And He Decided to Stay
Warning: I have rated this "mature" for a distinct reason; the conceptual formation of this piece is intended for adults.
The air ignites their pores with its lukewarm humidity. His breathing harsh and irregular, Uchiha Sasuke tilts his head back against the tree trunk, unmindful of its jagged surface. Small fingers, delicate but callused fingers that do not belong to him, slide through his hair and along his scalp. They brush the ebony locks back from his face, revealing eyes dark and half-obscured by heavy lids.
The words hit the air in strained gusts before Sakura even recognizes them as hers.
"Can't breathe—"
Sasuke does not respond. Perhaps it is because he can hardly breathe either. She cannot be certain how this happened, as is usually the case whenever they end up like this.
Wind soars in the treetops overhead. The forest wildlife does not pretend to be dormant. But the Uchiha's presence might as well encompass the whole of purpose, life, and universe for all the attention Sakura grants the reality surrounding them.
". . . Sasu-ke—"
Her voice breaks, and under normal circumstances she might feel ashamed. But this certainly is not a normal circumstance—or perhaps it is, depending on how one views the situation exactly. It's not like this is the first time, anyway.
Mind reeling between emotional demurral and the demand of the physical, Sakura chooses only to ride her husband harder, no longer wondering how in hell they have ended up like this, rutting and grasping for each other like affection-starved animals beneath the tree clusters that border this training ground. People flood Konoha's marketplace a mere five minutes' walk away. Naruto and Kakashi could show up early for their meeting—though definitely more likely for the former than for the latter. Strangers out walking through the forest could stumble upon them while seeking refuge from the afternoon sun. It may even rain at any moment, for it is the beginning of summer in Konohagakure.
Nevertheless, Sasuke shows little concern for Sakura's earlier reservations and continues to flex his hips upwards, relishing in the meeting of hot, slick flesh; it is a treasured closeness that he has not enjoyed in months, for if he does not touch her, then he touches no one, unless it is with the intention to harm another during battle.
And even that has been scarce.
The bark of the tree chafes at his back, but he cares more for the state of Sakura's knees; he hopes they will not be too raw after kneeling in the dirt over his seated form for the duration of this liaison. Every touch is messy, an array of desire and delusion—and—holy hell—but there is so much sweat. It drips in droplets down his back and chest, pools in the hollow of his collarbone until Sakura lowers her head, darts her tongue out to taste him there.
Yet it's all wonderful, an addicting sum of frustration and satiation that makes him muse at why he waited so long to consider his former teammate like this. But he shan't ponder the idea any longer presently, for he can only muse properly either before or after. It is nearly impossible to accomplish in-depth thought when she trembles against him like this, warm, soft, wholly trusting, so lovely to him for reasons he cannot quite fathom—and, damn it all, the way everything feels when they are connected like this. The way she feels. At least, if he does forget his own name, she will be certain to remind him of it in her next breath.
His ears fill with the sweet sound of Sakura's panting as she tries in vain to smother her delight. By nature he is quieter, much more, but even he is usually unsuccessful in this exact endeavor.
"Sasuke—"
Her sex tightens. Sasuke winces at the friction, grits his teeth and bucks up harsher to meet her longing undulations. His thrusts rattle her entire form; her eyes can stay open no longer and, both physically overcome and somehow still ashamed to show him this side of her, she allows her eyelids to flutter closed at long last. Her fingernails release his biceps, leaving behind crescent crevasses that are sure to bruise later, and she throws her arms instead around his shoulders, crossing quivering wrists behind his neck. She buries her face farther into one of his heaving shoulders.
". . . So, so deep," she gasps against his ear. "I don't ever . . . I don't want you to stop."
He groans. It is more like a hum, really, but for him it is the equivalent of a shout. Something like lightning quivers along his straining spine.
"Fuck, Sakura."
This is his way of telling her he wholeheartedly concurs. The words thrum their dirty irony over her in a way that heightens every other sensation. They raise goose flesh all across her skin, for his voice is perfection, and yet the words are so dirty. He even makes her name sound like a worshipful curse.
"Please . . ."
At first Sasuke assumes that she is begging him to hasten her release. But the salacious neediness has left her voice, making his mind suspect behind a haze of pleasure that her appeal contains something different than what he is used to hearing when loving her thusly. When she speaks again, she does so with tears blatant in her trilling words, and affirms his blearily-formed suspicions. It nearly kills him.
"Please . . . please don't leave again . . ."
Another tremor wracks her body, effectively silencing her plea. Sasuke feels the wetness of her hot tears warm his own cheek, and when his length actually hardens even more inside of her, he is appalled. Normally he cannot sustain it when she cries.
But there is something undeniably different in their joining this time, he supposes. Though arguably filthy and risky and conducted in an inappropriate setting, they have never been more genuine together.
And now both shinobi remember how they ended up so suddenly immersed in this situation, the very words that incited the desperation in their entire damned, passionate frenzy.
"Sakura, I have to leave next week, but I will return before winter sets in."
He is not done atoning (so he thinks). He has not finished seeing everything there is to see through his new perspective, a perspective clear and not obscured by the red veil of hatred and injustice that once led his steps for so long.
When the end approaches, a tightening ache, one both delicious and familiar, envelops him. Sasuke feels a gasping groan rise up in his throat, knows from the extent of his approaching pleasure that her own will leave her in no less than a scream. She is too honest to restrain herself. So he pulls his single hand from her thigh, threads it through her hair, and tugs her mouth up to his awaiting lips.
And when it does end, it ends just as suddenly as it began. With neither warning nor mercy. And neither of them can quite remember exactly what happened, but this matters little, because at least it happened to them together.
A harsh but pleasant sense of clarity settles around them as they lie slumped together in the aftermath. Only then does Sakura truly realize the fact that they have just committed this out in the open. He is her husband, they have nothing to hide, and the forest is relatively well-hidden; nevertheless, Sakura is still Sakura and the mere thought of someone discovering her naked atop Sasuke has her scrambling to redress.
Softly, Sasuke smirks with affection for the picture she unknowingly conveys to his appreciative eyes. His mouth has bruised her neck and shoulders. His fingers have made an absolute nightmare of rosette locks that had been absolutely pristine when they left the house that morning. He can even see the purple indentation of his fingers on her left hip—for this he is admittedly torn between guilt at his unbridled roughness, and the dark desire that he could still have his other hand, with which he might bestow her right hip with matching marks. Their sex has left her looking a mess, but her wide beryl eyes burn brightly with life. Even despite the tear paths that sully her flushed cheeks.
He feels his own visage mirror her sadness and vivacity, something that has become quite the habit now. With shaking fingers he refastens his pants and pulls her to sit in front of him, not bothering to replace his shirt just yet. He sees the question in her glistening eyes and asks himself the same one.
Does he truly need to continue this journey after he has already spent these past few years away?
However, before he can speak to his wife or begin to formulate an answer for himself, a voice shatters their realm of seclusion. And, as much as Sasuke appreciates his best friend and attributes much of his current happiness to his intervention, the Uchiha's ears do not welcome the noise.
"Where's the Teme and Sakura-chan? They should be here by now."
Sasuke hears Kakashi respond in his usual lackadaisical manner, but knows not what the Hokage said exactly. All he deigns to listen to is Sakura's breathing and the scraping of her boots against the dirt and leaves as she rises to her feet, proffers her hand and helps him to stand—a favor he never would have accepted years ago.
He asks himself the question again and, this time, before he and Sakura can reach the clearing, even before Naruto spots Sakura's pink mane through the trees, he has found his answer.
Must he leave again?
.
.
.
No. No, he does not.
And he decided to stay.
A/N:
I've always wondered when this guy would decide that his travels amount to enough atonement.
The writing style I employed for this piece was a great departure for me from my usual work (utilizing the present-tense and whatnot), but I thoroughly enjoyed the experimentation (and so did Sasuke and Sakura, I imagine). I'm writing another post-canon story, a longer one with a more in-depth premise, but this oneshot refused to leave me alone until I finished it.
Please, do review.