Chapter Text
When she stirs, her mouth is dry, her head throbs, and there is a dull ache radiating through her limbs. It feels like clawing through mud to return to consciousness—like lifting a boulder without chakra enhancement, just to open her eyelids. A plain white shiplap ceiling greets her, and she squints up at it blearily, feeling faintly confused.
She isn’t quite sure why she’s confused. It’s a nice ceiling. She’s been thinking of putting shiplap up in her new condo to add a little design flare (and cover up the cracked and aging plaster). Whatever inn they’re at did a nice job with it and really, she should ask the manager for tips because she wants to do a little renovating this summer.
When she slowly sits upright, though, the rest of the room greets her and she frowns. It’s… nice. Very nice. It’s not the type of room she usually books when out on mission. Usually, she goes for a plain cupboard of a room with little more than a table and space for a sleeping mat. With Konoha (and all the major ninja villages) enjoying peacetime, missions are fewer, with discretionary mission budgets shrinking to match.
This place, though, is practically a furnished apartment. With pale blue damask wallpaper, shiny hardwood floors, and clean white baseboards tucked behind heavy wood furniture, it screams—perhaps not wealth, but well-to-do style and comfort. There are two windows on the opposite wall framed by artfully draped sheer curtains, the early afternoon light bleeding through opaque glass. A loveseat and coffee table sit in one corner, a table and chairs in the other, with a carved wooden dresser between the two windows sporting an attached mirror; and it is as she stares at her reflection she realizes why everything feels off.
She’s lying atop an enormous bed dressed in rumpled mission clothes, long pink braid sporting a few twigs while Kakashi sleeps beside her.
Her eyes narrow and she looks down at herself more closely. There are dirt stains on her tunic and grass stains on her knee braces, a bruise on her thigh and one on her upper arm. Her brow furrows, trying to remember what she’d been doing before this—but when she thinks back, her memory is hazy. She and Kakashi had been… in the forest. That was right! They were on a mission to investigate disappearances just south of the old Hidden Sound Village, along the northern border of fire. She can vaguely recall her and Kakashi’s casual banter as they moved through the trees, looking for anything amiss and finding nothing of note.
So… how had they ended up here? She doesn’t remember calling it a night and heading to a nearby township. Had they become victims themselves? Was this place some kind of cell?
“’Bout time you woke up.”
She startles and glances to the side, seeing Kakashi creak open one groggy eyeball beside her. She frowns at him, a hand moving to her heart to calm her racing pulse.
“Have you been awake this whole time?!”
He closes his eye and hums, stretching his arms above his head like a cat.
“Figured I’d catch up on some rest since our captors seem content to leave us be. Have to say, I’ve never been thrown in a prison cell like this before. It’s nicer than my apartment.”
He sits upright and offers her an eye-crinkle of a smile, but her frown remains.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You seemed tired.”
“Of course I did, genius, I was unconscious!” she rolls her eyes, but there is no real anger there. “I guess… we must have been knocked out and brought here?”
He merely offers a noncommittal shrug. She sighs, staring down at herself once more. There are no obvious wounds on her person. A couple scuffs and bruises, but nothing that would indicate any sort of laceration or injection site. Still—drugs could be administered in any number of ways. She turns her focus inward, attempting to gather her chakra to scan her metabolism, searching for traces of poisons or other drugs; but she finds her chakra strangely out of reach, her ability to grasp it as weak as a newborn. Her eyes pop open in alarm.
“Uh, Kakashi…” she begins, trying to keep the note of panic out of her voice, “Can… you access your chakra?”
He sits up at this, and after a moment of silence he frowns, voice losing its playful quality.
“…No.”
Sakura glances down at her wrists, pulling her feet closer to examine her ankles, even feels around her neck—but there are no chakra bindings of any sort. It must be a drug, then.
“Well… shit…” she mumbles, and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Her hands first go to her hip pouch, pulling it open and peering inside. She’s unsurprised to find her weapons missing, but she is surprised to find some of her other supplies in tact: her first aid kit, her poison test kit, and Naruto’s good luck charm are all present, though her field rations, soldier pills, and flint have been taken.
“You have any of your supplies?” she queries, checking her other pockets and pouches. Barring a few empty wrappers and used tissues, all are empty.
He shuffles to the edge of the bed himself before rising to stand, patting down his pockets.
“Just a cord of rope, Icha Icha, and…” He proudly holds up his own good luck charm, giving her a grin, and Sakura gives him a wry smile in return.
“Naruto gave you one too?”
“Ah, no—mine is from Tenzou,” he says, a touch more cheerfully—the name oddly emphasized; but his hidden meaning becomes clear when he rounds the bed and places the Omamori in her hand. She eyes him curiously a moment before turning it over in her hand—and suddenly she understands. There is something hard and oblong inside his good luck charm: one of Yamato’s tracking seeds. Bless the man.
She lets out a relieved sigh, handing the charm back to him.
“Well, a least we’ve got that; otherwise there’s not much useful between us.”
He tsk’s as he puts the charm back in his pouch, waving his book at her. “Never doubt the value of a good copy of Icha Icha, Sakura.”
She feels the urge to throw something at him. Perhaps its the increased time they’ve spent together the past few months—the long days (and sometimes nights) at Hokage tower, him shadowing Tsunade while she works with the Godaime and the Daimyo’s cabinet to finalize new drug regulations ahead of her promotion to Hospital Director; but he’s been trying to get her to finally read the series lately, and she’s just about had it. Ultimately, she does throw something at him, reaching for a book left lying on the bedside table. He catches it, of course—with one hand in midair. She frowns at him, and her frown only deepens when he glances at the title of the book in his hands and a pleased expression lights up his face.
“Tampopo Lailai?” he says, surprised, turning the book over, “She’s no Jiraiya, but her work isn’t bad…!”
This name Sakura actually knows—she has several volumes of the woman’s works hidden away on her living room bookshelf. A guilty pleasure, but the tender romances nursed her through the difficult few months after her breakup with Sasuke, and she’s never been able to admit it to anyone but Ino.
“Don’t tell me they’re stocking our prison cell with romance novels, of all things…?”
Kakashi hums and looks up from the book before glancing around the room. There is a small bookshelf beside the couch and he walks over to it, kneeling down to examine the selection.
“…They have the entire Icha Icha collection!” he exclaims with the particular glee only a lifelong fan of the series could conjure. “More Tampopo, Sugi Jihei… oh, some Ama Hokusai! Yep. Seems like it’s all romance and erotica.”
Sakura throws her hands in the air. “What kind of prison cell is this?!”
“The nice kind,” Kakashi offers pleasantly, reaching for “The Fisherman’s Wife” by Hokusai and settling down on the sofa. Sakura immediately snatches the book out of his hand as his backside hits the cushions and smacks him over the head with it.
“Ow…”
“We need to find a way out,” she snaps, “I won’t let you just sit around reading erotica while we wait for the extraction team to find us. Besides, they won’t be sent until we’re at least a week late on our return. I’m not waiting two weeks to get out of here!”
“Technically it would be two and a half, since we’re at least three days out from Konoha…”
She makes to smack him on the head with the book again, but he reaches for it before she can and plucks it from her hand, giving her an aggravatingly pleasant eye smile as he says smoothly: “I’ll search the left if you search the right?”
She frowns, crossing her arms, but nods anyway.
They search for at least an hour, but the room yields little. All of the furniture is bolted down except the two chairs tucked into the table, both made of a soft, lightweight wood. The painting on the wall of an idyllic pastoral scene—bolted to the wall. The air vent? Bolted to the ceiling. The windows? Fake—mere opaque panels hiding lights on timers to simulate a day/night cycle.
Even the dresser drawers are locked into their slots, unable to be fully withdrawn—though to her surprise there is an array of clothing and towels inside. It makes more sense once she gets to the door on her side of the room, opening it to find a tiny en suite bathroom, complete with a small shower, toilet, and freestanding sink. The door on Kakashi’s side, though, much like the windows, is there for looks only.
The only thing of any note she can find is a rectangular hairline crack on the wall beside the table, suggesting some sort of hidden panel; but it proves to be completely immovable when she tries to pry it open.
All-in-all, it is a bizarrely elaborate set up, the purpose of which she cannot fathom. She can only think it to be some kind of observation chamber, given the lack of any other clues. She suspects the mirror above the dresser is one-way observation glass, but like everything else it is bolted to the wall so she can’t be sure. She hangs a towel over it anyway, just in case.
By the time they flop, side-by-side, onto the couch, the fake windows are beginning to turn amber, suggestive of the waning hour of the day. There is no clock, so she can only guess it has to be somewhere around six in the evening. Certainly the grumbling of her stomach supports this assessment.
“I found nothing,” she says with a huff, leaning her head back on the couch’s cushioned backrest. “You?”
“The room is sealed tighter than Naruto’s mouth on a ramen bowl,” he agrees, and Sakura can’t help but smile at his colorful assessment, “Without chakra, I don’t see us getting out of here.”
Sakura’s stomach grumbles, and the smile immediately disappears. “They’ll have to dose us with more chakra suppressant if they don’t want us breaking out, right? So… do you think that means we’ll get food soon?”
“It’s not unlikely,” he replies with a thoughtful tilt of the head. “They want us for something, or they would have thrown us in your run-of-the-mill dank and dirty holding cell. Given all this effort,” he gestures around the room, “I doubt they’ll mistreat us too badly.”
Sakura grumbles as she lifts her legs up onto the coffee table. “’It’ll be an easy final mission’ she said! ‘End your active duty career on a win—a sure bet to avoid the ‘final mission curse!’ PAH!”
Beneath his mask, Kakashi smiles, threading his fingers behind his head as he leans back. “Well, they don’t call it a curse for nothing. Can’t think of a single shinobi who’s managed to avoid it. Besides, it could be worse.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles. “When did you become Mr. Optimism?”
He side-eyes her, giving her a look. “When I got saddled with becoming the next Hokage. If anything was learned during the reign of Tobirama Senju, it is that nobody wants a cynic for a leader.
Sakura snorts. “That’s… fair.”
They fall to silence for a while, and her eyes roam the room—over the bookcase, the table, the bed and side tables, the dresser. The room is eerily quiet, and it compels her to speak again to fill it.
“On that subject… How are you feeling about your upcoming inauguration? It’s only what, six weeks away?”
Kakashi lets out a noise that makes him sound like an aggrieved wet cat.
“Let’s not talk about that.”
Sakura grins. All the more reason to do just that. “I doubt they’ll like the Hokage wandering around reading Icha Icha in public,” she teases. “You might have to curb the habit.”
“Oh I don’t intend to be a well liked Hokage,” he counters. “I don’t have much to call my own, but I do have my reputation.”
She lets out a laugh. “What, as a pervert?”
“Pervert sounds so harsh; I prefer the term ‘misunderstood social pariah’.”
She rolls her eyes even as she smiles. She’s certainly come to understand and empathize with his habit a bit more, after breaking things off with Sasuke. Tampopo got her through a lot of lonely nights she otherwise would have spent sobbing into her pillow. It makes her wonder just how long and lonely his days were—still are—that he always carries around his favorite volume in his pocket, even half a decade into peacetime.
“Well,” she says, a bit more serious now, “I think you’ll be a great Hokage. Reputation and all.”
He turns and smiles at her, affection in his eyes. “And I think you’ll be a great director of Konoha Hospital.”
Her own smile grows and she looks up at him with warmth; however that warmth turns cold at his next words.
“I’m, ah… assuming you’ll get a new office?”
She bites her lip and looks away.
“…Uh. Yeah. I’ll take over Shizune’s office on the top floor.”
“Good! That’s… good…”
Silence pervades again, this time thick and awkward. She keeps her eyes on the fake windows, her knee bouncing lightly with agitation; and despite herself she can’t help but speak in her defense.
She turns back to him, brow furrowed. “Look, I… Sasuke came by that day to congratulate me too, just before you did, and I… I lost my temper with him. It was a stupid thing to do, I know. It was my own office.”
She’s sure he can put two and two together without her needing to say it. She moved out of the Uchiha compound the following week, and word began to spread around Konoha about their breakup only a few weeks later.
He remains silent and she dares to look at him. He leans forward onto his knees, now watching her with gentle, assessing eyes, and she feels something in her crumble, looking away again.
“It was just… it was like like he couldn’t even see me,” she murmurs bitterly, the old hurt resurfacing as she revists the incident she’s put so much effort into putting from her mind. “Like after the war, he just reverted back to how he saw me before he deserted, like I was still that weak, simpering little twelve year old girl who wanted nothing more than to marry him and have his babies and bring him breakfast in bed…” she makes a face, and resists kicking the coffee table, reminding herself she doesn’t have access to her chakra enhanced strength, nor her healing abilities. “But I’m just… I’m not! I never really was. I have a temper, I’m competitive, opinionated, definitely not delicate, and I want to be a working mother someday not a housewife and he just… he didn’t get it. So when he came to my office that day and tried to—“ she bites her tongue, swallowing the words she hasn’t yet had the courage to share with anyone, and shakes her head. “I just… I lost my temper.”
Kakashi is quiet a moment before he replies candidly, “Well. You can rest assured I will take great strides to remain on your good side.”
She looks up to find him giving her an eye squint smile, and doesn’t miss the effort at levity—at relieving the tension of an unpleasant topic, and can’t help the affection she feels warming her breast, nor the softening of her angry frown.
“How long have you been wanting to ask about that?”
“Oh, since the moment I walked over to the hospital to congratulate you and found a pile of rubble behind your office door.”
She lets out a quiet laugh. Standing there where her exterior wall used to be, blinking dumbly at him as he stood in her doorway with a bouquet of flowers ‘Ino insisted he bring’… it was far from one of her finer moments.
“I’m surprised Naruto didn’t tell you about it. I’m pretty sure I complained to him about Sasuke’s failings as a romantic partner almost as much as I did to Ino.”
“Contrary to his behavior over almost a decade, Naruto has learned some discretion.”
Sakura smiles wryly. It seemed even blond idiots could learn new tricks, given enough time.
“Well… now you know.”
He’s quiet a moment before murmuring, voice soft and sincere, “For what it’s worth… I think it’s Sasuke’s loss. You’re an incredible woman, Sakura, and I’m honestly surprised he didn’t try harder to hold onto you.”
She turns to look up at him, finding him staring down at her with none of his usual ambivalence or playful teasing, but instead a sincere smile shining in his eyes. She’s… a bit surprised by it, but nonetheless heartened, and feels an equally sincere smile tug at her lips.
“… Thanks, Kakashi. I—“
There is a snap, a creak, and the sudden slide wood on wood which startles her and draws both their attentions to the far wall, tense and alert; but no one greets them. Instead, they see the wall panel by the table Sakura had noticed earlier pull open, a tray sporting two food-filled plates now sitting atop the table. Before either of them can blink, the panel snaps shut, and silence once more permeates the room.
“Well, I guess that’s our dinner.”
Sakura can feel her mouth water and a moment later her stomach growls. She frowns and beside her Kakashi chuckles as he rises to stand, moving to the table.
“Do you have enough test strips in your poison kit to last a few meals?”
“Yeah,” she answers, rising to follow him, “But they’re for poisons, not chakra suppressants. I won’t be able to—“
“I know,” he responds easily, pulling out one of the dining chairs and sitting on it. “But so long as we can at least determine eating it won’t kill us, one of us can keep up our strength while the other lets the chakra suppressant burn off. Given your skill set, I figure it would be better for me to be the guinea pig.”
Sakura stares mournfully at the two plates of food and despairs. It is sound logic—her chakra-enhanced strength will do far more to bust them out than any of his jutsu—but each plate is heaped with a rather generous portion of sautéed salmon, rice, and steamed vegetables. There is even a bottle of Sake filled with plenty for the both of them. What kind of jailers provided their prisoners with booze?!
‘The nice kind,’ Kakashi’s voice reminds her in her head, and she can’t help but frown.
“…Alright,” she agrees with a grumble, reaching into her hip pouch for her poison test kit. “But only if you don’t sound too happy eating. I’m starving.”
He gives her a cheerful little salute and with no small amount of irritation she sets about testing each item of food. She’s a little disappointed when all four test strips return negative—poison free and entirely edible. True to his word, though, Kakashi eats with discretion, keeping happy noises and contented chewing sounds to a minimum. She sits opposite him at the table, staring at her full plate and doing her best to ignore the emptiness in her stomach, but halfway through his meal it becomes too much. She pushes out her chair and rises, moving to the dresser with a sigh. At least they gave them a spare change of clothes. She’s filthy from a long three days of travel.
“I’m going to go try out the shower,” she calls, fresh clothes in hand. The dresser isn’t stocked with anything fancy, but the cotton tee shirt and drawstring shorts will be a welcome relief from her sweat and dirt-stained mission clothes. Kakashi simply raises a fork at her and she scowls at him before crossing the room and slamming the bathroom door shut behind her.
The facilities, like everything else in this bizarre prison cell, are quite nice. The shower head has a nice wide, soothing spray, the water heats quickly, and the towels are plush. The soap and shampoo are unscented, but lather nicely and remove the sweat and grime from her scalp with ease. By the time she steps out, dries off, and changes into the cotton clothes provided for them, she feels significantly better—even with an empty stomach.
She’s braiding her long hair over one shoulder as she steps back out into their room, and finds that the “sun” set while she was in the shower. Kakashi has turned on a light beside the couch and has his familiar orange book in his hand, lounging on the loveseat. She rolls her eyes and approaches the low bookshelf, reaching for the Hokusai novel. It’s the smallest on the shelf and she’s never read it. She might as well entertain herself while she’s stuck here.
“I’m taking the bed,” she informs him with a raised chin, daring him to raise objection. If he gets the meal, she at least gets the good night’s sleep. He merely hums and flips a page, so she turns with a bit of a huff and hops up onto the plush bed spread.
She didn’t appreciate it when they were first waking, but the sheets are nothing short of luxurious: six hundred thread count cotton at least, smooth as silk, and a deep cherry red. Even the quilted coverlet is soft, its stitching intricate and its dark color as rich as the sheets. She flips on the bedside lamp, props the pillows (real down!) and settles against the headboard to read. She isn’t sure how long she’ll last; for as acclaimed as Hokusai’s works are among the romance readers of Fire Country, it’s been a long day—she’s tired from spending the morning scouring the wilds of fire for evidence of kidnappers, and whatever method they used to knock them out in the forest still has her feeling a bit sore—her ass in particular. Or perhaps she simply fell on it when she passed out.
Still. Of all the ways her final mission as an active duty shinobi could go awry, she supposes things could be worse than sharing a nicely furnished hotel room with a friend.
He’s halfway through the chapter in which Daisuke gives Junko rather spectacular oral when he begins to feel… unusually aroused. He doesn’t notice right away—it’s been a long day with a lot of twists and turns and his body is tired and sore and frankly, he’s quite absorbed in Jiraiya’s vivid prose; but perhaps that’s the most telling part. He flips the pages avidly, utterly absorbed (more than usual), scarcely taking a breath until Junko herself reaches climax. And once the tension of the scene is over he sits back, takes that breath—and that’s when he finally notices the ache between his legs and the tightness of his pants.
He frowns down at his lap.
He has read this book hundreds if not thousands of times—in public no less!—without so much as a twitch. And now, of all times, it gives him a raging hard-on?
Discreetly, he glances up and peers at Sakura. She wears one of the loose, thin cotton tee shirts stocked in the dresser, the neck of which nearly goes shoulder to shoulder, tucked into the sheets with a book in hand held at chest height. He recognizes the cover—“The Fisherman’s Wife”, possibly the most explicit book on the shelf (though he doubts she’s aware of that fact or she probably wouldn’t have chosen it). She is, perhaps, becoming aware of it, though, because her eyes are wide, glued to the pages, her cheeks flushed pink and her lower lip caught between her teeth.
For a moment he stares, his heart thudding against his ribcage and his cock giving a weak throb, and he considers, for a moment how alluring that blush is—how plump and pink her lips are…
His eyes go wide with alarm. No. Oooooh no. He turns from her and stares down at the familiar pages of Icha Icha, unseeing, fingers gripping tight to the cover as he tries to pull himself as far away from those thoughts as possible.
He’s not blind. Like most men (and quite a few women) of Konoha, he’s become very aware over the past several years how lovely a woman Sakura has become. He remembers thinking, when he learned of her and Sasuke’s break up six months prior, that it was truly a sign of how badly he’d failed Sasuke as a mentor that the the man had snagged himself a woman with everything—looks, a big heart, and talent in the shinobi arts rivaling that of a Hokage—and he’d let her slip right through his clumsy fingers.
But no matter that she has long since become an adult and a powerful shinobi in her own right, he cannot help but be keenly aware of the fact that she is still fourteen years his junior—that he had been her teacher once, for however brief a time; that he was about to become her Hokage. It is unacceptable for him to feel… this, about her—even if it was brought about by his beloved Icha Icha.
His hard-on isn’t the least bit diminished after five straight minutes of strained, silent meditation, and he realizes he will need to take more drastic action. He quietly closes his book and tip-toes to the dresser to avoid drawing her attention. He finds clothing similar to her own—cotton drawstring pants, a lose tee shirt, and a pair of plain briefs. He takes the bundle and holds it casually over the bulge in his pants as he heads to the bathroom without a word, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Nearly ten minutes later, Kakashi stands beneath a spray of cold water, shivering, hands on the wall, trying to think of every mundane thing he can summon to mind—the contents of his fridge, the amount of dirty clothing currently occupying the laundry hamper in his apartment, the price of miso at the market before he left. He’s horrified to realize nothing is working to soften his erection. Of all the times for his dick to get a mind of its own, it’s when he’s sharing a small enclosed space with a woman he would never dream of sleeping with? The universe is truly cruel.
Is it because he’s gone without for too long? He can’t remember the last time he had a good lay. Though far from celibate, he tended to avoid casual encounters, if and when he could. Generally speaking, he isn’t one to allow himself to get close to people. The few who could describe themselves as such—Guy, Tenzou, Naruto, Sakura, Sasuke—had all become so entirely by accident, not by desire or intent. And sex—even casual sex—had a way of worming under his skin.
Though perhaps it isn’t his latest prolonged dry spell at all—Maybe the stress is just finally getting to him. After all, he’ll be inaugurated within a few weeks of their return as the Rokudaime Hokage, and he’s been busier than he can ever remember being getting ready for the transition of power.
He is forced to concede to himself, all circumstances taken into account, that there are quite a number of reasons he might be unable to control his libido. So maybe, instead of fighting it, he should just give in and let off some steam. Sakura is well enough distracted, and he’s long overdue anyway.
With a sigh he presses his head to the wall in defeat, turns the water back to warm, and reaches down wrapping his fingers around his quivering cock. The touch alone makes him groan, rough fingers wrapping around warm, sensitive flesh. Pressure quickly coils in his abdomen as he firms his grip and begins to stroke, eyes shut tight. It feels… oddly spectacular. He can feel the rough shape of every callous on his hand, the tiniest of changes in pressure and speed with acute sensitivity. When was the last time masturbation had felt this good? He can’t even recall. Is this what God knows how many months of abstinence results in?
His limbs feel simultaneously loose and taut, licks of heat and pleasure spreading outward as his pace increases. His hips push into his hand, thoughts unspooling into incoherent fragments as he gets closer to a tense climax. Pieces of the last chapter of Icha Icha float through his mind: Junko’s cunt dripping down quivering thighs, her hands tight in the bed sheets as Daisuke pins her down—lapping at her slit as she breathes heavily and bites her lip…
Sakura’s teeth biting her lip—a flush spread across her face and green eyes wide with unhidden arousal…
“Hnngg!”
He comes with a start, vision sparking, pleasure erupting along his nerves and spreading like wildfire through his body. Dimly he can feel the heat of his cum drip onto his hand, and slowly—achingly slowly, the pressure inside of him eases. He pants against the tile, his eyes wide.
What the fuck was that?!
He shuts his eyes again, water dripping down his fringe and onto his cheeks, and tries to center himself—to clear his mind and get it as far away from inappropriate thoughts of one Haruno Sakura as possible. But it is a strained effort, because no sooner has his release cooled on his knuckles than he feels the ache in his cock return—less intense than before, but nonetheless insistently present.
One isn’t going to be enough.
He groans and resists smacking his forehead against the tile (lest it draw the attention of the woman he is trying very hard not to think about). Okay. His libido is really out of check. That’s… okay. He can crank out one more. Just… get it all out of his system, get himself back under control—and remind himself, once they get out of here, to never allow such a savage dry spell to run away with him again.
This time, he focuses on something specific from the start. It was probably seeing Sakura looking so flustered right before he came in here that did it—that’s all. He just needs to focus on different sexual stimulus. Who was the last person he slept with? His mind casts back, and dimly he recalls a slender redhead, just after a solo mission in Grass a year or so ago.
He summons the memory of her—recalling the smooth expanse of her skin beneath his hands, the way her back had arched beneath him, breasts pressing into his chest as her hands reached up to clutch the sheets; her long hair— a warm, soft red, spreading about her head like a halo. It seems to be working. His thoughts remain fixated on the memory of her face, her fluttering lashes and heavy breathing and long, wild hair, pleasure building quickly with each heavy stroke of his hand.
But then suddenly, the thought occurs unbidden: red isn’t so different from pink.
He tries to to halt his train of thought—turn it back or redirect it onto something else; but like an avalanche of snow his thoughts (and his orgasm) are already starting to tumble down the mountain, gaining speed and momentum and building into a frightful, unstoppable force.
His traitorous mind mind begins to blend memory with fantasy. He recalls the feel of her tight cunt squeezing his cock as she writhed beneath him, her hands curled into his hair, his tight around her hips as thrust into her; only when he looks down at her, her hair is not red but pink, her eyes not amber but a bright, iridescent green, lower lip pinched between her teeth as she gazes up at him, familiar eyes half-lidded with pleasure. He thrusts up into her, brutal and deep, and she keens. His wicked mind even replaces the sound she makes, Sakura’s little whine of pleasure whenever she bites into a fresh stick of dango suitable to the scene his imagination is weaving. His hand tightens around his cock, no matter how he tries to let it go, imagining it’s Sakura—her strong thighs squeezing his hips as her tight heat squeezes his cock. He strokes faster, breathless, imagining those ferocious jade eyes boring into his, plump pink lips whispering urgently: “Sensei, please…!”
No matter that she hasn’t called him that in half a decade, no matter that he’s never entertained such a fantasy before; the imagined sound of her voice uttering those words while his cock is buried to the hilt inside of her is his undoing. He can’t control the volume of his voice this time, cum splattering the tile wall as he shakes and shudders and groans with his orgasm, her face burned into the backs of his eyelids—jade eyes bright and taunting, as if to say: “Aren’t you a naughty Sensei, Ka-ka-shi~?”
The relief of release is not enough to cool the fire in his blood, now. He’d thought a second orgasm would be sufficient to calm his libido, but it seems to have had the opposite effect, instead adding fuel to the fire. He feels faintly crazed; needs more, needs a body to touch and taste and burn beneath him—burn with him. But he knows, right now, he only has his hand and will have to make due with nothing more than that.
He forcefully pushes away the little voice in the back of his mind that reminds him of the body lying in bed on the other side of the bathroom door.
His teeth clench and his free hand curls into a fist against the tile wall. Despite the shame which gnaws at him he grips the tender flesh of his cock and slowly strokes himself to attention again. It’s alarming how quickly he bounces back from orgasm, how quickly that delirious heat rises to fill him again—how easily the pleasure washes away the guilt.
He comes a third time, attempting to think of his favorite scene in Icha Icha Innocence only to have his mind once more betray him, imagining Sakura’s lips wrapped around his cock instead of Junko’s, gripping her hair and pulling her mouth down, down, down to his balls, his cock head pressing into the back of her throat, the muffled moan he imagines her making sending him into spasming release.
By the time he starts his fourth, he’s too mired in it—too hungry for more of that sharp, electric pleasure to bother stopping his thoughts from wandering to the woman just beyond the door. His heart pounds as he imagines the softness of her skin beneath his hands, the wetness between her powerful thighs as he dips his fingers inside her, the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her tight heat as he presses her down and bottoms out inside of her, stretching her with his considerable girth, the sound of her whimpers and moans as she begs for more, crying out his name. He is too wrapped up in the heady pleasure of it all, in the fire burning him from the inside out, the delicious pressure low in his belly as that coil of pleasure winds tighter and tighter with each new filthy imagining. And when he comes again—violent and stuttering—he groans her name beneath the stream of water, imagining he’s speaking it against her dripping cunt instead.
When the inferno of pleasure briefly ebbs into a flickering flame, he has the presence of mind to recognize that he has completely and utterly violated a decade’s worth of trust, and perhaps actually is the vile pervert he is so frequently accused of being. He also realizes he is completely and utterly fucked, because he has no idea how on earth he will be able to go out there after this and look at her with a straight face.
But then the heat rises in his blood once more, and the promise of that sweet, delirious release of pleasure and endorphins looms before him and his hand is moving before he can think not to, stroking his cock to attention and setting his nerves alight once more, images of Sakura’s mischievous eyes and clever hands dancing across his mind’s eye.
Dimly he thinks he’d go to Hell for this, if there weren’t so many other things he’s already going to Hell for.
By the time he shuffles out of the bathroom, arousal finally defeated, it feels as though hours have passed—though of course he can’t be sure as there are no clocks, only the barely-there illumination of the windows imitating a dim night sky. Sakura is fast asleep, for which he is exceedingly grateful. He makes his way over to the couch and sits down heavily, wobbly legs quick to give out beneath him, and hangs his head in his hands.
What he fuck had he been thinking?
The arousal which had burned through his veins like molten fire, muddying his thoughts and driving him heedlessly from one orgasm to the next, was now oddly absent. He feels hollow now, as though a foreign entity had possessed him—pressed into him to make room for itself, leaving a hole behind in its wake. His mind feels clear, and the gravity of what he’s done—of what he’d thought—hits him like the full force of one of Sakura’s punches.
He’d utterly debased her, his imagination using her body in every conceivable way to bring himself to climax. And sure, it had only been in his imagination, just thoughts and fantasies and daydreams; but before this mission he would never have done something like this—has never done something like this before, to any woman.
The worst part is that, even as clear headed as he feels now, the thoughts linger. They are burned into his mind like a brand into skin, and now that he’s imagined them, he cannot un-imagine them. Where before his awareness of her lithe figure and attractive features was objective and platonic, now it is edged with arousal and want.
With a growl he smacks his head with his palms and sits upright, hair tickling his cheeks. He feels uncomfortably exposed without his mask, but the shirt had been too dirty to wear again so he’d washed it in the sink and hung it over the shower curtain rod to dry, along with the rest of his clothes. He hadn’t been overly concerned for his privacy—as one of the few medics he allows to do his annual physical, Sakura has seen his face many times (the only one on team 7 who has), and it does not escape him that the one person who has shown his boundaries the most respect and courtesy is also the one whose boundaries he has now obliterated.
He scrubs his face with a weary sigh and flops onto the loveseat, long legs draped over the arm rest, wallowing in shame and self-pity. Never again. He’ll spend the night pulling himself together, get a few hours shut-eye if he’s lucky, and start tomorrow fresh. With any luck her chakra suppressant will be starting to wear off by morning—unlike most ninja, her chakra efficiency is such that she doesn’t need much to be able to smash through a wall—and then they can get out here (and he can start thinking about just how big a bouquet of pink peonies he’ll need to buy her to make up for his debauchery, even if she doesn’t understand what they are for).
He’ll make it work. He can get past this.
It’ll be… fine.