Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/696776.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Tsubasa:_Reservoir_Chronicle
  Relationship:
      Fay_D._Flourite/Princess_Sakura, Sakura_(Clone)/Syaoran_(Clone)
  Character:
      Fay_D._Flourite, Sakura_(Clone)
  Additional Tags:
      Sexual_Content, Implied_Relationships, CLAMPkink, Denial_of_Feelings
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-23 Words: 2026
****** Far Off Destinations ******
by stardropdream
Summary
     “This is what it feels like, Sakura-chan,” he says, quietly, “But it
     is much, much better—with the person you love.”
Notes
     Originally posted to the CLAMP kink meme and then reposted to LJ
     September 10, 2010.
     The prompt was for Fay/Sakura.

He keeps her up on the bed, holding her legs up, dead-weight, as he slips into
her. She closes her eyes, keeping her head bowed, her body shaking just
slightly. He doesn’t say anything, though he thinks he should, as he pushes
into her up to the hilt, seated inside the princess. She inhales sharply, a
breathless, heartbroken gasp. He takes her hand, and kisses her knuckles, blue
eye lidded and pained.

“Sakura-chan…” he starts.

She shakes her head, lifting her hands away from his mouth and instead resting
on his shoulders, arching slightly as she adjusts to having him inside her.

“Fay-san,” she whispers, “It’s alright.”

“It…” begins, wanting to deny—cry out no, it isn’t alright. It’s never been
alright. This is not alright, but she is determined and he cannot refuse her.
Her body is weak, broken, shattered from heartbreak. And she still goes on, she
still tries to go on. She does not know how, and he does not know how to help
her (tries to tell himself that he shouldn’t want to help her, but it’s too
late, it’s always been too late—).

“Please,” she says, does not beg, “Please. How do I go on?”

She is naked but for her thigh-high boots. He was too worried of hurting her
leg to take them off, but he could easily shed her of her dress and her
underwear, leaving her naked on the bed. He remains clothed, unable to let
himself be all the more vulnerable, bare to her—even if she would not and does
not judge him. If it wasn’t Sakura on the bed like this, sweet, gentle princess
that she is, the sight of her naked in only boots would have been erotic. But
her eyes are too sad, her body too hesitant as he stays inside her, unmoving,
and he wonders how it is he can still be hard.

“My sweet princess,” he says, almost sobs, and closes his eye, bowing his head.
His hair spills in front of his face and he’s thankful, for now he does not
have to look at her, look at the way her face crumbles and yet begs for him to
love her, to care for her.

“A-ah,” she cries out as he shifts his hips, thrusting up into her for the
first time.

He covers her mouth, resting his forehead against hers as he thrusts into her a
second time. Covers her mouth, so the others won’t hear her, so the others
won’t learn of how he is corrupting her—sweet, gentle Sakura. How he has
already corrupted her, dragged her down. How already her eyes have lost a bit
of their glimmer, a bit of her that does not belong to him. He pushes in and
out of her, trying to move slowly, being achingly gentle.

“Please,” she says from behind his hand, shifts her hips up—as if she wants it
harder. She does not, she cannot possibly. He does not want to hurt her, she
should not want to be hurt. She is warm and tight, and it is sinful for him to
want to keep thrusting, even as he does not want to look at who it is he is
sleeping with, who it is he is destroying one thrust at a time.

He hooks her legs over his shoulders as he leans over her. She’s on her back,
on the bed, arms stretched over her head so that the small volume of her
breasts shift and bounce with each thrust, even if they are not large. Her
fingers curl and her back arches slightly when he thrusts just a bit too hard
and she seizes up.

I knew you wouldn’t want that, he thinks instead of says, because he does not
want to see her cry. He slows his pace, pushing and pulling in and out of her
with gentle care, excruciatingly slow—the friction is almost too much. He feels
as if he is burning up. The coil of shame in his chest will not leave him be,
even as her hands smooth over his black shirt, along the vee of the neck,
stroking the exposed skin. Her fingers brush along his throat, along his jaw.
She arches up so she can press closer, pull him in deeper. She rubs, unsure
what it is that gives her pleasure but knowing that this angle is what makes
her want to cry out every time.

He cups her breasts, tries to stop them from moving with his movements. His
thumbs flick at her nipples and she closes her eyes, parting her mouth. She
pants, moans out his name just slightly and looks surprised by the exhalation.
Her eyelashes flicker, bright green eyes misting over. He cannot stand to look
at her and he has to turn his gaze away. She gives him a watery smile, her
bottom lip jutting out in a way that, on anyone else, would have been kissable.


“Please, Fay-san,” she says, turning his face back towards her. She blinks her
eyes to banish the tears. “Please… just for tonight… don’t run away.”

He freezes, her legs balanced on his shoulders, his hands on her breasts.
Inside of her. He opens his mouth, and finds he does not know what to say. He
feels utterly pinned as she strokes his face, brushes the hair from his face.

“Is this what people do, when they are in love?” she asks, stroking his
face—and he knows her thoughts are millions of worlds away, to a boy who left
her behind, a boy who does not remember her.

“… Yes, Sakura-chan,” he manages to say.

“So, please,” she whispers, closing her eyes. “I can’t be alone. Pretend that
you love me, like that.”

He nods, though she cannot say it. He bends his head, kissing her forehead and
dropping his hands away from her breasts. He kisses at her collarbone, along
the column of her neck. He angles his hips, pressing against her in a way that
makes her cry out slightly, and he can hear her choked voice against his lips
as he kisses at her throat. She calls his name, quietly. He forgets to cover
her mouth, forgets to be ashamed of shattering her further instead of healing
her.

He finds that, at least, his body is enjoying it. He can feel himself
approaching orgasm, can feel it even though the rest of him hates that he can
take pleasure in sleeping with his princess—she is still so young, still so
broken, and her heart is screaming for someone else.

He thrusts up into her, pumping, feeling his body begin to quake from the
pleasure. He tightens his grip on her, lifts his head away from her to stop
himself from kissing her on the mouth, to swallow all her shallow cries.

With one final thrust, he releases inside her. His body tenses up and he cries,
but she continues to pant and rub her hips against him, trying to reach that
moment of pleasure for herself. He spasms, pushing into her, filling her with
his seed. She tilts her head back, crying out quietly, filling with warmth that
does not reach her heart. Her eyes well up.

He comes back down, feels himself soften inside her. Feels his seed inside her.
He shifts, pushing her back down onto the bed, unhooking her legs from his
shoulders. He rests her on the bed, lying her out. She is panting, her body
heaving, sweat matting her hair to her forehead. Green eyes, spilling over with
tears, watch him.

He has to look away. He retreats to the bathroom, the cold night air in
Infinity chilling him to the bones. He collects a towel, wiping himself before
tucking himself back into his pants and pulling up the zip. He stays in there a
moment, stewing in his shame. He cannot face himself in the mirror, and refuses
to look.

When he comes back out, Sakura is still where he’d left her, without a word.
She lies supine on the bed, her hands folded on her chest. She pants, her
breasts heaving. One leg is slightly bent, and her face is turned to the side
as she cries, silent tears spilling down her cheeks. He sees himself dripping
out of her and is filled again with shame.

He walks over to her, sitting down beside her. He tries to think of something
to say, and instead stays silent. He strokes her hair, brushing it away from
her face. His fingers brush against her cheeks, guilty.

She closes her eyes. “Thank you.”

Fay doesn’t know what to say. Thankfulness had not what he’d been expecting.
He’d expected anger, dismissal, regret.

“I’m… someday, I’ll be able to bring his heart back,” she whispers.

She is crying for a boy who does not remember her. A boy that she had not
remembered, and still loved.

He strokes her hair, and then shifts away, taking the towel to wipe her clean
so she can get dressed again. He strokes her once and she stiffens up. He
realizes in his haste to get away from her, that he had not helped her reach
her orgasm. Again, shame fills him—for leaving her neglected, and for
considering continuing, to finish what had been started.

“Sakura-chan,” he whispers.

She doesn’t look up, still crying.

He strokes her with the towel and watches her shiver from pleasure, even as the
tears spill down her cheeks. He frowns, feels his heart crush. He presses two
fingers into her, feeling his sperm press around his fingers as his fingers are
swallowed around her tight heat. His breath stills, and she freezes, arching
slightly. She lifts her gaze to watch him, only for her eyes to slam shut as
she cries out in pleasure—his thumb presses against her clit, swirling and
stroking her as she squirms, her thighs shaking, her body quivering.

“A-ah… Ah! Fa—Fay-san!” she moans, body writhing.

He continues to stroke her, watches her body screw up more and more,
approaching her orgasm. She does not know what to do with the touch, with the
pleasure. She squirms. His seed spills from her and onto his hand, and he
continues to press her clit, swirling it with his thumb, stroking it softly.
She bites her lip, cries out quietly as finally she reaches release, tensing up
and rubbing against his hand, arching up to no one.

She is panting, and moans out his name as her body squeezes around his fingers,
convulsing, drawing him in again. He stays still, letting her ride it out until
she falls, sated, to the bed again. She pants, breathes deeply, but does not
move. He pulls his hand away from out of her, strokes her again with the towel
and wipes his hand. He stands to dispose of the towel, to try and forget his
shame. He knows, instead, he will stew in it.

When he returns, she is still there on the bed. She lies on the bed now, curled
slightly into herself, still naked. He still drips out of her, dirtying the
sheets. She does not seem to mind, or even notice. He walks over to her,
slowly, shamefully, guilt. Guilt. So much guilt.

He takes her hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. She closes her eyes,
letting a small smile touch her lips.

He runs his hand over her back, smooth and curved, following the curve of her
spine. He keeps his touch soft, and she sighs, contently, as he leans in and
kisses the back of her neck, trying to comfort her, trying to comfort himself.

“This is what it feels like, Sakura-chan,” he says, quietly, “But it is much,
much better—with the person you love.”

Sakura nods, and squeezes his hand. He kisses at her spine, following the line
downwards and then back up again. Her body is soft, pliant. She is close to
falling asleep.

“I’m sorry,” he says, once he’s sure she is asleep. Her breathing is deep. He
fights back tears and kisses her cheek. “I’m sorry, Sakura-chan.”
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