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It doesn’t occur to him until she’s easing herself to the floor, assuming a position of mien supplication on her knees that she’s been working him since he’s come home.
His mouth drains dry, and he couldn’t form a question even if he tried. Always she supplies the answer, quenching his endless thirst. Plucking the ends of his silences and teasing them into his obsessions, the desperate adoration to which he has trouble testifying. Analytical observation be damned — he’s a sham of a shinobi, letting her do this, corner him here.
But it’s something he believes she does better; starts the beguilement hours before with the loving and effervescent notes in which she trills his name, the way her eyes linger on him with a sense of personal, possessive delight.
Jade eyes like glass, lips tumescent and plush from drawn and excruciating touches she’s already given — his ear, the magnificent column of his throat, the sinew and muscle — a fever rising and pink in their cheeks from nothing else but their dance, because she hasn’t kissed him on the mouth once since this began. Lips mapping his body of scars and sorrow as a canvas, the latitude lines which lead her in.
“There’s patients out there, Sasuke-kun. So please be quiet.”
Why she chooses bringing him to the edge in front of others, well, he can only reflect that maybe they’ve had this tendency to play their affection out in a dramatic spectacle for a long time. Childhood, even. Perhaps that’s why their friends stay quiet and play blind and dumb to her brushing his cock with nonchalance in the middle of a vapid, overspun mission debriefing not once, but fucking twice.
“Though unlike you,” she whispers, “I lock the doors.”
He’s been gone for weeks, now traipsing home in the bleak dawn with the others, reporting for debrief and medical under her hungry gaze.
Once it starts happening around others, he knows he’s caught in her strings. Unable to admit even to himself that if she spurned him, stopped pining, he’d come seeking. Crawling, even.
So while Sasuke doesn’t often embarrass himself, much less twice in one day, or otherwise draw attention in the middle of meetings, he’d done so by reacting with aplomb, which means cracking his kneecap on the underside of their table.
He’s fairly sure that dark-haired girl had seen, really seen, and her face lit up like red festival lights. Unable to contain the vile knowledge, she had passed it to Ino as a talisman and Sasuke knows he’s going to hear about this, somehow, the next time he’s on a mission or otherwise sequestered with his idiotic psuedo-friends that really belong to Naruto, that tolerate him in kind. Ino’s the reigning rumor queen and Sakura’s best friend; nothing escapes her notice.
It escapes Naruto’s, though, who actually has the gall to shush him in histrionics in front of half the damn village — the audacity. All about his Hokage recommendation.
And same to Sakura, now, kneeling in front of him: preening, dragging a flat and soused tongue from the base of him to the tip with eyes that skewer him through keen as polished senbon, forcing a jutting of his hips he can’t hide and a sound in this throat threatening to crack — the audacity.
“Maybe you’ll want to sit for this one.”
Words slip from her lips as dripping silk, laced with the precious and delicate hint of a laugh. Never outright teasing but certainly just rasped and low enough to trigger the primal urge to lay her out on that empty emergency cot.
His exhale comes in tremolo, a sound of weakness that sparks his temper, matches on flint. But it melts away as her fingers replace the cradle of her tongue, navigating, pressuring him back into a well-placed chair.
Even on her knees, she bends him to her bidding.
She pumps him idly, ignoring his stifled noises and groans, regarding him with mellow innocence.
“Who’s coming for you? What are you worried about, Sasuke-kun?”
Soft tip of her thumb dipping to brush the tip, as a pot of ink; hands always soft enough for him but clean and calloused for the medicine. He always imagines her (because of course he does, in lonely caves and arid deserts and cleaning blood off blades, she’s always holding on to his heart) naked, kneeling, shy. And sure, she can do that, does. But her irises gleam sharp and something about that pristine white coat offering only a glimpse of the pink skirt that when she’s on her knees rides up to show the shape of her thighs — and if she would just spread them a little more —
She brings him back, refocuses him with a swipe of her hot tongue over his tip; she savors the tart taste with a moan and he slings a fuck! across the room just a little too loud.
With a sigh, she sucks his taste off her thumb and draws out the motion, lets him watch. She’s here for the glittering black stare, the fury dancing just beneath his skin. Removing it with a pop!, the playful smile pulling the corner of her lips is a brand of teasing he’s relented to more than a man ever likes to admit.
“So hard,” she says delicately, “and yet . . . so easy.”
Stupidly, he tries to respond. His eyes follow hers, bright and green and never once leaving him as his cock disappears past her pink lips and into the wet mess of her mouth and throat, ripping a noise from him feral and startled. The chair will end as kindling at the rate she’s going, a steady pace and unshaken gaze, slender fingers wrapped around him for the rising and falling and ridealong with her mouth while the other hand grips his knee in a gentle admonition against the urge to grab her by the hair — he’s overstepped, misinterpreted who’s leading once. As he learns in battles, he’s learned by her when to touch.
So, not now. Not yet.
He’s crumbling, ancient ruins disintegrating across time.
He’s a glutton for this, the way she bends him in the vein of punishment because deep down, she knows he’s not the legend, and she’s no saviour; they’re tremulous and in love, humans stripping their flimsy warrior veneer.
If he keeps meeting her eyes, he won’t last another goddamn second. Not with that panting as she catches her breath, tilting back her throat to gulp air before lowering her mouth on him again and he still isn’t allowed to touch her, not yet. Flexes a fist so tight his knuckles pop off in an erratic tempo — but that’s all him, on the flimsy edge of control. He brings his shoulders to his neck and undulates again, curses intertwining with her name, legs readjusting just a bit wider. Slicker this time, finally relenting to a lower, baser layer of himself. She is the only one, and he knows she knows, reducing him to nothing but them, this.
So he watches her bring him back to life, reminding him of the things that are real.
“Oh, fuck me—”
She grins around his cock in her mouth, and the sensation pulls a jutting of his hips and another rough word from his lips.
Does he know, as she pulls him apart and her pink-painted nails catch on the fabric covering his thighs, that she’s absolutely dripping? The buzzing in every atom as she brings him to a plane of existence terrifying and beyond comprehension. Lifting her slender fingers, she continues working him with her mouth, tucking stray locks behind her ear with the quick flick of the wrist.
He reaches for her, wants to brush it away himself; at heart, he tries to be a good man and often a giving one. Lavish, even, but stubborn.
She reasserts their rules, agonizingly pulling him from her wet ministrations and mouth with eyes as jewels, apt to cut.
Sa-Sakura, fuck—
Gazing up at the magnificent column of his throat, the beads of sweat clinging to the ends of his hair, the chair arm that endures the brunt of his strength. Something about the way he stares at her down the regal arch of his nose, struggling not to let his mouth fall open like some common tramp (such a snob, she thinks) to reveal enjoyment. Muscles twitching in tune with her touch: in his forearm, his thigh, and good gods even the one making an intermittent appearance in the beautiful pale canvas beneath the sharp edge of his jaw. It scratches at the surface of his skin, a trembling and unconscious weakness that keeps her slender fingers moving over his shaft, silk and velvet and slick.
Her eyes dart here and there, as if she can behold him all at once: His cock; the apple of his throat, never spoiling; and his eyes, one scarlet and keen and sketching whatever he’ll hold onto while he alone, whatever he touches himself to when he’s on the other side of the world.
He is melting. He is hers.
His hand reaches for her again; contemplates, and instead grips the muscle of his thigh. The quiet threat of her strength keeps him teetering, back and forth in the motion of waves as she leads him to the ragged edge and relents just enough to let him sink again.
With an angry breath, she presses her fingertips into his chest and flicks him back against the chair with just enough warning vigor to stutter and steal his own. She is taking, and perhaps only a man like this manages to beg in complete silence.
“You’re not being very good, Sasuke-kun.” Her voice is sharp, an admonition.
When he sees the glistening string from her lips to the tip, their fluids, he considers disobeying — what’s the worst she can do, shatter his femur? Bones go back.
She watches him closely, letting their heart rates ebb closer to baseline in an endlessly taut wait before diving back in.
She takes him into her mouth again, and when her hand comes along to cup him underneath he thinks of bending her over her desk, fucking her in some messy and ruinous way, anything to distract him from the shaking in his thighs and hands and the noises he can’t tamp, can’t let out but can’t put back —
And her rhythm could kill him, his hips stuttering off-key, he’s too close, but he’d agreed so stupidly —
Fuck — Sakura — please!
His strained outburst gives her pause.
She blinks up at him, long and slow. Deliberate.
“Please.”
His voice fucking breaks, and he’ll never live this down. Thoughts leave him as he capitulates to everything stupid and base and his rough fingers bury themselves in her locks and they’re soft as he remembers, just like the rest of her except those hands with callouses born of antiseptic but this is worth it to him, he’ll surely be punished but in this world of shadows and deception and missions wrought with contradictions this is real, this is worth it —
to be at her mercy, to fuck her beautiful mouth raw.
And now she’s delicately swiping one of those beautiful hands across her mouth, green eyes verdant and wild with amusement and surprise.
Even knowing this was coming after all, sometimes he’s not so disciplined, in fact he fails when it comes to her more often than not it’s cathartic in itself, the way she regards him with delight despite his failure.
She stands and readjusts her skirt, smooths it down. Eyes surveying him and lingering on those such small things that reveal him, lay his soul bare: The heat in his face and glittering of his dark eyes, black like pitch; his hand as he tucks himself away. The jumping muscle in his neck. Her gaze flickers to his cock and back.
She curses, because no matter how raw in strength she is he possesses ungodly, stupid speed. The sound of her body pinned against the door, is loud, so loud, and prompts another knock on the door.
“Sasuke—!”
“You think you’ll just do that and get away with it, Sakura?”
“There’s simply no time.”
His fingers splay over her small ones to pin her hand, and she’s trammeled between him and the office door, mouth hot on her neck and seeking skin amid her mess of hair. And of course, he’s hard against the small of her back in a desperate way that leaves her legs unsteady and everything between them quaking, fervor and frenzied ache.
“Weeks,” he hisses against her, “in a wasteland.”
The breath he forces from her is a shudder, a shake. Playing a dangerous game, to break rules he already agreed upon for this round; after all, they both have legendary methods of bequeathing consequences.
“If you disobey me, you’ll be s-sorry.” Her voice is a bite, but wavering.
He groans into the kisses he’s leaving against the place her hairline joins the skin, leading into her ear, a sensitive juncture he espied that first night of which he’ll never, ever lose knowledge.
The knocking continues, louder this time.
“I want you here.”
“You lost. Now you wait,” she says. “And you’d better not touch yourself until I’m there.”
In a quick movement she slips around under his mismatched eyes, now facing him with her back against the door.
Her voice scant above a whisper when she insists,
“When you’re home, I only want it to be me.”
This is how a man breaks; this is how his knees shake.
“How does he still make you so flustered?”
“Pig, please.”
“You have a big brain, but you’re not good at hiding anything.”
Tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder, she wiggles an index finger in what she thinks is a surreptitious way and asks quietly, “Why does he look so dazed?”
“I guess . . . I still make him nervous.”
“Over a post-mission physical? Big baby,” Naruto interjects, sticking out his tongue.
Sasuke scowls, turning away from them with a huff; Naruto snickers, and Kiba lets out a laugh closer to a bark.
“Doctor, lover, you’ve seen every inch of him.” Ino sighs. “I wonder.” Bringing another finger to pair with her index, she waves them and lowers her voice. “Did you try what I suggested, with the—”
Sakura elbows her so hard the clipboard in her hands goes flying; Ino bobbles it and hisses:
“Hey, no need for that!” Brandishing the papers, she huffs. “And you need these, they’re your dispatch orders!”
“Dispatch?” A flicker of concern crosses her face. “You mean I’m . . . going in the field?”
Kiba’s expression is blatantly irritated. “Uh, can I get checked out so I can fuckin’ leave? Got a report to write.”
Both women turn to look at him, glowering, and in unison snap:
“Shut up!”
“Ew, stop it you two,” Naruto whines.
Sakura folds her arms and sticks out her tongue at him in return. “Stop what?”
He gestures between his teammates, face screwed up in a nauseated expression. “This! I can feel it.”
Sasuke turns on his heel and stalks down the hallway.
Naruto’s waving goodbye to the others and following him, babbling away in his ear, but as they approach the corner and Sasuke’s forced to turn his eyes drift to her lithe, distracting legs and she crosses one in front of the other as he watches. He doesn’t miss the way the bright hem skims the muscle in her pale thigh or the serene, easy manner in which she twitches her white coat.
He lingers for a moment and finds her staring back with a soft smile trying for inscrutable, but failing to hide such unadorned affection.
Lips puffy, faintly painted in the shade of strawberry wine, knees still bright and pink.