Summary: Tobirama does indeed, get to practice for his singing career and Sakura can provide witness testimony.

Chapter 8: Both Your Needs are Being Met

Sexual compatibility is a thing of significant importance and amounts for the stability in many relationships. It may not be the number one, but it is in the top five of criteria and a pillar of support to the strength of the structure. Sexual indulgences also amount for emotional, mental, and physical wellbeing too.

Or, so sayeth the book he basically gave up analyzing, but still managed to speed read at a frightening interval when motivated. This chapter gave him a minor pause, considering the circumstances.

Paradoxical, as important as sex is in an individual or relationship, it is also something he abstains from on long and accidental stretches. He zeroes in on something, works at it with a monomaniacal drive, and allows everything else to drop away to free up the mental space. His relationships suffer, his hobbies halt, and anything that lacks the qualifier of 'necessity to live' is forgotten, which includes sexual gratifications.

A libido hibernation of sorts, he even forgoes self-love in unplanned and prolonged increments.

Then, once the fog clears or the project comes to fruition, he remembers that he is a human and has needs. One by one, each of those needs alarm in his head until he has turned back into a fully functional person, sexual needs and all. The marathon wedding attendances can sometimes do that to him too. Two or three months of ignoring personal needs and then when he is finally home he may take the time to go out and meet someone or self-indulge.

Early at the start of the charade, Tobirama decided It would be out of the question to ask for benefits from Sakura, he would offer her no such disrespect. Not that he had thought about it in the start, but it was mentioned in jest with his brothers after meeting Sakura for the first time. Which was not a surprise, it was not a challenging thing to deliberate, intended or unintended, even if just for a moment.

She is beautiful. She is smart and cheeky and adaptive. But also fit with tight skin and a muscle tone that he has specific taste towards. The kind of muscle that is soft, but the definition lined and always present. Even the drastic curve of her waist to hips is pleasing to hold. And her breasts are soft, warm, and perfect (even if he has never personally seen them in full view).

Nothing about her is revolting. He could fill himself (or technically her, if he was being lewd, as seems to be his current trend) on the feast of her body with happy compliance.

And the reason for his treacherous, gutter thinking was because he no longer had that blind drive to ignore his natural urges; no more distraction with excessive work hours, no fears on creating incidents with the transient population of the island, no discourtesy towards Sakura by the thoughts he was having. Because they were technically, and truthfully, dating now. No more falseness.

And what thoughts he was having. Everything seemed to be some secret show, just for him. No matter the content, or context, his mind worked in overdrive at painting perversions into her ever action. No gesture was innocuous, no movement without intent. His imagination, which was largely lacking the whimsical element, has somehow become an expert in erotica and soft core pornography staring: Sakura at the beach, Sakura eating breakfast/lunch/dinner/snacks, Sakura sitting, Sakura reading, Sakura speaking, Sakura walking, Sakura jumping, Sakura laughing. It was daunting.

It was the start of his accruement vacation, and they went back to the ocean, snorkeling this time. Normally, a swimsuit would be sufficient for one of their expeditions in the water, but with the more prolonged coastal snorkeling, wet suits were employed to avoid exposure or, more specifically, hypothermia.

And with less skin on display, one would think he would be less excited. But she kept taking down the zipper on the front of her suit. Over and over, at every break and chance, complaining about strained breathing, the wet suit is too small, was this for little boys, etc. For him, it was like she was unwrapping herself, over and over, straining and heaving chest. The hint of her breasts, the showing of her sternum complemented by the edges of soft globular flesh, the longitudinal line cutting her abdominals down the middle, the dripping water flowing down, down, down. Over and over. All of it was doing things to gut.

Then, as if she was completely innocent without a thought to how her actions were affecting him (as was probable), she would swim up to him for kisses for no other reason than to kiss him. She would hug his back, hitching a ride when she felt the need, warming him all over. She would race him and challenge him and mock him. Then laugh with him, observe with him, and play with him. She would adjust a strap or correct a fold for his comfort without request, hand him items in anticipation to his needs, massage his calves from strain, gently hold his hair out of the goggles line for better sealing. All of it was doing things to heart.

Then they were hiking, and she was in her shorts, not so scant to be deemed improper, but the tightness accentuated the definition of her physique. She would climb or extend to bear crawl up a steep ridge, and it was all creamy long legs and temptation. Over and over, spread, lengthen, showcase until he had to take the lead in avoidance. Then he would turn and pull her up, and that was just as bad. The lift would cause her to drag the entire length of her body on him. Not even sensually or suggestively, or not purposefully so, as she lacked arching or gripping or anything of that nature. It was just the byproduct of the assistance. Still, it was embarrassingly provoking. Even knowing that he could lift her one handed had a strange impact.

And, again, completely unaware of her charms, she would bestow her sweet influence and catch him with the enchantment of her loving care. Sunscreen applied and reapplied, choosing a path to keep them out of the sun, sharing snacks and water. Holding hands, sitting quietly for long stretches, enjoying the view. Always sitting in the sunnier seat if it meant he could have the shade.

Then they were having fun at the beach and diving for the save from an impromptu volleyball game. Two versus two, some random couple against them, and she was playing to win and contained more energy in her pinky than he did in his entire body. The energy meant she was bounding around her teeny tiny bikini top and even smaller bottoms and veritable nymph soul. And high fiving everyone at any shot, exuberantly proclaiming: 'good job,' 'well done,' and 'nice,' for support. Filling his vision with a constant sunny smile so pure and true. A kiss for every success, a hug for every point, it continued on and on.

A volatile combination of Aphrodite and Artemis, a goddess of sexual love and beauty transitioning into the goddess of beasts and chastity. Perfect opposition and blending, enough to confuse his biology and cause palpitations.

Truly, absolute torture.

And he tried to remain unaffected. But often he was touching her, her arm, her waist. Pulling her to him to hold. He had his boundaries, he kept to them. But the tension was building. He could see it in the way she breathed when he touches her neck, in the way he sometimes crowds her against something to steal a kiss and she practically claws his back in response, or in the way she followed his lips after a kiss.

Perhaps this is quick in development, depending on the perception of terms: relative start to actual start. But he surmises, it is due to their preexisting relationship and constant/close interaction that an expedited propulsion is a an organic byproduct and nothing to fear for the holistic relationship.

Which lead him to now. Necking and singing in a karaoke room.

Her: doing the necking.

Him: receiving the necking and doing the singing.

Singing.

He felt, no he was, utterly stupid. And, yet he persisted. He read each word and sang each lyric to the best of his ability. Every time he had a slow loading screen, or lull with accompanying chorus, any moment he could spare his attention he would look at Sakura, the very definition of dreamy eyed, wistfully watching him. Watching him while wearing an unrevealing, completely reasonable, full coverage dress. And somehow making his blood boil all the more for her prim attire. More than the damn bikini, which is saying something.

That gave him courage to continue doing what he was stupid for doing. Did he mention he felt stupid?

Karaoke night... Wonderful date idea she said. It'll be fun, she said. Lower energy activity she said.

He has assumed they would drink, she would sing, and maybe he would duet a few songs with her.

But her mic disconnected from battery loss, and he ended up finishing their first duet song solo, and then, as it turned out, without the distraction of her preparing to sing her own part, she was able to focus on him. And boy, did she go melty at his serenade. And she begged him so sweetly, so earnestly, to keep singing that he did, against all reason, unsarcastically and uncharacteristically, sing to her.

This was the fourth song, and she hadn't bothered getting a new mic. And he hadn't pressed it. No, instead he was picking short songs with easy lyrics from the popular love list of hit music so that she'll keep doing exactly what she was doing.

Because damnit, after each song he sang her she was straddling his lap and showering him and his throat with lusty kisses while he perused the catalog halfheartedly, and wholeheartedly returned her kissing (when she wasn't giving him love bruises).

When he finished the song, ("More of You," per special request), he cradled the mic with a fraction of adjustment before she was on him again, more zealous than the previous times.

Their kiss exploration phase was definitely heating up. But still, he kept himself to himself. Hands and seat firmly planted, no thrusting or shirt exploration, because she had a way of testing his control, and he didn't want a repeat of the week prior.

Onto the fifth song, she didn't leave his lap, instead looked at him with desire, poignant and invoking, and raising for every word he sang to her. His own voice was gravelly and deep, moved and motivated by her flirtations. Although there was some worry that she would shy away from him again, he certainly could not blame her, as he equally could not blame himself for pressure building in his pants. He was only a man, teased unendingly these last few days.

But when she shifted just so and froze, he sang on, not daring to move an iota out of place, while she planned her escape. When she sat back, closer to his knees he sang on and slowly raised his hand, trying not to spook her. He reached between his legs and did his best to adjust so his pants were less of a tent and interference to her sitting comfortably on his lap (and a small part because he especially liked her sitting flush on him). All warm and soft. Then he moved his hand back up to rest on the table as before, with no room to accuse him of dallying, the touch was the definition of clinical.

It was during the final chorus that he noticed, with some degree of horror, that her eyes were glistening. Not weeping or crying yet, just watered.

"You really are the sweetest." Thankfully, her voice didn't carry the congestive element, indicative of the inevitable. He was grateful and little flummoxed.

"Whatever time you need. Take it, I can wait." He motioned down, mic in hand and all, "this does not control me, but I sometimes lack control of it."

Her randy attitude has cooled into the gentle affection and adoration she expertly wields, her hands cup his face as she kisses him. It is less passionate than the kiss they had moments ago, but more fulfilling and infinitely better. Driven more by love and trust than lust. He is breathless by the parting. A bit gooey too.

Seems to be catching.

She returns for more, and that tenderness becomes rouge. Morphing into a seductive pull with teeth and tongue and building up the stoked fires again. She draws back, and he finds himself chasing after her lips this time. She uses the distance between them to drag her nails down his chest, going lower and lower, looking more and more wicked by the moment. His body ignites from the pressure of her fingers.

She whispers quietly, for no other reason, he is sure, than to get him to lean in to hear her better.

"Pick the next song."

Her hands drop the final inches to the crest of his ilium, causing his muscles to jump and twitch all over in anticipation, as she teases the skin with varying degrees of touch. The distraction and spasms make it hard for him to concentrate on picking the song on the touch screen. When her hand pulls his waistband off his lower abdomen, creating a gap for heat to escape, Tobirama thinks he is experiencing an out of body moment. When she uses her other hand to glide between the gap with grazing strokes, he is certain of it. There he goes, floating above, not a thought in his head. Well, maybe one thought.

The soothing and gentle glide, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, was making his gut clench tightly in expectancy, in hope at what the feather soft touches may do next. Everything feels tight, strained, and his heart rate is wild and uncontrolled. Eventually, he clicks a song and just as the title is announced with start timer her hand ceases the caress and reaches in between the gap, grabs and adjusts his erect member back to Main Mast position. It is no exaggeration that his entire arm/body/leg, his entire everything, jerked in response.

The next, glorious, tortuous moment, Sakura slides her bottom down his thighs, her apex settling and cradling his erection just right. It's radiating heat where their bodies are dry joined. And her shift, the upward pulsing, is enough to almost give up his resolve on what he knows, knows, he has to do.

Oh, he wants to, so very badly. Even in a public place, he would risk it for the promise of release. The teasing has been unforgiving, his mind so primeval, he wants this one little consolation.

But he cannot, he promised. So, against every cell singing in his body, he grabs her hands and stills them. Not here, he wants to say, but she silences him with a kiss. And the dissolution of his resolve is eminent. If she leads, he may follow. But, there is a nagging, a voice, telling him to pause. Perhaps its the glass room, open to passing voyeurs, maybe he is a closet masochistic. Regardless, he tries again.

He speaks against her lips, saying her name. It's muffled, but there. He holds her hips until motionless. No pretense of singing here, they were certainly done with that activity, even as his six song's melody plays for them in the background. When she can't entice him to participate, she yields and retreats with a melancholic look.

"Sakura, not here."

So many emotions dance across her face. Too paroxysmic to be anything but suffering. "Did I upset you?"

"No. Not at all." He assures her as best as he can with this turn of events, planting a quick, but brief kiss. "Let's go back to the room. Please." He pulls her hands up, to wrap around his neck so that he may embrace her too. "Not at all." He whispers into her wavy curls, planting a few more kisses to the hairline while inhaling the sea sweet smell from their beach morning. Holding her until the moment she decided she did not want to be held.

Of course, and to no surprise to him, they were kicked out during the hug, but shortly after her exploration, for indecency.

Being permanently axed from the establishment was a blessing, as it cut short whatever internal workings were causing her to over analyze his temporary rejection. It was a reboot necessary to reset the atmosphere, without completely running the evening. Instead of dreary ambiance, they were giddy and divinely happy at sharing this weird rite of idiotic-young-love passage.

Lower resolution images posted of them, side-by-side, on the wall of shame could not disguise the head of white and pink hair, and he knows he will be back to steal that picture before the end of the season. But, according to her, for their scrap book and not the scrap yard.

The beginning of the walk home was full of giggles and hand holding. So much like the long gone formulative years. Innocent and joyous, but combined with maturity, the hint of promise, of fruition.

When they arrive in the room, he wonders which version of Sakura would greet the opportunity.

Which brings forth the question: should he confront the symptoms, or attack the sickness, of whatever caused drove her actions this evening. Why did she cry when he was angry with her those weeks ago, why did she panic run from him last week, why did she switch between two states (shy and unsure to ravenous seductress) like one walk through a door. What insecurity was she battling? What hurt was she recovering from? And what could he do to fix it?

If he asked now, he was sure that would halt any further exploration of carnal discoveries. But how could he do anything less but ask if there was a possibility that she may be hurt from pushing forward too soon? And he needed to do it before she could feel cornered.

"Sakura, lets talk about what's happening."

"I'm sorry, I pushed you like that. I don't know what came over me."

"I'm not upset, you did me no harm." He pulled her to a stop. Intending to be so soft for her, gentle. With a face without harshness and hands ghosting over her arms, he lowers his voice to a whisper he would use when speaking to a frightened child.

They weren't on a boardwalk, but this was eerily similar location to just a few days ago, being out in the cold night, talking though their emotions. His was anger, what was hers? Fear, sadness, pain? Regret? What exactly motivated these actions?

"Can you tell me why… Why you are so insecure around me now?" He rubs up and down her arms mindful of invading her space. "Am I doing something that makes you feel unworthy?"

Her look of happy contentment is lost, her brows are drawn center, she replies, "no. It's not you. I've always been like this."

"I apologize for correcting you, when I know you are the expert, but you have never been like this before. Not, at least, to this extreme."

The space he has given her allows for maneuvering between them, and her body becomes animated with shrugs and sweeping arms. "It's…" A turn. "I don't know." Another turn, more head shaking. "The change, I don't know how to navigate it." A deflation, her arms come to midline, crossing and self-embracing. "I don't know what is appropriate to express, or what I should do, and I don't want to…"

He would laugh if she didn't look like she wanted to cry. "I want you to do exactly what you want to do."

"I want that for you too," she says immediately, almost overlapping him in her earnestly.

"Except," Tobirama says, purposefully leaning on one leg and relaxing his arms at his side. His most open, inviting pose. She takes a moment to look at him, and he sees the distance between them is greater and greater at each agitated step she's taken. She looks like she is securing a pathway of escape.

So strange, so very unreal the emotional chaos she buries in their day-to-day. He thought, in truth, that they were moving forward after their revelations from last week, nearly at the two week mark. But it seems she just hid it for him to pry out of her.

"Yes, except I was scared that you were. I don't know. Not thinking things through, using me as an object to. You know. I didn't want to mess up our friendship by sharing one night. And I am terrified of being more invested than you…which happens so easy for me. I'm ready to jump as soon as I feel a connection, and then, they don't. And suddenly I'm left the fool. You know?" Her mess of jumbled speech give him strong urge to consul her, hug and shush her until she is calm. But he fears her rejection and her fleeing, so he keeps still and clam and quite, with open hands.

"I know I will never use you for sex," his soft voice nearly lost to the breeze.

"But you are being so touchy, and loving. And really, really, unlike your normal self. It's like a light switch. I'm having fun with you and doing the same old thing, and then you come and suddenly you can't keep your hands off me and you kiss me and I… I want to keep feeling these things, I like it. I really like it, but I don't trust it. And I would settle for physical, if that's all you'll give. But that is completely stupid, because I would rather be your friend forever than be a tryst for a month. I'm stupid. I want to hold back, but at the same time, I just want to rush forward."

If he reached his arms out, a couple could pass between them without touching for all the distance created. But he can still see her face, and it is projecting 'embarrassed' to the highest degree of red. Worse than when she was ogling him after his swim.

His own cheeks are hot, his ears feel tingling for the blood flow. Yes, he did very much understand the want to move forward and the restraint with the need to hold back. "The speed concerns you, I know. We talked about this; I'm willing to go as slow as you need. There is no rush," he says taking a deep breath, unable to stop the smile from forming on his face. This made sense to him. She having a momentary loss of her inhibitions was a the best possible outcome, subjectively speaking.

And, it is rather nice to hear that she is as attracted to him as he is to her.

"But there kind of is, when we are done here, we won't see each other," she says, with a step back towards him.

"We will, if we make time."

"Do you really want to fit me in your existing life? We really are in different spheres."

"Spheres?"

"You know, Haruno's only become a common name during my parents generation. Your family line tracks back at least ten generations. If we enter into a relationship, I want to do it with the long term in mind, without expiration. I get that we may not work out, but I hope that we do and want to go into the relationship planning that we do work out."

The rapid fire responses gave him pause.

"You doubt my long term commitment?" That was definitely new to him.

"A bit."

"And the sincerity of my feelings." That stung a little to say, but was reasonable. He was having a personality… shift. If it weren't specific to only her, he may have considered a brain scan for reassurances.

"Yeah, a bit… actually, no. I don't think I could ever doubt you; you are honest. But… Its sudden. It's just… I like this, I really really like what we are doing. I like how I feel when we are together. But, besides the book, what caused the change? I doubt your feelings because of the suddenness of it. I don't even recall how many years we've been doing this charade, and it just makes me think, why now? Over and over, why now? And if it is the book, does that mean we never would be together if you didn't happen to start reading it?"

That was a good question, one that he had been thinking himself. But… the book was a catalyst, not the reaction driver. It only sped up the rate of realization. If he read that book years ago, and assessed Sakura it would produce completely different results. The same thing could be surmised from the swimming and the weeding receptions. Which left only one conclusion.

"The book opened my thought process up. The feelings have been here. But out of respect, I limited the scope of interactions," he said, feeling floored by his own delay of elucidation. The longing he had for her when they were burrowed too deep into their careers to talk or catch up away from these events. The texting, of which she was his main recipient. How it stressed him when they took a break to save conversation topics for the dull moments. The articles he read because he thought she might read them as well.

The very booking of the rooms, never being farther than a door down from her if he can manage.

Yes, indeed. The feelings have been here for some time. Why else would he set so many limitations, so many rules and controls yet always be in contact, in orbit of her?

"You've liked me for a while, but didn't want to upset our arrangement?" She was back in arms reach, invading the edges of his space with her small, dainty quarter-steps.

"No, I believe the arrangement created an obstacle that…" he scoffs, more at himself than anything, "made me believe that acting on low desires would be an insult to you. Then I categorized everything as a low desire to avoid the issue."

"What does that mean?"

What indeed. It means he is more like his older brother than he every realized. He is a fool and a sap. He does nothing to restrain his hands skimming of her cheeks, pulling her stray hairs away to frame all those lovely features of her face. She leans into his hands and, for all the roller coasting they've done in the last handful of hours, he is still finding his stomach is susceptible to the butterflies induced by her.

"Only this. I've loved you for a while now. Although, I've only come to terms with being in love with you recently."

He would have sealed that declaration with a kiss, but she figuratively exploded in shock and awe, and then literally shook him like a rattling toy.

"Hold on! That's so unfair! When did you decide you were in love and, wait, love me? I recall telling you I loved you as a friend and you made out with me and didn't say anything back that would suggest anything to do with love. Literally, the reason I'm so stressed about this change, I don't want to exponentially invest myself in someone only minimally interested. AND YOU better use more words. This conversation is disproportionate," she exclaimed, a lot in fact. So much that his ears thumbed in unpleasant pulses. Maybe that was more testament to her treatment of him.

He takes a deep, deep breath. For all the records and achievements this season has brought, he is now about to break the record for the most words spoken together. Some part of him hopes she appreciates the effort, another part dreads the dissection that will surely occur.

"When you said you loved me as a friend, it made me think. You make me think, and that is one reason to love you. But I know I am more at home with you than with most people and I am always happy to see you, even when you are being a pill. That's how I concluded my findings on that subject," a cough, clearing his throat of the developing emotion, "As for being in love, I think that is just the natural state of anyone favored with your company. But it was when you rescued me from the last wedding that I realized how… how I feel when we are together." He reaches his hands out to her again, catching the her tips with his tips. Not quire holding hands, but not separate either. "I am many things to many people, but when I am with you I feel like a person. And when you look at me, with your beautiful eyes and adoring lips, I feel like a man. And when we are chatting or competing or arguing, I feel like myself. I don't have to hold back, I don't pretend," he says with the last of his breath, inhaling to continue, continue until she either stops him or he runs out of things to say. Determined, to his core, to conquer all her fears, here and now. Nothing to be left unsaid. He begins again, "I…"

The crashing, wild kiss had a painful beginning, his lower lip was still sounding the 'da' sound in 'pretend,' and that resulted in a clash of teeth. But much like the conversation they were just having, it did manage to salve itself by the act. She showered his face with kisses, his nose, his cheeks, his cheekbones, his eyebrows. Always returning to plant another one on his lips.

She was always so expressive, it made him laugh out loud the way she accepted his suit. If it wasn't excessive, was it even Sakura?

And just as before, and as any other in the everafter, he receives the kisses with joy before spinning her with all the dramatics he can muster in the moment, and dipping her for a deeper kiss. When he stands them both erect, her arms are in their customary position on his shoulders and her face tucked sweetly against his chest. Her voice, a myriad of emotions he couldn't count with all his fingers and toes, carrying gently to his ears.

"I love you; I really think I always will. But I'm not ready to say it… the way you've said it. I am well on my way, Casanova, but. A little more time please?"

"Take all the time you need. We have a lifetime to figure things out, if that's what you want."

That glimmering set of her eyes, the elation at his declaration. Her excitement. His excitement. The perfectly cliché, romcom, moment. So good, so sweet, he could die now and be fulfilled.

And yet, for all that she is, predictable and expressive, Sakura still manages to be a wild card.

The devastation she wrought throughout his iron clad control is boundless, when she Cheshire cat smiles and bites her lip oh so, so, wantonly suggests, "maybe we can finish what we started at home? Practice our 'kiss' and maybe dabble in the 'touch' stage?"

He wondered which version of Sakura would greet him back at the room, and even still, he does not know. But, carrying her half over his shoulder as he sprints his very fastest, he can't wait to find out.