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On Bedmates and Drinking Partners	By : emmel Category: Naruto > Het - Male/Female Views: 1080 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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- 1-On Bedmates and Drinking Partners
- 1
On bedmates and drinking partners

Despair was a poor drinking companion. It
rendered each libation an unceremonious dunking into the brackish water of
oblivious Lethe, but only for a few fleeting moments. It was like drowning in
an abysmal well, but with lungs that never quite fill up with water. It was to
have one's eyes coated with an inky translucence through which one could still
make out silhouettes. It was stopping one's ears with one's fingers, which
wouldn't really stop whatever hateful sounds one had wanted to elude in the
first place.

Uchiha Sasuke thus rarely lingered over wine
cups. He took alcohol for formalities and ceremonies, a toast for each newborn
child, for example, each Konoha nin returned alive. Whatever sorrows he would
own to, he drowned with strong black tea. (He was also known to drown anger
with blood--an ally's or an enemy's, he was supposedly indiscriminate, making
him a sinister, controversial choice for chief of the recently revived
military police---he had never deigned to address such accusations.) For the
most part, however, he didn't seem to have much need of any sort of panacea.
He had enough of the simple contentment to balance with the innate ambition
that had always been his driving force in life. Homey routines boxed his
vision into a narrow set of tracks: there wasn't an unending road to look at,
to wonder what lay beyond the rest of it swallowed by the horizon. There
wasn't a monster of a mountain to gaze up to, to dream of climbing and
conquering. It was just every day living, each day not quite the same, but
each one bearing an echo of another before it.

A whirl of faces, places. A pattern on
cloth, repetitive, minimally variable. A fabric knitted by hand, unfinished,
in progress. . . Such was his life.

Despair was no good either, as a bed mate.
It subtracted rest from sleep; sometimes, there's none of even the latter
left. It distorted time, such that an hour was an eternity, a heartbeat was
the lifetime of a galaxy. It reduced the world to a dense, impenetrable box
and one's sluggish brain, with one not knowing which was imprisoned within
which.

Sasuke thrived on toil, be it physical labor
or an exercise of the mind. He threw himself to his work relentlessly. In this
way, he had little time left to ponder on his station in life, on what had
been and what should have been, on what he had done and not done. Not that he
didn't ponder at all. He simply didn't do it enough to allow the myriad of
conflicting thoughts to nudge his hands. It was how he remained grounded,
calm, steady. Yet, Sasuke didn't slept by himself. (Nights were most
dangerous, see. One could get lost in its shadowed convolutions. To explore
without the aid of sunlight, be it a mundane foreign territory for a
reconnaissance mission or a brooding internal monologue, one ran the risk of
getting irredeemably lost.) He kept himself occupied in bed, be it by simply
holding her in his arms or by indulging in something more involved, more
pleasurable.

(By "her," he did not mean Despair, though
sometimes, he couldn't help but project it on her, couldn't help but qualify
his despair through hers---she despaired, too, of course she did. Her light
eyes, the shadow underneath them, gave it away, no matter how she tried to
hide it. )

It was late at night when he arrived home,
but for once he didn't stink of the usual hunt. There was a gathering in one
of the great shinobi houses of Konohagakure no Sato, another celebration for
another birth. Sasuke felt he had lost count of his peers' offspring long ago.
At times, he felt like he had to wade through toddlers and infants before
being able to speak to a comrade about a mission or something similar. There's
a certain shifting of loyalties now, vague minuscule differences in what was
important and what wasn't so.

There was a little less demand for
explanations, too---only a little bit. And when none could be given, most
friends were a tad more willing to take an answer on sheer faith, a tad more
apt to simply establish a plan B, a safety net. (They wove this by hand, too.
Daily. Slowly.) They were all older, but not always as wise as they were
supposed to be. But they were wary.

They were all wary.

She had gone home several hours earlier than
he did. She wasn't tired (not more so than most of them) nor did she dislike
the company, but she also had one of those infants and toddlers afoot. She was
wary, too, and in her case, she worried about the draft and the agents of
decay that rode on crackling airships of orange and brown, settling by piles
on the hardening earth. She worried about upper respiratory infections,
bronchitis, and pneumonia, croup and whooping cough, and a whole basket of
medical phrases that were meaningless to him. He listened to her, and briefly
worried as well, even though he secretly maintained the belief that she could
cure anything and everything, especially little childhood diseases that had
nothing at all on extensive bodily damage from some elite blood limit jutsu,
things even rival ninja villages would come begging for her
interventions.

His son was already asleep when he arrived
home. Shun was lying on his side, a fist bunched up near a puckered mouth, as
if he only was barely resisting suckling on that thumb. He was clothed warmly
with the colors of the house, midnight blues and slivers of whites and reds.
The bonnet that covered the head-full of dark hair was an incongruous pink,
however, a handmade little thing created by his mother before he was born.
(For the first three months, Sakura was firmly convinced that she was
definitely getting a girl. Later, she reasoned that pink was a masculine color
in some cultures and continued to knit minuscule clothing that matched the
tint of her hair, a hobby he found exasperating some nights.) Sasuke stood
before the crib for uncounted minutes, riveted by the steady rise and fall of
the infant's abdomen. It was like knitting, like living. A set group of
actions, a pattern, repetitive and minimally variable. He ran a finger along
an arm, across the forehead, very lightly, very gently, then detached himself
and headed for the bathroom.

His hair lay limply about his head, when he
came out later. The heat from his shower emanated deliciously from his body,
though he himself felt the glib touch of cold air rushing quick to cool him
down. He ignored this, as he tended to do with weather on a whole, and stood
by the bed for more uncounted minutes, wearing only a pair of midnight blue
pajama bottoms, the top piece of which was slung on a door knob somewhere. She
was lying on her side in the middle of the bed, wrapped in sheets, bone white
under moonlight. The comforter was bunched up about her knees, tossed aside,
perhaps, at some point during the night. Abandoned beside her were three wool
balls, skewered by knitting needles, and the beginnings of another project.
Sasuke could make out a pattern on it, the beginnings of a paper fan, he
supposed, and he moved them to the bedside table, instead of the tempting
option of chucking everything out the window.

She stirred when he finally settled on his
side of the bed, a glint of emerald through a grayish mop, accompanied by his
murmured name. He inched nearer her and pulled up the comforter to cover them
both. He stopped midway and yanked out the sheets to be able to wiggle into
its folds. It peeled open to reveal a creamy shoulder and the beguiling hint
of her neck. He pressed his windburned lips on her shoulder and then on the
tender flesh just over her pulse point. She shifted slightly and now lay
supine, then she pulled him down to her and kissed him briefly.

"Wet your lips," was the sleepy command that
followed.

He took this as an invitation for something
more, and busied his hands even as he leaned down once again and imperiously
made her moisten his lips herself. She seemed a little more awake that second
time, leaning her body against his touch, a short hitching moan escaping from
her throat as he delved deeper with his tongue. One of his hands found
purchase on one of her breasts when her fingers began twining about his damp
hair, her strong hands lightly massaging his temples. With some difficulty,
she pushed him away after a few moments, a barely detectable furrow between
her brows as she scrutinized his expressionless face under the low ambient
nightlight.

"What's wrong, Sasuke?" she asked. Any break
from his usual patterns made her a tad apprehensive. Spontaneity, he supposed,
wasn't something he usually went for.

"Nothing," he said and relocated his hands
to safer parts of her anatomy.

He broke free to reposition himself, to
remove the full brunt of his weight from her body. A spattering of kisses he
distributed about her face as he did so, tangling his hand with hers, tracing
her waist with the other. It was a little too warm, he realized, so he knocked
away the comforter he had earlier pulled about them. He resumed scattering his
kisses, beginning from the tip of her chin, up her jawline, and unto an ear;
then, open-mouthed, he went down her neck, to her clavicle, and back to the
shoulder with which he started.

"I thought you said we'd wait," she said
suddenly.

"I don't care. Can you really plan these
things?"

She leaned her head to his direction, an
oddly petulant pose that profiled her face against the moon. He obliged and
again their lips met, timidly on her part, lazily on his. After a final, more
zealous, nip at his bottom lip, she pulled away, breathless.

"I don't mind," she murmured, pulling their
joined hands to her chest. "But if Shun wakes up. . ."

"The first one to finish will go."

"But only if you last, Sasuke-kun," she
quipped.

He ignored her impish rejoinder, distracted
by her more fecund offering. Already, her nipple was hard against his palm, a
tiny, misplaced, keenly sensitive marble, especially through the gossamer
fabric of her nightie. Sasuke submerged himself under the covers to answer
their eagerness, his answering hardness equal in anticipation, and within
seconds he had her negligee removed. He suckled on her, an erotic mimic of his
child's instinctive movements. Sakura stifled her gasps with increasing
difficulty, especially with his hands now free to explore elsewhere. His right
hand's first stop was the ample mound of flesh near his neck; all the while
his tongue toyed with its neighbor's spry peak, his teeth even grazing the
hypersensitive nub once or twice.

The muzzling kisses continued as he traveled
downhill, even as as he repositioned his body between her legs. She gasped as
his abdomen came to settle against her crotch, but he ignored that and instead
began a maddeningly slow meander about her belly, caressing the rest of her
body with his wandering hands. There was a little flab left from her recent
pregnancy, the amount of which he would usually exaggerate whenever she
badgered him about scrutinizing the figure she insisted she was trying to get
back to. (Truth be told, he found her roly-poly version as pleasing as her
pliant, spare form, and didn't particularly care either way; it was the same
tenacious mind inside the body and he didn't mind a dose of both once in a
while.) He laved her belly, moving concentrically inward, till ages after---at
least, that was how long Sakura perceived it---he finally reached her navel.

The path he cut towards her left breast, was
a little bit faster. He latched on to the angry teat and appeased it roughly
with his tongue, but he didn't linger as long as he did on its twin. Before
embarking on the southward trip, he paused to lavish a love-bite on the tender
underside of that globe. Even so, Sasuke pointedly ignored the place that
longed for the attention most. He explored the nuances of both her svelte
thighs first, making her jerk with each errant kiss that came too near her
core, the generator of the heat that had already engulfed her entire being,
the ultimate source of that feverish curtain that restricted her brain to only
thinking strangely flights-of-fancy-esque notions (which usually became the
topics of their usually irrational post-coital pseudo-conversations.)

Sasuke regained her attention when he made a
tentative lick to the glistening slit between her legs. She held her breath as
his mouth hovered near to kiss her nether lips, squirmed when he began at the
periphery, not where she needed him most. Her anticipation came to a head when
the whip-like flicks of his tongue finally lashed the tiny bud of nerves, and
Sakura was unable to stop the low keening wail from issuing forth her gritted
teeth. Her husband stopped his ministrations to gruffly demand her
silence.

"Don't shush me!" she whispered back hotly,
perhaps more irritated by his return to the less erogenous parts of her vulva,
than by his peremptory manner.

The flag in pace did not last long, for she,
rather vindictively, pushed him back down to his work with both hands, weaving
her fingers about his hair. He coaxed her to bloom open, wider, and the sudden
onset of suction on her clitoris was immediately joined by two fingers
stabbing up her dripping portal. Sakura yelped piteously at this sudden
intrusion, but she was able to minimize her subsequent moans into gasps and
short grunts. She spread wider, arched higher, till he thought she might
succeed breaking herself in two.

"No," she protested suddenly. "Stop!"

He didn't, but she was able to push him away
successfully after several lackluster tries.

"No fair, Sasuke," she gasped out. "I want
it. I want--"

He almost spilled all over her hand when she
grabbed for him. Subject to the same demands of desire, he shifted until he
came face to face with her once more, then kissed her with searing passion,
sharing her own taste with her.

"Wet enough for you?" he taunted.

Impossibly, she blushed an even deeper
scarlet, even though desire has had her flushed and feverish since he began.
His lips weren't dry at all, her vaginal juices coating them. As he positioned
himself over her opening, he eased the pressure of his mouth against her,
lapping about its rim instead, skirting the boundaries of her lips, then
plunging back in, the same moment he thrust his pelvis in one clean motion. He
was sheathed deep within her, her impassioned cry still burning his ears, his
cheeks, his chest. . . A brief pause, wherein he merely held her, felt the
world contract, expand, into just the two of them, just their singularity.

She didn't ask him again what was wrong,
instead kissing him tenderly on the cheek he had desperately pressed against
hers.

"It's okay," she mouthed against his flesh,
then tentatively shifted her hips. He gasped as a bolt of pleasure speared up
his guts, igniting deeply-seated human instincts, movements already programmed
into the base of the brain. His immediate reaction was to push back in, to
jealously annex the little she had regained when she repositioned her derriere
more comfortably, but only to ease his way back out, then back again, out. . .
A lingering, pendulous seesaw that merely fermented a near-palpable
frustration in her. Her back was painfully flexed, her hormone-engorged
breasts punctuating each languorous thrust, her arms twined with the light
sheet that formerly blanketed her.

She threw her arms open, suddenly, as if to
encompass their whole universe in the gesture, a demand for more contact, more
shared touch. He relinquished her hips, with which he had governed her every
movement, and bent over to gather the rest of her in his hold, his pace
gaining force and speed. She yielded to his possessive embrace, but claimed
her own with ravenous kisses.

It was like knitting, like living. A set
group of actions, a pattern, repetitive and minimally variable. He moved with
her, a practiced dance of motions and sensations, shared his sounds with hers,
muffling their duet in their conjoined mouths. She was his center and focus,
the axis around which he coiled, tensed, breathed.

He snapped, shattered, whatever other
euphemism applicable, he came, her name on his tongue, in his every cell. She
dissolved in his climax, thereafter, lagging behind a mere heartbeat, their
cries of release concordant. He came out of the white-hot blaze first, senses
dulled, smarting from the deluge of bone-grinding pleasure. But he was keenly
aware of her every nuance as he held her, steadied her as she basked in the
aftershocks of her sustained denouement.

Sakura sighed as her body gradually relaxed,
then with a sleepy laugh, whispered in his ear. Sasuke merely grunted in
reply, eventually surrendering to the coaxing of slumber.

--

Floating away in a river of bliss would be a
way to say it, but no notion could have been more furtively or swiftly kicked
aside. Uchiha Sasuke had been retrieved from depths of sleep by the piercing
cry he had come to know the past four months, only awake enough to reject the
saccharine thought that came
to him with consciouness. He remained
motionless, eyes closed, but his senses were alert, probing.

His wife of three years stirred beside
him.

"First one to finish, you said."

He didn't answer.

"Playing possum on a mednin?" she continued
drowsily. "Really, Sasuke-kun."

He stood up and silently padded to the
adjoining room, where his son bawled in the sturdy crib Sakura built herself.
Sasuke picked up the child from the crib; Shun quieted almost immediately. He
looked up at his father, unsmiling, but with eyes bright with interest, as he
always did. Sakura had been concerned about this peculiar behavior of the
baby, but she was assuaged by the fact that Shun giggled and babbled at her,
usually smiling when other people played with him. But not so with Sasuke.
Shun did watch his father intently, often holding out his tiny hands before
him to grab at a nose, or an ear, or a stray lock of hair. He matched his
father's silences, however, and it was oddly this silence that pacified him
when distressed. Sakura once laughingly observed that her two boys seemed to
have similar effects on each other. Sasuke had told her to shut up,
embarrassed that the wonder he thought only lurking in his heart was somehow
transparent to her. She didn't seem to take offense (she rarely did) and had
merely hidden her smile amicably.

"I think this is one of the reasons you gave
when we said we'd wait before making Shun brothers and sisters," her voice
broke into his reverie.

He didn't feel her coming. (Usually, he
didn't miss anything. At the back of his mind, this alarmed him slightly. The
foothold he had allowed her years and years ago was now nonexistent. Hell. She
practically ruled the entire territory.) He looked up at her as she glided
towards him, fixing the same quiet stare on her. She had on the nightgown he
had divested earlier. Judging from the spattering of water on her face and
arms, she had evidently made a side-trip to the bathroom.

"This is one of the reasons we shouldn't
wait," he corrected.

She blinked in surprise at this
pronouncement, but pleasure speedily suffused her visage. "I don't know," she
said, green eyes sparkling in the low light. "I sort of remember you
complaining about lack of sleep and such."

The infant began to whimper once more, and
Sasuke was spared from having to think of an appropriate comeback. Shun
stretched his arms towards his mother, who had sidled up his father to smile
tiredly down at him. Again the baby wailed piteously, so Sasuke gave him up to
his wife.

"Hungry, I think," Sakura murmured, as she
sat down and bared a breast. "It's time, anyway."

Sasuke watched wordlessly, standing over
them like a sentinel, naked but for his boxers. Eventually, he noticed Sakura
watching him back.

"Aren't you cold?"

"No."

The lapsed back to silence. They remained in
the statuesque tableau until Shun finished feeding, was burped, and eventually
fell asleep. His mother, scattered lavish kisses about the top of his head,
and placed him back in his crib, his blankets judiciously arranged.

"You'll be changing his diaper later, right,
Sasuke-kun?" Sakura suddenly said, as they were going back to bed.

Sasuke grunted in assent.

"You know, that sleep thing. . . You should
be careful with making those grand sweeping pronouncements. Next time, stick
with a more reasonable bet."

He shrugged vaguely. "Next time, I'll simply
make sure I don't lose."

Sakura laughed gamely, as she snuggled
against him, her head heavy on his chest. "Well, we'll see about that," she said.
"But not tonight, Sasuke-kun. As wonderful as it was, no more tonight,
ne?"

There was no place for despair in this
house.

~12:29:23 AM 2008-01-11
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On Bedmates and Drinking Partners