Soundless, noiseless, speechless, wordless...
There were a lot of words ending in -less that would have perfectly described the shinobi mission-room regulars that day. Bloodless—considering the amount some had lost—was another.
Dango-less, senbon-less, cigarette-less… they were all valid.
And Iruka had to concede that if it had been anyone else pinned to the back wall, a certain jounin's hand slipping beneath their vest, knee firmly planted between their thighs, tongue conducting a thorough tonsil search-and-rescue, he too would be standing there with the rest of them - motionless.
As it was, he was pleasantly writhing in a breathless, boneless state while making some very interesting and heedless noises. And he felt careless. Because it was his jounin pressed up against him. Fingers relentless, kisses merciless, with a need that felt endless.
And it didn't matter that he was acting mindless, or that every touch, every taste of his lover was leaving him just a little more senseless. It didn't matter that they were in the mission room with fathomless sets of eyes watching their every move, and every whisper.
So long as his jounin was there, alive and safe, it didn't matter. Regardless.