#sai naruto

His footsteps remain in step beside you, as if perfectly aligning his gait with yours. His face was impassive— oblivious to anything and everything you had thrown his way. You two were great friends, but it wasn’t like he ever wanted to be more than that. Sai was the only person who, when met with your clumsy attempts at affection, would receive them not with a blush or a flinch, but with a muted blink and a well-meaning “I appreciate your caring nature.”

You were also, unfortunately, starting to fall in love with him.

It was absurd. It was embarrassing.

But it was very, very real.

You adored his blunt, clinical observations, how he could devastate a room with two syllables and not even realize it. You liked how he always remembered your favorite kinds of tea, and how he would bring you strange, beautiful stones he found on his solo missions— usually with the explanation that ‘it reminded me of you.’ (You never knew if that was meant to be an insult or not. With Sai, it could go either way.)

You can’t help yourself, replaying the memory on loop: some months ago, you’d been sitting beside Sai on the bridge, Sakura nearby, healing her own wounds and pretending not to eavesdrop. You’d leaned in to Sai, smiled, and told him his hair was getting long. You’d reached out and tucked a piece behind his ear, watching for any flinch, any twitch. He just blinked at you, stoic as a funeral, and said, ‘Thank you for your observation. I will cut it later.’

You’d laughed. Sakura scoffed and rolled her eyes. Sai had blinked at her blankly, then looked down at his sketchbook, as if the conversation had already been filed away.

You didn’t stop the flirting after that, but you buried it under jokes and casual brush-offs, refusing to let yourself get hurt by the emptiness in his eyes. You were shinobi, after all. You could be resilient.

But gods, you wish he’d just once looked at you the way you looked at him.

You, Naruto, Shino, Kiba, and Sai had just returned from a routine security mission to a nearby town. You’d spent most of the walk home being sandwiched between Kiba’s exuberant warmth and Sai’s cool proximity, which shouldn’t have felt like anything at all, but did.

Kiba made a show of slinging his arm around your shoulders as you neared the gates, talking loud enough for all of Konoha to hear. “You ever notice how Sai’s got, like, no sense of personal space? Creeps up behind you like a ghost. It’s weird, right? You agree with me, don’t you?”

You roll your eyes, elbowing him in the ribs. “Pretty sure he can hear you, Kiba.” You glance over to Sai, watching his gaze focused ahead, but the muscle in his jaw twitched.

Kiba laughs, utterly unbothered. “He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even know what an insult is.” He pokes your cheek, drawing your attention back to him. “Unlike you, who gets all red when someone says something nice.” You scoff, but you know your face betrays you. Kiba’s grin widens, all feral teeth and mischievous spark. “See? Adorable. Hey, you wanna get ramen with me later? My treat.”

You look up, and just for a second, you catch Sai watching you now— head tilted, eyes narrow. His pupils track over Kiba’s hand, which is still boldly resting on your shoulder, and he looks away so fast you nearly miss it.

“Sure, Kiba,” you say, mostly to shut him up, but he pumps a fist in the air like he’s just gotten to second base. “Only if you’re paying. I’m not falling for the ‘forgot my wallet’ routine again.”

Kiba throws his head back with a bark of laughter, and Naruto, dead-center in the street, makes an exuberant noise of disgust. Shino mutters under his breath: “This is an embarrassing display,” to no one in particular, but you catch Sai’s gaze again, just as brief, just as cutting.

He’s fixated on Kiba’s hand with a look you can’t decipher. Not exactly anger. Not exactly annoyance. Something quieter, colder. He doesn’t say anything, but his lips press into a thin line, and his footsteps begin to lag behind yours. You only notice because you’re tuned to him— even when you pretend not to be.

The group breaks apart as you reach the main avenue; Naruto peels off to go meet Hinata, Shino vanishes into the shade, and Kiba gives your shoulder one last squeeze before scampering away with Akamaru.

That leaves you and Sai, alone in the crowded street. You walk side by side, not sure what to say in the tense silence.

You slow your pace, waiting for him to say something. When he doesn’t, you nudge him with your elbow. “Hey. Earth to Sai. You spacing out or just tired?”

Sai’s eyes flick to yours, obsidian and unreadable. “I am not tired,” he says. “I was thinking.”

“About what?”

After several steps, he says— quiet, flat, but sharp enough to prick— “You agreed to go on a date with Kiba.”

It’s not a question.

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “No, I just said I’d maybe let him buy me noodles. It’s not—” You pause, casting him a sidelong look. Sai’s face is a blank mask, but his eyes are burning holes in the pavement. “It’s not a big deal.”

Sai’s next words are so quiet you almost don’t hear them. “Why?”

You bristle, surprised by the edge in his tone. “Why what?”

“Why would you want to go out with Kiba?”

You stop walking. He takes two more steps, then halts, turning back.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t…” You trail off, feeling as if your voice has lost all edge as you scramble to find what to say. “Why do you care?”

He stands there, staring at you, unmoving with the full, undivided concentration of a person who has just remembered that feelings can be weapons, too.

For once, you can’t bring yourself to fill the silence with a joke. Something in your chest is misfiring, a wild pulse that makes you bite your tongue. You try a laugh; it dies, thin and brittle. Sai’s face is as closed as always, but his hands are flexing at his sides.

“It’s ramen. It’s not a marriage proposal.” You bluntly respond, feeling as if you’re being crushed by his stare.

“Do you… want it to be?”

He seems genuinely unsure, as if Kiba had practically just knelt down and asked for your hand. The shape of his confusion is almost endearing, if it weren’t flustering and confusing you.

You drag a hand through your hair and let out a huff. “I don’t even know what you’re asking me, Sai.”

He pauses. His lips twitch, searching for the right word as he stares at you. “I don’t like that Kiba touches you.”

Your brain shorts out for a second, and every cell in your body freezes at his admission. “What?”

“I don’t like that Kiba touches you,” he repeats, much slower and this time laced with something dark you’re not used to. “Or that you look at him when you laugh. Or that you might like him.”

You blink hard, trying to make sense of it. “You’re… jealous?”

He processes this— checks the word against some internal dictionary. Then, carefully, he responds. “Yes. I suppose I am jealous. I did not know that was possible.” He looks up at you then, expression unguarded for the barest instant. “It is unpleasant.”

You can’t stop yourself from laughing. It bubbles up, wild and shocked, and a little giddy. The world tilts around you, as if gravity has changed. “You’re jealous,” you say again, and your voice is incredulous but so, so relieved, like a fever breaking.

Sai frowns. “You are… happy?”

You step in closer, until you can see the confusion etched in the soft lines around his mouth. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m happy.”

He blinks in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I like you, you idiot.”

This seems to stun him. Every muscle in his face tenses at once, then slides into slack blankness. “I see,” he says, and you can tell he absolutely does not see at all.

You fist your hands in his shirt, tug him forward. “I’ve been flirting with you for a year. You never noticed?”

“I noticed,” he says, and there’s a flicker of frustration in his voice now. “I just did not understand why.”

You want to kiss and curse him at the same time, for someone so smart and strategic to be so blind. Gods, you can’t truly blame him, but you’ve been torturing yourself with thoughts of him for far too long. The urge is too much. You kiss him— quick, sharp, a press of lips that’s more of a declaration than anything. You feel him freeze, then shudder, as if you’ve tripped some wire inside him.

You lean back and meet his eyes. “Do you get it now?”

He nods, and you see the faintest hint of color bloom in his cheeks.

You take his hand, palm warm and trembling with some emotion he doesn’t have a name for yet. You walk home together, just like always, except this time your fingers are tangled up and your heart is fluttering in anticipation.

When you fumble for your keys, Sai doesn’t wait for an invitation. He slips inside your entryway, glancing at the reports pinned crooked on your walls, the pile of mail on your table, the unwashed mug that hasn’t moved in days. He absorbs your space like a reconnaissance mission: a scan, an inventory, a quiet stowaway of every detail.

You remember every time you’ve imagined this— but in those daydreams, you were always cooler, less winded, less obvious. Now you’re jittering out of your own skin, and Sai is so calm it’s infuriating.

He steps closer, all careful deliberation. “Is this your home?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound offhand, but you hear the breathlessness in your own voice. “You want some tea or something?”

“I would like to kiss you again,” he says, not as a question but as a fact he’s decided to state aloud.

“Oh,” you say as heat rises to your chest once again. “Oh.”

He stands there, waiting for you to close the gap. So you do, and this time when you kiss him, he doesn’t freeze— he circles your waist with both hands with a hesitant touch, and you can feel how hard he’s trying not to shake.

He kisses like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, memorizing the soft feel of your tongue and where your teeth click against his. When you break away, he looks at you as if he has a synopsis. “That is much more pleasant than jealousy,” he reports, then leans in for another kiss before you can say anything at all.

You giggle against his mouth, and he draws back, looking earnestly at your face. “Did I do it wrong?” He asks, brows knitted in concern.

“No!” You say, maybe too loud. “You’re doing it perfect.” You touch his cheek, stroking the edge of his jaw, and watch his eyelids flutter. “You can, uh, keep going.”

Sai’s hands tighten just a little, and he kisses you again— slower, this time, like he wants to see how long you’ll let him. You melt into it, unable to keep your hands from wandering under his shirt, up the nape of his neck, and down the lean lines of his back. You’ve seen him shirtless before— he’s a shinobi, after all— but never felt him. You want to see him, touch him, trail your hands over all the places that you have ached for so long.

He pulls away, lips slightly parted. “Are you aroused?” He asks, clinical as ever, but his voice is low and rougher than usual.

You bark a shocked laugh. “I mean— yeah, Sai. I am.”

He nods, as firm as a salute. “I would like to… please you.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever blushed this hard in your life. You are not new to this, but his assessment of everything flustered you more than anything. “Okay,” you breathe, and then, softer, “yeah. Okay.”

You guide him to your bed and breathe in the scent of sun-warmed cotton and the faint, grassy note of his hair. Sai perches at the edge, eyes darting over the bedspread, the wall, anywhere but your face, as if afraid to break some unspoken rule. You have to push him down— gently, but firmly, palms flat on each shoulder— before he seems to grasp the mechanics of intimacy.

The moment you climb into his lap, you feel the tension coiled in his body. You run your hands up his chest, fingers playing at the edge of his shirt’s deep neckline. He watches your hands with the same rapt attention he gives to a blank sheet of paper, waiting to see what image will emerge. You tug his shirt up and over his head; he raises his arms obediently, baring the pale, scar-splattered expanse of his torso.

You can’t help but trace one of those silver lines across his ribs, curious. He shivers under your touch. “Do you still feel it?” You ask as you place a gentle kiss over it.

Sai glances down at the scar, then shrugs. “No, it is more of an aesthetic concern.” He seems about to say something else, then hesitates, lips pressed flat.

You press your face to the hollow of his neck— his pulse feverish— and feel his hands, unsure, settle on the small of your back. You try to be patient, to let him acclimate, but it’s impossible not to grind against his thigh, slow and deliberate, until you hear his breath hitch.

“Is this the—” He pauses, searching for the word. “—appropriate time to remove your clothing?”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse sings. “Mhm, that’s usually how this works.”

He nods, serious. “Okay.” Then, so slowly, with trembling hands, he tugs your shirt over your head, fumbles with the clasp at your back, and slips your bra straps from your shoulders. He looks at your bare chest with the awe of someone who’s never been this close to another person before— which, you remind yourself, is probably the case.

You expect him to say something awkward, and you’re not disappointed.

“Your breasts are…” He stares at them as he thinks. “They are pleasant to look at. Very soft.”

You can’t help but laugh, and the sound seems to relax him. He cups your chest, tentative at first, then with growing confidence, like he’s testing the weight of something precious. He brushes his thumb over your nipple, and you let out a sound that’s half giggle, half gasp.

Sai blinks. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you say, voice light. “That’s… that’s good.”

He files this away, and repeats the gesture, then leans in and— after a moment of deliberation— flicks his tongue over your nipple. You go rigid at the sensation, and he tilts his head slightly, as if analyzing your reaction. “You’re very sensitive here.”

“Most people are,” you say, half laughing, half moaning as he does it again.

Sai’s hands keep moving, learning the curve of your hips, your waist, the delicate divot of your stomach. Every touch is a question: Is this okay? Is this right? Am I making you feel good?

When he reaches the waistband of your pants, you stand up, towering over Sai. He glances up, seeking permission as he toys with the hem. You nod— maybe a little too quickly— and he peels off your pants and underwear in one careful motion, pushing them down to your feet.

You climb back on the bed and pull Sai to you as he naturally settles between your legs. However, his focus shifts lower, nestling himself over your throbbing core. For a second, you’re self-conscious, but Sai doesn’t seem to notice anything except the task at hand. He studies the space between your thighs with the same sober focus he uses in warfare.

“I have not seen one in person. It is more… visually complex than anticipated.”

You swallow, half-mortified as you instinctually try to clamp your thighs together. “It’s not a scroll diagram, Sai.”

He tilts his head, thoughtful, as he holds your thighs apart. “No, it is much more interesting.” His fingers move up your inner thigh with a steady intensity. You gasp, and he freezes, evaluating your reaction.

“Should I continue?”

You nod, breathing shallow. “Yeah. Keep going.”

His touches grow bolder— he traces the outline of your cunt, fingertips featherlight but unignorable. It’s almost analytic at first, as if he’s following an anatomical chart, but when you whimper at the pressure, something in him recalibrates. He repeats the motion, more deliberate, and you feel yourself arch into his palm.

He leans in, eyes locked on yours, and asks: “Does it feel good like this?” As he circles your clit with firm fingertips. You can’t speak; you just nod, biting your lip with an obscene whimper. His hand begins to move in slow, methodical spirals, and when you shudder, he watches the way your body responds with rapt attention.

Then—without warning—he bends down and presses his tongue into your warm, wet pussy.

You nearly jump off the bed, hips bucking wildly as you cry out.

His lips are soft, tongue cautious at first, but when he tastes your arousal, he lets out a strange, hungry sound— a thing you’ve never heard him do before. He eats you out with the obsessive focus of a man trying to decrypt a code, mapping every twitch and shiver, every sigh and curse that escapes your lips.

You reach down, threading your fingers through his hair, and he makes a pleased noise, like he’s gotten something right. He sucks and licks your puffy lips, flicking against your clit, and you can’t stop your hips from bucking against his face. He doesn’t recoil; he just steadies you, letting you grind against his face, absorbing every tremor as the room fills with the lewd wet sounds of him devouring you.

He looks up, mouth slick and eyes bright. “Please tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you manage with a breathless whine.

He blinks once, then nods, then goes back to it, this time working two fingers inside you while his tongue works relentless circles. The stretch is perfect; he watches your face with every push, delighting in every gasp and moan. You dig your nails into his shoulder, desperate for leverage, and he groans against your pussy as your breath quickens. You tangle your legs around his shoulders, giving him no other option but to keep going until you’re collapsing and clenching and coming apart— and he does exactly that, never wavering for a second, even as you scream your pleasure and dig your heels into his back.

You collapse back, dazed, and Sai sits up, licking his lips to savor your taste. His mouth is slick, chin glistening, eyes dilated and wild. He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, and you’re about to make a joke— but then he looks at you, and the joke dies in your throat.

He looks hungry.

You reach for him, flush with power, and his hands shake as you draw him up for a kiss. Your essence is fresh on his tongue, but you don’t care: you want all of it, all of him, the heat and the uncertainty and the way he trembles when you bite his lower lip and tug. He gasps into your mouth, and the sound is so raw you feel it in your gut.

You slide your hand between you, palming the bulge in his pants. Sai’s hips jerk; he stares at you, weirdly affronted, as if you’ve breached all protocol. “You are very forward,” he murmurs, and his voice vibrates against your mouth.

“You say that as if you weren’t just eating my pussy,” you tease, gripping his waistband, yanking it down. His cock springs free— hard, flushed, and severe as the rest of him. For a moment, he doesn’t move, as if surprised by the sight of his own body in your hand, but then he closes his eyes, breath stuttering as you stroke him.

You grind against him, wet and ready, dragging the head of his cock through your soaking folds. He gasps, clutching your thighs, and you grin, slow and feral, loving how close to the edge he already is.

“Do you want to be inside me, Sai?” You taunt, voice molten.

“Yes,” he rasps. “Please.”

You line him up, pressing the head against your entrance, and he holds his breath, hands fisting tight in the sheets. And then he sinks in, inch by inch, gasping at the stretch, at the sensation of him so thick and deep inside you.

Sai moans— no, whimpers— as you take him all the way, your thighs pressed flush to his hips. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just sits there trembling, cock pulsing inside you as he tries not to cum on the spot. You grind against him, slow and greedy, and finally, finally, his hands come up to grip your waist, steadying both of you.

Then he starts to thrust, tentative at first, then with building confidence, until he’s fucking you into the mattress. Sai fucks you like a man possessed— like he’s realized, all at once, every moment he’s ever been alive has been leading to this. His control is surgical and absolute, every thrust precise, every draw back just far enough for you to ache, every snap forward hard enough to punch soundless cries out of your lungs. His face is warped, contorted with the effort of keeping himself from flying apart; his brow furrows, jaw clenched, lips peeled back in a snarl. Sweat beads at his temple and drips down his throat, tracing the line of muscle and old scar.

You can’t get enough. You’re greedy for him— greedy for the way he splits you, fills you, stokes the already-burning fire inside your belly until it’s blinding. You claw at his back, sink your teeth into his shoulder, your own noises echoing and mingling with the half-strangled, half-wordless sounds that scrape out of Sai’s throat with every wet collision of your hips.

He leans down, buries his face in your neck, and fucks you with an abandon so earnest it consumes you. Your body gives up resistance, opens for him, clamping down hard when he bottoms out— and he goes wild for it, cock pulsing as you seize around him.

He’s shaking now, whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. “You feel,” he grinds out, barely a whisper, “so— good—”

You dig your heels into his ass, and he breaks, rutting into you with desperate, reckless force. He wrenches your hips up, angles his thrusts until you’re seeing white, until your cunt spasms tight around him and you scream, cumming so hard you drench the sheets and quiver with aftershocks. Sai’s own orgasm rises sharp and violent— he thrusts once, twice, then yanks out at the last possible second, groaning as his hot seed splatters across your pussy and stomach.

He nearly collapses on top of you, gasping, body slick with sweat. His face is buried in your shoulder, breaths harsh and uneven. For a long moment, neither of you moves. Your heart batters your ribs, and your ears ring as your body goes numb.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are molten and wild, irises blown wide, mouth slack and wet. He looks down at you— at the mess he’s made of your body, at the milky spatter on your skin, at the way your chest still heaves— and for once, he does not look away. His eyes slowly move over you, taking in every detail of your flushed and ruined flesh.

“I like you like this,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I want to do this to you again.”

Your laughter is shaky, a hitch in your throat that turns into a giggle. “Gods, you’re a pervert.”

He blinks, then smiles— only a little, barely a twitch of the mouth, but the warmth in his eyes is dreamy. “Perhaps,” he says, “but you seem to like it.”

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, feeling the stickiness between you, the heat, the rush of what you just did, and you realize you’ve never felt more seen in your life.

He kisses you, gently this time, smoothing your hair back from your face. “Was that okay?”

“Better than okay,” you say with a devious smile.

He nods, satisfied, and collapses beside you, pulling you close. You can feel his heartbeat, still wild and erratic, and you let yourself be held, melting into the exhaustion.

After a while, when your pulse has slowed and your brain has stopped sizzling, he speaks. “I think I understand now.”

“Understand what?” You hum curiously.

He looks at you, eyes calm and clear. “Why people want to be close to each other. Why they crave this.”