One-shot: Sasu/Saku: "DIY On A Sunday Morning"
Title: DIY On A Sunday Morning
Summary: Sakura, she doesn't even care about tomorrow, any tomorrow, it's probably the worst thing of all. The worst thing Sasuke knows about her.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Too bad.
Theme: AU
Prompt: Manipulate
Medium: Fanfiction
Rating: T
Comments: For the SasuSaku month at LJ. Title inspired by the referenced film Trainspotting. A DIY on a Sunday morning, a bad student seducing her professor to eat her bad homemade breakfast, just like she's done dozens and dozens of times already. Dedicated to Jac. Early first gift. I don't know if you'll like it, but maybe! :') I imagine you would maybe like Trainspotting. (Ever seen it?)
"Propelling ourselves with longing towards the day that it would all go wrong, because...you never have enough." -- Mark 'Rent-boy' Renton
+++
Every time Sasuke comes around to her, she puts on Trainspotting and can't get over the scene where the baby is crawling on the ceiling. A twisted junkie dream. Sakura has eccentric tastes in film. Just another thing among many he can't fathom.
The apartment is near-shambles, organized chaos. Some socks on the sofa. A laundry basket filled to the brim; it smells like fabric softener on her clothes this morning. Sasuke chooses not to notice the stacks of vinyl in the corners have seemed to multiply overnight - nearly overnight, how long has it been since he's been here anyway?
And there's always a chill - over his arms, maybe his back - when they watch these eccentric movies, these borderline-awful movies, and she steals the words straight out of the actors' mouths, like all she ever does is watch these movies.
It's over, eventually. He'd never cared for Welsh's work, in print or on-screen.
Sasuke tells her. There's no use in hiding it, his face will give him away sure enough, he might as well just tell her - Sakura can't let anything go, nothing gets past her. You have to tell the truth of the matter when you're around her, before she pries it out of you against your will, and you end up feeling drained of some awkward secret. Besides, everything has been painfully stripped away to this nauseatingly poetic nakedness already, where they never hid anything from each other because fuck, weren't they sinning already?
A frown. "You...made us watch Finding Forrester on the very first night of English, and I have the poor tastes in movies. Boring movies, you absolutely love those - you know, really tedious ones with the great profundities behind them." Then, thankfully, her wry smile.
It smells thickly of eggs and burnt toast. She's twenty three, she can still barely even cook for herself. (Jesus.) Sasuke is wavering on obligation and need - being with her, what is this all really?
"So. What's the final going to be about tomorrow." She tilts her head. One hand running along the expanse of his thigh. He breathes out.
"You know I can't tell you." There are still restrictions, there are still limits. Mr. Uchiha can cheat on his wife, but he most certainly cannot cheat his students out of an education. That is a fact.
The hand runs dangerously close, up, up and up still...
"Aw, come on. I'm your favorite anyway, you might as well-"
"Don't push me." Now he's pressing her back against the chaise. She exhales straight into his face. Fucking toast breath. He curls his lip. She's glowering up at him. Her knee is on his crotch. Don't you dare.
"You certainly aren't any favorite. Not mine anyway," Sasuke mutters against her neck. Bites, hard. He's feeling rather ruthless. She mewls, all coy and kittenish, wraps that sharp little leg around his lower back. Sakura relents, as always, she gives in. Gives in, because it'll keep him coming back. And she knows that.
She doesn't even care about tomorrow, any tomorrow, it's probably the worst thing of all. The worst thing he knows about her.
+++
They see each other outside their comfortable confines, their limits, their labyrinth, their maze. It's high anxiety now because little Wifey is on his arm this time, and Sakura is nearly grinning. God, isn't this great? It has to be great.
It's the end of the year party, a little banquet for student and staff. Sakura has to force herself to give a damn about these kinds of things; always, always she's loathed formal functions, the tight dresses and how it can reveal you just don't fit in with this crowd, this high-grade shit no one really gives a damn about.
How the hell is she supposed to act, around Her? Giving this little bitter laugh to herself, laughing because Sasuke, he did this to her on purpose. Might as well have. Well, she's not going to keep from saying hello, from being polite, they've been together since the second semester after all. Star pupil, Sakura gets the best grades, acing the essay on Hemmingway and the test on themes of literature. She can't let Teacher down.
She walks by the candy dish, pops a mint into her mouth, stashes eight into her purse (as she has never had qualms about being cheap when the refreshments are free).
Shaking back her hair, putting on a smile. They're standing off in the corner together, gathering these little crowds of people, this woman. Almost wanting to appear divine, so the envy can radiate and give Sakura contentment. And yet, the Wifey doesn't cower, doesn't melt like maybe Sakura wanted her to once, no, she smiles when Sakura says hello. Like she shouldn't be smiling, like she should simply understand from the touch of Sakura's hand on hers, through her edgy words - I'm a student in his class, I LOVE his class - this wife of his should know he's fucked her, he still will -
But the way Sasuke's looking at her, the way he looks at Sakura, sharp eyes that tell her to get the hell back, stay away - it's making it all wash down on Sakura then, quietly but still so loud, it's like the crash of the coming tide - it hurts that much! that's how much he can hurt her and it's too infuriating - that she's still second. Some random lay, huh.
You can't say 'oh well' to these kinds of things either. If only.
Hello, hello! I like your dress, She smiles again. The woman, his woman, the Wife says, and it's all going through Sakura's head so mechanically, the woman's mouth moves through her eyes slow and jumpy, jerking, a dummy. Talking like she's known Sakura for ages and ages, like she really knows her.
If only.
++fin++
Summary: Sakura, she doesn't even care about tomorrow, any tomorrow, it's probably the worst thing of all. The worst thing Sasuke knows about her.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Too bad.
Theme: AU
Prompt: Manipulate
Medium: Fanfiction
Rating: T
Comments: For the SasuSaku month at LJ. Title inspired by the referenced film Trainspotting. A DIY on a Sunday morning, a bad student seducing her professor to eat her bad homemade breakfast, just like she's done dozens and dozens of times already. Dedicated to Jac. Early first gift. I don't know if you'll like it, but maybe! :') I imagine you would maybe like Trainspotting. (Ever seen it?)
"Propelling ourselves with longing towards the day that it would all go wrong, because...you never have enough." -- Mark 'Rent-boy' Renton
+++
Every time Sasuke comes around to her, she puts on Trainspotting and can't get over the scene where the baby is crawling on the ceiling. A twisted junkie dream. Sakura has eccentric tastes in film. Just another thing among many he can't fathom.
The apartment is near-shambles, organized chaos. Some socks on the sofa. A laundry basket filled to the brim; it smells like fabric softener on her clothes this morning. Sasuke chooses not to notice the stacks of vinyl in the corners have seemed to multiply overnight - nearly overnight, how long has it been since he's been here anyway?
And there's always a chill - over his arms, maybe his back - when they watch these eccentric movies, these borderline-awful movies, and she steals the words straight out of the actors' mouths, like all she ever does is watch these movies.
It's over, eventually. He'd never cared for Welsh's work, in print or on-screen.
Sasuke tells her. There's no use in hiding it, his face will give him away sure enough, he might as well just tell her - Sakura can't let anything go, nothing gets past her. You have to tell the truth of the matter when you're around her, before she pries it out of you against your will, and you end up feeling drained of some awkward secret. Besides, everything has been painfully stripped away to this nauseatingly poetic nakedness already, where they never hid anything from each other because fuck, weren't they sinning already?
A frown. "You...made us watch Finding Forrester on the very first night of English, and I have the poor tastes in movies. Boring movies, you absolutely love those - you know, really tedious ones with the great profundities behind them." Then, thankfully, her wry smile.
It smells thickly of eggs and burnt toast. She's twenty three, she can still barely even cook for herself. (Jesus.) Sasuke is wavering on obligation and need - being with her, what is this all really?
"So. What's the final going to be about tomorrow." She tilts her head. One hand running along the expanse of his thigh. He breathes out.
"You know I can't tell you." There are still restrictions, there are still limits. Mr. Uchiha can cheat on his wife, but he most certainly cannot cheat his students out of an education. That is a fact.
The hand runs dangerously close, up, up and up still...
"Aw, come on. I'm your favorite anyway, you might as well-"
"Don't push me." Now he's pressing her back against the chaise. She exhales straight into his face. Fucking toast breath. He curls his lip. She's glowering up at him. Her knee is on his crotch. Don't you dare.
"You certainly aren't any favorite. Not mine anyway," Sasuke mutters against her neck. Bites, hard. He's feeling rather ruthless. She mewls, all coy and kittenish, wraps that sharp little leg around his lower back. Sakura relents, as always, she gives in. Gives in, because it'll keep him coming back. And she knows that.
She doesn't even care about tomorrow, any tomorrow, it's probably the worst thing of all. The worst thing he knows about her.
+++
They see each other outside their comfortable confines, their limits, their labyrinth, their maze. It's high anxiety now because little Wifey is on his arm this time, and Sakura is nearly grinning. God, isn't this great? It has to be great.
It's the end of the year party, a little banquet for student and staff. Sakura has to force herself to give a damn about these kinds of things; always, always she's loathed formal functions, the tight dresses and how it can reveal you just don't fit in with this crowd, this high-grade shit no one really gives a damn about.
How the hell is she supposed to act, around Her? Giving this little bitter laugh to herself, laughing because Sasuke, he did this to her on purpose. Might as well have. Well, she's not going to keep from saying hello, from being polite, they've been together since the second semester after all. Star pupil, Sakura gets the best grades, acing the essay on Hemmingway and the test on themes of literature. She can't let Teacher down.
She walks by the candy dish, pops a mint into her mouth, stashes eight into her purse (as she has never had qualms about being cheap when the refreshments are free).
Shaking back her hair, putting on a smile. They're standing off in the corner together, gathering these little crowds of people, this woman. Almost wanting to appear divine, so the envy can radiate and give Sakura contentment. And yet, the Wifey doesn't cower, doesn't melt like maybe Sakura wanted her to once, no, she smiles when Sakura says hello. Like she shouldn't be smiling, like she should simply understand from the touch of Sakura's hand on hers, through her edgy words - I'm a student in his class, I LOVE his class - this wife of his should know he's fucked her, he still will -
But the way Sasuke's looking at her, the way he looks at Sakura, sharp eyes that tell her to get the hell back, stay away - it's making it all wash down on Sakura then, quietly but still so loud, it's like the crash of the coming tide - it hurts that much! that's how much he can hurt her and it's too infuriating - that she's still second. Some random lay, huh.
You can't say 'oh well' to these kinds of things either. If only.
Hello, hello! I like your dress, She smiles again. The woman, his woman, the Wife says, and it's all going through Sakura's head so mechanically, the woman's mouth moves through her eyes slow and jumpy, jerking, a dummy. Talking like she's known Sakura for ages and ages, like she really knows her.
If only.
++fin++