It's a strange realisation; the way happiness feels, in your reach yet impossibly transient. A flame needing protection, its fragile flickering ready to fade at the smallest disturbance. She suspects it's why she's been so comfortable living a half-life; hardly anything to lose. It's futile. Self-defeating—she knows, yet cannot bring herself to stop. Because somewhere, deep in her bones, she feels the familiar pull of fear, ready to drag her under. No need to be scared, she reminds herself, yet fails to convince as she observes the wistful looks passing TenTen's features, the unwitting sigh she releases every now and again. Loss hangs over the tool-expert like a cloud, and though happiness lights up Sakura's life like a summer day, there's an unease she can't shake, the coming of a storm sending a shiver down her limbs.
The air sits thick and humid against her skin, bears down on the weightless joy on her lips—these thoughts rise to her mind like bile in her throat, and though she swallows them she still feels their sting. Because once he'd been gone, lost to time. Like Neji, yet unlike him he's still here, smiling as he listens to Lee, as the sun hits his skin undisturbed, illuminates the life in his veins. He catches her stare, smile widening to a grin, exposing white, pointed teeth. Already it's a precious moment, a memory never to be forgotten; the calm of their company, mutually fulfilled as they sit and digest their day as well as their meal. She carries the afterglow with her on their walk home, all the way into her apartment. It's what has her succumb to her own impulses, encouraged by parting words whispered by TenTen. The tool-expert is right, she thinks as she watches Gaara sit cross-legged on her floor, observing a particularly pretty plant; there's no sense in holding back. That's what it means to lead the kind of lives they do—to be a ninja; tomorrow's never guaranteed.
Though he stiffens as she lowers herself, he doesn't stop her from straddling his lap. The warmth he emanates feels delicious against the exposed skin of her thighs, wedging herself between him and the flower of his interest. His eyes find her own, curiously travel the planes of her features, joined by the experimental caress of his fingers. Silence charges the air, fills it with the rush of blood, flow of breath, drowns her in the need for physical expression—exist outside her head and forget her little worries for a while. The previous night still lingers in her mind, the excitement she felt then reawakened by the slightest touch. Something's changed between them, a lingering spark reacting to each other's presence. Whatever anxieties either of them felt have seemed to fade, replaced instead by the budding sense of security, slowly dissolving whatever walls remain. There's no point in trying to elude their obvious wants—she won't deny how gratifying his touch feels, how badly she yearns for more of him. It's those desires she conveys in the way she returns his caress, pulls at his collar in a silent question.
Somehow he knows how to meet her demand, hands cupping her jaw, fingers running through her hair, lifting her lips to his without hesitation. It's easy now, the way they find each other at just the right time, right angle, right force—enough pressure to invade every nerve in her body, firing bursts of molten bliss down to her stomach. Her senses react immediately, respond to the subtlest form of stimulation, soak up the texture of his lips against hers. The heat of him settles inside her, pools deliciously within and builds up a new kind of taste to lace her senses. Does he know how much power he holds in the lure of his kiss? How he could ask her anything so long as he doesn't stop? Though these experiences are as new to him as they are for her, he's a fast learner, matching her pace and vigour with ease. He surrenders to whatever direction she leads them, mimics her own explorations, comfortable enough to yield to his body's desires. Complete reciprocation is a new kind of thrill, firing up a fresh burst of adrenaline to influence her decisions.
Her hands find his jacket, unbutton it through the haze he infuses, push it down his shoulders, pull it from between them—unnecessary clutter to inhibit without sense. He follows her behest, allows her to lift the shirt off him, expose pale, smooth skin to explore beneath her palms. There's a scar on his shoulder, raised and slightly discoloured, a reminder of how none of them are left unchanged—how hard he's worked to become different than expected. She allows her fingers to smooth along its edges, swears she can still feel a lingering static, shooting through her arm at the slightest contact. She'd been happy he'd got it—initially, so many years ago—she still recalls her own excitement, the joy she felt for his screams. Now she kisses it, soothes away whatever's remained, faces the fact neither of them are who they used to be. Instead they're made anew, cultivated from the soil of their desires.
Its desire she hears in the soft sigh he releases, breath warm where it hits her, charged with the same static she captures beneath her lips tasting his skin. She feels him peel off her top, fingertips skirting along her back, bumping against shoulder blades, lifting her arms as she sucks in a deep breath, the air hitting her bared form. He starts on her bra next, undoing the clasps as she recaptures his lips, straightening her back in response. She helps shrug it off, eager to be rid of all that separates their skin, arching into him as soon as it's gone. She can't remember the last time she's felt similar relief, melting off her, escaping past her lips in a shaky whimper. She feels him shiver, breath hot against her mouth, chest rising while pressed to her own. It's like coming home to her body, finally fitting within herself, sweet fulfilment from the outside in.
Her hands slip along his shoulders, travel up until her thumbs bump his jaw, fingers eagerly twisting into messy strands of red—red lines her vision as her eyes flutter open, blink against the flood of light in the room, the golden burn of sunset. He rests his forehead against hers, closes his eyes as he catches his breath, hands sliding along her back as he grips her tighter, pulls her even closer. Does he know how much he affects her? How she wishes she could disappear into him, set their inside free to unify. She's starting to boil within herself, muscles coiled, shuddering with every hot breath he releases—relief is short-lived in the preface of lust. These feelings aren't new to her; she's known them on lonely nights spent hoping, dreaming of a body next to hers, a warmth to sink into. She's explored them through the tips of her fingers, curling of her toes, felt the tension build beneath her touch. These are similar urges—ultimately incomparable—in how devouring sparks consume her, insatiable in the way they bring her hips to undulate, searching for familiar yet unfamiliar release.
There's the rustling of leaves, hardly noticeable through the rush of blood flooding her ears, senses; body and mind. She can feel the beat of his heart against her chest, the heat of his flushed skin, tip of his nose where it brushes her cheek. Curiosity has her glance over his shoulder, take in the streams of sand escaping from potted plants, rising to her ceiling like glittering pillars. Sunshine catches on the grains, refracts off them, draws dotted shadows across the walls. She has no idea if he knows it's happening—whether these are conscious manifestations or not—but something tells her they're entirely accidental, pure emotional materialisation. She likes the idea of it, the flattering thought of affecting the innermost parts of him, some uncontrollable fragment of sensation.
"Is this still okay?" she pants against his cheek, closing her eyes as she soaks up their every touch, the ways in which his body fits against hers—it's a delectable kind of pleasure, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to roll her hips into him, search for all the right ways they coalesce.
"Don't stop."
She knows risk, has dealt with danger—nearly died several times—is aware he's known it too. They're shinobi, meant to put their lives on the line for the sake of their villages, their people. They're not allowed to be selfish, to prioritise their needs, emotions; there's no place for such silly sentiments. They're tools, honed to callous indifference. This, however—this is different. This is personal, selfishly indulgent, wholly and naturally human. There's no fear here, no sense of danger or an underlying threat—she knows, with all her racing heart, she's safe within these arms, equally imperfect and breathtakingly beautiful for it. She trusts him, knows there's no need to hide, no need for nerves giving him all of herself. It's dizzying, overwhelmingly sating when she angles herself just right, feels the friction alleviate the building hunger.
She's certain he feels it too; answers her lightheaded whimper with a deep moan, reverberating inside her and hitting unexplored places. Still it's not enough, and it's as if the more she gets the more she wants—she craves feeling whole within herself, to be satiated beyond the surface of skin, muscle and bone. Pressing longing kisses along his jaw, caressing loving fingers down his sides, she treasures the freedom of touching him, allowed to familiarise with the sweet blend of their coupling skin. She feels his hands splay across her back, hot against her, igniting a special kind of fire. His lips find her throat, work their way along the dip of her shoulder, draw languid sighs past her own whenever they press—soft, damp, reverent—against her, leaving behind a lingering echo of love. Because this must be what love feels like, tastes like, sounds like; from the breath circling between them, to the rapid flush of blood in her ears, belly, down between their bodies where it seems they're made to fit just each other.
Yet despite how good it feels, there's the lingering question of how far they'll take it; she hadn't exactly thought this through. Regardless of her own desires, she doesn't want to overwhelm him, or trick him into giving more than he's ready for. He's shown no indication of wanting to stop—on the contrary—so perhaps, more than anything, she simply needs reassurance herself. Even now, she can't fully wrap her mind around being loved or wanted, especially not by someone she admires as much as she does him. She knows he's told her many times already—explicitly expressed his appreciation for her—but it's hard to overcome the narrative long since ingrained. The years have cultivated an almost involuntary response within herself, spinning half-truths in the misleading name of objectivity. It's not about trust, doesn't factor in the precious words already spoken—more-so it's about habit over insight.
"Gaara…" she murmurs, tries not to mind the sound of her own voice, fearing it might divide mind from body.
"Hm?" he hums against her, hair tickling her throat.
She leans back, allows her gaze to travel along his features, fingers curiously fidgeting with his hair, stroking along the base of his neck. He meets her eye, dark lashes shuttering pools of molten pearl, pupils accentuated by their dilation. "Is this truly what you want?" Is it me you want?
He tilts his head, studies her, a subtle twitch on his brow as his gaze roams her face to the point of inducing a self-conscious blush. She averts her eyes, feels the heat travel up her neck, warm her cheeks. "I could ask you the same."
She's well-aware of the implication; it's not just her treading foreign territory, questioning their own worth, facing self-doubt and battling insecurity. It's a comforting reminder. "I've never done anything like this…" she starts, chewing her lip, suddenly aware of how exposed she already is, the room's air brisk against her skin. "But I'd like to—with you, that is—I'd like to figure it out," she smiles hesitantly, raises her gaze to meet his as she adds: "together."
He returns the expression, spreads a comforting warmth through her at the sight. "I'd like that too." He surprises her when she feels herself lifted into the air, swooped up in his arms without effort, smile transformed into a smug grin. She releases a surprised yelp, clings to him in fear of falling, suspects he might have used sand to cheat and giggles at the sleekness of it. "With you, and only you."
She bites the inside of her cheek, grins up at him as he starts to walk, playfully flicks at his hair. "Only me?"
He shrugs, blows her hand away with a frown. "So long as you want me."
"I don't think you could make me stop if you tried."
He laughs, the notes dancing through the air, lifting her higher. "Don't turn it into a challenge, I'm a sore loser." It's another mundane detail, charming in its plainness.
"Hm," she hums, considering, "any more bad habits I should know of before I commit to you?" It's the kind of thing she loves discovering about him; the small, insignificant details of his life.
"I tend to trail sand into the house without noticing."
A giggle escapes her, the mental image of piles of sand littering after him funnier than expected. "Acceptable, so long as you clean up som-" she's cut off when he drops them onto her bed, elbows planted on either side as he hovers above her, fingers trailing down her cheek, jaw, throat, followed by his lips—it's surprisingly easy to switch between moods, their lighthearted banter instantly replaced by the earlier tension. It's effortless, ebb and flow, hold and release—a fine balance to be upheld by the both of them. She's torn between wanting to close her eyes and simply feel, and needing to see every way his body moves. She already knew she thought him attractive—from his defined shoulders to his lean build; his body all angles and toned sinew—and finds her beliefs reinforced yet again. She's seen naked men before, plenty while doing her job, but finds a stark difference between undressing a patient or lover—for one, she's never been particularly excited to remove someone's pants.
She'd wondered if it'd always be that way—more obligation than inclination—relieved to find the opposite, hands overeager to peel off all fabric obscuring magnetic skin, drawing her closer with each hungry breath. Everything about him is novel, has her excited to explore how their bodies differ. Both inexperienced, she's comforted by their mutual curiosity, knows it's okay to take her time studying him; from the hint of freckles dusting pale skin, to the defined edges of narrow hips. His chest rises above her, lean stomach dancing beneath her palm, firm legs spreading her own. He's ardent in the way he kisses her, worships every bared inch of skin—there's no practice to it, both following their intuition, led by guiding hands and whispered commands. It's clumsy at times, unpolished too—but above all it's uniquely satisfying to share this experience. Like a new kind of dance, they're improvising the motions, free to move to the rhythm of their wants.
There are no more nerves to plague her, not even when his lips travel down her body and set alight a smouldering kind of pleasure. Only her, he'd said, his words reassuring her over and over again. She feels secure surrendering to him, senses not an inkling of shame following his descent. His breath is hot against her, tongue slick where it travels, drawing wet trails of bliss followed by the warm press of lips. With minimal direction, he manages to lift her to an ecstatic high, all rational thought wiped from her mind. It's white hot, travels through in waves and plunges her over the edge—fingers find his hair, pull at strands soft as silk. It's a blooming kind of pleasure, opening up within and rippling in every direction, seizes partial control of her body and leaves her quivering. She's breathless, voice weak, eyes fluttering and discovering an ocean of sand on her ceiling. Its ripples imitate reality, grainy waves dancing as if moved by an invisible wind, following each hurried breath they take.
She's mesmerised, doesn't notice Gaara moving until he kisses her cheek, then her lips. He smells and tastes like her, doesn't seem to mind the way she clings to him, holding on in the wake of fulfilment. She turns to nuzzle his neck, feels the delicious hum of his skin against her own, soaks up his warmth as she tries to collect herself. It's like waking from a dream, its effects persisting at the edges of consciousness, barely out of reach. She still feels residual tremors washing over her, every breath drowned in the lingering sensation of him. It's never been like this; amplified through synergy, meaningful in the show of absolute adoration. She kisses him again, this time feels her heart swell with affection, rolls them over with invigorated ardour and straddles his lap once more. Both sitting, she's able to feel him, hot where he presses against her thigh. She's eager to show how much she loves every part of him, how dearly she wishes for him to be satisfied.
His hands travel along her sides, appear to revel in the simple contact, black-rimmed gaze studying each and every curve on her body. She feels beautiful through the way he watches her, touches her, kisses all of her—doesn't shy away from his gaze, guides his hands along with her own, until their palms cup her breasts. He releases a breath against her, something uniquely seductive in the half-lidded stare of his eyes, tilt of his lips—she bends forward to capture them, then presses playful kisses along his throat, uses her tongue to tease him. She can feel his hammering pulse beneath her lips, the aroused heat radiating off his body. She wonders if he's ever allowed himself to feel like this, explored his body like she has hers. He isn't as clueless as she'd originally thought, appears well-aware of anatomy and seems decently knowledgeable when it comes to what she might like. Likewise, she's collected her own share of specifics, both through her training as a medic, as well as Ino's many overly detailed stories.
She feels him tense when she adjusts her position, breath hitching in his throat, bringing her to pause. She's aware he might not know how he'll react, reassures him it'll be okay—they can stop at any time—to which he slightly relaxes. It must not be easy, to feel so vulnerable after many years of being reserved, allow someone to see you completely unguarded. It's why she doesn't ask him to lie back down, takes her time trailing kisses along his body. She carefully commits every detail to mind, admires the gentle beauty of him, savours the subtle taste of his skin. Her heart beats in her ears, dances with her own excitement, sand continuing to rustle in the air above. His stomach rises with each breath, shivers beneath her caress, his body uniquely sensitive to all contact—something she uses to her benefit. She suspects it's easy to satisfy the touch-starved, doesn't hesitate to admit she's one of them herself. She recognises the way he soaks up each and every ministration, knows she's equally responsive to the raptures of intimacy.
Even with all she knows, doing is different than devising, which is why—like him—she carefully observes his reactions, searches for what works and what doesn't. He feels like velvet against her lips, tastes slightly sweet. She takes pleasure in every sound he makes, revels at the way he hisses through his teeth, twitches against her tongue. It's an addictive kind of rush; to feel the effect you have on another, the wilful surrender of control. She can feel when he comes undone, slips warm and silky down her throat. He remains gentle through it all, sticks to the disposition she knows to be inherently his. It's her final affirmation when he runs his hands through her hair, lifts her chin and kisses her lips. She hums contentedly, surrenders to the dizzying flutter of her heart, affection pouring out of her like the sand she sees raining down—giggles at the sight of it.
He pauses, opens his eyes to take in the numerous piles starting to litter her floor, clears his throat before saying: "I do clean up, I promise."
She grins, wraps her arms around him, buries her face in his chest, the beat of his heart a reassuring caress against her cheek. "Deal," she says through a chuckle, releases a laugh when he drags her down, limbs enveloping her. Body light like air, she feels weightless where she rests against him, both naked and spent. His pulse plays like a song, hums in tune with her own; a rhythm only the two of them follow. It's the happiest form of harmony she's ever felt—joy arising from pure intimacy. It's a sensation she hopes never ends, goosebumps following the path his fingers travel across her back, butterflies fluttering along every satiated breath. He whispers 'I love you's into her hair, charges the words through the affectionate thundering of his pulse. And she smiles—happily, lovingly.
"There you are! Come in, come in." As per usual, Sakura's mother dotes on her guests, ushers them in with all the exuberant warmth the kunoichi has come to expect of her. "Don't be shy, it's so nice to see you again—ah, you look absolutely famished, dear. Sakura, haven't you offered him any food?"
"I-" Gaara stammers, taken aback by the way he's led along. "Thank you, miss Haruno, I have been eating well."
It's entirely accidental, utterly inappropriate, but Sakura can't help the cackle escaping her. It's met with initial confusion, black-rimmed stare flicking in her direction, widening as the reason behind her amusement starts to dawn—confirming, yet again, he's more aware than he lets on. The blush rising to his cheeks could easily be mistaken for bashfulness, obviously unaccustomed to such outspoken welcomes, and it appears her mother doesn't quite make the connection.
"Manners, Sakura," she scolds absentmindedly, already offering Gaara a seat, gratefully accepting the flowers he brought.
Sakura pauses, smiles at the sight of him on their tatami mats, appreciates the way his black shirt fits his figure—berates herself for getting distracted. Her father helps serve tea, earns a stern look from her mother after another one of his poor jokes. Everything's as it's always been, awakening the nostalgic feeling of coming home. She sits down next to Gaara, purposefully bumps his shoulder, needs to feel him against her. His hand finds hers beneath the table, lacing their fingers together, thumb stroking her skin. She can tell he's nervous, has been all morning knowing they'd come here. Though her parents treat him like family already, she understands his hesitance on breaking the news; her potential move to Suna a big factor.
"So what brings you to Konoha?" her mother asks from the kitchen, followed by the sound of rummaging. "No, wait, let me guess. The Chuunin exams, right?" There's things being rustled, poured, cabinets opened and closed, and Sakura can only wonder what she's preparing. "Either way it's nice of Sakura to bring you along. I heard she went to visit you as well—she didn't even tell me in advance, you know, she was just gone. Utterly unreachable." Her father walks in carrying bowls of snacks, sets them on the table before sitting down with an amused look.
"Mom, this is way too much." Sakura eyes the already overflowing table, wonders what store her mother plundered to obtain such a variety of foods—she certainly wasn't spoiled like this growing up.
"Nonsense. It's not every day a Kage comes to visit—especially one so handsome," she says, carrying even more snacks into the room. "Tell me the two of you will stay for dinner? I have our special soup prepared and your father and I simply can't finish it by ourselves."
Sakura raises a brow, watches her mother try to fit everything on the table. "Do we even have a choice?"
"Of course not," her father chuckles. "Mebuki's been slaving away from the moment you said you'd visit together."
Her mother sits down across from her, fixes them with a curious stare. "Sakura hasn't told us a thing about her visit, she didn't impose on you, did she?"
Gaara straightens beneath her gaze, glances at Sakura who shrugs her shoulders. "She couldn't." She's quite certain she did, he's just too nice to mention it. "I always enjoy her presence."
Way too nice, she thinks, knowing she hadn't exactly made life easy for him. "Actually, there's something I wanted to tell you," she says, looking at her parents, deciding it's easier to be upfront. She knows her mom already suspects something's going on—hence her careful probing—doesn't miss the way her eyes shoot between Gaara and her, without a doubt noting how close they're sitting. She feigns surprise at the news, but Sakura's known her long enough to see right through her; there's the hint of a smile, twitching at the corners of her lips. She takes a breath, holds her tea close to her heart. "Gaara and I…" she starts, senses the tension building and licks her lips, glancing down into her drink, the warm liquid undisturbed in her cup. "We've decided to try dating." It's out. Quick, painless, and somehow she feels lighter for it.
"Honey," her mother exclaims through a smile, "I'm so happy for the both of you!" She feels Gaara start to deflate, on edge despite her mother's enthusiasm, residual tension radiating off him. There will always be parts of him she doesn't quite know, blanks left by omission—he's already shared so much, but she can sense all of it's only scratching the surface. She doesn't know every single reason behind the tense set of his shoulders, subtle clench of his jaw, doesn't require it to understand it's an especially sore spot for him. Her mother turns to him, offers a well-meaning grin, unaware of the subtle anxiety lingering on his person—Sakura wonders when she'd started to notice such details herself. "Oh, you'll have to help me prepare dessert, being part of the family and all; it's something my mother and I would do and-"
"Mom," Sakura interjects, unsure how comfortable he would feel being stuck alone in a kitchen with her—above all, she doesn't want him to end up having an unpleasant time. Not while everything's a new experience for them both.
"I'd like to," he says without hesitation, a smile playing on his lips.
"That's the spirit," her father chimes in, raising his cup. "To young love!"
Sakura shakes her head, grins, and raises her own cup to bump against her father's. She knows her parents have often worried, especially when it came to who she loved; her struggles were never a well-kept secret. More often than not, she'd confide in her mom, seek comfort with her dad. They've been there throughout her life, supported her in all her choices, believed in her despite her failures. She knew they'd welcome Gaara with open arms, had even been hoping for the two of them to end up together. She sets her cup down, takes in their happy expressions, can't stop the next words from leaving her lips: "It's likely I'll move to Suna in the future." Neither of you resent my leaving you behind?
Her mother's smile doesn't falter, eyes crinkling with age. She leans forward, covers Sakura's hand with one of her own, squeezes lovingly. "We just want you to be happy, sweetie."
"Whatever you've been doing," her father addresses Gaara, "it's been a long time since I've seen my little girl so happy." He crosses his arms, nods approvingly as he strokes his moustache. "I'll admit I was sceptical about your tree-crushing ways of seduction at first-" Gaara stiffens, accidentally chokes on his tea, eyes wide as he swallows a cough, "-but I can tell you're a decent, respectable fellow."
"It really wasn-" he rushes, warily lowering his drink.
"I knew from the moment I set eyes on you," her father continues undisturbed, chucking several sweets into his mouth, "you'd win my daughter's heart this time around, no question."
"I didn't-"
Her father raises a hand to silence him. "Sometimes a man has to persevere—not too much, mind you; no is no—just enough. It might have taken you some time, but here you are, with the loveliest gal in all of Konoha attached to your arm!"
Gaara blinks, shoots a helpless look in Sakura's direction, soon releases a defeated breath. "Thank you."
She chuckles, runs a hand along his arm, squeezes his shoulder, unprepared for what her mother says next: "your council must be pleased too?" Neither of them move, both frozen in place. They hadn't even breached the subject yet; they were only dating after all, nothing definite. Sure, she's well aware she's already in too deep, her attachment settled in every remaining rift left by previous hurts. He's like a salve to old wounds, able to kiss away past aches, and she's certain she'd crumble to dust without him to breathe life into her.
"I have yet to officially inform them," he admits. "Though I'm fairly certain they're well-aware despite my lack of forthrightness."
"We're still figuring things out for ourselves," Sakura adds. "We don't want to rush any decisions."
"Of course not," her mother smiles. "You're both young with plenty of time." Sakura returns the expression, feels herself soften towards her mother, realising she hadn't intended to pressure them. She's always wanted children, knows he does too, still she doesn't dare assume he'd want them with her. He'd spoken of adoption, which would be fine, but she's yet to ask what he wants now they're involved. "Well then," her mother continues, standing from her place with a grin, "I'd like to borrow your man for some fun, family traditions."