working you up again, trailing lightly along your skin, locating every spot that makes you tremble like he’s a professional, like this is his life’s duty, and maybe now, it is. Maybe in the recesses of his mind he’s sworn himself to you, you think, as he grabs your ass, as you press against his hands against your better judgement. As his name plays in your throat and on your tongue, threatening to erupt if you’re not careful.
Finally your fingers circle his cock, slick with precum as it stands at full attention, and you waste no time. He breathes your name as you lower yourself onto him, and you bite the inside of your cheek, bite back the moan that wants to burst forth from your throat. Your ass rests against his thighs as you press him inside you fully, brows knotted, and you hold yourself down against him for a long moment.
He’s large inside you, but not uncomfortable; he fills you to the brim and you feel hot, both on the inside and out. Your cheeks burn, your insides on fire; reaching back you tug Kabuto’s ponytail, yank his head back, sink your teeth into his pulse as he cries out softly, breath hitching in your ear as your tongue flicks against his skin.
You feel perfect, you hear Kabuto say, and you pull back and strike him, finally, leaving a red mark on his cheek, and he grins, the fucker. Fury seethes in your belly, blended with something that you don’t recognize, something that makes your scalp tingle and your fingers itch and your core feel like it’s blooming.
But you do not allow the other feelings that bubble up inside you with your orgasm as he makes you cum a second time, do not acknowledge the warring in your head as you curl into him; refuse to acknowledge the hot, burning, agonizing ache in your chest as your skin slaps together. You don’t allow Kabuto the satisfaction of hearing you moan his name, nor do you allow him the benefit of hearing the words that he’s been peppering you with for years, voice low and teasing and begging for a throttling.
There’s no love in the way you kiss him, hot and hungry, mouth dry and core yearning for release, in the way your movements quicken as you come up again, needy; in the way that you yearn not only for your own release, but for Kabuto’s as well.
No love as you bounce on his dick, wrap your fingers around his neck, squeeze and force yourself not to squeeze too hard; keep the pressure on the sides of his neck, you tell yourself. No love as you rake your nails down his chest, cat scratches that score his skin, leave sharp red lines that mark him as your own.
There is no love as you fuck until the sun comes up, leaving your lover in a mess slumped against the wall with a kiss that promises return.