.
.
He's pushing her against the mattress, knee between her legs, nose bumping into the hollow of her neck.
There is no sound, nor is there eye contact: just the soft creak of bedsprings and two bodies grappling in the room.
.
.
In Sai's estimation, there are five stages of human arousal:
First, the capillaries dilate; the skin grows flush and warm, and sweat glands turn dewdrops on a whim.
The second, Sai thinks as Sakura quietly slips off the shoulders of her shirt, is the increase in heartrate and respirations; the pupils dilate, much like they do in battle.
Third, (and Sai has to concentrate to remember this, because her lips are grazing his ear and the warmth of her breath makes his erogenous zones tingle), is the flow of blood there, and her hand on his thigh there, and his eyes squeeze as she's dangerously close to there, and there, and at this point Sai forgets the other two stages.
Funny how things work so quickly.
.
.
Her hands are thin and bloodless; ugly white scars crisscross the tops of her knuckles like something obscene. "Sasuke-kun would never do this," Sakura said, once. It was their first time: war was an ever-looming threat and Sakura was determined not to die a virgin. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"
Now he's working his fingers into the fleshy inside of her thigh; she's wet and he watches as her lips part and her head falls back as he eases his fingers inside her. He doesn't have to be told she's thinking of Sasuke; that pretty much is a given.
Sakura's mouth is slack and her eyes are screwed tight with the rest of her, all the muscles in her body arching and straining toward orgasm. Dutifully Sai cups her mound and curls his fingers into a tortuous c, taking care to rub the pad of his thumb against her clitoris as he finger-fucks her (or at least that's what he's heard Kankorou call it once, although it sounds too coarse for Sai's taste, dick jokes and the like aside). His hand isn't enough, though, and Sai bends over and wordlessly begins to nurse on her clitoris, sucking lightly while ignoring his own hardness, which has knotted up in his middle and presses uncomfortably against the crotch of his pants.
Self-deprivation. Self-control. Sakura moans and thrashes her head to the side.
"Don't stop," she says. "Don't-"
Sakura is about to come, but not before Sai abruptly pulls up and hoists himself over her. Sakura hisses, "Goddammit, Sai," but not before he slides his cock over her wet slit and makes her shake with need.
There is a picture on her nightstand: Naruto and Sasuke and Sakura from their genin days. From the corner of his eye, Sai can make out the reflection of their bodies obscuring the profile of Sasuke's face. It reminds Sai of a chapter in his little book, "Women in Love," with photographs and pictures of happy smiling faces. Couples holding hands. People gazing up at each other. Pupils dilate; lips part. The unconscious grooming rituals like how Sakura unconsciously tugs her shirt over her breasts when she talks about Sasuke, no doubt because her breasts are not nearly as big as her forehead, which may not be technically aesthetically pleasing, but Sai finds just fine.
And indeed, it is very pleasing, watching the slow bead of sweat roll off her forehead, damp strands of hair sticking against her skin mid-coitus. And it is very pleasing to watch her face, which is screwed up tight like a piece of dough pinched low in the middle, and to hear her sounds, which sound like crows cawing in a marsh. He pushes up inside her with little difficulty - they've done this so often it doesn't hurt anymore.
"He looks like him, you know that?" Sakura said. Sai watched as Naruto nodded emphatically, furrowing his brow and unable to say anything. In the dark, Sai crouched, chakra dampened and listening as his new teammates spoke, unaware of his presence just a few feet behind them. "I never thought I could miss someone as much as I miss him. I just wish he would come back."
Parted lips ghost over his arms and his back, fingertips cold and small and making the skin of his neck prickle at her touch.
.
.
How many times have they done this? Sai has already begun to lose count. "It doesn't matter," Sakura said, once. They were standing in a field of poppies, then; she had come back from a mission and so had he. "Sasuke-kun wouldn't care."
The wind moved then; green fields bending under gray skies. Sai had watched as Sakura brushed an errant strand of hair from her face. She looked sad. Yet another reason why Sai was thankful for Root.
The bed moves and he feels her jerk her hand at a sudden, harsh thrust; Sakura moans, turning her head against the sheets.
"Faster," Sakura says, or he thinks she says, Sai isn't sure. "Faster. Faster." And to Sai it sounds like those words are burning at the back of her throat.
He knows how to play the part, a tacit understanding gleaned from careful observations.
Sai is good at observation. Maybe one of the only things that makes him human.
Sai shifts, and there's an awkward, awful moment when the mattress caves and their bodies don't quite fit. Hair and sweat stick to Sakura's forehead as he straddles her, hand gripping her shoulder clumsily for balance.
"Sai." He feels the muscles in her legs tense impatiently around his waist; he pushes up inside her with one smooth stroke, the wet smacking sounds of flesh against flesh filling the silence of the room.
If this were an interrogation, torture at the hands of an enemy or even a diplomatic meeting, Sai would show no flicker of pain. No discomfort, no unease at an uneasy situation. His face would be a perfect mask. Not the half-red flush, not the taut spurts of breath and heavy pants fanning against her neck. He feels her push her hips up toward him and he bites off a breathy moan.
"You can say it," Sai says suddenly. He's breathless and his heart hammers in his ears. "You're thinking about him. About Uchiha-" and he stops himself, positions himself at the cusp of Sakura's entrance and slams hard up inside her, making her hands jerk reflexively around his back. The action pleases him. Sasuke isn't here. Sasuke isn't the one pinching her nipples and swiping his tongue along the underside of her jugular, isn't the one making goosebumps on her fragile skin.
He feels Sakura's face press against his neck, and he's overwhelmed with the sudden, irrational urge to make her say his name. Not Uchiha Sasuke's, whom he detests and who has hurt the ones he loves.
He's thrusting harder now, arms gripping her sides so tight he's sure she'll bruise.
In Root there are no names. There are no friends; no messy emotions to complicate the way.
"Sasuke," Sakura says, and her face wrenches. "Sasuke. Sasuke."
And she makes a movement to curl up into him, arching up against his shoulder to press her face into his neck, but instead it's a sideways movement - they roll onto their sides, Sai's hand thrown outward for balance - until they're reversed, Sai's back flush against the mattress and Sakura straddling his hips. She slams hard against him, rocking violently.
"I'm sorry," Sakura says. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
And she rolls off of him, pulling a blanket over her arms and starting to cry.
.
.
In the dark, Sai touches himself, long, narrow fingers wrapping around his painfully hard erection. His eyes are closed, memories of the night's earlier encounter the only thing warming him, now.
He watched her for a long moment, waiting respectfully until the sounds of her crying lessened, and the rhythm of her breath grew less shaky: even. She never looked at him; even now, he remembers the curve of her back, like the stroke of an artist's brush, and the soft, small bruises on her skin.
Wordlessly, he moved to finish what he started. Gently he nudged the space between her shoulderblades and nuzzled the soft skin of her thighs. And when she opened up to him again, arching her back at the feel of his tongue and tears slipping down the sides of her face, it reminded him of the gentle lapping of waves, her orgasm like warm water cresting the shore.
end.