...

[fic] Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 08:14:06 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: M/NC-17

Summary: Five times Light told a lie, and one time he didn't. L/Light.

Warning(s): some brackets abuse, a lot of dashes, heavily introspective, odd imagery and questionable prose. Semi-explicit smut. Feedback-wise: mostly anything goes.

...

It's quiet in the library - the loud chatter of students and footsteps only a quiet murmur, barely perceptible unless one decides to pay attention to the noise. Light doesn't, drowning himself in the words of the archaic, and, in his humble opinion, long rendered useless theories of Kant. His hands tremble slightly, as - once again - the realisation dawns upon him that, instead of rotting away here like some stupid berk in a pub, he could be at home and wield justice with his shiny black notebook and even shinier pen (flick his hand with that aforementioned ballpoint pen of his and play God like all good little boys do).

Footfalls reverberate against the marble floor, old tennis shoes clapping as relentlessly against the floor as a horse grinds its teeth against one another on a frosty night. A strange simile, but Light has never claimed to be a writer and it's not like his private thoughts are privy to anyone, though he heavily suspects that L - that bastard - would love to cut his head open and examine it - membrane by membrane - if he could get away with it.

The ends justify the means, L once told him, as long you keep it within reasonable limits.

The footsteps come closer, and Light shudders instinctively as he notices someone's breath ghost down his neck: it's nearly like having ants crawl up and down his spine, and Light feels something inside of him tighten to a heavy knot. Heart-beat increasing to rhythmic thump-a thumps, Light feels the blood come a-pumping faster through his veins and something like excitement curls itself around him, only that he's not feeling hot, but cold - freezing up inside like an icicle.

Light doesn't look up; he knows who it is, as well as he knows that he can't avoid this meeting - confrontation? - either. No, it's a confrontation: nothing between him and L (or Ryuuga, or whatever nickname that asshole comes up with) is innocent. It's all a gamble, where conflicting ideologies, theories and possibilities, but - most importantly - lives are at a stake.

L, he wants to hiss out, go back to that fucking hell-hole you crawled out from.

But that he can't do that (life is just a stage and everyone has to take a part in it, no matter how odious a performance it is).

"Ryuuga," Light greets his colleague with as much pretend-delight as he can manage, and points to the chair beside him. "I'm so happy to see you."

--

Light doesn't really know what L's doing in his prison cell, and - with irritation flaring up in him like fireworks - wonders whether he's here to mock him or just stare at his piteous state: hands tied behind his back and confined to this empty space with the grey iron bars and even duller walls engulfing him like a black fog (drowning him in its darkness, and dragging him deeper and deeper into the lowest regions of hell).

Of course, as he watches that man keeping his insect-like eyes fixed on his form, Light remembers that it's both mockery and curiosity rolled in one, and that nothing L does is without some form of sadism. Because, that's all L is - a sadist who likes to observe and watch something become undone before his very eyes.

Yet, Light is not all too keen on humouring his perverse little fantasies. So, he just keeps his eyes closed, listening to the sound of candy wrappers being torn open and L munching away at sweets; it's not like L could ever forget about his precious, most darling hobby ever: devouring as much sugary junk food as a human-being can possibly muster.

And, for a while, the equation works out just fine for them: L eats while Light falls into a trance of how everything will change once he enacts revenge. His hands tighten themselves to a grip, and he shakes with frolicsome excitement as he thinks of how he'll put L into a metaphorical grinder and smash him - and his damned theories to bits and pieces. He's so entranced by that daydream that he never really notices that L has stopped eating.

It's only when L shuffles closer to him, his bare feet creating those slide slide sounds against the floor that Light's eyes snap open. And, nearly immediately, he feels the blood in his veins turn to ice.

"What do you want?" Light asks, eyes narrowing as he notes that L is kneeling down - they are face to face - and L is close, too close.

L never answers - just grabs him by the hem of his shirt and Light, tied and shackled up here like some ruddy dog, can't find back as the older man kisses him, slamming their lips together so harshly that it could break teeth. L kisses the way he does everything else: probing and probing until Light just can't do anything but react. And Light can't help opening his mouth, nor can he avoid moaning into the kiss as L's talented tongue massages his own; L's hands are on his waist, pulling him closer - and Light is trapped, pinned against the wall like a collector's butterfly.

Anger coils in Light's stomach, but there's something else - something that like hot wires - makes him feel like he's burning up from inside - and he can't fight it. L, however, doesn't give him much opportunity to resist, sliding between his legs and rubbing their groins together. Gnashing his teeth, Light does his best not to moan out, and digs his fingers deeply into his palms - it stings but it's better than laying all cards out in the open.

Once you've done that, Light thinks, you can never win your pride back again.

"Light-kun, you want me - don't you?" L then asks, sliding his hands under Light's shirt, his long fingers lazily tracing patterns on his stomach. "You want this."

Light bites his underlip, and closes his eyes; L is licking his neck lovingly and it's so bad that Light hisses, feeling that he's getting more and more aroused by the second.

"No, I don't want – I don't want this at all; it's just a physical reaction," Light whispers as L's hands slide downwards.

There's a sigh, and L shakes his head - smiling before kissing him again. But it's not really a smile, more like a condescending smirk that makes Light want to bash L's face in, so that he can taste his own blood dripping down his lips.

(He's God, after all. Or he will be, once he has gotten rid off all the enemies hindering him on his ascension to glory).

L's hand is encased against his cock, but he only presses it briefly. Light gasps. Then, he feels his pants being pulled down, and opens his eyes in horror again - it can't be. L is not really going to -?

But the unholy smirk lighting up on L's pale face promises nothing good, and Light resigns himself to his fate, realising that he can't fight this vermin of a man.

L sticks one finger inside inside of his anus, and Light grunts as something pain-discomfort skittles over him, leaving his body a-trembling as if he were in the middle of a heavy storm.

But still, he keeps his mouth glued shut - he doesn't want this.

He doesn't want L.

(It's just his being sexually frustrated – just a physical reaction, just a biological need).

And that's what Light tells himself as L - after unzipping his jeans and entering him brusquely - drives into him, slamming his back against the wall with each thrust. The pain is blinding and Light fights back the tears beginning to form underneath his eyelids, refusing L to conquer him. Not even as the pain is replaced by something more intense, and Light feels nearly feverish from the heat taking over him.

--

Strangely, sharing a bedroom with Ryuuzaki is tolerable. At least, Light reasons, it's much better than living at home, where he always feels like having to walk through burning coals (always pretending to care, always pretending to smile and always having to be the perfect son, student and brother).

In spite of being under L's constant surveillance, Light doesn't really have play pretend that much here: L doesn't care about anything that doesn't pertain to the Kira case. Although they're so close now - sitting next to each other and using the same table - Light still feels that he's alone. It's nice, comforting even.

And yet, Light is unsettled at the moment. Not because he feels uncomfortable in L's presence but because there's something in the back of his mind that tells him that not everything is the way it seems to be. That suspicion haunts him at nights when he wakes up gasping, dreaming of things that make no sense at all- dreams of apple-loving monsters and black notebooks glistening silver in the night.

Sometimes, he feels like there's a giant puzzle to that great mystery that is Kira, and that he - Light Yagami - holds the key to it.

"Light-kun, would you like to eat -" L says and shoves his dish to Light, not bothering to finish the sentence.

Light, blinking after being torn out of his reverie, pushes the dish back to L, shaking his head. "No, thank you. It's fine."

"Are you certain?"

"I'm sure, Ryuuzaki," Light replies, slightly bemused at the way the older man is eyeing him. "Why are you being so concerned about me?"

"You look slightly distressed," L replies matter-of-factly, and Light has to fight back the indignation rising within him.

This isn't genuine, he realises, this is just another trick to make me confess.

Light wonders whether there's a tinge of emotion in that man's body or whether he's just become so good at desensitizing himself to everything that nothing can reach him.

And suddenly, a hot-thin needle of regret creeps into his consciousness and Light finds himself missing home; missing his mother's concern, his sister's pestering and his father's silent approval. Light gnaws against his underlip, forcing himself to remain calm, although homesickness is taking him under siege.

"I'm not distressed," Light finally answers, even though he knows that L doesn't believe him (never has and never will).

L nods, and goes back to typing something into that beloved laptop of his.

And, in that instant, Light wishes him dead.

--

The chains are undone and -finally, finally - victory can be his.

L doesn't seem surprised to see him; his eyes are on him - ever suspecting, and ever taunting. "You're glad I've been proven wrong, aren't you?"

Light immediately snaps out of his idealism-tainted dreams, and is brought back to the present: him and L, standing in that badly-illuminated room with the large window giving them a full glimpse of overarching skyscrapers - Tokyo in all its modern and arrogant beauty.

"Sorry?"

He's heard correctly, but Light decides to play along - maybe because he's bored or feeling a tad bit merciful. Maybe it's because - deep down - he senses that, now that the shackles that have been taken off his wrists, that the ties which bind him to L are slowly, but surely unfurling.

L kisses him, and then whispers into his ear: "You've always wanted to break me - just like I wanted to break you."

Light doesn't answer, his throat dry – and it's not like L expects a reply.

"It's not a lie, Light-kun and you know it. This -" L pauses, and he smiles - a real smile this time, which strikes Light as being nostalgic. He feels a lump form in his throat as L pushes him down the bed, his weight pining him even further down the mattress.

"This little thing between us has been nothing, but an elimination game from the start. The best keeps all, while the loser gets nothing," L says against his neck, as his hands undo Light's shirt.

"I know," Light says simply in response.

As he lets L take him this time, it's not so much about the fucking. No, not fucking because that is just two hot and eager bodies pressed against each other, moving and grinding against one another in order to get closer to the climax - which, for each, is something else: Light wants escape and pleasure, while L seeks evidence.

They don't say a word to each other, as L starts moving inside of Light; his thrusts are nearly gentle this time, and L seems to be in want of prolonging this, as if he knew that time is running against him.

--

Tick, tick, the clock goes and Light stares resolutely at the wall in front of him: all white-washed and devoid of any conspicuous holes that he could turn to analysing in favour of listening to Misa's useless small talk.

Misa is downing another glass of wine - it's her third or fourth that night, but it's not like Light cares to count. It's none of his business what Misa does as long as she doesn't interfere with his plans (he's on his best way to achieve them, ascending higher and higher on the golden staircase).

"I miss him," Misa voice utters all of sudden, and - abruptly - claws him out of his daydream.

Light rolls his eyes. "Who?"

"Ryuuzaki," she suddenly says and then breaks out into a giggle.

It's nearly like a punch has been landed straight against Light's face - knocking off the wind in his lungs, and he has to grip the edge of his chair to keep his perfectly schooled mask of nonchalance from crumbling.

Stay calm, he reprimands himself, stay calm. Don't allow anyone to see how much this is really tearing you apart.

"He was such a funny man. A pervert and, yes - he did wear strange clothes and always hunched so strangely. Besides, he had creepiest eyes ever but I miss tugging at his hair," Misa goes on, thoughtfully circling her fingers around the rim of her wine glass,"I can't believe it's been five years."

(Five years since L has been put down under the earth, five years since maggots have been eating away at his rotting body and five years - five damned years - that Light has done his best, his utmost to keep that carcass from breaking the lids of that horrid coffin open and coming back to haunt him).

"Light, don't you miss him?"

"No, I don't. Not at all," Light replies icily and stands up, dusting off his hands against his trousers. "Excuse me for a bit."

And as Light retches and slumps down on the bathroom floor, he tells himself it's only the flu and that it has nothing - whatsoever - to with L.

(Old dogs - once shot down - should stay put in their murky graves, where they've been put to eternal rest).

...

[ficlet] The Way It Is

Sun, 06 Sep 2009 21:29:39 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: K

Summary: Kurogane just wants Fai to stay. Ficlet. Kind of fluffy?

Notes:

First foray in the fandom. It's not a masterpiece, and might seem lack-lustre. Please forgive me. I was just trying to see if I could write those two at all.

All criticism accepted, but be nice? A lot of thanks goes to istne_pieklo for editing this, despite being unfamiliar with the fandom. Any remaining errors are mine and mine alone XD.

---

It's all over, everything has fallen back into place and things should be simpler. Now, that he's finally back in Nihon, all issues should have been resolved.

Only that they haven't been, Kurogane thinks and feels like slamming his fist into the nearest wall, but doesn't because wasn't it his volatile temper that got him into that awful mess in the first place?

However, as he thinks of Tomoyo, his eyes soften, remembering that he's sworn himself to never let anything harm her or the country she lives in. Even if she teases him relentlessly or calls him a troublemaker.

But those are small matters and Kurogane doesn't mind them half as much as he claims he does. Especially since it's not her who's been giving him so much of a headache lately.

A voice from behind shatters through his thoughts like a shoe-sole crushing a cigarette, and brings Kurogane back to the present.

“Kuro-pon, you shouldn't frown that much – it hides your true self, which is really soft underneath the gruff exterior.”

Kurogane shakes his head, but doesn't curse or exhibit any other sign of anger. Instead, he turns around to face the speaker, watching how the wind sweeps through Fai's hair; he still keeps it bound in a ponytail and wears the same clothes Kurogane first saw him in – and yet, things have changed. Even if Fai likes to pretend that they haven't.

“And you shouldn't smile so much when you don't mean it at all.”

“Why? I'm not hiding anything.” Fai smiles even wider and his blue eyes twinkle playfully.

“And you're not going to go anywhere, are you?” Kurogane asks, not bothering to play along with Fai's game – been there, done that.

“Where else could I go, Big Doggy? I can't leave.”

Yet, Kurogane can see that it's another lie because - no matter how much Fai is smiling - there's uncertainty and sorrow lingering in those eyes and he's all tense, shoulders squared and hands balled to a fist. And it hurts Kurogane more than having his arm cut off because – once again – he's being pushed away.

Fai has definitely got something up his sleeve, and Kurogane resolves to find out what.

--

That night, Kurogane follows Fai who seems to have no intention of going to bed at all, inconspicuously like a ghost, soon reaching an area surrounded by trees: a light breeze makes some leaves rustle and Kurogane shivers slightly. Fai has stopped walking, and he takes a deep breath, evidently enjoying the freshness of the air.

“This won't be easy,” Fai whispers to himself, and Kurogane hears him sigh heavily.

This is the right moment, he decides.

“Are you going to leave- without even saying goodbye?”

Fai freezes, and he turns around. This time, there's no smile gracing his features and Kurogane is glad because this, at least, is real.

“What do you think, Kuro-sama?” Fai asks. The moonlight gazing down on the world casts a greenly halo around him, creating a perfect contrast to the otherwise omnipresent darkness of the night.

Kurogane shakes his head. “I think you're an idiot for running away again. No, not only that: you're a coward.”

“I'm not running away. I'm ready to embrace the future.” Fai doesn't need to say anymore. Kurogane knows what he's intending to do: go back to Celes where the only thing he'd find would be dead ghosts haunting him for the rest of his existence. He doesn't want that. Fai has punished himself enough.

"Don't go back there."

“What else should I do?”

“Stay,” Kurogane proposes, and it's really that simple to him.

Fai shakes his head, as if Kurogane had said something terribly naïve and stupid. “I can't, Kurogane. You've got your own life here. Now that our journey is over, your only duty lies with the princess. I've been intrud -”

“That's not true – and you know that,” Kurogane interrupts, knitting his eyebrows together because he just doesn't like the way Fai is looking at him – doubting, insecure and afraid. Taking a deep breath, Kurogane listens to the sound of leaves rustling before he speaks again. “My duty does lie with Tomoyo, but it doesn't mean that there's no place for you here.”

Fai chuckles, a hollow sound that slices through the otherwise silent night like a kitchen knife digs and twists itself into butter before cutting it in half.

He's doubting Kurogane and that sends sparks of rage running down his spine. Kurogane thinks that Fai should have it figured out by now -

In that brief instant, an epiphany flashes through Kurogane's brain.

Something needs to be done and - whatever needs to be done - Kurogane knows that it needs to be done right now.

Kurogane pulls Fai close to him. And, before the other can even protest, Kurogane slams his lips against Fai's - it's something he feels he should have done a long time ago. Fai freezes and his eyes widen before the shock passes, and he leans against Kurogane.

It's by no means a romantic or even passionate kiss because neither of them really knows what they're doing. Not that it matters because, right now, Kurogane just wants Fai to stay.

“I need you – plain and simple,” he says gruffly, hoping that Fai – who's not so much of a blockhead as he pretends to be – understands what he's really trying to say. It's not that he has problems articulating his feelings, it's just that Kurogane doesn't know how.

“Kuro-chan, you really are - hopeless," Fai admits, and then breaks into a small laugh. “But I wouldn't want to have it any other way.”

Kurogane silently agrees.

--

[fic] the ties that bind ...

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 17:33:42 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: NC-17

Summary: You like it, so stop pretending you don't want this. Syaoran/Syaoran, dark and non-con.

Warning(s): Non-consensual sex, some blood-play, angst and the usual mind!screw that is Clamp canon. Vague setting - it's set some time after Tokyo Revelations, but there's no reference made to any particular world/universe/place. And for the sake of coherence, clone! Syaoran is always in italics. Just to make this clear. Self(fail!)-editing.

All comments/complaints/whatever welcome.

--

Surprisingly, the feeling of being slammed against the wall– hard concrete rubbing, scratching and grazing against his back – repeatedly isn't half as bad as the knowledge that he's going down. Nausea dominates his body and makes it waft like a ship in a stormy sea as Syaoran, balling his hand into a fist, sends him flying into the wall again. This time, the impact is so thunderbolt-forceful in its quality that, gritting his teeth, Syaoran forces himself not to yelp as he feels already bruised skin being scraped against the granite-like surface – it chaffs and tears his much bloodied back.

Fuck, he thinks, and – looking around him – realises that he can't get out: bloodied and battered, legs feeling as heavy as lead and head soaring and throbbing, Syaoran knows that all vitality has been robbed off his body, and – damn, damn, this Syaoran (with the mismatched eyes and deadly determination of a rattlesnake about to dive its sharp teeth into a mouse) has gotten the better out of him.

However, Syaoran won't do his enemy – because that's what Syaoran is, after all – the pleasure of begging for mercy.

A jingle of chains hanging above his head make Syaoran widen his eyes. He wants to curse aloud, but thinks better of it: it won't do much to help his situation.

“Don't think I'll let you off that easily,” Syaoran mutters, his voice so eerily inhuman that it twists something inside of Syaoran's stomach and he feels the bile rising to his throat. He feels even sicker when staring into that blue eye, remembering very well who had suffer for it. “In fact, I'll have my fun with you before getting rid of you.”

Gnashing his teeth, Syaoran watches how his replica drags both of his hands upwards and puts them into the shackles, effectively binding him to this spot and trapping him like a bird in a cage, helplessly flapping its wings about. If he had any doubts before, he now knows. Death isn't something you can escape: once the system is down, it can't be rebooted.

Syaoran hisses in pain as Syaoran kicks him in the stomach – the kick is hard enough to make him scream out in pain, and Syaoran falls down, spitting blood; the chains binding his hands rustle as he coughs and spits out even more blood.

Another kick, and something crunches: he's certain that he's cracked a rib or two.

Syaoran fixes him with a look devoid of anything but deadly determination. On second thought, Syaoran thinks it's not even that: staring into his clone's eyes is like looking down into a well and seeing nothing but darkness reflected therein.

“I'll get the feathers, and anyone who tries to stop me will die -” Syaoran says, grabbing him by the hem of shirt, as he brings Syaoran back on his feet. His legs feeling like sacks filled with heavy potatoes, Syaoran can barely stand and he'd fall flat on his face if the chains wouldn't prevent him from doing so.

Syaoran feels a chill rustle down his spine, thinking for brief second of everyone he's going to leave behind. But, moreover, he thinks of how much people sacrificed for him to be here in the first place – those thoughts circling in his head make him dizzy, and he feels the bile rising in his throat.

He just wants this to be over already.

Syaoran doesn't say anything because he doesn't know what to say. Besides, it's not like any fancy words will help him right now. He closes his eyes, ready for the final blow.

Seconds tick by, Syaoran's breath comes in heavy bursts and wind whips through his hair, caressing his sweat-moistened cheeks with intangible, icy fingers.

But it never comes.

Instead, Syaoran's shirt is slashed open - how, he doesn't know, for his senses are dazed and he has trouble focusing, but he heavily suspects that it was through the means of a sword. His suspicions are confirmed: the cool surface of a blade glides down his skin, making him shiver. Syaoran opens his eyes again.

“What are you doing?” Syaoran asks. Not because he's afraid, but because he simply doesn't understand. Or, better said, he doesn't want to understand.

A grunt escapes his lips when a hot mouth starts sucking his nipple, making it erect – and Syaoran only pauses for a second before giving his other nipple the same treatment.

"Don't-" Syaoran grunts, hot in the face and trembling. His knees are buckling and he's growing excited, even though he shouldn't. But it's futile because then Syaoran's tongue starts licking his sweaty and bloody neck – tasting and biting and kissing.

Syaoran doesn't stop, and his calloused hand deftly undoes his trousers, letting them fall to the floor when he's done getting them past his hips. Then, with no warning at all, Syaoran feels fingers around his cock, and – without further ado – they start moving up and down his penis. The movements are awkward and jerky, for the other boy's hands are slippery and yet, he can't stop gasping. Sweat rolls down his forehead, and his pulse is quickening. To his dismay, he is thrusting his hips upwards as well.

“Gnn,” Syaoran mumbles and bites his underlip, not wanting to moan out as he comes and his semen makes a mess of both their shirts. His teeth are pressed too tightly against the sensitive skin, and as the seconds flow away into minutes, the taste of something coppery-sweet fills Syaoran's mouth. He chokes, spitting some of it out and a trickle of warm blood rushes past his lips.

And Syaoran, shifting even closer to him, catches some of the blood trailing down his cheek with his tongue. Licking his lips, his tongue flickers out to catch some more, lapping it up as if it were a delicious drink. Syaoran shudders and disgust coils in his stomach like a snake slithering away from prying eyes.

“Tastes good,” he whispers into Syaoran's ear and his hands reach for his boxers, pulling them down his knees. “You like it, so stop pretending you don't want this.”

Mortification hits Syaoran with the force of a water bomb as he realises what Syaoran's intentions are – this can't be happening. Not here, not now and not with him. Too much, his mind screams as his heart beats against his ribcage, so quickly that it nearly feels like it'll burst out of his chest.

"No-stop this. I don't want this!" Syaoran yells out, tugging and trying to wring free from the constraints holding him in place. It's all futile though: the more he pulls and tugs and yanks, the more the cool iron singes his wrist – Syaoran groans and – if only his knees weren't so jelly-like now – he'd slam them right into the other's groin to make him pay. “You bastard. You damned bas-”

“Shut up,” Syaoran coldly commands, and silences him with a harsh kiss – cracked lips slamming against lips, so violently that Syaoran opens his mouth in shock. This isn't a kiss, he thinks, but an assault.

This is a bad move: he gasps in shock as he feels a tongue pushing past his lips and plunging in. Wet is the only word that springs into Syaoran's head to describe this: wet and disgusting, and he stands there, unable to do anything but let Syaoran dominate over his mouth. As the kiss is broken, Syaoran feels a trail of saliva roll down his underlip. His fingers bury themselves into his palm, deep enough to bruise skin.

There's the rustling of something and Syaoran's eyes snap open. He doesn't want to look, but curiosity has killed the cat and, breathing heavily, Syaoran knows that it can't be avoided anyway. Yet, when he finally sees, fear grapples him because Syaoran is unzipping his trousers, revealing his erection.

No, no, no – this can't be true, Syaoran thinks with panic shooting through his veins like adrenaline, and he wrestles against the chains once again – he'd rather have his limbs ripped apart than go through this. All the time, Syaoran just looks at him with an expression set somewhere between dispassionate interest and apathy. And then, he just grins. “You can't run away.”

He doesn't even have enough time to scream as Syaoran enters his anus – without any preparation at all. The pain – the sheer force of the intrusion – burns, and he feels tears dripping down his cheeks. It's tearing him apart – and Syaoran is sure that he's bleeding and that the injury inside of him is growing worse and worse each time Syaoran fucks him, going in and out.

“Stop - please,” Syaoran says weakly, but his voice falls on deaf ears because the thrusts grow only quicker and more ruthless, driving his back against the wall every time. The chains clang and he breathes heavily, wishing that the throbbing in his head would overpower him and make him lose consciousness. Then, at least, he wouldn't have to feel this and the darkness would surely wrap him up under its comforting lull.

It's not happening, though. Syaoran is awake, feeling, hearing and experiencing it all.

There's no point in fighting back, Syaoran realises and, closing his eyes, he surrenders – like a card player revealing his deck before pulling the trigger. He's not even crying anymore. Numbness has grabbed hold of his body, and Syaoran just stares at the valley while he's being violated because this isn't love-making and it's not even fucking: it's nothing but a game of power.

No, it's not even that – it's nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Red are the lifeless stones that are scattered about and a gust of dust is tossed upwards whenever a light breeze flits through the scene. Syaoran watches the dust and the sky: it's nearly like being back inside that tube again, watching everything and taking part in it all, though not being technically part of it.

He's fine with watching. Because if he merely observes, then he can pretend that this isn't him, that this isn't his body and that he isn't the one whom this is happening to. Delusion of this variety is like being inside of a mirror and seeing the world crumble to pieces while you remain intact.

The thrusts become harder, and then, Syaoran feels him shudder as he comes inside.

It's over and done with, and Syaoran, after wiping his cock with his shirt, gets back into his trousers with the self-satisfied pleasure of a soldier who's done his job right.

“You should just kill me,” Syaoran whispers, his voice broken-sounding. His throat feels dry.

But he's not killed – Syaoran just leaves him there, half-naked, with blood and semen dripping down his thighs for all world to see. “Killing you would be mercy.”

After that, he disappears, leaving behind a whirlwind of dust.

No, this is not mercy, Syaoran thinks as he feels himself falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of unconsciousness, if this is mercy, I don't want to know what cruelty is.

Then, blackness engulfs him, and Syaoran – still sinking and sinking - hopes that he'll drown in it.

...

[ficlet] your pain, my thrill

Wed, 22 Jul 2009 02:47:45 GMT

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Rating: NC-17.

Summary: Johann was the most beautiful, yet terrifying thing he had ever seen. Tenma/Johann. NC-17, dark. Non-erotic smut.

Notes: I didn't notice how utterly unoriginal this concept is till I saw this fic. So no, I did not plagiarise. It just happens to be an unfortunate coincidence that our concepts were similar (please read that person's fic as well and give it the love it deserves <3). Feedback is appreciated, concrit is loved but please don't be uncivil.

Warning(s): Non erotic smut, bland prose and Oscar Wilde references. Song lyrics being used as a title? Ah, there's one factual error regarding the Dorian Gray portrait - will be fixed once I can think of how to reword that paragraph.

--

Those who see ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.
...

The clock ticked as he felt his heartbeat quicken with every passing clang. Tenma didn't know where he was - everything had happened too quickly. He only knew that he'd been searching for Johann, and that he'd sensed someone's presence behind him – then, there had been a flash of pain, and the world had gone black.

And now he was waiting and waiting and waiting. For Johann to do something – anything.

If he didn't calm down soon, Tenma swore that he would suffer from a nervous breakdown; his whole body felt like a furnace just waiting for the ignition to set it ablaze. His head throbbed from where the barrel of the gun had landed against it – Roberto's work.

Indeed, Johann, dear Johann, rarely dirtied his hands when he could find someone to do the work for him instead.

Johann's blue eyes were fixed on him, and the young man's face bore the ever placid expression that chilled Tenma to the core. It wasn't that they were ugly – there was no trace of vehemence in them; it was the lack of anything that unnerved him.

He was like that portrait in Dorian Gray. Timeless, uncorrupted – and, like the eternally beautiful red rose, pricking your finger on it made you fall into a deep, deep slumber. Only that, unlike a fairytale, there was no true love's kiss to wake you up.

“I don't see why you were trying to kill me, Dr Tenma. You saved my life, didn't you?” Johann asked, his tone so pleasant and devoid of anything else that the older man shifted, trying to free himself from his constraints – the tight ropes binding his wrists to the wooden chair.

“You know exactly well why,” Tenma replied through gritted teeth as memories of what his saving Johann had rendered possible. So many people had died, and – if he didn't stop him – Tenma knew that many more would fall under the snare of Johann's charm.

Johann didn't seem to have heard. “I've always meant to repay you for giving me a second chance.”

Repay?

Tenma only hoped that it wasn't what he thought it was. But the cold smile that spread over Johann's features heightened his suspicions. He wrestled against the ropes, but the struggle only made them dig deeper into his skin – and it burnt, chaffing his already bruised wrists.

Hands bound, Tenma couldn't do anything as Johann unzipped his trousers and - with the gracefulness that he always exhibited – went down on his knees and made use of his tongue, making the other man bite his lips so forcedly that tissue tore, and blood pooled into Tenma's mouth.

But Johann didn't stop, only licking Tenma's erection even more swiftly.

Head crashing against the wall, Tenma groaned immediately and he cursed. His body had betrayed him in the worst manner possible. Since Tenma had rejected Eva, he had not engaged in any kind of sexual relations. Sex had just not been his utmost priority: saving lives, however, had been and always would be, Tenma admitted to himself as Johann's mouth engulfed his cock.

“Stop this,” he whispered, shuddering as the need to release started to become more and more prominent. “Please stop. It's wrong.”

Johann stopped, momentarily. Smiling, he asked: “Aren't you pleased? Maybe, it's not enough.”

But he didn't wait for Tenma to reply. Instead, with movements that were not the least bit awkward, divested himself of his trousers. Tenma looked away, not able to meet Johann's gaze. Nausea washed over his body, making his teeth clatter and knees shudder. As each of his thoughts hollered "No, no, no", Johann observed him (and delighted in it with the relish of a Holy Inquisitor slowly but surely driving his victim into the sweet abyss of insanity).

He lowered himself down on Tenma's erection, not even breaking out in a hiss or gasp; he hadn't even used preparation of any kind. If Johann ever felt any kind of discomfort, his face didn't betray it. Collected, that was the only word Tenma could have associated with Johann right now – maybe, it wasn't even that because Johann's eerie quietness wasn't anything out of this world.

And then he started to move – slowly as if they had had all time in the world. Tenma grunted, sweat breaking down his forehead as he tried his utmost not to thrust into Johann – blood had made Johann's tight entrance slicker, and – with clenched jaws – Tenma buried his nails into the chair. And yet, it was futile, even though he clenched his jaw so hardly that it hurt, and his nails were digging so deeply that that they were breaking.

In spite of the disgust coiling within him, Tenma moved his hips, driving himself into the tightness with a fierceness that had hitherto been unknown to him; the chair creaked as he slammed upwards over and over again – the creaking was, apart from his pants and ticking of the clock, the only audible sound in the room.

Then, Tenma gasped – loudly – as he spilled himself inside of Johann. The young man only smiled, and then kissed him (gently, nearly timidly and with an affection that made Tenma's eyes widen) – taking in the bitter taste of blood as well; the red liquid trickled down Johann's lips as he broke the kiss, again facing Tenma with that unsettling look before he moved to nibble the older man's left ear.

Tenma only trembled, not wanting to hear anymore but helpless (bound to Johann by fate, by fortune, by destiny – simply bound to him).

“Don't think I'll ever let you go,” Johann whispered suddenly – his voice calm, nearly gentle-sounding. “With this, a part of me will always live on in you.” His fingers brushed against Tenma's black (now long-grown) hair and Johann whispered into his ear: “Even if you kill me, you'll never get rid of me.”

Tenma shook his head, breaking out into hollow laughter which resounded through the room like a gunshot fired in the midst of a wasteland – barren, and with only the wind blowing harshly, kicking pebbles up in the air for a millisecond or two. “You've already taken possession of me, Johann. Even if I kill you, I won't be free. Not now, not ever.”

You've taken possession of me – entirely.
...

[fic] Like A Moth To A Flame

Sun, 19 Jul 2009 01:00:22 GMT

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Rating: R/NC-17

Summary: Ide, have you ever loved? Because I have. Light/Matsuda

A/N: Fic was made less fail by underhandycat0 who is a very nice and helpful beta. I took on her suggestion for the title, using the word “Moth”.

Warning(s): Present tense. Disturbing, jarring imagery. Wordiness. Not all-around tight syntax. Smut. And not all parts are equally well-written? And yes, because neither me nor my beta are infallible, some typos might linger XDD.

--

(love's a thing that happens at first sight)

Chief Inspector Yagami's house is splendid, Matsuda thinks as his eyes sweep over the clean living room. The brightness of it all: the sparkling floor, and the smell of fresh roses lingering in the air – it's all so lovely!

And his children – they're so perfectly well-behaved! Little angels that follow their Daddy's eyes obediently, and, like overexcited puppies wag their tiny tails excitedly as -

“Matsuda! Are you listening?”

No, he's not listening, for the first time defying his superior.

Well, maybe Sayu, he thinks, is like a pup- no more like a Cheshire Cat, if the grin she's directing at him is anything to go by. And Matsuda wants to stick out his tongue, but doesn't because that's so childlike and he's supposed to be the adult here – but he can't resist and sticks out his tongue, anyway. So, he fixes his eyes on the son.

The boy sitting opposite of him is not that much of a child. Matsuda has heard about Light Yagami before. Everyone tells him that the teenager is a genius, and that – one fine day – he'll follow his father's footsteps. And maybe it's only the illumination in the living-room - the bright incandescence of the bulb smiling down at them - that makes everyone, but especially Light glitter.

It nearly looks like he's got a gold-shimmering aura around him, and Matsuda can't look away, can't take his eyes away from the boy that is called Light.

(don't worry, baby .. i'll protect you forever)

Matsuda really doesn't like that L observes people through a camera. It's so creepy and it sends chills rushing down his spine as he thinks about it. Because the cameras are everywhere, breaking through the peaceful sanctum of a perfect home with their wrathful glare. And Matsuda thinks that the Yagami-household should never be broken because it's so shiny and it makes him sad when shiny things are made duller by corruption.

“Are you sure that the cameras have to be installed everywhere?” Matsuda asks L cautiously, as he sees the universally acknowledged genius detective nibbling on his thumb. “Even in the showers?”

“Yes, that is of utmost necessity.”

Matsuda coughs, feeling that he's misunderstood, but then that's hardly possible – seeing how Ryuuzaki never says anything wrong. Even if he did say something wrong, it's not like Touta Matsuda – former class clown, who only become detective because of contacts – can say anything to him.

And yet, he can't stop.

“B-but you'd be looking at them naked!” Matsuda exclaims, feeling horror build up inside of him as he thinks of L – that weird man with a sitting position that only a chimpanzee on a palm-tree could imitate – looking at poor Sayu-chan bathe or Light undress. And that - more than anything - sends the bile rising to his throat. “Don't you think that's a bit perverted?”

L glares at him.

L has got such big, bug-like eyes. Sometimes, they make Matsuda feel just a tiny bit scared because bugs don't have feelings and look at you in the same way before eating you alive. Matsuda slaps himself on the forehead. He really does have a weird imagination.

And yet, he thinks that L's way of just looking at him is so void of anything - so void of anything but annoyance. .

But as he grinds his teeth together, he thinks that he'll try to do anything in his power to maybe persuade Ryuuzaki that installing cameras isn't necessary a good thing.

(burn, burn green envy in the heart of fools)

Light can't be Kira, Matsuda instantly believes when Light willingly offers himself to be locked up. It can't be! And Matsuda shudders as he sees L – ever so briefly – smirk like a fox before a delicious meal. No, not like a fox, more like a witch in Macbeth's play, brewing a deadly potion with spidery fingers and smiling viciously as evil plans roam about her head. Matsuda has never really liked Shakespeare that much, but – due to an Elizabethan-drama obsessed English teacher, he's had no choice but to be aware of his existence.

One day, Matsuda - by accident - walks in on a spectacle that burns itself into his mind forever: L, seated on his chair, while thrusting upwards into Light who's groaning, and sweating and meeting each of the detective's harsh thrusts with hip movements of his own. Still dressed in his shirt, Light's body shudders as L's wirey, but talented fingers grab hold of his length, pumping while he keeps on thrusting and thrusting.

It's sick and yet beautiful. Because, though different in size and shape, together L and Light make up a completed puzzle.

Matsuda shouldn't peek, knowing that it's – a voice in his gut tells him – so very wrong. But then, like a spectator watching gladiators fight for their lives, Matsuda can't tear his eyes away from the scene.

(first kisses make you feel like being lifted up to heavens where you'll meet diamonds in the sky)

It's raining as they lead Ryuuzaki (or Ryuuga, L or whatever else the man went by) to his last slumber. The slosh wets his shoes, and mud attaches itself to the soles whenever he steps into a muddy puddle, but Matsuda isn't really there.

Too sudden are the images of L – that great detective – falling the ground with his spoon landing on the ground with a clatter. And then Light's scream and the fear and despair ...

Matsuda curls his sweaty palm to a fist, winces when his fingernails dig too deeply into sensitive skin.

When everyone else departs, he stays behind with Light. He knows he shouldn't be here, but leave Light alone instead. Alone with the memories of the man growing colder and colder underneath the earth.

“Light,” Matsuda whispers. Not Light-kun – because that's what L used to call him – but simply Light. For Matsuda, Light is nothing but that. Not Kira. Not God. Just Light. “If I can do anything for you, just tell me. I'll do it.”

Light looks up at him, eyes blazing with an emotion that Matsuda can't place. He's never seen it on that face before, and never wants to again. He takes a step back.

And then, he feels that hot mouth against his, more aggressive than he ever imagined but it's fine. Matsuda gives in, allowing Light to slip his tongue into his mouth – and they just stand there, clawing at each other in this sickening and age-old dance. Matsuda can't deny that he's wanted all this ever since he first set eyes on Light.

Matsuda's head spins as Light pushes him against L's tombstone, and it's only when he hears the sound of a zipper tugged downwards that sanity grabs hold of him for a while.

“This is wrong, Light ... this is a funer-”

His hot mouth is on Matsuda's cock, teeth boldly scraping against the head and Matsuda goes “oh” and “fuck, this feels good” because Light's mouth is damned talent and that tongue flickering against his erection just makes him forget everything else. Like the fact that L was still alive twenty-four hours ago, that his body, which is still unaffected by the progress of rotting, probably warmed Light's at nights.

“L probably appreciated it, voyeuristic little bitch that he was,” Light simply says afterwards, wiping off the come with a handkerchief he grabs out of his pockets (Sachiko always says that Light is such a neat boy).

And Matsuda breaks into a laugh, knows that he shouldn't but the irony of the situation just strikes him like a thunderbolt and it really can't be helped.

(and we all fall down, as lust overtakes us and with - scalpel-like precision – seeps through our bones)

“Misa's asleep now,” Light whispers into his ear, and waves of excitement slither down his spine. A smile breaks onto his face, as Light starts attacking his neck with kisses, and he submits. Submits because he wants to and because Light makes him all fluttery inside. Even if they're about to do it on a heavy couch that scratches his back, and it all ends way too quickly – it's enough for Matsuda.

When they're done, Matsuda lays his head on Light's sweaty chest, searching for the heartbeat that he knows must be there (because they're alive and Kira be damned) .

(and betrayal has never tasted oh so sweet, my darling)

Maybe, deep down, Matsuda always knew that Light wasn't as effulgent. But then, nothing could have prepared him for this – Light proudly declaring that he's Kira.

Something ugly crawls up Matsuda's throat, as he realises that Light was just playing a role all this time (perfect student, perfect son, perfect lover ... nothing but lies), and that the pretty face he's learnt to admire is nothing but a mask. As the mask slides down the floor, Matsuda sees for the first time.

The tears trail down his face, as Matsuda shoots, hearing the gunshots resound in the air and seeing how the bullets tear through Light's clothes (tear through skin, through flesh and stay stuck somewhere in there, lodged like a parasite digging deeper and deeper into its victim)

And yet, it's not enough. “You've sent your father to death.”

But that wasn't all. Matsuda wants to say: “You betrayed me, you made me fall in love with you, but never loved me.”

He shoots again, hears Light roar in pain and it nearly feels good, nearly makes the growing hollowness inside of him disappear.

But it won't be fine because as Light falls to the ground, and Matsuda himself is held back, he feels that nothing is good about this. Instead, there's just this lump forming inside his throat, which grows bigger as an ear-shattering scream pierces through the room. It's Mikami's last cry of pain – and maybe even disappointment as his blood sprays all over the place like a heavy torrent of rain.

And, while they're all distracted by the screaming, Matsuda senses that Light's using the last bout of his energy to drag his broken body out of the place, out to -

Die?

There's just no way Light can win now.

Logic tells that Matsuda he should run after Light, but he's rooted on the spot - momentarily. Because, hands shaking, he realises that he won't ever fully be fine again.

(because once you play with fire, you have deal with the burns as well).

---

[ficlet] Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 00:03:46 GMT

Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Move on.

Rating: M

Summary: Only that, for some reason, Sai feels that it isn't without meaning.

Warning(s): Masturbation. Present tense. Odd writing with off-putting imagery (yes, that does warrant a warning!)

--

He pulls his zipper down with a ripping sound that steals through the room like a mouse-chasing cat. But it doesn't end there because with deft fingers – well-practised in running a paintbrush through soft paper – Sai pushes the trousers past his knees, and stepping out of them, leaves them there on the floor (to rot, to lie among the growing collection of clothes already assembled there).

He's only dressed in his boxers, and feels goosebumps forming on his back; his shoulders narrow, and Sai's arms curl around his chest as something chilly-cool runs down his back.

The window is open, and, as he cares to look towards its direction, he sees the moon fixed up there on the sky the way you'd pin a picture on the wall. Green and lustreless in appearance, it doesn't offer him much other than his room as well as his body being bathed in a sickly greenish-yellow hue that makes his already pale skin look whiter than white.

Naruto once said that Sai reminded him of a corpse (like one of those bodies you drag out from a freshly dug grave, so that the hawks can ascend down onto your carcass, and pluck out your eyes from their sockets, feasting on them like overzealous kids who've just been presented with an inexhaustible amount of chocolate bars).

“Naruto,” he whispers out loud, and his voice echoes back at him from the newly-painted light blue wall, the dustless furniture and the other things in his room which bear no meaning to him.

(This is just a room. A room he occupies for a few hours, and leaves when he has to).

Sai lies down on the bed, hears it creak under his weight and sighs. The bedsheets brush against his skin as he shifts, searching for comfort that he can't find. The mattress is too hard, Sai reasons. He'll have to buy a softer one the next time he goes shopping.

He tries to close his eyes, but the drowsy light-headedness of sleep does not come over him. Instead, the wheels in Sai's brain are turning and, while they're turning, Naruto's name finds itself on his lips again. Also, for no reason at all, this makes Sai shudder and his heart beat wildly against his ribcage.

And so, he starts touching himself, cautiously at first but then – the need overtaking his cautiousness – he starts pumping faster.

Hands around one's cock feel good, Sai thinks, and categorises this new experience and wonders whether Naruto feels so too, whether he is also doing this right now and whether he's also thinking of someone (Sasuke, perhaps?).

Spurred on by that name, Sai's fingers clench tighter around himself – he knows so many names for it (manhood, length, penis, appendage and other fancy terms that books have whispered into his ears) – and he hisses out. There's this tightening feel in his stomach, and it's growing and growing. He feels he must continue or the expansion inside of him, which also makes him feel so inexplicably light, will burst.

While his hand is running up and down his hardness, Sai's brain whirls out images of Naruto, and they appear before his eyes like fireflies dancing on a starlit night. With the speed of a motorcycle dashing from location to location, Sai sees images floating before him; images he can't touch, but that he can't escape from either.

(Images of him smiling, images of his blue eyes ablaze with something that he can't identify but that makes Sai feel giddy, nevertheless)

Sai groans as he feels the expansion inside of him grow (grow, and expand and expand and grow) and then explode until it's gone. The only thing left from this dizzying experience is the – Sai removes his hand from his groin, carefully inspecting it – the semen.

(Everything is scientific. Has to be because if it isn't that it just becomes too confusing - and that's never productive).

Nothing has changed.

And, like this room he inhabits for a few hours each day consisting of empty furniture and the windows that present him a sombre moon gazing at everything with hollow, sunken eyes, this act - masturbation, the books call it- should be meaningless.

Only that, for some reason, Sai feels that it isn't without meaning.

And then laughs, though none of this is really funny at all.

--

ETA: For some mild inane reason, I felt like inserting Ryuuk here and saying something like “humans are so interesting” (please ignore me, I'm on a DN high). I'm not precisely sure why I wrote Naruto fic again. I think it was a momentary lapse of reason or simply because I've never written about this character before. If I failed really badly, then please forgive me?

Comments, rotten apples or anything is appreciated?

[ficlet] Always There, Always Watching

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 00:03:02 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Rating: PG. There's nothing offensive here.

Summary: Integra has grown older, but she hasn't lost an ounce of her beauty.

Notes: Hints at spoilers for the last few volumes of Hellsing, but it's more of a “blink and you'll miss it” thing. Besides, if you're not familiar with the series, you'll not understand it anyway XDD. Valuable concrit would be appreciated?

....

Integra has grown older, but she's not lost an ounce of her beauty, Alucard thinks as his eyes (which have seen so much) roam over her sleeping form, taking in every detail that is so essentially her.

He has it all memorised: the slim yet feminine build of her body, the edgy features of her face, and her hair which spills over the pillow like weed shooting out of the ground.

The only thing missing right now to perfect the image of Integra is the cigar sticking out of her mouth, and her hardened, no-nonsense gaze fixed on him - stern enough to make the most confident soldier whimper before her (not him though, never him).

No, Alucard wasn't lying when he told Walter that he had considered his old body beautiful. And he had thought Walter beautiful, worthy in the way he'd so nobly aged – until that fool (just like Anderson) had gone and thrown it all away (his life, his pride, his humanity – his everything).

She shifts in bed, and Alucard wonders if it's because of the open window – it is stormy outside - or his presence. It doesn't matter either way because as long as she doesn't wake up, he doesn't have anything to fear (and it's not fear that binds Alucard to her). And the only thing he fears is that he won't be able to look at her like this once she wakes up, because then all peace will be thrown out of the proverbial window.

Integra doesn't shift as he glides closer to her, nor does she do anything as his lips graze ever so gently over her neck; he smells the odour of strawberry shampoo, hears the blood pumping in her veins and – licking his teeth – he wonders what it tastes like, knowing that her virgin blood would probably invigorate him (not that he'd dare to suck her dry, of course).

Alucard chuckles, and shifting closer to the bed, prepares to k-

But then he feels the cool sensation of metal against his forehead. Looking down, Alucard meets Integra's cold stare. Her fingers are on the barrel of the gun – ready to fire. “I wasn't aware that you were awake, Master.”

She lowers her gun, but continues observing Alucard as he moves to the further end of the room, situating himself beside the open window, where cold gusts of wind whip through his black hair. He doesn't say anything, waiting for her to make the next move in this little chess game of theirs.

“Alucard,” she intones quietly and way too calmly (her calmness ... it's like that of a tightrope-walker's, dangling high up in the air and taking a deep breath before taking the plunge – down, down ... God knows where), “ what was it that you were trying to accomplish right now?”

His mouth widens to a grin, aware that Integra knows the answer already. Knowing that, even if he's older – so much older than her, he can't morph into his ghoulish forms before her. She'd be able to slice through his shield, dispelling any of his fantastic illusions without batting an eyelid. Simply because, unlike anyone else, she knows what (and who) he is. “Worshipping you, Countess.”

He kneels before her – not unlike a knight before his fair lady, offering her his heart and eternal protection - until the ties which bind them dissolve (but Alucard won't allow that because he's pledged himself to her with his entire soul – and even if she dies one day, he'll be sure to follow her).

She's sitting up in bed, just looking at him. “You sentimental fool.”

And then, instead of telling him to shut his mouth or aiming a bullet at his head (which she knows, as well as he does, won't do him any permanent bodily harm), Integra smiles – just smiles, and shakes her head. “Then, like a dutiful and caring servant, let me rest, Alucard.”

He smiles back, and bows. “As you wish, my Master.”

(And, like a guardian angel, he keeps watch over her).

--

[fic] Kami

Wed, 17 Jun 2009 17:27:45 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: R/NC-17

Summary: May I kiss your feet, Kami? Light/Mikami, hints of L/Light.

Notes:

I'm a madwoman. I was cackling in pure delight while writing this. This was bet'd by - and some lines were suggested by her as well - Calamus. However, I altered the piece a bit, so that any errors you'll find are mine – and mine alone.

Say if you liked/hated/whatever?

---

Mikami was all deference, bowing submissively before Light's feet. He didn't look up at Light - didn't even dare touch his shoes for fear that his unworthy hands would stain the purity of his God. Light Yagami was his Kami. Powerful, beautiful and so utterly perfect. Oh, and Mikami– he was so overjoyed that Light graced him with his perfection.

But he wouldn't touch him. Couldn't.

His hands were – even if he tried his best to keep them clean – filthy when compared to this utterly perfect creature. Indeed, Mikami would have rather bitten through his tongue or shoved a knife through his heart than defile his Kami in such a manner

His Kami was there to be worshipped, glorified and to be given precedence before anything else. Mikami knew that. He also knew his place in a universe that centred around Yagami Light. Light was a ruler by divine right, while Mikami bowed before his golden throne.

Light looked down at the man kneeling in front of him with more than just pure relish. It exhilarated him to see that his efforts in making the world a better place were so evidently appreciated. Oh yes, he was a deity – a master - and he had to say that Mikami was the perfect servant. Perhaps, he was a little crazy, but Light didn't care as long as the work he carried out bore fruitful results. So far, Mikami hadn't disappointed him. In fact, Light was surprised at how good Mikami was. It filled Light with pleasure to see that he had managed to gain the support of such an obviously talented person

Mikami was still on his knees. He'd been on his knees for so long; however, he did not feel the pain. Nor the tiredness. Being weary was not part of his job. No, Mikami would never betray his superior like that. He didn't mind the dirty, dingy hall they were in nor did he care for the sounds of skittering rats. His Kami was here. That was all that mattered.

“Mikami,” Light said, earning his worshipper's attention, “I'm pleased with the work you've done.”

Mikami only bowed even more, looking ridiculously small in this position. But, after all, he was small. He was nothing in comparison to his superior master. “I only did what you wanted me to do, Kami.”

Mikami would have done even more if his God had asked. He would have done anything, period. Run on burning hot coals, let himself be crucified or run over by a chariot. He would destroy and create, create and destroy for Yagami Light over and over again. Why, he would even die for his Kami. Mikami loved his God that much.

Light laughed. Why, this man's obvious affection for him was nearly touching. Maybe, it would be laudable to amuse him a bit? Light hadn't had that much fun since L had been sent to his death. Besides, he was bored and could use a little distraction. He licked his lips, thinking of a way to amuse himself with this not so undesirable pawn named Mikami Teru.

“Yes, I'm very pleased,” Light continued in a satisfied tone, and then leaned forward and beckoned Mikami closer”.Deferentially, Mikami shuffled closer – delight at being thus treated lighting up in his face. He grabbed Mikami's chin and forced him to look up. Brown eyes met his – he couldn't see the red, of course, but Light knew it was there. Hmm, he thought, Mikami wasn't even half ugly. He had a relatively pretty face. As Light traced his fingers over Mikami's face, the man trembled. He whispered into Mikami's ear seductively: “I'd like to reward you, Mikami. Is there something you'd like to have?”

Mikami looked down again, apparently not able to withstand Light's gaze for too long. And he was thinking. Light waited patiently, listening to the sounds of scraping – probably coming from rats in search of food. Far away, cars were honking.

Light wanted to see just how daring this man could be. Would he have the insolence to desire something from his Kami? Light knew the answer, but he also knew that there was a chance that he'd receive a surprise. Humans were unpredictable, after all. L had taught him that.

Mikami shuddered noticeably. Was there something he wanted? Oh yes, there was something he wanted to do so very much. His heart beat excitedly in his chest, and he felt the blood pulse through his veins. He still didn't look up at his Kami, remaining silent instead. The surprise at being thus addressed by his Kami – his wonderful, wonderful Kami – was an honour too great.

“Well?” Light demanded, hoping that it wouldn't be something totally crazy. Then again, judging how Mikami Teru operated, he pretty much expected it would be something he could realistically fulfil.

“May I kiss your feet, Kami?” Mikami asked, still never looking up. Yet, his voice was firm and full of respectful humility. After all, he knew his place, and a servant was always humble. He hoped that his wish wasn't too imprudent. He hoped that Kami realised kissing his feet would be another gesture of his respect and admiration.

Light paused. He hadn't quite – well, he had – but this was even better than what he had predicted. How delightfully marvellous! Now, he understood why Ryuk took so much pleasure in being in the human world – people were truly full of surprises. So, Mikami was so much into him? Well, Light wasn't a mean person. He'd give Mikami what he wanted. But not before he tested something out.

“You may, but – before that, lick my shoes.”

Mikami's heart nearly stopped beating. His Kami was willing to grant him his wish. But, of course, he was testing him. Mikami didn't mind, though. He would do whatever his Kami wanted him to do.

It was with quite a bit of surprise that Light realised that Mikami was really going to do this. And the realisation that he could get Mikami do anything for him jingled like church bells in his head. Light tried his best not to show the excitement that he was currently feeling. That would have been unbecoming of someone who wanted to be a god-like being

Mikami's pink tongue darted out of his mouth, and Light felt how it glided over the black leather surface of his Armani shoes. He licked assiduously, ensuring that Light's shoes would sparkle when he was done. Mikami didn't mind the leathery taste so much, nor did he feel disgust building within him as his tongue kept on licking and licking.

“Good, Mikami. Good,” Light murmured, feeling very pleased at this kind of attention. He'd never felt more powerful than he did now. The new-found delight over his power travelled through Light's body like a power-circuit, filling him with excitement. It was electrifying, and Light sensed that his body was reacting – he was, without a shred of doubt, aroused. Very much so. And Light, never failing to not take advantage over a situation, grinned when a wicked opportunity presented itself before him. He felt he could allow a bit more – just a bit more. After all, he was a merciful ruler and would reward his most loyal subject accordingly. “My shoes – take them off.”

“Raise your foot, Kami,” Mikami requested quietly, and Light did so, holding back his giddy laughter as Mikami took off his left shoe. He did it with such fastidious precision, such care. He was touching Light's shoe as if it were the most precious thing on Earth. Oh, Light wondered what L would have thought of this if he'd been alive.

He'd have probably been amused, Light thought. Just like Ryuuk would be – Light paused. Speaking of Ryuk where was he? Light shrugged. Maybe, he'd gone to search for apples. It didn't really matter in the end.

Mikami had taken his shoe off now, and was gazing at it with most ardent – nearly disturbing – interest. He did the same with the other shoe. After he was done taking both of the shoes off, he placed them neatly in a corner.

Light smiled. “Very good.”

Now, his feet were bare. Light winced a bit as his feet made contact with the dirty, rotten floor. He'd wash and scrub them very carefully later on. Oh well, this wasn't the time to bother with such insignificant details. “You may kiss my feet now.”

“Thank you, Kami,” Mikami nearly shouted, and threw himself down at Light's feet again. He didn't waste any time in worshipping his Kami – and his feet were part of what he wanted to worship and honour. With much delight and genuine happiness, Mikami kissed Light's right foot. His Kami had such soft skin. Excitement prickled down his spine as he moved to kiss his god's other foot.

Light wasn't sure what he felt at this moment. In some ways, Mikami was kind of pathetic. Then, in other ways, he was absolutely marvellous. Light had not enjoyed himself so much since he'd – he paused. He was thinking about L again.

Fucking bastard had no place here. He'd never been more for Light but a nemesis that needed to be defeated. And Light had defeated L so thoroughly that he'd never have to worry about anything anymore.

“Stop,” he commanded.

“Yes, Kami,” Mikami obeyed, submissive and loyal as ever. He looked up now, his eyes all admiration and deference. Light saw that Mikami was all ecstasy.

Light grinned smugly. “There's something else I'd like you to to do for today. Suck me off.”

He did wonder – would Mikami degrade himself like this?

Mikami nodded, ever so deferentially. He wasn't shocked. Nor afraid. If anything, he was pleased, pleased that his Kami would let him – him, his servant – touch him. And Mikami, even if he was only servant, wanted to be worthy of his Kami. He'd prove Light that he was worthy.

And Light could only swallow loudly as he felt hands doing quick work of the zipper on his trousers, pulling it down – until his boxers where exposed. And the hands didn't stop there. Light let out a groan when his boxers were tugged downwards – not pulled down, just tugged – so that his arousal was now peeping out. Light did not realise how turned on he'd been till now.

Well, life is full of surprises like they say, he thought. Mikami was not touching him, as if he feared degrading Light like that. It was amusing – terribly so. L, Light thought, had never hesitated that much. No, that bastard had always known to take what he wanted. It had been scary just how much L hadn't ever hesitated. In the end, it had cost him his life – because Light, as a Kami, did punish those who dared to defy him.

But Light didn't think anymore when he felt Mikami's tongue make first contact with the head of his cock. He sucked in a breath, hoping that the other man wouldn't catch on to how much this was affecting him. Or things would get out of hand. Revealing any weaknesses to Mikami would shatter his god-like image. Light couldn't and wouldn't have that. So, Light cursed internally, when – after Mikami's tongue gave a particularly good lick – he found himself whispering “damn it” under his breath.

Mikami never heard though. Too busy in doing what he did, Mikami had never heard Light utter anything. So, he simply continued, licking carefully – circling his tongue around his Kami's penis. He'd never done this sort of thing before; yet, Mikami wanted to do this right. He hadn't touched Light so far. He wouldn't. Not unless Kami asked him to do so. But even then he'd decline – he would only worship, not

Too ... fuck, Light thought. This was torture. He gripped Mikami by the hair, thus forcing the older man to take his cock fully into his mouth. Which he did, without even offering any sign of protest. Just like the perfect servant he was.

Light again had to restrain himself from moaning out loud. But it felt good. Mikami had a talented mouth. And the fact that he was doing this because Light had ordered him to sent spikes of pleasure shooting up his spine. L had never submitted.

In fact, it was only when L had died that Light had felt like having had any power over the older man. But with Mikami here, this pathetic servant of his, he held the reins right in his hands. He'd hold on to them as long as he felt it was useful for him to do so. Briefly, right before he came, Light wondered whether Mikami had a hard-on himself. Then, he realised that Mikami, being who he was, probably did. But it wasn't a concern of his.

“No, let me wipe it for you,” Light said in a gentle tone, and Mikami nodded. Light smiled – oh yes, he really know how to play his cards well. He smiled even more than before when he noticed that Mikami had come inside of his pants. Goodness, that guy had totally gotten off by all this– and Light hadn't done anything, really. How fascinating – thrilling, even. Mikami was just such an easy doll to play with. Easy to acquire and just as to get rid off.

Light fervently hoped L – that bastard – could see him now. Could see how well he could string his puppets together, and make them dance to his fiddle.

Yes, in the end, Light thought, watching Mikami still kneeling submissively before him, I've won.

--

[fic] And You Reap What You Sow

Sat, 30 May 2009 12:33:09 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia

Rating: NC-17

Summary: In the end, Francis knew he'd not gained anything. France/England. PWP. Written for the kink! meme.

Warning(s): angst, explicit smut with some non-con moments and mentions of France/America. Oh some French is scattered in here as well, but it's nothing you won't understand. Thanks goes to kaikouken for editing this and making it a bit less fail.

...

Francis walked the few steps towards England's house with a sinking and heavy heart. His steps were heavy as well and his chest nearly sagged forward – that, at times, France had to pause and catch his breath. His palms were wet. His legs felt like lead, so that each movement he made filled his body with pain. How gladly would he have sat down! Yet, this was the one confrontation he couldn't forgo. He didn't want to. France wasn't someone who gave up easily. No, he never gave up. He wouldn't ever succumb to England. Period.

The door wasn't locked, Francis noted with surprise. Then, England – a fact that had always delighted him – was a bit forgetful at times. Then again, he had nothing to fear. The last time he'd been invaded had been in 1066, at the Battle of Hastings. Since then, England had been relatively free from having his vital regions invaded. That – along with a somewhat inborn pride – gave England a sense of superiority and assuredness that few nations possessed. It delighted France because it made England so tempting. So wonderfully tempting. England was the most tempting thing France had ever met – it wasn't like France hadn't met other enticing nations. Yet, Arthur was special.

He was the one thing France wanted, but could never have.

Arthur's house was like it had always been. Clean, orderly and with the smell of black tea lingering in the atmosphere, mingling with the odour of dusty volumes (probably Milton, Francis thought or Shakespeare). However, the smell of tea was the strongest. It hung suspended in the house atmosphere like fireflies dancing above a river on a pleasant night. Oh yes, England loved tea. He set his schedule on tea. And legend had it, that England could forget everything else apart from tea.

Tea had been the final blow, Francis thought. Oh yes, tea. The one thing that Arthur loved the most had led to the loss of another thing he'd cherished immensely. How ironical. Too bad, he couldn't sympathise with Arthur on this case. No, he felt so far from sorry that it nearly made him feel bad.

Francis cracked his fist. He was getting closer and closer to his destination. A few footsteps, a few trit-trots on the creaking wooden floor and he'd finally get to confront England. France licked his lips, but then his excitement died down. It wasn't like he would be welcome with open arms.

The door to England's office was shut. France paused for a moment, drawing breath. He leaned his head against the door for a second, checking if Arthur wasn't involved in any of his odd antics – like summoning some evil spirit. Hadn't this writer – he must have been called Marlowe or something like that – touched upon that very issue? Really, France thought, shaking his head. The English and their superstitions.

Then again, Arthur wouldn't have been himself if it hadn't been for those very superstitions.

When he finally opened the door, the first thing France perceived was the strong smell of dust. Francis quickly gathered that the window hadn't been opened for days probably.

England didn't see him at once, for he was facing the wall. He was mumbling to himself as well. Or as France wisely gathered, talking to some spirit – it could also be a faerie.

Indeed, Arthur wasn't talking to any faerie. He wasn't summoning anything. He'd been here – for bloody God knew how long. Ever since he'd come back from that despicable war, England had done nothing but stare at that blasted wall.

Arthur turned around slowly. Nearly gingerly. When his face met Francis', his jaw clenched and those thick eyebrows of his furrowed. His face had also gone terribly pale – so pale that England nearly appeared to look like the ghost of Hamlet's father. Indeed, he looked like shit. Arthur, who was usually the very epitome of neatness, had never looked more haggard. His eyes were bloodshot, the clothes he was wearing were in disarray and his hair tousled. A bottle of what Francis suspected to be rum lay on the desk. It was empty.

France didn't even smile. He had no reason to smile. England didn't speak for a while. Instead, he simply continued to glare, as if that glare itself was sufficient to say everything that needed to be said. And maybe it was enough because there wasn't anything France could really say.

“Get the bloody hell out,” Arthur spat out, having spoken before France had even had the chance to say anything. His voice was full of contempt. Yes, contempt. But there was something else. Something that France could only acknowledge as despair.

Francis simply closed the door, shaking his head. “I'm not going anywhere, mon ami.”

A bitter laugh. Then, there was a brief sound of smashing, and something being tossed against the wall. The bottle of rum had just missed Francis head by an inch. Yet, when France felt a hissing sort of pain – he touched his cheek. When he brought his hand before his eyes again, he could see blood. No, the bottle hadn't missed. Arthur had just been gracious. If he'd really wanted to, he could have aimed it at France's face.

Oui, he thought, that England sure knew how to land the right hit. Too bad, he hadn't managed that well at Yorktown. Too bad he'd hadn't been as unflinching then.

“Don't call me that. You have no right to call me that, bastard.”

France couldn't protest at that. He had no right. Since he'd helped Alfred to gain independence. Then, he didn't see how England had the right to fling bottles at him. France had only done what he'd believed to be good. He'd only done what he'd believed to be right.

He'd only done what he'd needed to do. France didn't care whether England liked it or not.

“I don't want to talk to you, git. Get out of my sight,” England said, this time even more coolly than before. He crackled his knuckles, reaching for the gun he kept hidden. But then it dawned upon him that he'd forgotten to have it loaded. Bloody hell, indeed.

“Or what?” France asked, challenging England. He bared his breast, waiting for England to come on at him.

“I'll- kill you. I'll bloody kill you,” Arthur said, his green eyes glinting dangerously. France didn't step back. He wasn't scared. Not anymore. He'd been ready for this.

“Even if you do, I'd die a happy man,” France admitted, not hiding the jubilant tone in his voice. His voice grew even more sardonic when he continued,” because I got to defeat you. After tasting defeat against you, I've finally seen you lose.”

Yes, finally. He'd seen England lose to that still so young America. It was funny and ironical. And beautiful, utterly beautiful.

“Oh and you've lost so much. I knew how you doted over that petit Alfred. It must be cruel – it must be so terribly, terribly cruel – to have lost him to me.”

Arthur looked up, not fully comprehending the implication of Francis' words. Oh, it wasn't like he was that daft. He just couldn't believe. Refused to.

“You didn't-”

“I didn't do what, mon cher?” France demanded innocently, moving closer to the desk. He leaned down, his breath – he smelled like wine – fanned England's cheek. He was close. So close that England could have struck him. Yet, the impulse to do so was not there yet. Not until he'd verified that France was serious.

It wasn't like Francis hadn't pulled his leg before. This could just be another of his jokes.

“You wouldn't – you didn't... don't tell me you —!” England couldn't finish that statement. The horror of it – the unspeakable horror – fell over him like a ton of bricks. Oh, he had expected France to make the moves on America. After all, Francis wasn't the sort of man who wouldn't waste an opportunity like that. And yet-

“But I did. I fucked him.”

Francis nearly felt a pang of regret forming in his chest when he saw Arthur's face take on an aspect of total mortification. He'd seen so many emotions on the man's face before – glee, disappointment, anger and hatred. He'd seen them all, provoked at least the majority of these emotions …and yet, he'd never seen Eng- Arthur – look that positively devastated.

England didn't want to believe. No, it could not be. It could not – it just could not! Not Alfred. Not his Alfred. He stood up. His trembling hand grabbed hold of the corners of his desk. His hands shook. The desk shook as well. Images attacked Arthur's brain—he could see it all too clearly.

Francis' head between Alfred's legs, bobbing up and down. Sweat was rolling down Alfred's forehead. And his fingers were tugging at Francis' loose strands. He was begging for more. Begging for that wicked – skilled – tongue to give him more. More and more until he was engulfed by a cloud of pleasure.

Arthur knew how Francis' mind operated. He knew how France could wrap nearly everyone around his little finger. He knew. Not only because he'd experienced it himself, but because he'd heard it from others.

(France was a charmer, bewitching and deceivingly sweet. He promised you the world, lured you in like a siren's song – only to crush you under his fist when you did not look).

He hadn't cared about France and his various conquests before. But now, it made him feel sick because this was was Alfred they were talking about.

Alfred moaning while Francis entered him slowly until he was buried balls-deep. Then, he moved. Slowly, tortuously.

The imagery, spun by some masochistic and delirious part of his brain, haunted Arthur. He kept replaying it over and over again. He put his hand over his mouth. He could feel the bile coming to his throat.

Fury struck England. He gnashed his teeth. He'd wipe that self-satisfied grin out of France's face. He'd make him pay bit for bit – for what he'd done.

Before Francis knew what was happening, he found himself smashed against the wall. It hurt. He swore that – if he'd been a lesser man – his ribs would have cracked. So fierce and unexpected this attack had been. Arthur wasn't weak. He'd never been. Arthur was strong.

“How dare you defile him? How dare your filthy hands debauch him like that?!” England screamed, gripping France hard by the shoulders. “How bloody dare you! How -”

England was shaking. Francis could feel the man's fingernails sinking deeper into the material of his cloak. If he'd worn anything made out of a thinner material, there would have been marks bruising his skin now. Not that he'd have minded. Francis' body had been covered in bruises before. This was nothing.

Arthur was crying.

Arthur had never cried for him like that. He'd never been that upset over him. It hurt. Francis took a deep breath, trying his best to ignore the tightening in his throat.

And yet that didn't stop him from talking. It was an impulse, a necessity. To not talk was to die slowly, and he didn't wanted to die. Moreover, he wasn't a kind person. Seeing Arthur cry was maybe like feeling someone prick you with a needle. Yet, it wasn't enough to stop him. Not enough. If Arthur had cried for him – now, that would have been something else.

“He wanted it. Alfred was the one who begged for it.”

And he had begged. France had him begging quite thoroughly. He'd teased him until America had surrendered so finally and completely that it had surprised France himself.

“He wouldn't-”

Alfred isn't like that,” Arthur told himself – more like chanted to himself. He'd taught him better. He'd taught him not to sell himself like that. And now – no matter how hard he tried – England couldn't banish the images out of his head.

“But he did. Mon Dieu, he did.”

“Isn't it enough that you helped him to defeat me?” Arthur yelled, moving away from France. He couldn't bear to meet his eyes. It was humiliating. And the war had started so well for England. He might have won, had it not been -

Had France not interfered. Had he never been present at the battle of Chesapeake.

It wasn't so much the fact that France had betrayed him. England had expected him to. He had taken Canada away from him, after all. It wasn't as if Arthur hadn't expected retribution. And yet, he'd not expected France to join in so readily – had not expected Alfred to actually seek out his help. He'd not expected a lot of things. Maybe, that had been his greatest fault.

I always treated Arthur like a child. By the time, I realised he wasn't – it was too late. Too late.

Too late. Those words would haunt him for the remainder of his existence. What would him haunt for rest of his lifetime as well would be that France had touched Alfred. Taken his virginity.

“Why did you have to touch him? Why couldn't you just leave it be?” Arthur inquired again, his voice breaking. He didn't see what profit France had gained from doing what he'd done. If England had learnt anything about America, it was that he didn't cherish the things that had been done for him. If anything, he tended to spit in your face after you'd bestowed all your love and affection on him.

France didn't grace Arthur with any answer, though he knew what to say. Had known all along.

It hadn't been lust (maybe a little curiosity at best). Nor had it been so much the desire to see Alfred lie underneath him, writhing in pleasure. There were other nations he was far more interested in breaking like that. He hadn't had any real interest in Alfred. The boy was simple, childlike even. Boisterous and way too proud.

Nothing like Arthur. Arthur who was a bundle of contradictions, who thrilled him like no other...

The very same Arthur who only had eyes for that cretin. For that stupid America. And France hated it.

France hated Alfred with every fiber of his soul. He hated that Arthur couldn't see that this little brat wasn't any good for him, that he'd never be what Arthur wanted him to be. He hated that ever since that idiot had come into being, England had lost his senses.

“You're a connard, mon ami. A real fool,” France said, his voice velvety and seductive. A chill ran down England's spine. That voice. He tried to ignore the effect it had on him, but it didn't work. He felt his knees buckle as desire shot through his body. France was still towering over him, pressing Arthur against the desk. England could feel the wood digging more than uncomfortably into his backbone. Francis lowered his hands, reaching Arthur's groin. And then he touched him – there were few people who dared to touch Arthur.

Arthur hissed. He tried to slap France's hand away, but it was too good. Way too good. Those skilled hands were too good at rubbing. Before he knew it, Arthur was leaning into the touch. Francis was towering over him now, and England was seated on his desk now.

France only smiled bitterly. As repressed as England was, he couldn't deny that he liked this.

“You know, he felt so good. So tight. So very tight and hot while I fucked him into oblivion,” France whispered into England's ear, still massaging the man's now evident arousal through his pants. He squeezed Arthur's cock, and sighed happily when he heard the man let out a hiss. Oh, he hadn't lost his touch.

But his grin faded when Arthur's foot kicked him – not gently at all – into his groin. Francis' scream pierced the silence, and he his hand fall from Arthur's intimate area. France backed against the wall, massaging his wounded vital regions.

“Don't dare touch me again,” Arthur warned, hands clutching the edge of the desk. His face was flushed. Strands of hair fell on his forehead, obscuring part of his bushy eyebrows.

But France wasn't that easily beaten. Nor he was broken that quickly either. With alarming swiftness, he was on his feet again. When his eyes met Arthur's, he wasn't grinning any longer. The playfulness, which had been lighting up in his eyes earlier, was gone as well. It had been replaced by a sardonic look.

Arthur froze. He knew what that look meant. He'd seen it before.

Francis kissed Arthur, harshly. But England bit at his underlip suddenly, so hard that it drew blood. France hissed in pain and broke the kiss. He looked at England with anger. It cost him all his self-control to not tackle that bastard. How dare he!

Blood was running down England's mouth. It was probably France's blood. Arthur swiped his tongue over his blood-smeared lips; the blood tasted bitter. Not sweet. It tasted nothing like wine. France had once said – in jest – that his blood tasted like sweet wine.

What a wanker.

Francis grinned smugly. So Arthur wanted to do this the hard way. Francis wiped the blood from his mouth with his hand. Fine with him. He'd do anything that was necessary. It wasn't like he was beyond using dirty tricks. And Arthur, even if he was putting on a good display of strength now, was in a weakened state. Francis smiled impishly – nearly cruelly – as he pulled out a leather strap from his pockets. He always kept it there for special purposes. Arthur frowned.

What the hell was this git planning? It couldn't be-

Francis used Arthur's surprise to really tackle him this time. And, while Arthur did put on a good show, it didn't take much for Francis to gain the upper hand. Sooner than they'd both expected, Arthur's hands were tied and he was facing the desk. Francis pushed him further against it, so hardly that Arthur groaned in pain.

“I didn't do it for glory. Or because I was expecting anything from that brat,” France said, twisting Arthur's arm so cruelly that the other nation groaned in pain. “In fact, I think we spent more money on this little war than we should have.”

England groaned, trying to break free. But the leather strap France had bound on his wrist kept him in place. It had really been a moronic idea to drink that much he realised now.

“Then why? Why?”

“Oh Arthur, don't you think I knew how much you wanted that boy? How you longed-” France undid England's trousers, letting them slip to the floor, “to touch him? To take him as yours?”

Arthur's eyes widened for a moment. Francis got it all wrong. He didn't want Alfred like that. No, not like that. Alfred had been like a little brother to him. He'd wanted to protect him from all evil. Arthur had wanted Alfred to look up to him. But that had turned out all wrong, hadn't it?

Alfred hadn't needed protection. Still, Arthur had insisted on his needing it. Because he'd been so young and inexperienced. No, that was wrong. Alfred had been a quick learner. He didn't need England. Not anymore.

Because -

It was raining then. Arthur felt the raindrops drench his skin. Water drops fell down his forehead, past his nose and wetted his lips. But that didn't matter. Neither did the filth that his body was covered in matter. The mud was something he could wash away. He could wipe the rain away as well.

It didn't matter. He'd been through worse before. He'd seen, tasted and heard worse. Alfred wasn't a towering figure. He wasn't someone England couldn't defeat.

Yet, those eyes ... Eyes that once looked up at him full of admiration and affection were now nearly mocking. They mocked Arthur in the disappointment they showed.

And while Alfred – or was it America now? - looked down on him like that, that was when Arthur had realised that he loved him. That he never wanted to let him go. He understood that letting him go was like being torn in half.

And, even if England could wipe away the water and get rid off the mud stains, he'd never gain that part back again. Because once your heart was broken, it could never be fixed again. A crack always remained.

“I didn't-” Arthur started, this time not trying to wring free from France's grasp. It didn't matter anymore.

Francis just huffed. He didn't buy it. He didn't buy a word of England's protests (didn't because he'd seen it with his own eyes, had seen how England's green eyes had lighted up for Alfred. Him and no one else).

“But you did. You wanted him. You still want him. More than anything else. And it – it's disgusting.”

Oh, he'd known Arthur for centuries. Centuries that had passed by like a storm, leaving nothing but confusion and disappointment in its wake. Other nations had fallen. But he'd seen England rise again and again.

England's backside was bared to him now. For a while, he just enjoyed – appreciated – the sight, for Arthur was still struggling and his whole body was wiggling. And that included his ass. Tempting, tempting.

Without any further ado. France stuck a finger into the man's hole. Arthur gasped. He wasn't sure whether it was out of pain or surprise.

“I'm not like you, Francis. I would have never taken advantage of someone like you -”

“Don't lie to me, Arthur. You know that's cowardice, non?”

England didn't ask France to stop. The shock of being called a coward shook him too deeply. He wasn't one. Or was he? If he'd been truly strong, he'd have -

What would I have done?

He felt another finger inserted into his asshole. The pain was acute. It stung. It had been a while since he'd succumbed to someone (and that had only been one person. The very person who was now doing it to him again). He bit his underlip, tore the delicate skin there and felt the blood trickle down his lips. Some of it trickled past his chin. England didn't wipe it away with his tongue. He knew that France liked it when he looked like this. That asshole had always gone for such debased perversity.

Arthur closed his eyes, praying that he wouldn't hiss out. That would have been beneath him, truly. France didn't need to know how much this was affecting him. Then, it didn't matter anymore. France had defeated him already. Even so, England wanted to keep that small shred of pride. France didn't have to know that this was killing him.

But France knew. Oh did France know. It filled him with pleasure to see how Arthur was writhing on that desk, gasping and shuddering because of him. He twisted his fingers, earning a shout that could have nearly been a moan. Time to add another. Time to see how much it took to make England beg. He wanted England to come undone before his eyes – and only his.

“Stop-” Arthur gasped out again, but his voice turned into a groan as he felt a cool hand grip his cock. France's hand was so cold, so coarse. His fingernails were long and sharp. And they scraped – scratched – the head of his cock none-too-gently whenever his hand pumped. Upwards. Downwards. Over and over again.

France didn't stop there. This wasn't even the beginning. He used his free hand to pinch Arthur's still covered nipples, squeezing unmercifully.

He stroked harder, letting his slightly sweaty hands go and up down the already aroused erection. Protest and struggle as he might, France knew that England wanted this. His body betrayed him. And even if he didn't want it, Francis would ensure – once he was done with him – that Arthur would beg to be taken again and again. Until the end of time.

“You've always been such a liar.”

England didn't say anything. He screwed his eyes shut and let France do what he wanted. It was true. He didn't want Francis to stop. Why, it filled England with utmost pleasure to think that by having France take him, he'd be able to wash away all the imprints that Alfred had left on the man's body. By having Francis take him, Alfred would become no more than a shadowy fingerprint.

Take me. Take me like you took him, it ran through Arthur's mind. Make me bleed.

Francis didn't wait long. Not bothering with his clothes for once, he hastily wrestled free from the trousers that covered his already throbbing arousal. The respective and offensive garment was carelessly thrown on the wooden floor, joining England's previously tossed away pants as well. Lubrication wasn't needed. As far as he was concerned, he'd given Arthur enough of that. Besides, he was too impatient to waste another precious moment on fruitless foreplay.

Oh bloody hell, England thought, he's going to tear me in half. He bit even more fiercely on his lips. Gnawing on already torn and bloody skin. Francis entered him in one go – his cock was fully sheathed within him. And it hurt – it was the scorching pain of something hard and big being thrusted maliciously into a tight channel. It was a disgusting metaphor; however, he couldn't think of anything else to explain that sensation. After all, France was pretty big, bigger than he'd remembered him to be. England swore that there was blood running down his thighs. The bastard – that berk – had not even bothered to ease his way into him.

And yet, Arthur's cock was leaking with pre-cum. And yet, sweat was soaking his body while his heart was beating feverishly in his chest. And yet, his body, flamed up like a furnace, wanted more. What was more – France had never noticed it – but England's hands had freed themselves from the leather straps. He was no longer bound. Any time, and he could punch his way out of this situation.

But before that, Arthur decided to play along. Just for a bit.

“You're so tight, cheri,” France uttered admiringly, sounding hoarse. It wasn't only tight but hot. Francis' grip on Arthur's hips grew even tighter. He'd forgotten how wonderful this felt.

“Will you start moving or are we to remain like this till the end of time?” Arthur suddenly spoke out, voice coming out firm. Firmer than France had expected it to. But he shook his head. He should have remembered. This was England – and he'd always been strong. In some way, even impenetrable.

“You English are so -”

“Insufferable?” Arthur helpfully added. And then – much to Francis surprise – tore himself away from France. He winced a bit as he felt the other's man cock, which had still been deeply seated within him, leave his anus. His eyes could see Francis' penis now, red and throbbing. England thought it nearly pitiable. He felt pride swell within him. After all, he'd done this. Made Francis lower himself like this. Yes, he could see that France was half mad with want. Arthur smiled. Then, using his hands as support, sat down on the desk. Then, his eyes met France's. This was an open challenge.

“Do it now – or I'll pummel you to death.”

“Wicked.” France licked his lips. But he wasn't pleased. When England had pushed him away, France had nearly felt like one of those flighty poets, and he'd have used the phrase “banished from paradise”, only that he hadn't even had the chance to taste sanctuary. England had pushed him away before that. Feeling angry, he spanked Arthur's ass and entered him even more ruthlessly than he'd done before.

Arthur hissed out – the intrusion was more forceful than he'd expected. If he'd not been relaxed, it would have felt like being—England preferred not to think about it. Because it wasn't worth it. Instead, he focused on shifting his hips and forcing France to move. And move he did.

“It's funny how I -”

Arthur looked up at him with a hateful look and Francis' words died down his throat. So yes, he'd had America. America had begged him, pleaded him to take him with all his skill (Francis had enough of that skill that made men groan and women scream wantonly).

“Don't talk about Alfred—” England hissed out, anger flaring up in him. His fingernails scraped down Francis' back and he spat on his face. “You don't own him.”

France, still pounding in and out of England's body, only smirked. He wiped the spit out of his face with his hand, smirk never leaving his face. “No. He's not mine.”

England's green eyes clouded with distrust. He could already sense it on France's lips – he'd bring out another slap on his ego. He'd not have it. He'd not have it. Arthur prayed that something akin to a miracle would happen. Like Francis suddenly becoming mute. Or him developing something like compassion. Sadly, and much to England's chagrin, that never occurred.

Then again, it wasn't like Arthur had ever showed compassion towards him. At least, France would have said so. Therefore, he didn't shut up, didn't hold his tongue. Even if he knew that this was hurting Arthur.

“But he was never yours, either.”

England remained silent. Even if he felt like a spike had been pierced through his heart. He felt cold all over. Numbness was taking over his soul, even though he was currently being fucked. His body was hot, his stomach was filled with – not butterflies, maybe – but something he couldn't decipher. Something that made him feel fluttery.

“No,” France said, pulling his manhood out of Arthur's twitching hole before slamming back in with cruel swiftness,” and you were never his either. You ... belong ... to ... “

Me, he wanted to say. You belong to me – only me.

But that would have been baring his soul and heart to Arthur. And Arthur, even if his heart was breaking into pieces for another man, would have not shown him any mercy. Even if Arthur was under him now - legs wrapped around his waist and body arching upwards - he would never be his. France could have this. He could pound into him over and over again until they both came undone.

And yet, he'd never have what he really wanted. Because he only had England temporarily. Worst thing was Arthur didn't even know how much Francis needed – craved – for his attention. Because if he had, he would never allowed Francis to take him like this. So yes, Arthur allowed himself to be fucked– allowed him all this, but that was all.

I'm nothing to Arthur

The sickening realisation poured over Francis like hot candle-wax, seeping into his skin with poisonous venom. He shuddered. If it hadn't been for the pleasure – the mind-numbing heat and tightness of Arthur – he would have cried. He wasn't going to last long. He could feel England's walls clenching around his cock. Arthur was moaning as well, and it was not beautiful. They were more grunts than moans too, but it was at least a reaction.

Arthur's toes curled. The desk was shaking underneath him. France pulled out, then entered him again. In and out. The vicious cycle continued. All Arthur could do was gasp. Sickening – to him, this was utterly sickening – pleasure filled his body, starting somewhere in his stomach and spreading over his body like a fever.

This wasn't about Alfred anymore. Maybe it was, but another part of it was about -

England didn't really know what it was about. Maybe, this made him feel better about himself. After all, it wasn't lost on him that France desired him in one way or the other. He doubted that the man felt anything like love for him. Yet, it wasn't like he didn't know that Francis wanted to possess him. So, he gave him just that, gave him a taste of what it meant to own him. Only to mock him about it later (he'd spit in his face, tear his lungs out later on. Oh yes, he would).

Because England would pay him back for it. For humiliating him like this.

Even if it was flattering. Flattering to have this being done to him. As much as it was sickening. Arthur knew that, once the haze passed by, he'd hate himself for this. He knew that he would spend hours repenting this. Then, this was what Arthur wanted. A reason to hate Francis even more. A reason to hate himself even more. It was with that on his mind that Arthur came, screaming all the while. During that time, he didn't even notice that tears were streaming down his face.

Oh, Alfred.

Francis did. An impulse made him want to kiss the tears away, but then he understood. Or better, he heard Arthur mouth those two words. Of course, Francis thought. Of course.

It's not as if I could break him that easily.

It was over. Francis pulled out, leaving part of his semen inside of Arthur. His stomach was covered with the fruit of his labour – England had come all over him. France wiped the cum away with a napkin, which he'd gotten as present from one of the women he'd wooed at court once.

He didn't even bother to look up at Arthur. Arthur wasn't looking at him anyway. He heard the shuffle of clothes and an awkward cough. Evidently, the other man was dressing up, trying to forget what had just happened. Francis swallowed. His throat felt awfully dry. When his eyes met Arthur's briefly, he saw with perfect clarity how things stood between them.

Francis didn't say anything, and Arthur never stopped him from leaving. So, he shut the door with a bang, leaving everything behind as it had been before. Even if it was a lie. Already the world was changing around them. America was a new country with new ideals. France knew that those ideals were dangerous, spreading around like a wildfire. He knew that – sooner or later – things that had been taken for granted once would crush under the weight of their sins.

And yet, he knew that Arthur – obstinate Arthur – wouldn't ever change.

In the end, Francis knew he'd not gained anything.

--

since i'm morbidly curious...

Thu, 21 May 2009 23:31:59 GMT

THE ANONYMOUS WRITING FEEDBACK MEME

The point is that you're going to be honest here. Please don't hesitate to comment, even if you absolutely despise my work. Since it's anon, I won't either know who you are and ... yeah, that should make it feasible to really tell me what you think of me as a writer (even if it's “stop writing you dumb bint because you fail and suck at it so hard it makes puppies cry XDDD).

[fic] The Games We Play

Fri, 08 May 2009 22:03:19 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note (and never will).

Rating: NC-17

Summary: L is still L, and Light is Kira. Nothing will change. Light/L

Warnings: ~~No real plot PWP/bad attempt at NC-17,~~ nothing new to speak of, present tense, semi-abuse of brackets, newbie author testing out the waters? Don't expect brilliance. Criticism loved, but no flames (please refrain from being rude). Thanks to istne_pieklo and Calamus for the beta!

---

L tastes like coffee, too much sugar and something else that Light can't define. It could be L's own peculiar taste, or it's just Light's senses not being able to deal with all those many impressions at once: the smell of (could it be?) strawberry shampoo coming from L's hair, the all too noticeable sounds of the bed creaking under both of their weights and the damned hammering of his own heart against his ribcage. He's trembling all over. Light is nervous. Shouldn't be, but is because all those sensations at once are too terrifying and too sudden . Somehow, he and L have gone from talking to kissing so quickly that it's quite overwhelming Light. He doesn't like it when things don't exactly go according to plan. So, he's a bit nervous.

Every normal person would be nervous in this situation.

And yet, he shouldn't be nervous. The fact that he is – that one part of him is coming undone right here and now – is the first sign that doing this is fucking wrong. Because Kira is supposed to be strong and infallible – not like other human beings, who err. Light can't err, he has to keep strong.

But, he decides, nipping at Ryuuzaki's lower lips, forcing his tongue into that hot, open mouth still tasting of cake, that he doesn't really care. Because he'll win, anyway.

In all the possibilities that Light calculated and meticulously planned for capturing L (that bastard who'd humiliated him so much by showing up when he'd least expected him to show up, in the brightness of day), the thought of doing this had only dimly flitted through his brain. Of course he's considered it, he thinks, while he's trailing his right hand underneath L's shirt, running his fingers over cool skin.

L makes a noise. It might be a grunt or a groan. Or just a brief “hmm”. Like he's surprised that touching your groin is a stimulus which brings out that kind of reaction. Like it secretly amazes him that he can feel such things. Maybe, Light thinks the latter has a higher percentage of being true, seeing how L has zero knowledge of how to deal with people. He doubts the man, who must be older than him – regardless of how young he looks – has ever even kissed before (and it's pathetic yet arousing at the same time).

“You kiss like a dead fish, Ryuuzaki,” Yagami-kun, who is really Kira, whispers into his ear. L doesn't shudder, doesn't even feel shivers run down his spine. He just nods because it's a fact and he's never been someone to deny facts.

“It's not like I have the honour of being kissed very often, Light-kun,” he says, and it's the truth. He doesn't even know how this started. Then, at the moment, he really doesn't care.

It doesn't really fit into the scheme of things he'd planned to happen. But it's only a slight alteration. L thinks he might actually learn about more about Light-kun like this than simply observing him through a camera. And kissing, L decides quite rationally, is a nice pastime. If it brings him closer to Kira, he can deal with the wetness and slight surrealism of the situation.

Of course, Light thinks. Of course. It makes sense. And he's suddenly forced to admit that he isn't doing this because Ryuuzaki (damn fucking L) is so attractive. He isn't. Not that Light really cares much for aesthetics, really. It's the inside that matters, it's what you've got inside your brains and heart that matters. And, anyway, Light thinks that he'll kill the pretty ones too, especially those pretty ones who are nothing but filth on the inside.

Sex is something so vulgar and commonplace for him. He's done this before. Often enough that he knows that he could do without it. All the messiness of feelings and clingy girls is something he doesn't need – they only conflict with his schedule, and, to Light, the only thing that really matters in the long run is schedule. He doesn't have time for sex, doesn't need it and thinks that accomplishing his goals is more than substitute enough for a roll in the hay, so to speak.

But he also knows that some people can't, that some people will melt if you push them just enough. He knows that L won't be pushed that easily, but he's only human. In the end, all humans are weak. And since L was the one who started this – unexpectedly slammed his lips against Light's, pushing him down the bed with him – Light thinks he can use this situation to his advantage. He'll turn the tables around and take L by surprise. Even if L isn't really all that attractive.

Even when he lets his tongue trail down that pale skin, Light thinks how L isn't pretty at all. He's more like a spider, posture all awkward and he's so thin. His eyes, those black and terrifyingly blank eyes, are observing his movements with acute precision. Light knows that L is measuring and weighing his actions carefully. Each touch is a meticulously planned tactic to make him slip or betray some slip of emotion that fits into L's perception of what Kira is.

This isn't about lust at all. Light knows that. And he knows that L knows that too. Because if this were only about venting out sexual pleasures, then it would be easier. Light wouldn't have to remain guarded, wouldn’t have to ensure that his oh so cleverly fabricated mask doesn't slip. But this is L who's analysing the situation, even though he's about to get fucked. And because this is L, Light has to keep on pretending.

L lets himself be pushed down the bed. His shirt is gone, probably tossed to the floor, and he can easily observe that his jeans will be disposed of in exactly the same way. L feels like sticking a finger into his mouth, but he can't. Light-kun, whom he now suspects of being Kira more than ever, keeps his hands pined above his head. He's trapped, and L lets himself be trapped. Because he knows that he'll only be able to crack Light's mask if he submits. He isn't losing. No, L does this in order to win.

God, Light thinks, I should just kill him here and now. But that would be messy and – not to mention – illogical. He'd rouse to many suspicions, and if Light wants to avoid something right now, it's being suspected. He has to keep us his guise of being an innocent student.

Besides, looking down into that oddly curious face with the big blank black eyes, he senses that L might prove to be fun still. He will dispose of him one day, but for now he'll have his fun.

L doesn't gasp out when he feels a hot mouth on his cock. The only sound escaping his lips is a slight grunt, and he's thrusting his hips upward, nearly furiously trying to shove his penis even further into Light's mouth because, L realises and his eyes snap open at that, it feels amazingly good. And for a moment, he nearly forgets that he shouldn't allow his emotions to interfere (unnecessary, nothing but an obstacle in his path leading to power).

Oh, this is getting good, Light thinks when he feels L's wiry fingers bury themselves into his hair. He might not be crying out in pleasure, but this is enough of an indication that he likes it, that he's slowly losing control over himself. And Light, even if he's still got his mouth wrapped around L's cock, grins smugly. Yes, he's good; he's so good that he amazes himself. He wonders, eyes rising slightly to the ceiling and meeting an amused Ryuuk's glance, if his ever present watcher – bound to him by a contract – thinks so too. Maybe he does. It's most likely that Ryuuk thinks that all of this is terribly amusing (humans are incredibly fascinating subjects after all. Always contradicting one another, always seeking for the truth in the wrong places).

It isn't amusing for L when Light lets go of his pre-cum leaking cock just when he's about to reach climax. He snaps his eyes open, and Light shakes his head. Why, L is so childish – he looks startled, as if he'd been torn out of pleasant opium dream.

Checkmate, he thinks. I've got L just where I wanted him.

“Disappointed?” Light asks, smiling mischievously at the nearly furious look in L's eyes. “I'm not selfless enough that I'll let you have all the fun, you know?”

That's when reality hits L. He realises that, if he succumbs now – falls to begging and pleading – that Light, no, Kira will have the upper hand. And L, digging his ridiculously thin fingers into the blankets, won't allow that. Because it's better to die than to allow Light to ever hold power over him. So he remains quiet and no words pour of his mouth.

Light smirks again, amused that L is so predictable. He'd known beforehand that he wouldn't be graced with a “fuck me, please”. No, not from L. But it's all there; it's there on the faint blush gracing his cheeks, the way his body is trembling and his cock is throbbing too. It must be painful, being aroused like this. And Light would feel sorry if it weren't for the fact that – if their roles were reversed – that L would probably show him just as little mercy (he'd probably have him handcuffed and watch Light finger-fucking himself. Watch and watch till Light would start pleading and begging... and only then – only then – would L show some mercy).

There's no preparation. L winces in discomfort – but he doesn't cry out – when Light enters him relentlessly. Light's hot and big inside of him – it burns. L closes his eyes, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat. He can hear it now for some strange reasons; he can't remember having been so hypersensitive to the beating of his own heart before. Maybe it's because he's – L doesn't know. L doesn't know anything at the moment. He'd expected it to hurt, but not this searing pain. Not the humiliation of lying naked underneath a bastard who's killing people off with a wave of his hand. But there's no turning back now. There's no turning back. He'll have to remain strong because no, no, no, he won't run away. He won't run away.

Light starts moving now. Not gently. No, Light pulls out harshly and then slams right back into L – and it feels wonderful. Much better than Light expected. L is hot and tight, just as much as he expected him to be – and it's marvellous. Marvellous because Light knows that he can crush L now, crush him with his fist like you'd crush an ant crawling on pavement.

It tears L up inside, and he arches upwards, unable to do anything other than grit his teeth against his lips. The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth. L wipes it away.

Light stops him. He rather likes it when L's mouth is nearly ruby red – it looks delectable.

No, L is not attractive. But Light realises that in this second – while he's gasping and arching upwards with sweat soaking his skin – L is nearly fucking gorgeous. His eyes are closed. L's hair is more in tangles than usual. And he's so hot and tight, so wonderfully tight. It doesn't matter that Ryuuk is watching, that somewhere downstairs his mother is preparing dinner and that, if his plans ever fail, this man – this terribly odd man – will probably be the death of him.

L is turned on. His mind protests, but fuck, fuck, fuck he realises, his body doesn't. No, L realises with horror, he wants this. He likes it. He likes it so much that it's more than just nauseating.
Light. It's all Light's fault.

Because there's nothing else left to do, he's moving his hips upwards to meet Light's furiously frantic thursts. He hears the bed creak, hears how their bodies are sliding against each other (feels too how Light's cock leaves and re-enters his body, senses how he's slowly losing control over himself, how the pleasure is growing so thick that he's barely aware of what is happening around him).

Everything is blurred, vague – misty. L is slowly drowning – being encompassed – by that hazy blurred mistiness. He's losing himself in it. He shouldn't, but he is.

But it's not like he's the only one losing. Light might not realise it, but he's losing control too. L opens his eyes, and his thoughts are confirmed: Light's face is a terrifying mixture of delight, contempt and something that is nearly inhuman – it's so vicious, so utterly deluded. Light is wrapped up in the supposed of glory of winning that he doesn't realise he's losing. Losing because he's overestimating himself. Doomed because he's reaching for something he can't have.

And the one thing L knows that Light will never have is him. After all, nothing has changed. Even if they're one now, even if their bodies are joined so intimately, it won't change fate. It won't keep L from trying to prove to the world – and himself – that Light Yagami is really Kira. Yes, L thinks even while he's close to climaxing – that he'll bring Kira down. He'll bring him down.

Light is close. He can feel it. His balls tighten, and then he comes, not bothering to pull out of Ryuuzaki while he does so – he spills himself inside of L. He doesn't scream or cry out, just grunts. He pulls out, suddenly aware of how sweaty and filthy he is. He rolls his eyes in disgust. He'd nearly forgotten how messy sex is.

Light doesn't kiss L afterwards. He doubts that L cares much. Light didn't even help L to come himself – he doesn't think that L minds much either. They're not lovers. Hell, they aren't even friends. Light can barely stand L.

Light is right. L doesn't mind it. Doesn't mind because he can take care of it himself. He's neither expecting kindness nor wants it. L is used to being alone, indulges in it in fact; it's the one thing that makes him so good at what he's doing.

Now that the brief haze of sex has left him, he's viewing this quite rationally. He'll get cleaned up and then it'll just be like it always was: he's still L and Light-kun is Kira.

And, in the end, that's all there is really left to it.

[fic] Of Gits, Speaking To Walls and Finally Getting Somewhere

Sat, 02 May 2009 16:48:08 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, and never will.

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Pretty much PWP. Written for the kink! meme. In which Arthur is angry, Alfred oblivious and things still somehow get sorted out?

Notes: Posted because someone I really admire said they'd write smut if I shared this! And yes, this is err... largely fail edited by myself (mostly because this author has the attention span of a turtle and spends more time going HOHOHO than anything else). Thanks goes to jadedsavant for first looking at this over for me (and making it halfway readable when I shared first this on the kink!meme).

Those expecting brilliance, should go somewhere else? I'm not adverse to concrit though, but flames will be ignored. ~~Please be kind. This is the first time I'm sharing fic after being on a two month hiatus from a very large fandom (apart from whoring myself out on kink! memes ;_;)~~

--
Alfred, that was a universally acknowledged fact, was a total git. Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind- stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old – fuck, Arthur realised, I'm quoting both Jane Austen and Charles Dickens. He was scandalised. Alcohol obviously did not work any wonders for his cognitive processes. His head was burning. Searing actually. And he felt like singing “God save the Queen” over and over again. Or maybe it was “God curse the Queen?”.

“Oh bloody hell,” Arthur snarled, smashing his fist down on the wooden table. His knuckles immediately hurt, and he looked down on them – they were bruised. He'd slammed his fist down on the table a bit too appreciatively, for lack of better word. Then again, he couldn't be appreciative enough. Today was the day. The day when a certain wanker had broken his heart. And there was no better way to heal broken hearts than giving a tribute to that long since forgotten Dionysus.

Now, all of this would have been a rather normal procedure if Alfred himself had not been present. Yet he was bodily present and currently engaged in sending more than just dubious looks into his companion's direction. And those looks were annoying because Arthur just didn't like it. It wasn't like Alfred cared about him. Probably, he'd just tagged along to mock him and his weaknesses.

“Don't you think you've had too much, Arthur?” Alfred asked (not that he cared for Arthur's well-being, mind you). It would have just been inconvenient if the other nation ended up dying because of alcohol poisoning or something. After all, the blame would end up on Alfred who'd not only suggested going here, but even offered to pay for the drink. And it was troublesome to carry dead bodies around. Gosh, if he'd known that Arthur was going to be such a bad sport about this, he'd have never come here. He should have met up with Ivan instead. That man, even if he was the Devil Incarnate or something like that, was less difficult to deal with than a half-smashed Arthur.

He'd drunk more than six glasses of scotch or whatever the hell it was. Again, Alfred pondered that he should have known that taking Arthur out for a drink was never a good idea. Because he was talking to himself again. Aloud.

“Hah, the prat takes me here today. On the 4th of July. Sod,” Alfred heard Arthur say, his tone still not slurry enough because it took more than six glasses to make him completely drunk. So, maybe, he cursed a bit more. Yet, he was still Arthur. Irritating, stern Arthur who only looked cute when out cold or lying sick in bed with a fever.

Arthur, meanwhile, was still going on about the fourth of July. He'd never forget that date. Come what may, he would have been going on and on about it, even if – well, if everything from stomping (drunk) elephants to giggling clowns had walked into the pub. The fourth of July had been when America, ungrateful brat that he was, had decided to declare independence. Even though he was half-drunk and partly incapable of thinking clearly, Arthur could still feel the same grief, disappointment and disbelief. No, he would never forget.

“And I'll never forget it. Even if the world should crumble to dust, I shan't ever forget,” he said loudly, voice nearly thunderous in its volume. If he'd started crying, the dramatic imagery of loss would have been complete.

Alfred watched the whole spectacle with feigned disinterest, though his entire being was scared out of his wits. Arthur was fucking crazy. Hell, crazy didn't fit. Alfred thought he'd never met anyone ... more out of his mind. Which, considering how crazy some of the nations were, was quite an understatement. But Arthur was just own his special brand of “lunatic”. Alfred just couldn't make any sense out of him. Sometimes, he thought Arthur was being nice to him, other times he believed that he was a nuisance to him. Sometimes, Alfred really believed that term “he ran hot and cold” could be truly applied to Arthur. But that wasn't the problem now. The problem at hand right now was that Arthur was talking to something inanimate.

“Arthur, say ... why are you talking to a wall?” Alfred asked cautiously, starting to grow more worried when Arthur's soliloquy gained even more pathos. But Arthur ignored him. An annoyed -sounding sigh was the only indication Alfred received that Arthur had actually heard him.

He wasn't talking to a wall! Arthur was talking to a ghost. And if Alfred didn't get that, he could very well sod off. Of course, Alfred, being not only a complete sod but gifted with no sixth sense could not see any ghost.

The only thing he saw was a rather smashed Arthur gesticulating wildly. A funny sight in itself, but it was past midnight already. Outside, a thick fog had already settled over the city and it was growing duskier and duskier with every growing second. Soon, London would be decked in darkness. Alfred really wanted to go home. Or at least, sleep in Arthur's bed. He'd never admit it out loud but the other nation had fantastic taste. When it came to beds, at least. Alfred also admitted that he liked Arthur's cooking. He didn't understand what was supposed to be bad about it. Not that he'd tell Arthur about that, of course.

Meanwhile, Arthur hadn't stopped talking. He was too incensed by painful memories of betrayal and defeat to even consider stop talking. He felt that a whole trilogy could not have given his woeful sentiments enough vent.

“Is he doing this to anger me? Upset me? You'd think that by now the prat would have learnt some manners. Or a little tact. And yet and yet ... he keeps reminding me of it every year.”

Alfred wanted to shout that wasn't true. He'd come here because he'd wanted to earnestly celebrate with Arthur. Not because he'd been interested in rubbing his victory under Arthur's nose – it couldn't be? Maybe, it had been that. Alfred wasn't too certain what he'd really wanted to. In fact, he hadn't even considered how Arthur felt about it. But now, he was starting to think that this might have been a mistake.

Arthur was still too busy in his little tête a tête with the headless ghoul to realise that Alfred had listened to those words with more than just discomfort. In fact, the young man swallowed audibly, refusing to meet the eyes of the interested observers. Who, of course, included Francis. Somehow, that bastard was always around when Arthur got drunk. Alfred wasn't quite sure what the man wanted, but it couldn't be anything good.

“My head's spinning. I could use some-” Arthur halted, not sure what he needed. He could use a lot of things – a better economy, less demonstrations and less rain. The latter was something he'd always wanted to have less of. However, Arthur knew that it wasn't something he'd ever get – just like he couldn't seem to have Alfred.

“Do you want me to help you, mon ami? I'll take you out on the fresh air, cheri...” Francis drawled, looking up and down Arthur's body appreciatively. He licked his lips, apparently engaged in the mental occupation of undressing Arthur with his eyes.

Arthur wasn't quite stupid. He could see the way the man's eyes were resting on his groin. And, between dealing with an oblivious Alfred and a seductive Francis, he knew what would make his evening complete. It had been a while since he'd gotten laid. Even if it was this bastard. Hell, he had talented fingers. That counted for something.

“All right,” Arthur said in a commanding tone, as if he'd been the one to propose the idea and not Francis. Then again, he couldn't let Francis think that he was that helpless. He had to keep his demeanour or things would get too confusing.

Alfred didn't quite like that. He'd watched the exchange between Francis and Arthur with a frown. His frown deepened when he saw that Arthur was attempting to rise from his seat. He had to do something. He couldn't let Francis take Arthur away from him.

“I think it's time to leave, Arthur,” the younger nation said, dragging Arthur – non too gently – by the cuffs of his shirt or ... was it his vest? It didn't matter. Maybe it was neither. He couldn't tell because the pub was so clouded with smoke that it wasn't really possible to discern anything.

“Wait, “ Francis said, mild irritation lighting up in his usually playful countenance. He wasn't all too happy about the fact that a delicious treat – in the form of a very tasty Arthur, naked and writhing under him – was being robbed before his eyes. If he could have, he'd have put a stop to it. Not too persistently, of course. This was Alfred, after all. But he wasn't in the mood.

“D'accord. Do as you wish,” he stated, watching Alfred drag away the one thing he'd wanted to have for a long time. It still hurt. But Francis wasn't the sort of person to be upset for too long. So, he shook his head. And decided to spend the rest of the evening tasting sweet wine. Maybe, he'd find something else – something sweet and gentile – to take home with him. After all, Francis thought, life was too short to waste it on missed chances and broken opportunities.

Alfred ignored Arthur's grunts of protests – they were nothing but sweet music to his ears. He'd learnt to channel them out with time, only paying attention when feeling like it. Alfred didn't feel like it now. He felt like going out instead – out of this oppressive and dingy pub. Out, out. He needed to go out. Arthur wasn't going to be molested. If there was going to be any molesting done tonight, it wouldn't be Francis doing it.

--

By now dusk had settled over the city. It lay spread out like a blanket, covering the highly populated metropolis under its black-drenched material. Alfred felt stupid. He couldn't really make his way out in this darkness.

Right now, they were in a dark alley. Arthur sodding hated it. It was smelly. The odour of decrepit hamburgers and thrown away fish filled his nostrils. A charming place, he thought, to rot gleefully away as a homeless person. Only that he wasn't a homeless person. Besides, Arthur hadn't even finished drinking yet.

“Alfred, why did you drag me away? I was just going to have fun with .... oh forget it.”

It amused him how he still wasn't drunk enough to slur or speak in a hybrid of Yorkshire dialect and Cockney slang. Sure, his head had been spinning. However, the cool air of the night sobered him more quickly than anything else could have done.

Alfred just shook his head. “You were going to do what? Have sex with him?”

Arthur tensed. He wasn't quite sure if he liked the sound of Alfred's voice – it was so possessive. Nearly wounded, too. As far as Arthur was concerned, Alfred had no right to feel wounded. He cracked his fists. He couldn't believe it. For what had nearly been three centuries, Alfred had treated him like shit. He'd changed a little since circumstances had forced him to acknowledge that he wasn't as much of a shining beacon as he had thought himself to be ... still - all in all - Arthur still felt that Alfred was taking him for granted, that he still looked down on him. And that hurt more than anything else could have done.

“And that's so bloody wrong? You know, it's not like you'd ever give me what I want!” Arthur suddenly hollered, angry at something he'd tried to repress for the past few ... decades, at least. It had been ages ago. Still, Arthur found that his heart ached the same way it had when Alfred had first started celebrating this particular day.

Alfred pushed Arthur against the wall, roughly. If he'd done it harder, a rib would have probably cracked. Giving it everything he had, he kissed Arthur's chapped lips. Arthur groaned, opening his mouth. Alfred immediately seized this as an opportunity to stick his tongue into Arthur's mouth. He liked it. In fact, he had to admit that kissing Arthur was a hell lot better than kissing someone like ... Arthur forgot that he had no one to compare this experience to. Not really. Even if he'd gotten around in the world, Alfred had never quite managed to kiss someone properly.

Oh well it doesn't matter. I'm very good at kissing, he decided. Arthur would surely melt in his arms.

This was – Arthur didn't know how to describe it. He'd been screaming his lungs out a few minutes before and was now being kissed. He screwed his eyes shut, even if the kiss was more messy than anything else. Alfred had no fucking idea how to kiss. Because, if this was what he referred to as kissing, than donkeys had a better grasp on it. Of course, Arthur didn't know what donkeys kissed like – but then he just couldn't think of anything more fitting to compare Alfred's skills (or lack thereof) to.

It was fine though. Alfred made up for lack of talent by being so very enthusiastic. And he was more than just that. His hands – those big and clumsy hands – were roaming his body, groping with a frenzy that was nearly alarming. Once, his hands were on his hips. Then, a hand kneaded his thighs, somewhat uneven fingernails digging deep into his skin. Arthur hissed.

“What?” Alfred asked, breathless. His glasses were fogged. Arthur shook his head, and took them off of Alfred's nose. He hid them in his pockets. For a second, he nearly felt like being transported back in time. Alfred's face looked much younger without the glasses – less serious and more like the boy he'd once been. It hurt. It amazed Arthur how much it hurt.

“What is it? Does my handsomeness take your breath away?” Alfred asked coyly, not sure whether he really liked the way Arthur was looking at him. There was too much affection. Not too much lust. Oh certainly, those green eyes were staring at him with desire – he could see the want and lust mirrored there. And yet, it wasn't carnal. Alfred wasn't quite sure whether he could deal with that – sex was much easier and less messier without the whole baggage. You had nothing to lose like that. Especially when both parties had agreed that it was nothing but a temporary, random little fling.

Arthur didn't answer, but grabbed hold of Alfred's face. He initiated the kiss this time, ensuring that it was done properly. Maybe, he'd made a mistake back then when he'd not given Alfred some lessons on proper kissing. Then again, he'd never imagined that Alfred would defy him one fine day. Indeed, back then, he'd assumed that things would take their natural course, that kissing (and other such intimacies) would come into being as a direct consequence of their common ties. But Alfred had sundered those ties, hadn't he?

Alfred liked this. He really had to be an awesome kisser, if he'd made Arthur lose his head like this. Usually, the man was snappish and all too easily irritable. Now, he was just so forthcoming, so giving. Alfred broke the kiss, just to attack Arthur's with what he thought be proper ministrations. In fact, he wasn't doing more than attacking Arthur's neck with furious kisses that were neither arousing or particularly arousing. Just very, very wet and awkward.

Arthur could see that Alfred was ready to take the next step. He could see that he wanted to take him. But he knew he couldn't just submit like this. Not fully. Or he'd have his heart broken – again. No, Arthur thought, he hadn't signed up for this.

He'd have to keep in control. If he wanted to keep his dignity, Arthur had to keep in control.

“Unzip my pants first,” Arthur commanded hoarsely. He hoped that Alfred would be stupid enough to play along. Then again, seeing how Alfred was about as perceptive as a slab of stone, he figured it wouldn't be too hard to get the man exactly where he wanted him.

Alfred did what Arthur told him to do. Finally, Arthur was willing to admit his weakness! And he was apparently quite weak when it came to him. Arthur was hard – harder than Alfred had imagined him to be. His cock was freed from the trousers now, which lay as a puddle at his feet – and his cock was a furious pink. Alfred nearly blushed at that, not having expected such a sight. But he couldn't show that. Or he'd be mocked by Arthur for certain.

“Suck me off.”

Alfred didn't have to be told twice. Feeling more than just proud of himself, he took the man's cock in his mouth. He started to suck quickly, not bothering with any finesse. Alfred liked quick blow jobs. So, he naturally assumed that Arthur liked them that way as well.

But a shaking hand gripped his hair, so tightly that Alfred let go off the tip he'd just been sucking with a slight plop.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Alfred's technique was terrible – utterly terrible. He looked confused, adorably so and his mouth was red. And wet – very wet. It wasn't easy to act as if he was angry when Alfred looked so disgustingly cute.

“No, you git – not like that,” Arthur yelled. “Slowly. Use your teeth.”

Picky much? Alfred shook his head, but – nevertheless – complied. He took in Arthur's penis again, this time slowly taking in the full length. Then, he let go and when he took Arthur's penis into his mouth again, he used his teeth, lightly nibbling. He assumed that biting wasn't what Arthur really wanted. That would have probably been too painful.

Perhaps, Arthur was right. Simply sucking someone off was a bit boring. Alfred decided to be a bit more daring. First, he applied his tongue on Arthur's cock, licking the head nearly shyly. Then, gaining more confidence, he licked again, this time not being so timid as he'd been before. As a bonus, he lightly scraped Arthur's cock with his teeth. That earned a moan.

But Arthur wasn't entirely satisfied yet. “Use your hands too.”

Use his hands? How he could use his hands? An idea popped into Alfred's brain. He'd heard – it must have been from Francis or so – that sticking a finger up someone's arse while doing this was stimulating. So, without further ado, he did precisely that – stuck a hand into Arthur's very tight and warm asshole. He wasn't too sure if he was doing it right because Arthur hissed. He seemed to be in pain. Alfred was about to withdrew his finger from that twitching hole when a hard grip on his shoulder stopped him. It was Arthur's hand.

“Don't stop,” Alfred uttered hoarsely. He opened his eyes and saw the hesitation lighting up in Alfred's eyes. “It doesn't hurt. Just continue.”

Alfred nodded, not sure what else to do. He couldn't say anything. Anything he'd have said would have betrayed his nervousness.

“Bloody hell,” Arthur gasped. He gasped even more when another finger was added. Then another. Alfred was scissoring him. And his teeth – oh God, those teeth and that hot mouth – were on his cock – alternately licking or biting. It felt – well, more than just good.

Alfred felt elated. He'd done this – made Arthur lose control.

Liking the way Arthur gasped, he decided to do something else. He used his other hand to lightly slap Arthur's buttocks. He smiled even more happily when Arthur gasped at that, sending a rather mortified look in his direction. Alfred wisely ignored the look, choosing to interpret it as a sign of Arthur's gratitude. After all, it was better to deny than to confront reality.

Arthur was quite surprised by that turns of events, but not too surprised. Besides, it had felt good, even if Alfred has misunderstood him. Oh well, you couldn't be too picky. Especially when you were surrounded by dimwits.

“Don't finish me off. Just – just – fuck me instead,” Arthur managed to grumble out somehow, even if his brain had already been turned into mush. But he needed this, even if it was going to hurt doing it like this. Then again, he wasn't a pansy. He'd had worse things happen to him. Besides, he just didn't carry lube around with him. He wasn't Francis.

“But-” Alfred whined. Wasn't putting his cock into that tight hole going to hurt? Alfred wasn't too sure he wanted to do something that would hurt Arthur. He just hadn't become suicidal. And he wasn't into pain. But an idea struck him. He'd read something about this in one of Francis' books on love-making and eroticism. So, even though one part of his mind protested, Alfred did something he'd never expected to do in his life: he stuck his tongue into Arthur's anus.

It was strange at first. Alfred had never ever even seen that part of the body that closely on people, let alone attempted to do the following. He hadn't even imagined doing it. But that alone wasn't enough to stop him. After all, he did want to try it out. Life was too short to waste it on being indecisive. Besides, it was good to be daring.

So, there he was kneeling on his legs and giving Arthur a rather impressively good rimming job. Arthur moaned, but then slapped his mouth shut with his hand. Good Lord, that would have been undignified. Because this was too much. Feeling Alfred's wet tongue licking his hole was quite possibly the last thing he'd imagined Alfred doing for him. Because Alfred, in his desire to proof that he was independent and strong now, wasn't someone who seemed to be willing to pleasure someone like this. And yet he did. For him. And Arthur realised that he hadn't even asked for it. So yes, his technique was unrefined – too fast and clumsy. Then, he didn't tease, which Arthur appreciated. He'd experienced those cases where people were a tad bit too tardy. But Alfred – he was doing it right. Even if it wasn't perfect.

Maybe, Arthur thought dizzily, what he enjoyed so much about this was that Alfred was working so hard for him. Only him.

“Gosh,” Arthur sighed, feeling sweat dripping down his forehead. He could feel the warmth building up inside of him again. Not again. He couldn't allow Alfred to continue this. But, oh fuck, he realised he really didn't want Alfred to stop.

“F-faster,” he grunted out, his voice surprisingly steady-sounding. Arthur had nearly reached the point where he couldn't string sentences properly together.

Alfred continued licking, never once even thinking of stopping. Somehow, he felt that he was very hard himself; his all-too evident erection was making it uncomfortable for him to still have those trousers on. A part of him was quite desirous to just rid himself of the obstacles, enter Arthur in one thrust and feel that tight heat. He felt Arthur shudder around him, heard a loud, high gasp and then realised Arthur had come. Stopping what he'd been doing, Alfred's suspicions were confirmed: he saw a flushed Arthur, looking wide-eyed, and his cock was soft now – cum was leaking down Arthur's thighs.

If Alfred had known the word, he might have applied the term “flabbergasted”.

“Is that what you wanted?” Alfred asked, glowing when he saw, upon closer inspection how red-faced Arthur really was. He nearly looked cute. “Yu have to admit I'm brilli-mmmmpf.”

Arthur shut Alfred up by placing his hand against his moving mouth. There was no why he'd let that stupid fool finish that sentence, thank you very much. His eardrums had been exposed to too much idiocy for the evening. Unless he wanted to maintain his sanity, which he prized to a very great extent, he couldn't let Alfred talk too much. Or the consequences would be very severe. Even if Alfred had been doing good job so far.

Alfred slapped the hand away, shaking his head in disgust. He'd worked so hard too! He really didn't understand why Arthur couldn't just admit that. Besides, he was hard – his throbbing cock was twitching. It was nearly painful now.

“Arthur-” Alfred started, but he was interrupted again. This time, Arthur had pulled him by the hem of his shirt, stopping any potential word-flow from Alfred's mouth by kissing him quite insistently. Actually, slamming his lips against Alfred's would have been a more appropriate term. Alfred wondered whether Arthur could taste part of himself on his lips. He wondered if Arthur thought that was hot. He sort of did.

Alfred kissed back, just as aggressively. And, even if he wasn't realising it, he was rubbing his lower body quite insistently against Arthur's groin. Arthur's eyes snapped open at that. Really. If he'd been the one in this position, he'd have just – well, he would have just taken what he wanted. Indeed, Arthur realised that if this had been Francis, he would have been fucked thoroughly by now.

“Arthur, what now?” Alfred asked, more annoyed than anything. The friction – the rubbing to and fro – had actually started to feel really good. “What do you want me do now?”

Arthur shook his head. Alfred was really a simpleton. It was nearly pitiable. “Do it ... Just fuck me.”

He hoped that was enough. Enough to trigger Alfred into action.

Alfred was utterly started. He hadn't actually expected to get such a blatant answer. Arthur sounded so needy, so incredibly needy. And Alfred was forced to admit that he was more than needy himself. Hell, he was actually trembling in excitement! Who was he to refuse Arthur what he wanted? Alfred unzipped his jeans, and freed his own arousal. Finally, he thought. Feeling thus elated, Alfred pushed his cock inside. He gritted his teeth. Damn, it felt so good –– and, and he just wanted to bury himself to the hilt. Because, because then he'd be – Alfred didn't know what he would be. But it would be something like shooting stars or heaven or ... hamburgers? Alfred wasn't quite sure what to compare this sensation to.

Of course, Arthur found a way to spoil the fun.

“Slowly or it'll fucking hurt,” Arthur warned. “I don't want to be any more sore than I have to tomorrow.”

Arthur groaned in pain when Alfred entered him. Slowly. Just like he'd wanted. Still, it hurt because he'd not been stretched properly. But Arthur was relaxed, so that it wasn't the hissing pain that a virgin would have experienced. Besides, Alfred had done a tolerable job at rimming before. So, it wasn't all that bad. In fact, it was so far from being bad that Arthur asked himself why it had taken him so long to get Alfred in this kind of position. Maybe, he'd been a bit too much of a repressed git himself. Because this was much better than arguing with Alfred. Much better.

Francis had always described anal sex has hot and tight. Alfred had to agree with him this one time. It was hot and tight. Alfred's heat and tightness surrounded his cock, practically tempting him to start slamming right away. But he didn't want to. Not immediately. Because – Alfred realised – this was Arthur. The same Arthur he'd spent so much time fighting. The very Arthur that liked talking to imaginary friends. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. Alfred remained like this for a while, simply enjoying the sensation of being inside of Arthur. And yes, Arthur had been right about not slamming in right away.

Only that Arthur found something new to complain about now.

“Alfred,” Arthur grumbled, grinding his ass against that hot cock seated inside of him, “ what the bloody hell are you waiting for?”

Alfred just took in the feel of being inside of Arthur again, totally oblivious to anything the man was telling him. He was so bedazzled that Arthur's pleas truly did fall on deaf ears.

“Alfred, move.”

Arthur decided that he would be the one to do the penetrating next time. This was beyond exasperating. Why, Alfred was acting like he'd never done this before! Or if he had done it before, he was more than horrible at it. Truly, it seemed that Alfred, that stupid simpleton, was hopeless without him. This was what breaking away from him had done to Alfred – he'd grown up into an embarrassing caricature of a man. He'd teach him all right now.

“Oh damn it,” Arthur said through gritted teeth, and then – placing both of his hands on Alfred's wide shoulders – lifted himself from Alfred's penis. Only to slam down on him again. That, he thought should capture the git's attention all right.

And that it did. It captured Alfred's attention so much that he groaned. The sudden act of having Arthur being so deeply was just too – he could barely breathe. Damn it. He'd never expected this to feel so good.

“Fuck you,” Alfred uttered with poorly concealed amazement.

Arthur shook his head. “Fuck you, indeed. Now do that.”

Alfred realised he would have to. Arthur looked so incredibly angry and frustrated that it sent chills running down his spine. The last time he'd failed to treat Arthur seriously he'd paid the price for his ignorance with an aching jaw. These days, he double-checked any gifts he got from Arthur on his birthday. If he got any, that was. With that in mind, Alfred – though he was still bewildered by the tightness and heat – started to thrust. He pulled out, then slammed his cock right back into the welcoming heat.

Arthur's head banged against the wall. Better, he thought. Much better. Alfred was getting this right, Arthur realised as he felt himself being filled over and over again. His back was probably going to ache later on. But that hardly mattered now. Still. He wasn't fully satisfied yet. The highest pinnacle of pleasure hadn't been reached yet. Oh he was close.

“Faster. Harder.”

Alfred groaned. And slammed harder, hitting a spot that made Arthur nearly cry out in what Alfred assumed to be pleasure. He wasn't thinking clearly anymore. Strong hands were clutching onto his shoulders, legs that were wrapped his around waist and Alfred's hands, holding onto Arthur's ass, were trembling, slipping now and then due to his sweaty palms. Alfred felt that he to be faster now, as – whether it was fever or sheer madness – seemed to have taken possession of him now. This didn't mean a thing, did it?

Alfred's hands, which had hitherto been supporting him, travelled upwards, wrapping themselves around Arthur's waist. With a choke of surprise, Arthur comprehended that he was being hugged, that this was some kind of awkward display of affection. His throat started to hurt, and he gritted his teeth.

Idiot, Arthur thought. Stupid useless coxcomb. You could have had all this. I'm still yours.

Arthur knew that Alfred would deny this later on. But he wrapped his arms around Alfred's neck, and buried his head there, coming with a muffled cry.

It was over too quickly. Arthur heaved, not liking how the semen slipped past his thighs. If he'd felt like it, he could have asked Alfred to clean the mess using his tongue, but that was rather unlikely. Sighing, he knelt down, ignoring the pain shooting up his spine, and got back into his pants. All the while, he didn't say a single word.

Stupefied, Alfred realised that it was really over. He'd – at some point – pulled out and was now in the rather stupid situation of standing in the alley with his now softened penis sticking out of his jeans. How utterly absurd.

“Zip up your jeans, Alfred,” Arthur said, immediately dispelling any magic that might have been up in the air. Then, what could he do? Profess his undying love? Pretend that this was the start of a better and healthier relationship? One little rut in the alley didn't (and wouldn't) alter years – centuries – of grudge that lay between them. He was too cynical to hope that things would change. And he didn't expect anything.

“Arthur I-” Alfred started, not sure what to say. That he was sorry? Was he sorry? But then for what? Did this – the fact that they'd had sex together – change things? For the first time in centuries, Alfred felt less like a hero and more like a confused boy. He liked Arthur – a lot. And yet, Arthur confused him. So many times, Alfred didn't know whether the man was actually being nice to him or mocking him. So many times, he didn't know if Arthur hated him or not. So, he responded the only way he could – he fought back with words.

“Oh bugger this,” Arthur snapped, and lowered his hands to help Alfred. He was red-faced, Arthur noticed. Utterly red-faced. Sweating profusely as well. A stab of guilt formed in Arthur's heart. Alfred - he understood it so well now - was still that boy. The same one he'd nurtured and taken care of – and who, contrary to popular belief, still needed taking care of.

“It was fine, Alfred. Don't think too hard about this,” Arthur said gently, wiping the hair that fallen into the younger man's face tenderly back into place. It hadn't meant a thing. All this wasn't going to change anything, would it? But when Arthur turned to walk away, he felt Alfred's hand stop his. It was warm.

“Arthur, I – I'm sorry for reminding you year after year,” Alfred said, then gulped, and swallowed down whatever words had come into his mouth,” I shouldn't expect you to ... celebrate.”

He meant it too. He couldn't say sorry for having become independent though. Alfred couldn't do that. But he could give Arthur this - the reassurance that this meant something, that he wasn't as uncaring as Arthur apparently seemed to think he was.

Arthur shook his head. “Stop saying nonsense, you git.”

He wouldn't have it: this was just too surreal, too awkward.

“It wasn't nonsense!” Alfred protested. He could have said something like “you know, that it wasn't”, but that seemed over the top. Besides, didn't heroes maintain their pride, no matter what? Alfred wouldn't plead. He wouldn't beg Arthur to take him seriously now.

Arthur stopped walking for a bit, turned around and glanced at Alfred – red-faced, eyes gazing with an intensity that he hadn't expected there. No, Alfred wasn't pulling his legs this time. This wasn't a joke. But Arthur wasn’t going to melt at this. Not yet. Not him, no sir.

Arthur looked away – turned his gaze back on the dark streets, back to the dumpsters with the rotting apples and the other obscenities. Alfred felt like hitting something – he would not be ignored. He was just about to say something when Arthur spoke, thus effectively breaking the silence.

“Come on, let's go!” Arthur responded sternly, putting his hands into his pockets. Alfred frowned momentarily, surprised that Arthur hadn't rebuked the statement he'd practically screamed out. Maybe, this was a trick. A sort of cruel joke Arthur was playing on him in order to test out his limits - to see how long it would take him to break.

But Arthur then turned around again, his face – for the first time that evening – looking calm. He looked nearly happy. At least as happy as Arthur could look. Alfred then shook his head, realising this was all he'd get.

And that was, for the time being, maybe all he really wanted.

--

it seems i'm joining the bandwagon of going on hiatus XD

Mon, 09 Mar 2009 21:36:24 GMT

I'm making this public because this isn't a personal post. And since it concerns my fics and all, I think it's better left like this.

For those who care and might have noticed, I haven't really been active lately -- and I don't intend to. In fact, I have no intention of writing any Naruto fanfics for the time being. For various reasons -- university being my main priority, Naruto just really being disinteresting for me and me being utterly burnt out.

It shows in my more recent fics: the writing is dull and uninspired. I just don't have fun anymore; writing fanfiction about Naruto is a chore (the only exception being “That DNA Thing”). Anyhow, I'll wrap up the fics that I left unfinished, since they are mostly bordering on completion anyway.

However, there will be no new stuff from me, unless Naruto canon (and fandom to boot) stops being .. lacklustre.

[ficlet] It's over now, isn't it?

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 15:38:27 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own them, God forbid.

Rating: T

Summary: We stopped being together, the day we stopped talking. Angst.

Author's Notes: All feedback appreciated. My – whatever they are worth – insights are posted at the bottom. Of course, you may skip it, unless you are really interested. They're lengthier than usual, and a bit more personal. That's why I put them at the end.

...

I think we stopped being together, the day we stopped talking.

No, I got that wrong. We didn't stop talking with each other, you see. We just stopped talking to each other. Now, there's a difference between talking with and talking to each other. You don't have to be an anal-retentive linguistics freak to figure that one out.

---

Normally, it's me who's supposed to be the silent one. After all, I'm Sasuke, the one who only talks when he's about to deliver another hitting blow to a person's ego. And he's never told me, but I always knew that I've always hit him right there where it hurts the most.

I'm not blind. I can see how hurtful remarks hurt him. He's like an open-book. Or he used to be. Recently, it's like – I don't know – it's like whatever I say doesn't affect him anymore.

“Naruto, you eat like a pig.”

It's so lame. I know it is. But in the past – when was that? -- he'd have exploded. Now, he just stops eating, sends me a quizzical look over the table, and then shakes his head impatiently.

“Anything else, Sasuke? Can I continue eating now?”

I don't say anything else, and he continues to eat. I don't have anything else left to say because it's no longer relevant, is it?

---

Naruto used to talk a lot to me. Either in bed, after another round of exhausting and messy (always sweaty and smelly) sex. He'd talk about utter rubbish, like the weather he'd had during his missions, or how Sakura-chan had once again whopped him on his head after he'd asked her if she'd gained weight or how Lee was now sporting a new suit and thinking of growing a moustache --

You used to say so much, Naruto. So much.

I'd always pretend not to listen, but I did. Naruto's talk, no matter how annoying or mundane, was a welcome noise. It made this -- it made us- feel real.

I don't whether we are real anymore.

---

I'm on top this time. We've always switched, seeing how this kept and keeps the sex interesting and versatile.

It's not pretty. It's fast, and Naruto's urging me to go faster, and I obey, mostly because it's the only thing that I seem to be able to do right. And he's communicating with me.

He says harder, I do it harder. He says faster, and I do it faster. He tells me not to stop, and I don't stop. And when he yells my name out, I feel that – for that one second – everything is like it used to be. Nothing is changed, and we're still fine.

But are we really fine, Naruto?

“Naruto?” I break the silence, after it's over (and it's over way too soon).

“What?” he asks irritably, and I nearly cringe. He's never been that angry before. I don't understand. Why is he that angry? I'm not doing anything wrong. I just asked a simple question. It's not like it's wrong to ask.

Biting my lips, I gather courage or better said, try to ignore the age-old voice of hypocritical pride in my head. It's not wrong to do this. It's not against the rules to try to make conversation. I'm not making myself pathetic.

If only, if only, this didn't feel so pathetic.

“How was your day?”

I miss you. Tell me what's going on in your head. I miss being part of your life.

“Normal.”

“What do you mean by that?”

I hate how I sound like a child. But I just need to hear him talk. I need to hear him say anything other than a monosyllabic response for once.

A sigh -- a long and irritated sigh.

“Sasuke... you know how my days are,” he says in a bored tone, as if we'd been through this five-hundred times before. As if being here with me, in this bed and having this conversation is like walking through a boiling hot desert. He's tired. He's grown tired of me. Has he really grown tired of me?

I grind my upper teeth against my lower lips for a second, and can feel my throat going dry. It hurts – somewhere, I can feel pain building up, but I don't know where. It could be my stomach, my chest or my heart. I'm not sure. It hurts so much that it makes me quite sick.

No, I don't. Not anymore. I don't know how you are days are anymore.

Of course, I don't say that. In the end, I don't say anything at all, but roll around and face the wall because the wall is more responsive than he is.

“I want to sleep, Sasuke. Good night.”

And then, there's only silence, which is only broken occasionally by Naruto's heavy breathing. He doesn't snore, and, for once, I wish he did.

The fucking silence hovering over this – over us – is way too oppressive.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

---

At breakfast, Naruto was always the chattiest. He'd talk about the prospects of the day, what he'd do to show Tsunade that he was worthy Hokage to be, and how he'd cook some extra special ramen in the afternoon – just to convince me that it isn't utter shit.

Now, we're just sitting here, and the only sounds he makes are the sounds that everyone makes when eating. I ask a question from time to time, and he nods or shakes his head. When he raises to go, I speak again (it's strange how I am always doing the talking now, isn't it?).

“Naruto-”

Do you still love me?

I don't know if you still love me, and I need to know. I need to know. I have to-- damn it.

I love you, but it kills me, if you don't love me anymore. I can't – I can't – work without you.

But ... I can't keep on going like this either.

When did you stop loving me?

“Yes?”

He doesn't even turn around. He used to turn around in the past.

“Don't forget to buy some milk.”

“Okay. Anything else?” he asks in a curt tone, and I can tell that he's rolling his eyes. He's grown so tired of all this that he can't even bear listening to me.

I want to smash something. Preferably him. I want to crush him against the wall, just to garner another reaction out of him.

Asshole. Bastard.

I want him to talk, to speak to me, damn it!

But then again, I don't want him to speak (because then it really will be over).

I know, it's only a matter of time. He'll say those three words. Well, technically four, but I'm not sure if the contraction counts. But I won't give him that satisfaction. Because, even if he's Naruto Uzumaki, I'm still Sasuke Uchiha. Maybe I should say them first.

Let's break up. You don't have to be with me, if you hate me so much.

But not yet, not yet. I can be patient still and wait.

“No, I don't need anything, Naruto.”

--

Additional Notes of Fail (you can really skip this, unless you're interested in knowing how my mind operates):

I know that few of you probably liked this piece. It's another of these vague angst pieces that I seem to excel at writing (or not, depending on how you view it).

But the truth is writing this hurt so hard because there's a great deal of truth in this. I've been through these awkward silences – awful silences, really – where you start saying utterly dumb and trite things just to fill out the silence, and not have to bear the gloom, the really oppressive – and it's really heavy and stifling – weight of silence.

Because, you know? Silence is the worst thing out there, silence – the not talking to each other – part is the first sign that something has irretrievably broken, that the other person just doesn't care anymore, and if the other person doesn't care, you're left alone.

I immediately think of this one quote in Steinbeck's “Of Mice and Men” where Crooks tells Lennie what it means to be lonely, and why men need to talk to each other (because if a man can't talk to someone else, he'll go crazy otherwise). Hmm, I'd urge you to read “Of Mice and Men” for that single speech. It's one of the most devastatingly honest things I've ever read (and it's beautiful in its raw, nearly grotesque honesty).

If I were only a bit of a talented writer, I'd manage to do the same. But I know I haven't.

....

[fic] Only Fools Die

Tue, 30 Dec 2008 13:59:20 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own scratch. Naruto will never belong to me.

Rating: Eventually M. But this is T-rated.

Summary: All this time, he'd been chasing after a foolish dream. NaruSasu. AR. Part one of three.

A/N:

I wrote this one a while ago, and I've been meaning to finish it for the past few months, but then I just suck. I'm posting the first part – edited and halfway readable, hopefully – because I'm not sure when I'll finish this thing. Maybe, I never will, given how hard this was to write.

All feedback appreciated. Then again, it's fine if you say nothing at all because ... this is probably the oddest thing I've ever written.

----

The landscape was charred -- all coal black burning and wasting away in the scorching heat. Smoke invaded his nose, and the first tell-tale signs of tears were forming in his eyes. Soon, they'd be rolling down his face, but not out of pity, a feeling of loss – or God forbid – sadness. His throat didn't feel dry, and there was no tightening, constricting sensation of pain haunting him.

Indeed, it was simply the smoke – the ashes tossed up in the air, mingling with the other particles and becoming one with them. It was only this that made the water rise to his eyes, made the sight in front of him simmer. But he wasn't crying. God forbid, he wasn't going to cry.

No, he wasn't going to cry for them, was he?

They'd deserved it, after all. More than thoroughly after what they'd done to his brother – his entire family.

Sasuke's jaw hardened, and he inhaled deeply, drawing in the smoke-polluted air and feeling – for the longest time – peaceful.

No, this – this dragon come to life, oozing out his poisonous flames and turning everything to dust – wasn't his doing.

Sasuke continued to watch how his former home continued to roast and be engulfed, surrounded by the cricking-cracked-blackened splinters of trees that had been incinerated; he saw how the houses frizzled away in thousands, how everything – very quickly -- fell to dust in front of his very own eyes.

And none of it was his doing, though it could very well have been.

......

Konoha had burned down, and for a while no cicadas could be heard playing there. No music could be heard at all.

And yet, the scene of horror, the mortification over what had transpired and the loss ebbed away; it faded away into the background and the harp, though it was a little blackened and didn't play as clearly as it had before, picked up its old note again, and – once more – gave its tribute to the fireflies and cicadas. To fireflies because the very music was so light, so transient and fleeting it in its quality that it resembled the weak jets of glowing light. Brighter than a torch, but still weaker than the sun.

Yet, as the sound was crackling, chirruping and broken, it was also a tribute to cicadas (who would never play the same way again).

In the little towns, the harp played differently. There the sound was clear, unbroken and harmonious.

In one of those little towns, far away from the energetic bustle of enthusiastic merchants trying to lure customers in, the simple life had evolved quite sweetly, and cicadas could always be heard playing there. Even when Konoha had burned down. However, to be fair, they'd never heard of the tragedy.

Surrounded by lush-vibrant grass, high-growing oak trees, the town had always been sheltered and kept from invasion. The summers were moist, and the winters mild. The very folk who lived inside of that town were that as well: jovial and temperate, understanding and never too obtrusive.

Here everything worked under the “live and let be” motto.

In that quiescent little town, separated from the rest of the world by rolling hills and quietly flowing rivers, a little pub was situated. And in that little pub, in that pleasant little town set off to the tune of cicadas playing is where the story starts.

---

The smell of tobacco lingered everywhere; it hung suspended over the people sitting in the pub, was sipped in with every drink, and breathed in, and out by everyone and everything. It whizzed and flew around as a fly does around a pot of jam. Or a moth dances about a lantern.

In short, the pesky smoke was that persistent that it was impossible to escape, but no one wanted to escape it. Smoke meant safety, and safety was good. Like a mantle, a curtain draping, it veiled everyone and everything from the harsh whispers of the past, the cold and brooding darkness, and from their own conscience haunting them. All discomforts were washed away by the comforting warmth of liquor that was currently being pushed down the throats of devastated solace-seekers.

Evening had fallen. Out of an arch-shaped window, one could view how the sun, glittering in golden and yellowish streams, was slowly disappearing away into the horizon – farther and farther – and giving leave for dark-blue clouds to conquer the sky. It was only going to take a bit, and soon the sky would be covered in that indigo-blue, which would cloak the entire village in darkness.

Darkness was comforting. In the dark, you couldn't see the scars and blood -- a perfect situation for people who wished to hide or had something to hide. All was fair, and all was good – and what was best was that no one asked questions.

Here you and the others just merged into shapeless, slackened faces and the only history that counted was one you created at the moment.

Everything else played a subordinate role, was meaningless even, and either dissolved or intermingled with the tobacco-odour (becoming one hazy black-greyish puff of smoke).

There weren't many people in the pub, only some ten lone fellows. Ten fellows, who had nothing in common with each other apart from their waned looks, and bloodshot eyes. Still that was enough; in their waned-dissatisfied-tired-worn out look they were closer to each other than brothers, bonded to another by the merciless shackles of what most societies refer to as wasting time.

And yet, on that particular evening with the sun slowly sinking away and the wind – a strong breeze coming from the north – howling and knocking on the thin-framed arched windows, something was different.

Even the landlady, a well-shaped and voluptuous woman of fifty, noticed that something was amiss (and, mind you, she wasn't the type to get suspicious because to have been that would have cost her too many nerves. And, mind you again, she was intent to live until she hit the good old age of ninety-nine).

“Are you going to take some more, sir?” she asked good-naturedly, observing the newest addition to the ten lone fellows with ardent interest. Not even a fire-fighting lion could have absorbed her attention that much – and she'd seen her fair share of oddities, and peculiar characters.

A curious type, he was. Strong of build, with tanned skin and a mop of golden hair falling thickly into his face, she was forced to admit that he was quite stunning. So stunning, in fact, that the landlady blushed, in spite of herself.

What made him even odder was that he'd just ordered a pint of beer and, having swallowed it all down in one go, looked intent to leave again.

“No,” he answered, and, flipping a coin, grinned after he'd thrown it onto her wide-spread palms. “That's enough. Quite enough.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, quite sure,” the young man – he couldn't have any older than twenty-five – replied assuredly, and taking out a crumpled cap out of his moth-eaten pockets, prepared himself for a journey. “Too much drink is bad for the brain. 'Sides, I need to save money.”

After having said that, he placed the cap with obvious, ardent self-assurance on his blond head and, with loud, energetic steps, walked away from the inn, leaving its tobacco-infiltrated atmosphere behind. He would never be seen in that pub again.

The landlady sighed, and moved away from the table; she clasped her hands together, and loudly exclaimed:

“What a shame!”

“You looking after younger men now ?” a rough, but jovial-sounding voice called out and minutes later, a stout, and sturdy fellow of some sixty years came out of the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around the landlady's waist and twirled her over to his side, so she could look in his good-natured, and to her still handsome face, “I won't have you running off with young rascals, as long as I'm still alive!”

The landlady snorted, but then broke into a wide smile. “You old fool! What do I need a young one for if I have you?”

Her husband, as if incensed by her smile – pulled her even closer, marvelling that even though his wife had grown older, she hadn't lost a tiniest tint of her beauty. Perhaps, she was little rounder, her hair wasn't quite as dark as it had once been, and there were traces of fatigue on her face. And yet, her eyes were the same; they still sparkled with the same liveliness, and demure coquetry that had made him fall head over heel these thirty years ago (but who was counting?).

“And there's no one better than me.”

There was a loud cough, and the landlady was snapped out of her girlish, fanciful reverie. One of the ten fellows, a grimy old man of seventy, had burst out laughing and was sending suggestive looks into the landlady's direction. She cringed.

“See what you did, you silly, silly man. Nearly made me lose face in front of the guests," she reprimanded her husband, but then smiled. "You really needn't be jealous, dear. Why, I could have been his mother! Hmm, and he was a strange one – that bo... young man.”

“How so?” the man asked, though he knew exactly what his wife was talking about. But then again, he was too fond of her voice; it was always lyrical and sounded beautiful in his ears. Men, who are really in love, do listen to their wives.

“He smiled a lot, but ... I don't how to explain, there was a hollow look of devastation in his eyes. Like he'd been through hell and back.”

“Ah, are... you surprised?” the man inquired, sitting down on a chair that was placed before the kitchen door. He sat there cross-legged, and pulled out a pipe from his shirt-pocket. With a mixture of understanding, annoyance and acquiescing tolerance, the wife watched his actions and sighed again. She'd never cure that old ruffian of his nasty pipe-smoking habits. After fifteen years of useless struggle, she'd given up.

“I guess you're right. Nowadays things aren't simple anymore,” she said, and shrugged her plump shoulders,” I really don't know what the world is coming to.”

....

On that night the pale yellowish moon hung low in the sky, so low that you believed it would only take a few very energetic jumps to touch its stony surface, and yet still far away enough for it to appear like a shining spectacle in an otherwise dull night. Poets would have coined the term “glittering jewel adorning the heavenly sky”, but the stranger didn't give a damn, really. For him it was just a moon -- plain and simple.

The strange stranger was seen walking down the well-kept and clean streets of the little town. Still, cicadas could be heard playing in the distance, and the moon was high up in the air, making the stony streets and wooden roofs glitter green in the cool night.

He coughed and shuddered. He'd forgotten – whether out of haste or respite against long-sleeved things – to put a jacket on. So, as a consequence, the hairs on his arms stood up, and the now increasingly harsh wind was bruising his cheeks. And he was trembling more than necessary.

He reached a little inn, which was a small, but tidy-looking little building. And the owner, who showed himself as soon as he'd heard a knock on the door, was tidy and small in appearance as well. He was balding, and his pink-coloured, cherub-sized face briefly reminded Naruto of a peach.

“How much do you charge for a night?” Naruto demanded gruffly, feeling that it was better to get to business at once. All this beating around a bush was something that repulsed and annoyed him.

“Not much. Please do come in sir,” the owner replied pleasantly, far too pleasantly for Naruto's tastes. There had to some kind of foul business going on here. He really wasn't sure whether this was such a good idea, after all.

But a quick glance around the streets, and the cold that was beginning to amass around him washed away his doubts, or at least made him rather less picky than he'd usually have been.

Perhaps, the room was going to be awful... still, it was better than spending the night out, freezing and clattering your teeth, Naruto reasoned. That's why, without causing any further ado, Naruto shoved his doubts into a proverbial cupboard and accepted his room for what it was.

And you know what?

It wasn't that bad of a room at all.

....

The sky was a frightening red; the clouds gathered together in a maddening rush and the very air crackled with thundering, ominous potency. Still, no rain was falling. Instead, everything was burning.

He could see Sasuke, standing there and looking at the all-enveloping flames, circling and destroying what had once been his home. Sasuke looked perfectly apathetic.

Naruto's fist trembled, his entire body was convulsing. And he felt that numb sensation of nausea creeping over him.

“Why?” Naruto spat out, that accusing and bitter-like-black coffee word rolling out of his tongue like a single great wave, flooding everything in a single second.

Why did you allow this to happen? Why did you ever have to leave? Why, you stupid fucker, didn't you allow me to save you?

Why of all things are you here, right now?

“Naruto- Madara is dead. I killed him."

“So is Pain. I killed him myself,” Naruto stated in a off-handed tone, as if he'd been talking about the weather. There was no hint of anything on his face; his features were hard and ruthless, and only the dried blood on his hands and red stains soaking his clothes were a visual evidence of what had transpired. His eyes were cold, colder than Sasuke had ever seen them before.

“This means-”

“This means everything's fine now,” Naruto replied sarcastically, although this wasn't true. One look at the ruins, the burnt down village, and the smell of blood assaulting his nose was enough to assure Naruto that, no, nothing was fine. And that nothing ever would be.

He'd seen her die, and no matter what Naruto did – no matter how much he yelled, screamed and cursed the Gods – nothing would purge the memory of Sakura falling before his eyes. He'd never see her again.

And it was all, Sasuke's fault. All his damned fault. A thousand thoughts shot through Naruto's brain, each more piercing and furious in its intensity than the former. It made him shudder, made his heart beat in an irregular rhythm, and he felt like he was being torn in half, eaten up inside by some all-consuming grief.

“It's too late,” Naruto interrupted harshly, his voice firm and strong, although he could feel himself broking inside (bit by bit, the way a clock slows down, then comes to a sudden jolt and stops ticking forever). “I won't ever forgive you for this, Sasuke.”

Sasuke didn't respond: his verbal communication skills had come to a standstill. Even his face, that perfectly sculptured face, was nothing but a mask. A lifeless mask. Nothing would move him, it seemed. Even if the world came crashing on them, he'd never do more than flinch a muscle.

He was so disgusting. Sasuke wasn't worth half the fuss. And all this time, and all this damned fucking time -

I've been chasing after a useless dream.

Something inside of Naruto – whatever it was – broke. It didn't break loudly – not like the crunching sound of a clock being stepped upon, or the knick of a bone crushed in two. No, on the contrary, it was a silent and unassuming sound, which appeared and flashed away the way water comes running down out of a tap.

“I tried to keep cleaning up your mess for so long. I – fuck it. Words are wasted on you.”

“This- “

“Isn't right. I hope you're happy now, Sasuke. Because that's what you wanted, wasn't it? If you kill me now, it would be picture perfect.”

Sasuke didn't move, and Naruto understood. He'd never understood better. In fact, an entire series of epiphanies came crashing down his head in that single, horrible instance.

“You're just a coward, a hypocritical coward. Your brother Itachi -- he was a hero. You're nothing but a poor puppet who's being controlled by pitiful hatred.”

And I'm a fool for not having realised this earlier.

Not waiting for Sasuke to respond, Naruto turned away; he walked away with his heart drumming, beating restlessly and his steps heavy, as if little monsters had attached himself to them.

Yet, nothing could have stopped Naruto, apart from one person, but that person didn't do anything. He just continued to watch, and he was watching so hard and fixedly that he could have burned a hole into Naruto's retreating figure.

But that didn't happen: the only thing that happened was that the very first tell-tale signs of regret were burning themselves into his heart.

A harsh breeze started to blow while Sasuke watched Naruto walking out of his life.

.....

Naruto gasped out in his sleep and a placed shaking hand on his sweat-dampened forehead; he could sense that his entire body was soaked in cold sweat, and – what was worse – he was trembling like a leaf. He hadn't been in such a condition forever, or at least he couldn't consciously recall when he'd last felt like tearing his hair out, bit by bit.

This – this utter pain – mocking and taunting him was maddening. It was utterly maddening, and unbearable. He had to do something; anything that stopped him from experiencing that horrendous sensation again.

“Shit not good. I should have gone to a brothel,” Naruto groaned out, and promptly got out of bed, not caring the slightest for the cold of the night.

Yes, he'd do that: he'd seek out a whorehouse for the night. He might have not done in ages – or say quite frankly, not often enough, but it seemed like a good idea to him now.

If you're feeling a little down and in need of being consoled, boy, there's nothing better than sweet wine and the company of a whore.

That, amongst many other lessons, had been something Jiraiya had taught him.

“It's been ages, I should have forgotten him.“

....

The joining of two human bodies was always a sticky and wet transaction to him; he'd learnt to view it as he viewed eating or doing the laundry. Simply put, it was nothing special.

It's essentially an exchange of fluids, though it's been grossly over-romanticised over the past few decades, Naruto thought and shook his head.

He'd just finished rolling about in the hay with a nicely shaped, albeit a little foul-smelling woman. But she was good enough. Good enough to enjoy and toss away once the well had run dry, the milk was spoilt and ugly, ugly reality came a-knocking on the door again.

Yes, Naruto thought, flexing his aching arms, she was good enough.

Not too old, too young. Experienced enough, but not entirely tainted by the ghosts of her past. These – these ruined doll-ghosts – he detested more than anything; they only lay there – forlornly – while being debauched. No, he'd chosen this one because she was alive.

“You're quite a stud,” the woman muttered, giggling a little. Naruto, who'd been engaged in looking out of the window, glanced up at her quickly. The moonlight enlightened her features and body, which she'd wrapped up in the white blankets.

Her flushed face and her sparkling green eyes, which looked impishly up at him, were rendered nearly beautiful at that single instant. For a single instant, Naruto allowed himself to recall another pair of green eyes, which years and years ago had looked up at him in the same manner (but with even more impishness lurking behind their depths). But, as quickly as the spark had appeared, it passed again, and burned away into nothing.

Naruto looked away, and shook his head.

“Don't say stupid things.”

“No need to be shy,” the prostitute insisted, and let her hands ran over Naruto's taut stomach muscles, liking how hard and rough his skin felt to her touch. Seeing that the man wasn't protesting, she let her hands –ever so cautiously, nearly shyly – wander to his face; that scarred, toned yet utterly beautiful face. When Naruto still didn't protest, she moved towards him, letting the blanket that had been shielding her body from the cold fall to her hips. Her fingers moved to touch his lips, and she licked her own lips suggestively, and Naruto was struck by how desirable she looked. Even if it was only for a sheer second.

But the image was shattered and broken once she opened her mouth.

“It's been so long that I've been allowed to spend the night with a young man,” she whispered, and Naruto could nearly taste the fathomless longing and desire rolling off her tongue; the despair and desire to escape were so omnipresent that it made the bile come rising to his throat. Perhaps, this hadn't been such a good idea, after all.

Naruto hissed out; that – in his opinion, utterly unnecessary – gesture sizzled, scorched his skin and hurt, hurt worse than a hundred needles being pushed into his skin. He needed to escape. Get away before the pain grew enormous and swallowed him alive.

So, with a loud slap and another hiss, Naruto recoiled from her, and pushed the woman away.

“I'm no stud, okay? Here just take the money and leave me alone.”

The woman stiffened abruptly and pulled the blanket over her body again, all the while shivering and trembling like a lost puppy wandering around in the rain. She bit her lips before speaking again.

“No, don't send me away yet. Please,” the woman begged, her tone suddenly losing all the playfulness she had flaunted about earlier. All of a sudden, Naruto was painfully aware of the fact how young she was, how thin and frail she appeared to be, and – what was worse – how big and imploring her eyes were.

It made him feel sick, sicker than he'd felt in years.

Something inside of Naruto screamed, roared its lungs out at his conscience and caused him to tremble involuntarily. Now, he remembered exactly why he didn't do this too often. And why he'd resolved not do it again -- and, most important, why he'd never do it again. Ever.

“Alright. But don't try to touch me again,” Naruto warned her, rising from his bed and, under the sombre gaze of the moon, hastily put on his clothes, which consisted of a white dull shirt, very worn out orange pants and a black cap. “You can stay here till I set out. That's all I can offer you.”

The woman nodded, and submitted to his orders with perfect compliance. Naruto turned away from her, suddenly not being able to observe her anymore. Her eyes were too imploring, far too alive and earnest for someone who should have been dead inside.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Naruto thought and punched his clenched fist against the window; a crack formed, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter a bit. The pain was fleeting; it definitely wouldn't kill him, and Naruto knew that it would be healed in a short while.

His physical scars always did. What a shame that his emotional scars never did.

On that night, Naruto decided that Jirayia's opinion on sex was pretty much shit and not much worth.

.......

A few months later, on a windy Autumn, Naruto returned to Konoha. Not with a bang, not with an accompanying concerto of crackling thunder and howling storms, but with the yellowed, nearly golden leaves of fall hovering over the air and the sweeping, cold gust of an approaching winter's breeze.

And he didn't come with that energetic rush, or the outburst of energetic, youthful vivacity that he'd been associated with before. Instead, he came in slowly, stealthily and the leaves gently moved in accord with his idle trailing.

It happened to him every now and then: a lark or some siren in possession of horrendous powers would pull -- practically drag-- him back to the place he loved (and hated) with mindless passion.

Empires are easily destroyed, and just as easily rebuilt. The same could be said for Konoha; it had risen from the dust, and now glowed and prospered more beautifully than ever. Progress had become a big word now -- heard everywhere in the pubs, the inns and every other little corner of the town; it spread like a fire and changed everything in its wake. Everyone was eager to partake in the new technological development and hence, everyone and everything had seized the opportunity to change things.

At times, Naruto barely recognised his village anymore. It was his, but at the same time this sparkling, shining new place wasn't the same place he'd grown up in.

Yet, to the more astute and experienced connoisseur of observance, things were different, but also sadder and more lifeless. Yes, the buildings – now built a little higher and a bit more glorious – were polished, but also drab, lacklustre and dull in colour.

The people themselves, though dressed well and of healthy builds, were – upon closer inspection – lacking something. Something vital. They moved around like ghosts, unaware of what the present, the past and – most importantly – the future could bring.

They'd learn to hide the pain underneath a smile.

But the cicadas didn't sing when Naruto returned. No, the it was the stormy trashing of trees and whipping of leaves that he was greeted with.

One of the few edifices that had been rebuilt with respect to its former appearance were the Hokage Towers; it had not only been restored to its former glory, but had been saved from being modernised, like so many of the other buildings. It was one of the only buildings this side of town where you didn't have to pretend.

Naruto felt a stab of pain when he walked the few steps towards the office, haunted by a hundred conflicting thoughts and useless memories.

Too much happened here. Too much.

The ANBU guard let him pass, without even asking him for his intention or his ID. Everyone knew who Naruto was and, therefore, these formalities were nothing but a bothersome obstacle, so they'd been dropped altogether.

Similarly to the unchanged appearance of the building itself, the man bent over his papers hadn't changed a lot in the past ten years either. Even if the skies had come crushing upon them, Naruto doubted that this person would have ever changed – and this was comforting in a world that had twisted and turned its shape so much recently.

Though it was painful because it also reminded him of what things had been like once; once being that awful, powerful word that haunted him in his dreams and which he tried to escape in his non-sleeping moments.

“Kakashi,” Naruto said as a way of greeting and, not waiting for any kind of acknowledgement, he sat down on the chair facing the Hokage who had been his teacher once.

“Naruto,” Kakashi said, looking from his over-laden paperwork and his left eye twinkled, revealing that he was amused -- perhaps, even happy to see his former student sitting in front of him.

“I guess, I won't have the honour of being called Rokudaime by you?” he asked Naruto, half in jest, and half seriously. No one ever knew when Kakashi was being serious, and when not. To be truthful, he didn't know it anymore, either.

Naruto paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully; he'd grown a stubble and Kakashi, finally truly seeing the man facing him for the first time, noticed how much more ragged, tired and broken Naruto looked. It shouldn't have surprised him; so and so many days had passed since Naruto had been that twelve-year-old child, but it still managed to shock the core out of him at times (when, oh, when, had Naruto grown up into that man?).

“Do you want to be called that?” Naruto inquired, searching the older man's face for a non-verbal answer.

“No, not by you. Not by you, Naruto.”

Having said that, Kakashi let the white cloak slip from his shoulders and carefully hung it over his chair. He sat down and faced Naruto again, glad to have someone treat him like a normal person, instead of a leader.

“It's been a while.”

“I know. I stayed longer, thinking that this would be better for the people. To help them and so,” Naruto admitted in a nonchalant tone, and then grinned mischievously. “You know, I got tons of free ramen. And the women were hot too.”

“I see,” Kakashi noted and after that, both fell silent. It was the same nearly age-old dance they'd been practising for the past ten years. Both of them were pretending. Neither of them were really talking about what was truly important.

Naruto hated the silence. Way, way too unsettling. Plus, it reminded him of nasty things. So, he broke the silence.

“Did you get the copy I sent you?” he asked, grinning impishly. Kakashi, in spite of everything, had still not gotten over his porn obsession.

“Yes, I did,” Kakashi answered, and then smiling, confessed,” I think Jiraiya would have proud of you. In fact, you've become so much like him that it's scary.”

Naruto tried not cringe at the mention of his mentor's name. And yet, he couldn't suppress the slight nostalgia arising within him.

“Well, he certainly encouraged me enough in that. He always dragged me to bathhouses or brothels. It's hardly surprising that some of his lifestyle has rubbed off on me," Naruto said, and then broke out into a laugh. Kakashi laughed back in return.

He'd missed the boy's laugh (because, damn, no one laughed the way Naruto did).

“Who would have expected that?” Kakashi then continued, drawing circles on the table with his fingers.

“Getting all melancholy now, are you? But then who would have expected that you'd end up being Rokudaime, of all people?”

“You do realise that -”

Naruto's eyes hardened.

“Don't talk about that, Kakashi. I'm not interested.”

Kakashi laughed softly. “Strange, I still remember that twelve-year-old boy who'd talk about nothing else.”

“That boy's dead. As far as I care, he died in that fire ten years ago,” Naruto said hoarsely, not looking at Kakashi while he did so, trembling with a suppressed rage that he'd buried inside of him for too long. Had he been younger (and stupider) he'd have demolished a few buildings by now, but restraint had become a second name to Naruto. Besides, he just wasn't in the mood.

“Are you sure?” Kakashi tried again.

“Yes.”

Naruto rose from the seat, feeling that this discussion was over and done with. He really didn't understand why they'd wasted any words on it. The well had run dry, the carriage had broken and the horse had run off a long time ago. And as such, there was no point in dreaming about things that could no longer be fulfilled.

“Naruto...”

“Yes?”

“You know, he's – Sasuke – he's been -”

A short exasperated breath followed was by a snort. Kakashi could very well perceive that this discussion – if it had ever been one, really – was not worth continuing. However, he wasn't willing to drop the subject entirely yet.

"You know-"

But Naruto interrupted him again. He was trembling from head to toe. In anger. Or despair. Kakashi couldn't tell.

“Come on Kakashi, stop that. I thought I told you not to mention that name in my presence ever again.”

“Don't you think it's time that you finally just forgive and for-”

Naruto clenched his fist, and shook his head.

“I can't forgive nor can I forget, Kakashi. The old me -- that part of me that is now dead -- might have. But I can't. I just can't. Not now or ever.”

With that, Naruto said “I gotto go”, waved briefly and turned his back on Kakashi. He couldn't stay.

And yet, Kakashi thought, while he watched Naruto's figure lose itself into the shadows of a long hall, why is that you're still so troubled by it?

After all, if someone was truly dead, then there was no difficulty of him staying that way.

The doors closed behind Naruto, and Kakashi sighed, letting his gaze wander to the Hokage Mountains. They were the same as always, and yet Kakashi couldn't help thinking that the faces, which had once been proud and so full of grace, looked a little jaded and worn out. To him, they represented the same faces he met on the streets every day -- at least on the adults.

Ah, it has to be old age gaining control over me slowly, he thought with a snort. Oh well, it was unavoidable. Sooner or later, he'd end like one of those old men.

Like one of those sentimental old guys who go and on about “those were the days, my friend ...”.

Kakashi thought that it was woefully ironical that he, of all people, had managed to survive his thirty-fifth birthday. It wasn't much. He wasn't an old man yet, and still, for a ninja, he was quite old. So much older than he'd ever wanted to be.

.....

In another part of the town, where the dead haunted the deserted, ghost-like streets and everything – even the dust-laden air itself – seemed to have come to a standstill, Sasuke Uchiha had just woken up. A bit later than usual, perhaps, but he'd spent the past two weeks on a stupid mission, escorting some old man to a town, which hadn't been a town at all. No, it had been a small, cherry tree ensconced village, and there had been nothing but trees, huts and a flowing river for the eyes to feast upon.

Pretty much boring, and a waste of time to booth.

And the only thing the man had needed protection from was himself, and his absent-mindedness. During the trip to that blasted village, Sasuke had had to ensure that a) the man didn't trip over his own feet, b), didn't end up being eaten by some wolf, and c) make sure that nothing disquieted the old guy or he'd certainly have died of a heart attack.

Sasuke really did hate his life, at times. No, he didn't hate it sometimes, he hated it most of the time – the whole useless twenty four hours were a bane to his existence. If he could have worked his well and wished his existence away, Sasuke would have done so – then, all would be fine, and no one would bother him anymore.

Sometimes, Sasuke thought that Kakashi, who must have been feeling extremely bored being confined to an office all day long, was fond of torturing him with asinine missions. Whenever he complained, Kakashi's only retort was:

“It could be much worse. We could have had your sorry ass executed, you know?”

They hadn't had him executed, of course; they hadn't even stopped him from being a ninja, which wouldn't have awfully productive.

After Konoha had been left destroyed, they'd needed every willing hand to help rebuilt it and afterwards, they'd needed every single power to help keep it protected from possible invasion. So, Sasuke had remained a ninja.

And Kakashi often reminded that he'd already been punished enough. Sasuke couldn't help agreeing. He'd been punished enough.

More than enough.

Sasuke yawned loudly and rubbed his eyes, still not taking in the dim-light, which had invaded his sombre and darkish room. The wallpaper was peeling off, there were cobwebs hanging down from the ceiling and a stale smell of dust hovered over the place. However, Sasuke wasn't affected by this; all these aspects – as negative as they were – had grown on him like a second skin.

In the same unconcerned, nonchalant way, he put on his clothes. It was a simple jounin's outfit, which was worn and quite sorry-looking from years of usage. He should have bought a new one, but Sasuke didn't feel like replacing it.

Because no one bothered about it and, if no one bothered about it, Sasuke didn't feel like caring either. Then, to be honest, he'd never really cared – not about his appearance, anyway.

Sasuke realised that he was good-looking, beautiful even. A simple glance at the mirror told him that -- even if he was unkempt and his hair a little shaggier than necessary -- he still looked good.

After he'd finished putting on the awful vestiges of his clothes, Sasuke set out – walking through deserted streets and even more deserted houses. In the past, this had haunted him, had sent his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. It had broken him time and time again. He'd been attacked by images of what the streets had once looked like, and what he'd irretrievably, irreversibly lost.

But now it didn't matter anymore. Perhaps, because Sasuke had finally grasped the fact that mourning the dead would not bring them back.

There was another reason why Sasuke hated his life, and when he entered the full classroom with the creaking floor, he knew exactly why. He could then feel at least sixty pair of eyes staring up at him, and it disgusted him. And yes, he absolutely hated his life at that moment.

One of Kakashi's ingenious ideas had been to make Sasuke a teacher.

.....

TBC--> part two is here?

[fic] The Imperfect Enjoyment

Tue, 09 Dec 2008 00:55:25 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: a borderline T

Summary: Sasuke never moans out when he should, but moans when he shouldn't. NaruSasu.

Author's Notes:

I spent the entire day today being so angry over my writing that -- growing tired of the angst -- I just sat down and wrote. This was the result, and while imperfect, I think this piece serves a purpose.

The title was randomly inspired John Wilmot's poem, which was written in the 17th century. Other than that, this fic has nothing to do with the poem. God forbid me, if it did -- I don't write poems about impotent men. And I wouldn't read such poems either, if it weren't a requirement for my exams.

Unbet'd, so expect typos. Of course, all criticism is accepted.

---

Sasuke tastes like tomatoes, and green tea. It's one of the first things Naruto notices about him when they start dating ... or whatever it is they are now doing, have been doing and are probably going to continue doing in the foreseeable future.

After all, Naruto's pretty certain that he won't stop kissing Sasuke in the near future, unless one of them drops dead.

Which, considering how uncannily good at surviving both of them are, isn't going to happen all too soon, thankfully. Naruto is convinced that a world without him would be a much sadder place.

He isn't all too sure about Sasuke, though.

Sasuke's just a stupid bastard, amongst other things.

Still, Naruto likes kissing Sasuke. No, it isn't something he would admit out loud, but he likes it; it's better than ramen, at times.

At least, he knows he can't stop kissing Sasuke right now – at the very moment -- because it feels too good, and there's no point in stopping to do something that feels so well ... good.

Anyway, even though, Sakura-chan tells him that they're dating, Naruto isn't utterly convinced of that. This is just too ... well, it just isn't dating.

Not really.

Dating should be all about holding hands, and going to concerts together. It should be romantic with firework-like emotions and butterflies forming in your stomach. It should make you feel different, and happier.

Or that's what Iruka tells Naruto one fine Monday morning when they're meeting for ramen, and Naruto trusts Iruka with everything. Iruka is smart, and that's why it's better to trust him on dating issues than anyone else.

So, Naruto is pretty sure that he and Sasuke aren't dating. Because he doesn't feel any different from what he used to feel like before.

Sure, he feels more excitable and starts feeling really, really glad when Sasuke allows him to be close, but that's all.

But is he happier overall?

No, not really. Neither is Sasuke. He's still the same bastard he used to be before.

And what they do isn't all too different from what they did before, which was sparring, bantering and exchanging heated glares. They still fight, and spar and exchange heated glares. It's always been like this, and Naruto doesn't want it to change because (as much as he does protest it) he likes the banter, the fighting and the heated glares.

Only they've added – sloppy and aggressive -- kissing to the list, and the occasional awkward grope fest that makes him feel hot ... and sweaty.

Naruto's not all that sure about it making him feel sexy because there's nothing sexy about being hot and sweaty. Sasuke isn't sexy either. He grunts hoarsely – and that's not very sexy, and his fingernails dig too deeply into his skin when Naruto kisses him. This tends to hurt, and isn't very sexy, either.

It definitely isn't dating.

Don't ask Naruto how it -- the kissing and all -- happened. He doesn't know. It just did. Along with his voice changing, him suddenly shooting up a few inches and some other nasty side effects – like smelling like old fish, even though he washes once a day (he sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but that's something else altogether).

What annoys Naruto though is that everyone else seems to be noticing that he's changing as well. Take Kakashi, for example.

Lately, whenever he's at leisure and about to water his plants, Kakashi, that damned latecomer, keeps showing up at his apartment, and offers him advice on 'sex'. Something that Naruto doesn't appreciate that much.

Of course, before you start, Naruto knows what sex is – he's been around Jiraiya and Kakashi for too long to not know what it is. Besides, he's pretty much read up everything you need to know on sex: he knows the positions, and how to make someone moan out. At least, he think he does – Naruto hasn't had the opportunity to test it out yet. And Sasuke isn't a very good test subject.

Sasuke never moans out when he should, and moans when he shouldn't. Naruto still doesn't get why kissing Sasuke's neck doesn't emit any kind of reaction out of Sasuke, but biting his earlobe does.

It's not the kind of moan Naruto expected to hear, either; Sasuke's moans are low, nearly guttural and he doesn't look pretty when he does it. His face is always scrunched up in that weird way and, what's worse, his grip on Naruto's shoulders is too hard.

Sometimes, he bites Naruto into the neck, and that hurts – quite a bit. Though Naruto likes it, he can't say it's what his sweet dreams are made of.

In his dreams, he dates a sweet, cute and preferably busty girl who's gentle and shy. In short, he dreams of someone who is nothing like Sasuke.

Sasuke is the ungirliest thing ever.

Yes, he has a pretty face, but his body, his strong hands and even stronger legs are not girly. And his voice is definitely not feminine, either. Hearing him curse and grunt right now just reminds Naruto of the fact that Sasuke is anything, but a girl.

And yet, Naruto can't help thinking that Sasuke does sound kind of hot when he moans out softly.

It nearly makes him wonder what Sasuke would sound like if he were insi-

Naruto halts right there. This is wrong. It's so wrong that it's nearly ridiculous.

Naruto just can't imagine having sex with Sasuke, of all people. Doing this is fine, but real sex?

Hell no.

Sasuke would be the death of him.

He'd be so aggressive, and would probably drive Naruto insane before the main act. Scratch that, he already drives him insane (and is currently really driving him up the wall).

Sasuke isn't a very patient person.

It's either 'harder, faster' or 'shut up you moron, and just do it'. Most of the time, Naruto has a hard time being harder and faster because it's kind of difficult to pump faster when you're out of breath and need release yourself.

And it's hard to shut up when Sasuke keeps on grinding against him, or hisses out in frustration.

He's doing this right now, hissing and grinding against Naruto. That's why Naruto can't help not being faster.

“Come on, faster,” Sasuke growls out, and Naruto feels a blush forming on his cheeks, mostly because this is so unlikely – and awkward (really, really awkward). He's never really given another guy a hand job before, and doing this to Sasuke is bewildering.

He isn't sure whether this is a dream, reality or something in between. Whatever it is, Naruto can't help feeling out of place in this forest here. He can't help thinking that them doing this here – in a forest, under a tree and with their clothes still on – is slightly stupid (shouldn't they be doing this in a bedroom?).

Also, all of this is just so odd.

In a way, it's no different from their sparring, and yet in many way it is.

Sasuke sounds so different, and Naruto feels so strange: he's warm and cold all over, and his body is trembling.

Sasuke is pushing against him and his fingernails are clutching too firmly on his shirt, so firmly that Naruto can feel the stinging sensations. He's glad that he's wearing a shirt, even though, at the same time, he wonders whether it wouldn't be better if he and Sasuke were naked.

Then again, Sasuke doesn't have enough patience for that, and Naruto has no patience to put up with Sasuke's complaints. So most of the time, he gives in.

There's nothing worse out there than a fussy bitch, Jiraya keeps on telling him while they train.

Naruto thinks that Jiraiya has never been with someone like Sasuke before (because if he'd been, he'd stop complaining about fussy bitches). Sasuke is not a fussy bitch, he's something that can't be even described as being 'fussy'. He's way more than that.

Sasuke starts mumbling again, and his hands pull Naruto closer to him. Naruto sighs when he does that because Sasuke is warm. So warm, so much warmer than Naruto ever expected him to be. It feels nice to be so close to him.

“Naruto – are you done?”

Of course, leave it to Sasuke to ruin the moment.

“Shut up, idiot,” Naruto whispers harshly, and moves his hand faster, grinning when he hears Sasuke gasp out. Now that's a sexy noise, and it's even hotter when he watches how the red flush of embarrassment-desire spreads over Sasuke's cheeks. Naruto can't help thinking that he'd like to see more of it, and he also can't help being proud that he's the one doing this, that he's the one who can bring out such reactions from Sasuke.

Not everyone can see Sasuke like this. And what's more, Sasuke wouldn't let just anyone else do this, either.

He's chosen Naruto, and Naruto is glad that Sasuke has chosen him because, in spite of how odd, and awkward all this might feel, he wouldn't want to do it with anyone else.

Maybe, having sex with Sasuke wouldn't be such a bad idea, after all.

---

[fic] That DNA Thing Prologue

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 17:04:03 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The world would go under, if I did.

Rating: Will be NC-17 at some point, this is more M-rated for language.

Summary: Men are pigs. Sakura knows that, and yet she can't keep her eyes from her new neighbour. NaruSaku.

A/N: Simple proof of the fact that this author can write het, and won't shy away from it. This is utterly cliché, trite and what do I know what, plot-wise, but then, I just really want to write this. Please don't kill me?

.....

All girls, regardless of who they are, how old they are or what kind of social background they come from, dream about the perfect guy. The knight in shining armour who'll sweep you off your feet, and promise you the stars from the sky.

All that crap.

We've all fallen for that junk. It's – that's what I'm fully convinced of – a sort of pre-programmed thing in our DNA that makes us dreamy-eyed and act like a total idiot in front of the supposed dream guy.

You blush, you stammer and spend hours in front of a mirror in some fancy shop, admiring your reflection. You want to be pretty, so that the guy will just turn and look at you. It's so horribly degrading because we're supposed to be emancipated.

And yet, we degrade ourselves.

If you're lucky, he'll ask you out. If you're very, very lucky or just plain retarded, he'll end up marrying you and you'll be the mother to his snot-faced kids. And you live happily ever after until he dumps you for a younger woman, that is.

It's only after a while, after you've realised that Mr Perfect is just another human being how stupid this is.

You realise, while kissing the boy, that he's smelly, tastes like cigarettes and attacks your mouth a little too aggressively. You understand, after he's forgotten birthday, that he's not going to keep his promises.

He won't catch any falling stars, nor will he die for you. He'll just use you, and then drop you as soon as his pleasures have been sated.

Sometimes I think the only purpose of being a woman is to go through these three phases: being utterly in love and blind, then going through a sort of an enlightenment process until you reach the third stage.

And that's really just shit.

Don't believe me?

Then you're just a moron. Quite simply. Or you belong to that lucky breed that's never fallen in love. If we ever cross paths, we'll have to exchange phone numbers. I'd really like to know how to keep from falling in love.

At seventeen, I thought Sasuke Uchicha was perfect. I still feel surprised that he chose me, from all girls he could have asked.

Of course, I accepted. And I was happy.

My world revolved around his.

He had everything. Money, good looks and he was – that's what I seriously thought – a gentleman. He never tried to get me into bed, his hands didn't wander to places where I didn't want them to be. I'd dated two boys before him, and knew how annoying they could get.

I lost my virginity to him, and he his to me. It should have been perfect, but -- to be honest -- Sasuke was awkward. Even when we were intimate, he couldn't let his mask slip. After a while, I started to ask myself if there was something wrong with me.

I often ended up questioning myself if his being with me was just for the sake of keeping the gossip down.

Only after he'd broken up with me by e-mail after half a year of dating, did I understand that I hadn't meant anything to him. I'd just been someone to play around with.

What a jerk.

I'd see him, of course. Day after day, we'd pass each other in the hall, and Sasuke wouldn't even greet me.

I cried tears over him. Cried so hard until I thought I had none left, until I felt like my insides had been torn apart. I'd never felt more stupid and cheap in all my life.

A weight was lifted off my shoulders after I'd graduated.

I was resolved to not make the same mistake. So, I started to date Kiba. He was quite a rebel, a 'bad boy' and his reputation would have put Marlon Brando to shame.

That summer following graduation was the summer of my life. I'm not kidding here.

The sex was awesome. If Sasuke was inhibited and nearly shy in bed, then Kiba was just the opposite. He was the one who taught me to appreciate my wild side. Let's say that it's always good to have a guy to teach you how to use candle wax and handcuffs in bed.

But after a few rounds in the sack, I dumped him. A relationship just can't sustain itself on sex, as nice and good as it feels. I wanted to feel loved.

Besides, he was a little too much in love with his dog...Not that he was doing that kind of stuff with his dog... but I don't think it's good if the girl comes second to the pet.

I'm a selfish person. I want to be first. I want to be admired and cherished, loved and desired.

That's why my search continued.

During university, I met other guys. I don't want to go through the entire list because it's not that large in the first place.

Oh fine, I'll say it.

There were only three men. One of them was a bug freak, the other an emotionless painter and the last one my professor. Yes, I even fell for that trap. All of them convinced me that sometimes it's really just better to be on your own.

After university, there was Neji. I liked him, I really did. He was reliable, a real gentlemen and he was serious about us. He had the most gorgeous hair I'd seen in a man.

Perhaps, I should have accepted his marriage proposal. Then again, I couldn't imagine being with a guy who valued his family's honour over me. I wasn't going to change myself for his sake.

We don't live in the Middle Ages.

Now that you know my history, don't say it's sordid. Don't give me this kind of shit. We no longer live in the good old days of “Jane Eyre.”

I'm a free woman. I'm twenty-seven. I have no illusions. I know what to expect of men. And I'm resolved that I can play the game as well as they can.

-----

Sakura sighed loudly, after she'd finished typing this – letter, rant? She didn't know what it was. For what was the hundredth time this evening, she shook her head. Her brain cells had been roasted too much today.

They had to have been because nothing else could have induced her to type this.

It was growing dark; the sunlight peeking in from the windows was getting dimmer and dimmer. Soon, she'd be forced to turn on the lights. Then, her expensively furnitured apartment with the glass table, white-washed walls and red sofa would look beautiful, splendid even.

However, there was something missing – a second person, perhaps? It looked so empty.

Sakura slapped herself on the forehead.

She really had to be going nuts. Perhaps, she'd watched too much “Sex and the City” and now was doing a very poor imitation of Carrie Bradshaw. She was no Carrie. She didn't have that much of a shoe fetish nor did she keep running after or away from any kind of Mr Big.

As far as Sakura was concerned, she was very well off without Mr Big. And all the silly notions of “Mr Right” still ghosting about in her head could go fuck themselves as well.

Sakura let out a giggle. She'd used foul language again.

My mother would be so proud of me.

Then again, her mum was proud of her. She always said how glad she was that Sakura had made a fine career for herself, and had not gotten married to some loser (unlike herself).

Sakura was proud of herself as well. At twenty-seven, she only had success to look forward to. She'd graduated top of her class, had gone through the hard internship and was now the doctor she'd always wanted to be.

It wasn't easy, but Sakura liked it. She liked it a lot, and had no regrets. She hadn't thrown her life away for a man, and wouldn't do it in the near future.

Sakura was resolved not to fall in love again, and was pretty sure she never would.

--> fic is not posted here, but can be found on ffn?

---

[fic] All The Things Left Unsaid

Thu, 18 Sep 2008 11:42:04 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.

Rating: K+

Summary: There are so many things I'd like to say, but have to leave unsaid.

Author's Notes:

I usually list an author as an inspiration for my works. However, I really don't think it's necessary to say which writer inspired me to use this kind of style. This piece is a sort of companion/side fic to longer project I've been plotting; however, given how absolutely uninspired I have been as of late, I doubt it will ever be written. I've incorporated two German words into the text, which should become clear from the context. However, considering the fact that they might not, I've added a footnote.

All feedback/flames/whatever appreciated.

...

The underground station at Karlsplatz is one of the filthiest, sleaziest and dirtiest stations you'll ever find. I wouldn't waste another minute breathing in the cigarette-infested air if circumstances – namely this being the only way I can get to the university – wouldn't force me to.

Well, I could have taken another route, but that would have meant leaving my apartment an hour earlier. However, it being a bone-chilling and windy November, I didn't feel like it.

People dressed in various garments, ranging from sloppy jeans to extremely gaudy suits, cross my path, but they're just a short-fleeting illusion that is burnt out as quickly as it appears. So, in many ways, they've become insignificant to me. Like dead flies or the dirt under my shoes.

It's strange how alone you can feel, even if you're surrounded by at least fifty people.

From my vantage point at the escalator which is rolling rather slowly downwards, I can hear the sounds of the underground train – the whooshing, and that mechanic, never altering voice dryly lulling out: “Zug fährt ab." The automatic doors close swiftly with such a frightening force that still leaves me cringing – I can't help thinking would would happen if someone got stuck in between.

“Scheiße, ich bin spät dran. Elender verdammter Dreck!” a male voice swears behind me and then I feel someone push roughly past me; it's the person who angrily muttered these words. He doesn't even look back.

“Idiot,” I growl out silently, angry that this jackass had to shove me like that, just because he was late. It's hardly my fault.

It's moments like these that make me realise how much I hate this city.

...

After a university lecture ends, there's this ritual of hands knocking on a table, which serves as a sort of appreciation for the lecturer. I'll have to admit that – for the longest time – I really didn't understand what that hand-banging on the tables meant, and didn't join in with the others. It was only later a year after I'd been here that a magazine explained it to me. It's not like I had anyone else.

Today it's the same: the lecture ends with the professor saying that we should read some stupid chapters for next week and, again, there's the same harsh pounding of hands against old wooden tables, which not only creak, but squeak. I do the same, though I could really care less for the lecture or the person who's held it.

It's meaningless. All of this is.

I can't leave the hot and stuffy lecture hall immediately; people, all muttering and chattering incessantly, are pushing in all directions and there's really no way out now. I'm forced to wait until the tumult dies down.

...

I sigh relievedly upon feeling cool air attack my face. It's wintry and humid out, but I don't feel cold because my legs are moving – walking very quickly. It's comfortable, comforting even.

The door to my apartment opens easily and there's no creak when I open it. There's little noise, in fact – this place, it's nearly like a temple.

I still can't find myself referring apartment as “home”.

I take off my shoes with a feeling of pleasure, glad to be finally freed of the wetness that had been soaking my socks.

Funnily, the first thing I do isn't fix myself a meal or anything else of the sort, instead I'm instantly keen on switching the computer on. And I do just that.

There's no message waiting for me; I check the other account, but am disappointed as well. Naruto hasn't sent me a word yet, though he'd promised to write daily.

Oh well. Perhaps, I shouldn't have expected too much in the first place. But still, I can't help feeling empty, A message might not replace him in flesh and blood, but it would have been something.

A sudden knock on the door alarms me, and pulls me out of my brooding. I don't why my heart's suddenly beating wildly nor why I run to the door, instead of calmly walking to it.

Of course, I end up feeling like an idiot. It's a Jehovah's Witness. Before the guy even gets a chance to talk, I quickly stammer out a “I don't speak German” in Japanese and close the door behind me. I don't care if it's rude. In fact, it's rude of him to invade other people's privacy just to flaunt his religious philosophy about. He should bother people who need it.

Because I certainly don't.

Feeling angry and let down, I switch off the computer and practically hurl myself at the sofa, yelping when my back comes to contact with the remote which pushes hard against my skin.

Damn.

And yet, in spite of it all, my eyes close and I fall asleep.

...

When I awake, I can only hear splash splash splash.

It's raining in patters out. I can hear it; some of the raindrops are thrust harshly against the window pane, creating singular sharp noises, which remind me of pennies being tossed down a metallic surface. Or something like that.

I rub my stinging eyes, and shift positions on the sofa; it's not a particularly comfortable sofa, too hard to lie down on and much too small to sleep in. I should have bought something else.

Then my cellphone rings. This always happens: just when I want to go to bed, some stupid wanker has to call me – and it's only now that I realise no one has called me in months.

However, it doesn't change the fact that it's still annoying. It's way past midnight. I want to go to bed, not hear some stupid person bother me with useless gibberish. But the phone doesn't stop ringing.

More than vexed, I pick it up, and furiously murmur into the receiver: “Yeah?”

“Hey, you don't have sound so rude, Sasuke.”

For just a moment, I nearly feel compelled to let the phone crash on the floor. My hands tremble that much. I don't what makes them shudder so – the fact that it's really Naruto talking to me or the homesickness that comes hand in hand with hearing his voice.

“Naruto?”

“Yes, yes, it's me. I'd thought I'd surprise you today. So, I called instead of writing to you.”

I'd prefer if he'd written.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” Naruto demands, sounding a little irritated and even hurt. “After months, of not hearing my voice all you've got to say is hmm?”

I sigh and bite my lips. How idiotic of me. I can picture his face now – his blue eyes widened and expressive. That's what they are – beautifully expressive.

“No, I'm just a little tired. Sorry. I'm glad you called.”

“Good. Just do try sound a little more enthusiastic, okay?”

“Okay. “

“Sheesh. You're not even trying,” Naruto says, letting out a frustrated breath. “So, what you've been up to?”

I'd like to tell him nothing, but my instincts warn me that this would only worry him needlessly. And that's the last thing I need – his pity.

“The usual. Studying, going to work and more studying.”

“Sounds pretty damned boring.”

It is.

“Well, not everyone's a party animal, Naruto.”

“Oh, I guess so. I've been having a lot of fun with the boys – we went to this ubercool party on Sunday, where they had these supercool -”

I don't really pay attention anymore. The boys are no one other than his rag-tag group of friends, which include Kiba, Shikamaru, Chouji and Shino. They've been a strong and steady group since middle school or so. Anyhow, they always do the same things. So, there's no need for me to listen really.

“Sounds like a lot of fun,” I reply after Naruto has finished prattling.

“Hey, it was. We had a real blast.”

“How's Sakura?”

There's a pause. I guess he's a bit surprised by the change of topic. I'm as well. But I guess, I've always been one for torture.

“She's fine. In fact, we're...how do I – damn ...”

I don't want to hear the rest. It won't be nice. And the way Naruto breathes heavily into the phone isn't nice either. He's silent and it's that damned silence that's unnerving; it's the calm before the storm.

“Naruto?” I finally ask, annoyed by that stupid and awkward silence. It's humiliating.

“We're getting married. “

“Oh?”

I can hear the rain coming down stronger now; it's no longer just a soft thud thud against the ground, but strong bangs created by water crashing on gravel ground.

“Yeah, that's why I called.”

“How nice of you,” I exclaim, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my tone. Moron. Naruto is a blasted moron.

“Hey Sasuke, you sure as hell don't sound happy.”

Why, he's not a moron -- he's a fucking asshole.

“No, you're mistaken,” I quickly respond, clenching my fist all the while. “I'm happy for you. For both of you.”

I'd give anything to slam the phone down now. But then I'd only be hurting more, and – worse of all – he'd be left confused and upset. And in spite of how I feel about this, the last thing I want is for Naruto to be hurting. I'm not a bastard, contrary to popular belief.

“Yeah, she's an awesome woman," Naruto goes on saying, not even realising how forced he sounds. How forced all of this sounds.

“She is. She'll make you happy.”

I can see him nodding to that with a sickening grin on his face. Feeling the need to occupy my free hand with something, I pull out a scrap of paper out of my jeans pocket. It's something I got on the street. It's an add for some sort of party. Nothing I care about.

“Ah, speaking of that, don't you ever think of finding someone? “

For an instant, it's like someone had just given me a good kick in the stomach – there's this hole building in my chest and an icy sensation spreads all over my me. I feel as if I'd been soaked wet by the rain outside.

“Sasuke, you there? Answer the question, damnit!”

I start to crush that paper in my hands; it's becoming a ball – a twisted disfigured ball. It'd be so wonderful, if all my problems could be just crushed and twisted away.

“No.”

There's a gasp. Naruto sounds absolutely scandalised; it's so appalling. This whole conversation is appalling, trite even.

“But why? You're good-looking, intelligent and everything. Come on, you must know someone.”

I twist it even further, and grind my teeth against my lower lip; it costs me all my strength not to start breathing quickly. If I started to breathe quickly now, I'd surely hyperventilate.

“I'm not interested.”

“But, but – even you can't be that asexu-”

I interrupt him before he can say more. I don't need this crap from him – not from him. Naruto knows how much it irritates me.

“I said no, Naruto.”

“Sorry. I'd forgotten how much of thick-headed bastard you are. My bad. “

I can hear him laughing; it's that kind of laugh that's contagious, if you allow yourself to give in. But I don't give in because I'm not willing to pretend.

“So when is the date?”

“This summer.”

“I see.”

“Say, would it possible for you to return to Japan? I'd like you to be my best man, since you're my best friend and all.”

I furrow my eyebrows and throw a quick glance round the room – it's a nice room. The sofa is a fine red colour, which is good for winter days and everything else is acceptably nice as well – the moderately big TV set, the brown bookcase and the three plants I've bought to make this room look greener. It's the first time I've realised how warm and safe this room is.

“Sasuke? Are you dozing off? So can you or can't you?”

“No, I can't make it.”

“Huh? But you've got holidays – I'm sure you could make it,” Naruto insists, the hurt lingering in his voice. It doesn't work on me, though.

“I can't. I've got too much going on here. I just can't Naruto. Try to understand,” I say calmly, not bothering to add a “please”. I'd never do that; it's beyond my dignity.

Naruto sighs loudly.

“Oh well. Look I have to end this call now,” Naruto hurriedly stammers out. I know why he does that: he's got nothing to say to me anymore. “If you ever do change your mind, just drop me a line, okay?”

“I will,” I lie through gritted teeth. I know I sound terse, even rude, but it's the only way to keep Naruto from bothering me about this. He'll just have to understand that this is my final decision.

“Bye Sasuke. Take care.”

“Take care.”

That's it and Naruto hangs up. I won't be hearing from him until he and Sakura have gotten hitched. I don't look forward to it. In fact, I'll make sure to have the phone switched off on that day.

The tattered scrap of paper is still in my hand. Without further ado, I tear it up to bits and pieces, letting it fall to the ground. I'll clean up the mess tomorrow.

It's still raining outside, though I don't really pay attention to it anymore. Instead, I throw the mobile phone on the sofa, switch the light off and set off for my bed. My bed, which is comfortable-warm and where I can just shut my eyes and be pretend-happy.

I've never felt so drained in my life. And something tells me this feeling won't change.

...

1: Zug fährt ab.

It can basically be translated into: “The train is departing.”

2:“Scheiße, ich bin spät dran. Elender verdammter Dreck!”

“Shit I'm late.” I'm not sure how to translate the “Elender verdammter Dreck!” -- it's just an expression that reinforces the meaning of what has already been said. It's not commonly used. Indeed, I think I'm the only German-speaking person who uses it.

[fic] Sun Up, Sun Down 2

Sun, 13 Jul 2008 14:50:20 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, mind you.

Rating: M

Summary: When Naruto “earns” his cash to spend it at the best brothel in town, he expects good service. However, he gets more than he paid for. NaruSasu, AU. Part two of three.

Notes: Bet'd by the lovely Calamus. I'm very indebted to her for making this more readable! The next update shouldn't take me another month. All criticism accepted (yes, I do mean that)
....

Sasuke's breath came out in pants and he nearly thought he'd crack under the strain. The exertion was painful: he'd been running at a seemingly fast-as-lightening pace for long minutes now and felt extremely tired. His lungs were aching, his body felt sore and, to top it all, he felt dizzy: the rooftop, along with its glowing surroundings, shimmered and twisted like a circling piece of cloth or a dangling rope. The lights coming from the houses danced around him like fireflies – all luminescence and dazzling brightness under the dark veil of the night.

Sasuke considered himself quite lucky that he hadn't managed to kill his precious self yet so far – this was such a crazy undertaking. He was pretty sure that the founder of his clan, who was as dead as a doornail, was turning in his grave.

However, stopping wasn't an option. Sasuke wasn't someone who gave up easily. Besides, being an Uchiha meant that you had to be ready to fight tooth and nail for your life; this was a doctrine that he'd been immersed in ever since he was a toddler. Failure was a disgrace and Sasuke wasn't ever going to be one. He would succeed at any cost. He'd prove everyone that he was worthy of being an Uchiha; he wasn't going to allow anyone to stand in his way. Especially not losers like that perverted moron from earlier.

That idiot might be following me. I didn't cut down the rope.

While running along the rooftops and jumping from one to the other, he cursed under his breath. He hadn't forgotten what had occurred back at the brothel. Then again, he hardly could have done so: it'd been a mere hour ago since that foul-smelling idiot had kissed him forcefully. Oh, the man had been quite foul-smelling and vulgar indeed, tasting of rum and all the filth of someone who didn't take hygiene too seriously. Or, at least like someone who wasn't all too particular about it.

No, he hadn't smelled horrendously, but it had not been a wonderful experience either; it had pretty much felt like kissing a fish, which he didn't think anyone would consider a sensuous experience. But Sasuke didn't claim to be all-knowing. Perhaps, there were people who got off on that. He didn't belong to that sort.

It was dark – something Sasuke was glad for. It wasn't a black entity of nothingness, but he was certain that his silhouette was as nondescript as a creeping shadow, which spared him the trouble it would mean being detected by somebody. Then again, he doubted that anyone in their right mind would be looking for people jumping on rooftops way past curfew.

His agile and well-trained body found it relatively easy to jump from one rooftop to the other – the distance between them wasn't far. Each time he jumped, a gust of wind accompanied Sasuke and swept through his hair, which made him swear again. He really did hate his hair, even though he'd tied it into a ponytail. It always got in the way.

He'd reached a dead end – there wasn't anywhere he could jump to now. If he did, he'd meet his certain death or, at least, break a couple of bones. Sasuke wasn't feeling suicidal nor did he wish to spend the next few months of his life confined in a bed. By that time, Orochimaru would have left this town and he'd never get his chance to kill the bastard. And Sasuke had every intention of doing so.

All of a sudden, there was a rustle of material behind him – a rattle of metal and the squeaking creak of leather; Sasuke was surprised, even though his instincts had forewarned him. Still, he couldn't believe that the fuckwit from before had truly followed him all the way. It really took a special brand of idiot to be that persistent.

"Well, well, well. I've caught up with you, bastard," the guy's voice behind him drawled; it made sparks of anger go off along Sasuke's spine. Sasuke gritted his teeth, fist clenched and nostrils flaring. Hadn't he given the idiot enough hints?

Naruto, meanwhile, was just too happy for being given another chance to confront this interesting bloke. He'd run after him like a madman, all the while anticipating that fantastic second fight that awaited him. He loved the fact that his very presence was making the blood in Sasuke's veins boil.

"Look, I told you I don't have time for this. Go away – just leave!" Sasuke called out to the man angrily, hoping that the stubborn asshole would finally just let him be; he'd given him enough trouble for tonight. Sasuke really didn't want to be forced to do something they would both regret.

Naruto weighed his options, scratching the stubble on his chin again. He shook his head and drew out his sword, not wasting a minute to attack Sasuke. He wasn't too fond of wasting time, as he had demonstrated countless times before. Besides, he still hadn't got lucky and this was mostly this moron's fault. He'd really wanted to get laid tonight.

He'll pay. Though fighting with him is better than having sex with some dirty wench.

Sasuke was prepared and countered the attack by throwing shuriken at Naruto, which the man quickly evaded. Sasuke groaned and rolled his eyes; he should have prepared himself better, but he couldn't do anything to amend the situation now.

It was quite a feat to watch that man move. He might have been all rags and dirt, but the way Naruto moved was nearly graceful; his body swung back and forth like a pendulum. He was fast as well: his legs were extremely flexible and he was capable of bouncing around, not unlike a human pinball.

"Like hell I'll just leave," Naruto announced fiercely while he noted how the other man's eyes were on him. He wasn't a coward and wouldn't even dare botching his chance of having another fight.

Why, he thought, slowly tracing his tongue over his upper lips, the party's just getting started.

Sasuke threw another bunch of shuriken at him – he seemed to have an infinite amount of them stacked away in his pouch. Not slow on the uptake, Naruto skidded backwards, but as soon as he caught his breath, he dashed towards Sasuke again.

"Man, this is kind of no fun. I can't fight someone who doesn't have a sword," Naruto complained, lowering his blade. He pouted and let out a huff; he had been looking forward to cutting through some flesh and bone – especially Sasuke's. Yet, like this, he couldn't do much.

No, he wasn't into justice or honour, but Naruto liked challenges; it wasn't much of a challenge to fight with Sasuke like this. As strong, agile and swift-footed as Sasuke was, he only had to wait for the right opportunity to pin him down and slash through one of his critical points. No, this wasn't entertaining at all. Having Sasuke die fast wasn't his intention.

"We'll have to end this. I can't use my sword against you."

"Good. You've finally made a wise decision."

Sasuke sighed in relief. He heard the sword being put back into the sheath and the clapping of hands against moth-eaten material. He was glad the other had seen the light of reason; he would be gone soon now and Sasuke would be free to pursue his goal.

And Father will finally acknowledge me.

Unfortunately, lost in thoughts like he was, Sasuke had failed to pay attention, had failed to notice that Naruto wasn't by any means giving up on this. He noticed quickly, though.

"Doesn't mean I can't attack you with my fists and legs," Naruto muttered determinedly, already in an appropriate fighting stance. He was crouching and Sasuke's own instincts were – once again – running high. He'd once heard that fighting was not unlike floating underwater: you felt like losing yourself. Well, he was certainly losing himself.

"You never do give up, do you?" Sasuke inquired, also crouching and waiting for the signal, the sign to attack.

"No. You can bet on your soon to be dead body I don't," Naruto responded, smirking all the while. There was a look of pure ecstasy and unbridled passionate blood-lust playing on his features; he looked vicious and ruthless, like the Vice character from the morality plays. Meaning that he wouldn't have any scruples when it came to finishing Sasuke off, robbing him of his money and making a run for it.

"I won't die. Not by your hand."

"I'll fight you until you're bloody and beaten, moron."

That was enough small talk for Sasuke. He understood that he'd met someone with the same iron will as his – and this meant that neither of them would quit. He was perfectly fine with that; he'd forgotten about the urgency of his mission. All that mattered was to show this guy who was boss.

Sasuke dived at Naruto, aiming for his stomach; however, his attack was avoided once again and he found himself clutching his cheek. He'd been hit right there and, had he been weaker, this would have knocked him out cold.

"Is that all you've got?"

Sasuke smiled and shook his head. This time Naruto was the one to lunge at him, but Sasuke sent him flying backwards by landing a well-placed kick into his stomach; Naruto grunted out in pain and his body fell on the heavy metal rooftop with a thud.

But he got up again and Sasuke advanced towards him once more; this time, they fists met each other – repeatedly, as if all this were part of a complex dance routine.

"What, is that all you've got?" Sasuke spattered out, clutching his throat. He was completely exhausted.

"I can't – you completely drained me out. As if you'd been riding me all night."

Sasuke's eyebrow rose at that – the dirty implications of the statement didn't pass by him unnoticed. Working at a brothel had made him more than well-acquainted with sexual innuendo; he had been forced to listen to various sleazy compliments and jokes that would have made his father blush a beet red. And his father wasn't the type of man who lost his composure easily.

"You're really just into fighting and sex, aren't you?"

"There's not much else a man can do," Naruto admitted, absent-mindedly scratching his back; he wasn't embarrassed at all and his eyes twinkled mischievously when he remembered how much fun he'd had over the years.

Sasuke wasn't impressed, it seemed. His notion of a swordsman's life differed substantially from Naruto's.

"Never heard of honour, fighting for the sake of doing the right thing?"

Naruto spat, chuckled and then started to laugh heartily – he spilled out his mirth in waves and his laughter was contagious. Sasuke would have laughed, if his repressed nature had allowed him to do so. However, he was tongue-tied because his well-breeding was too deeply ingrained in his brain. Therefore, he could only watch how Naruto laughed with tremendous exuberance; he hadn't expected a man of his status and character to be like this. He hadn't thought it possible that a bandit, a dirty vagabond, could laugh in such an innocent manner.

"Are you fucking crazy? What's honour got to do with fighting? You either kill or get killed, that's all."

The fastest ticket to dying is being a ninny harping and whining about honour. Seriously.

If Naruto had paused to think about honour, he would have been a goner by now. Honour had no place in his life; he didn't have the time to be a hero and he couldn't care less about authority – they hadn't ever done him much good. While children – skinny, brittle-boned children with haughty and withered faces – starved on the streets, the leading figures of authority drunk themselves silly and cared for nothing but power, glory and riches; there was no place for compassion or charity in these decadent existence of theirs.

Naruto wasn't an embittered man, though: he had accepted his fate readily. However, he couldn't help laughing and he continued to laugh even though he felt like his insides were being torn apart.

Sasuke could only stare at him, still startled and stupefied. Suddenly, he felt something like curiosity surging inside of him; there was something about this guy that made him want to know more, more about the person lurking behind the façade of whiskered cheeks.

"Say, what's your name?"

Naruto stopped laughing and, for a brief moment, looked at Sasuke. He wasn't shocked, but mildly surprised. People rarely bothered to ask him what his name was: names were for people who signified something. Naruto's existence was of little meaning to this world; he was just a rogue and – as a rule – rogues had no identity really. Usually, men like him were filed under philandering, throat-cutting and women-raping assholes; there wasn't anything in-between.

"Naruto. Don't bother asking me about my last name – I don't have one."

Sasuke just nodded, understanding what Naruto – that was a weird name – meant.

"Mine's Sasuke Uchiha."

There was no flicker of recognition in Naruto's face and Sasuke was a teeny bit disappointed; he'd hoped that the name "Uchiha" would ring a few bells.

"Shame, I thought Sachiko fit you much better."

Sasuke decided that responding to this would be a waste of his precious time. He had one objective now: find himself a bed for the night. What the poor soul didn't know was that Naruto had the same thing in mind – and he was resolved to not let go of Sasuke.

After all, he still had a debt with him.

...

The hostel was as dingy and shoddy as could be; it was an age-old building that could only pride itself of being inhabited by the rats and cockroaches filling the earth-smelling and mouldy halls: one could hear them skittering and squeaking. The echoes of the skittering-squeaking intermingled with various other sounds – cussing, the banging of pots, breaking bottles and loud snoring.

Sasuke didn't have enough money to afford anything more luxurious though. Naruto was broke again by now; he'd spent all his money on Sasuke, or, better said, the illusion of Sachiko.

And that money was completely wasted. Fuck, should have just bought myself sake instead.

Naruto, however, wasn't put off by that. He'd been through worse, having slept in beds that weren't beds at all and spent half of his life on the streets. You did lower your standards considerably after such experiences. Besides, Naruto really didn't care where he slept as long as no one disturbed him.

"Hmm, we'll have to share a bed," Sasuke noted and the anger building up from before flared in him again; he was cursed, it seemed. First, he'd been forced to work in a brothel of all things and now he had spent the night in such a sleazy place. Additionally, he'd managed to find himself a companion. Naruto had simply come along, not caring whether Sasuke wanted him to or not; however, he was too tired to protest. His aching limbs just couldn't handle another fight.

Itachi would laugh his ass off if he saw me now.

"As long as I don't have to kiss you again, all's fine with me."

"Heh, as if I'd kiss you, moron. Besides, you were the one who started it."

"I thought you were a whore. Pardon me for thinkin' it belonged to a prostitute's business to kiss their clients..."

Sasuke bit on his lips nervously and nearly started developing a tick; the last thing he wished to hear about was the whole brothel affair. In fact, Sasuke never wanted to think about it again; the whole mission had been a joke, indeed. He had wanted to prove that he was strong and mature enough to handle missions on his own, that he was equally talented as his genius brother and not to be underestimated. Well, Sasuke's illusions had been shattered.

"Don't remind me of that."

Naruto, however, couldn't stop himself from rubbing salt into the wound.

"You know, I'm curious. What were ya actually doin' being a whore?" he asked while he plopped down on the bed; he didn't even bother kicking his sandals off. Sasuke watched this whole action with poorly disguised disgust and interest. Naruto didn't care.

"It's part of a mission. I'm a ninja."

Naruto's interest was awakened; he'd heard tons of rumours about ninja and it had always encouraged his over-active imagination. He'd thought Sasuke was some sort of samurai, but this was more intriguing.

"Oh, so you're one of those creepy guys dressed in black who kill people past midnight? Never thought I'd meet one of your kind."

Sasuke's jaw hardened. He hated those clichés and he wasn't going to allow his family name to be tarnished by the likes of such a mercenary moron like Naruto. He was probably a throat-cutter or some swindler, but this didn't give him the right to make wrong assumptions.

"Look, I'm from an ancient clan – one of the most dist-" Sasuke started in an arrogant tone, which promptly aroused Naruto's rage.

If he hated something, then it had to be conceited prigs.

"I don't fucking care where you come from or who you are, princess. That's about as interesting as the soddin' wallpaper here," Naruto interrupted, waving his hand in an impatient manner, as if Sasuke were an annoying insect.

"How dare you insult me! I'm Sasuke-" Sasuke started, his lips pouted and arms folded.

Naruto restrained the urge to kick something. Instead, he let his emotions run wild and vented out his frustrations on Sasuke.

"I grew up on the fucking streets. I don't know who my father or mother are. And even if I did, it wouldn't have mattered. On the streets, it's about survival, not whether you're descended from this family or not!"

An uncomfortable silence settled over the motel room, lingering and then stretching until it seemed to enshroud them, like a stifling cloak made out of thick cotton. Sasuke swallowed audibly and took his sandals off; he decided to just forget about it and go to bed. The sooner he and Naruto parted ways, the better. Before he could go to bed though, Sasuke found himself forced to break the silence that reigned over the room.

"Could you take those sandals off, please? I don't want to sleep in such filth."

The bed was dirty enough already without Naruto's muddy, smelly old footwear; the material of the sheets looked scratchy and soiled; the "white" of the mattress was a murky yellowish-orange. Sasuke didn't even want to ponder over the meaning of that, but just go to bed and pretend that it was a nightmare. Perhaps, in the morning he would find himself back home again, instead of in this rotting hell-hole. All of this was horrible and Naruto wasn't making things any easier.

"Heh. You don't know what filth is, Sasuke-chan. Bet you've been spoilt all your life, but I won't namby-pamby you. "

Bastard. He thinks he's better than me. Well, I'll show him I don't bow down to anyone, least of all people like him.

"Look, just shut up and take those sandals off. Or I'll make you do it."

"Come on, make me," Naruto challenged, fixing Sasuke with an amused glance. He wouldn't mind fighting; the more he fought with Sasuke, the better he liked the guy. Here was someone he could call his equal, someone who as strong as or even stronger than himself. He had fun getting under Sasuke's skin.

Sasuke didn't wait another second; he was on top of Naruto in a flash and attempting to pull one of his bloody sandals off, found himself on top of the other man; however, he didn't realise it. He managed to pull one of the sandals off, which landed on the creaky wooden floor with a thud; the other followed soon.

"Why, you're more dirty-minded than I expected, Sasuke. You really want to ride me, don't you?"

Sasuke halted in his movements, confused. Naruto continued to look up at him with more than just amusement lurking in his eyes – there was something like hunger in them as well. That look wasn't unfamiliar to Sasuke; Naruto had looked like that back in the brothel right before he'd kissed him. Needless to say, Sasuke was horrified, dumbstruck and very, very offended: he couldn't believe that Naruto had the courage to behave like this. Furthermore, it angered him that Naruto had the audacity to call him "dirty-minded".

Naruto used Sasuke's mortified anger and ran his hands over the bare skin of one of Sasuke's arms; his touch tingled and Sasuke felt goosebumps running down his spine. But he repressed the excitement that it awakened in him. He didn't like it: this was getting dangerous.

"You know, I wouldn't be adverse to-" Naruto said, his fingers now reaching for Sasuke's shirt. He smirked. Perhaps, he would get laid after all – and Sasuke wasn't that bad-looking for a man.

"What are you doing, Naruto?"

"What does it look like, hmm?"

Sasuke quickly got off Naruto, gobsmacked.

"That's – you're a pervert!"

Naruto merely grinned. He wasn't hiding anything; plainer words had never been spoken. He was a shameless pervert all right and wasn't going to deny it.

"Now I get it: you worked at the brothel because you were desperate for roll in the hay."

"You're the greatest idiot I've ever met."

"And you're the most stuck up frigid asshole I've ever met. What's the point?"

"Just shut up," Sasuke ordered, his voice akin to a hissing sound.

Naruto, of course, feeling a major headache coming on – all this twisting and turning had not been good for him – was eager to comply. He didn't want to hear any more of Sasuke's eternal bitching; he was worse than some of the beggarly whores he'd had.

"Will do. 'Tis no pleasure talking to you anyway."

Sasuke didn't favour Naruto with answer, but merely growled. After this incredibly mature display of mutual respect and understanding, they went to bed. Whereas Sasuke was appalled at the fact that he had to sleep in those sweat-soaked clothes of his, Naruto was quite pleased; the bed, even though it was slightly creaky and a little too hard, was comfortable. And Sasuke – as he was forced to admit – was an entertaining guy. It'd been ages that Naruto had been that close to someone, and it felt good.

...

Sasuke was having a dreamless sleep, but – as was his custom – he twisted to and fro on the bed: it creaked under his movements, creating a creak-crack that resounded continuously. Suddenly something cold and chilly splashed over him – so abysmally cool that it quite tore him from his sleep. It had been ice-cold water. Consequently, Sasuke found himself drenched wet. Naturally, this didn't make him feel all too pleased.

Naruto was looking up at him – with a smugness that immediately sparked a feeling of indignation in Sasuke's breast. He didn't have to think twice about it – Naruto had been the mastermind behind this feat.

"Why, you – what did you do that for?"

"Good morning to you, too. Thought I'd finally wake you up. You were getting' quite loud."

Sasuke knew that he talked in his sleep; his mother and Itachi had commented on that often enough. Nonetheless, it didn't excuse Naruto's actions at all!

"With water? Cold water? Do you want me to get pneumonia?" Sasuke asked incredulously, getting out of the bed and preparing to strangle Naruto to death. But as angry as he was, he relented: he wasn't in the mood for a brawls. "

"Nothing else worked. You're a heavy sleeper."

"Naruto-" Sasuke started to say, but a hand against his mouth quite stopped him.

"Oi, I've decided to help you."

Sasuke slapped the hand away.

"I didn't say anything about needing your help."

"Ah, but it looks like you need it," Naruto commented offhandedly while he rubbed his head and counted the holes on the wall.

"Who says so? I don't need anyone's help!" Sasuke insisted, but he realised how empty and false his words rang. Of course, he needed help: his plans had been skewered. He couldn't work as a prostitute anymore – not without major trouble awaiting him.

"Hey, you should see this as a great honour – you get to work with Naruto The Great," Naruto said, grinning in that playful way of his again.

"Great with what? Bragging?"

"Oh sheesh. I'm not dead yet. You couldn't kill me. 'Sides, I'm one great fighter. Been through a lot of shit."

Sasuke pondered over it; it wasn't such a bad idea in the long run. His mission was to kill Orochimaru – by slitting his throat quietly and then slipping away into the dusk: he had to be as inconspicuous as possible. A loud-mouthed guy like Naruto, who was all for brawls and brandishing his sword, was just the type of man he required; he could serve as the distraction that Sasuke needed.

"Fine."

"Cool," Naruto said joyously and, in his euphoria, he shook Sasuke's hand, "But it's not for free, ya know?"

Of course it wasn't going to be free; Naruto wasn't the type who did good deeds without expecting to profit from them.

"And what do you want in return?" Sasuke asked tiredly; he was expecting something along the lines of "sake, you asshole."

"Oh, I'll think of something. Don't worry."

Whether it was to fight with him to death or being paid a good sum of money, Sasuke didn't care; he was glad that they had reached an understanding. Like this, he didn't have to worry about anything anymore. He'd found a compromise.

"So, I should tell you the particulars. I'm going to kill this -"

"I don't care. Just tell me what to do – that's all. I don't need a full hour lecture."

Sasuke was losing his patience; his head was hurting and felt like it was about to explode – it seemed to be growing bigger with every passing second. His very nerves were screaming, tingling in anticipation for an outburst. Naruto was driving him insane.

"Fine, but you should at least know something about it. Or we'll both end up being killed," he finally managed to choke out, trying his utmost to keep the anger from his voice. If he wanted Naruto to respect him, he had to remain as calm as possible.

"Man, Sasuke, are you always that high-strung? Loosen up, come on."

Naruto slapped Sasuke on the shoulder joyously – it was such a strong and lively slap that it nearly sent Sasuke to the floor. Naruto was quite a bundle of energy: he was brimming and bustling with strength, vivacity and zeal.

It was only now that Sasuke noticed that he was shivering; his wet clothes stuck to him like a second skin – they wouldn't dry fast enough either. Sasuke needed new ones and he knew the very person who could get him what he desired. Besides, it was Naruto's fault, anyway. Digging in his moist pockets for the few coins that he still had left, he hoped that the blond was trustworthy. Oh well, there wasn't anything else he could do for now.

"Naruto, take this money and buy some clothes. I can't go out with these."

"Oh, you want me to buy some women's clothes for you? I'm not sure I'll find any-"

"No. Quit being a fool. Go now!"

Naruto took the coins quite readily and put them into his pockets, grinning in that foxy way of his again. He let the coins jingle in his trousers and with an exclamation of "oh damn, is this good", he left, slamming the door behind him with an ear-splitting bang.

[fic] Don't Do That Again

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 20:55:15 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: M

Summary: And I realised one thing. Sasuke had missed me as much as I had him. AU, some minor angst. NaruSasu.

Notes:

The title sucks. I couldn't think of anything else though.

No, this is not original. It's in first person as well – yes, the smut included. However, I really like this piece, in spite of the awkward smut and the lack of a punchline towards the end. It has been a while that I felt that my writing is more than just passable. All criticism accepted. If you think it's utter garbage, don't hesitate to tell me.

...

For a while, I've been desperately trying to understand why he just left back then. It was on a Sunday morning, when the weather was all foggy and wet – the dirty slosh and squishy mud was everywhere. Looked like barf, only browner. Disgusting, of course.

But that's totally beside the point: the weather could have been all sunshine and rainbows. Whatever it would have been – rainy or sunny -- it wouldn't have changed anything. The pain wouldn't have been any less painful.

It would have still hurt, and I keep on repeating myself.

Anyhow, there's a certain satisfaction when the atmosphere outside matches the burning agony crying and twisting in your soul. Although, this sounds pretty poetic or just plain pathetic, pain is like that. It hurts, makes your throat dry and you feel heavier than a sack filled with rotting potatoes. Potatoes which are already a sickly green; the stench of them is so pungent that it makes one want to reel.

Pain makes you want to wretch so hard until there's nothing left to choke on anymore. It's blinding and all-consuming, like an ever-resounding gong.

When Sasuke left, it was just like that. A part of me just died; he tore part of my being in half and left me empty. I was just a bleeding, wrecked and screwed up mess. I'm still bleeding and feel incomplete – there's a gaping hole somewhere inside of me.

No, I'm not saying we were soulmates – I reject the thought of such corny, sentimental values.

It's for girls. I'm not a girl, last time I checked. And even if I were a girl, I'd reject such crap.

But he was definitely more than just a good fuck. Definitely more than that. If I had wanted to solely scratch an itch from time to time, I could have picked up the next whore from the street. There's more than enough of that out there. And yet, even if I did it with one, it wouldn't make me feel any better.

I'd probably just end up thinking, that it isn't Sasuke. Stupid bastard. I know that, even though I've haven't had tried it out – and I won't.

I miss the little banters we shared. I miss the sound of his voice. Even his nagging, his complaints and taunts are better than all too pervading silence here. It's impenetrable; it hugs and dances around me like too thickly knitted shawl. I want to get rid off it. I want it to be gone. Gone.

I fucking hate Sasuke for making me feel like this.

I'm not sure whether I'll be able to forgive him for that. But, moreover, I'm not sure whether I'm able to forgive myself for letting him go.

Because it's not just that he was my lover. We were friends before we became that. Or I thought we were. I really have no idea what we were. Or if we were really anything. But still I miss Sasuke, regardless of anything.

Because he's...well, he's everything and that's that. No point in denying the truth, even though the underlying cheesiness makes me want to laugh. I hate Sasuke for that as well. Even when he's not here he's tampering with my mind.

The tick of the clock announcing that it's midday startles me. I stir and notice that I'm really an idiot. Sakura-chan has told me that I often make things worse by obsessing over them. She's right. I'll go out. 'Sides I have work to do.

...

I hate the heat. Period.

I don't understand why radio broadcasts are so uppity cheerful when the temperature reaches up to forty degrees. It's all about going to the swimming pool then – have fun starting a summer flirt or something like that. It's all about the summer of love, they say.

Well, bloody idiotic half-a brain morons, not everyone has the time to sit and rot their brains off while lying in the sun.

And, even that, doesn't lessen my hate. The sun's burning down my back, my shirt has practically become one with my sweat-plastered skin. Even my trousers feel uncomfortable – I swear that I need to take a bath. I would do anything for a bit of refreshment.

I'll reiterate: the heat sucks.

There's mosquito buzzing over my arms; I swat it away. I'd kill the little git, but that'd make me look stupid. I'm in the middle of the street, but that persistent creature isn't letting go. Damn, it's really annoying.

I curse and then hear a short snort behind me; someone – with their screws gone loose – actually has the audacity to be amused. While I'm suffering like this, the idiot is snorting.

Why – I'll teach them a lesson. I'm not a coward and strangers making fun of me is a big no-no in my books.

Let's just say that I lose my temper easily. Today, I'm angrier than usual. Blame the heat (the weather is always good to be used as an excuse).

I turn around, prepared to spit out the most obscene strings of curses you've ever heard when my breath is taken away – literally. It's Sasuke who snorted.

Sasuke – the one and only. He looks the same, hasn't changed a bit. Then again, it's only been a few months. Strange, how the few months seemed like years to me.

Now at this point, you'd expect some super dramatic music or the monsoon rain to come a-pelting down us, drenching us wet to the bone. It'd be wonderfully melodramatic and, if you'd insert music, the moment would be perfected even more.

But there's no music, no rain and definitely nothing else of the extraordinary. It's still fuming hot, the people – all grown more hectic due to the scorching aggression of the sun's – are still walking and pushing past us. Nothing has changed. The world hasn't stopped turning for us.

Really, life's not a Bollywood film. We're not going to magically fall into each other's arms either.

Instead of hugging him, I just stare dumbfounded at him. I hate it – I've got a hundred and one things running around my head, but can't voice them. My voice has really died down my throat. I'd like to say something really vicious like “you fucking moron, where you've been, but all that comes out is a highly embarrassing “ehhh, Sasuke?”

Right. Makes me look incredibly smart and eloquent, doesn't it?

Sasuke is amused, nevertheless.

“Naruto, nice to see that you're as intelligible as always,” Sasuke gives me to understand. He's smirking still and I feel instantly annoyed. It's my ego that has been bruised.

“Why, you stupid bastard. At least, I talk and don't only say 'hn' all the time,” I growl out, but the comeback is lame.

Sasuke just sighs and ignores me and that's it. In just a span of a few minutes, we're back to what we always were – back to me insulting Sasuke and him trying to ignore me in return.

That's good -- at least, we're still the same.

...

Sasuke drags me into some café – it's posh and I hate it like nothing else. It's horrendous: the jazz music is roaring into my ears and the burgundy – or whatever the hell that colour is – wallpaper is making me sick. It's such a poofter's place; the only thing missing are fluffy pink cushions and a belly-dancer.

“What the fuck is this?” I say, angry that I'm forced to spend my hard-earned money here. “A pub would have been better, Sasuke”.

Sasuke just sighs and shakes his head. “You've really got no taste, Naruto.”

“Taste? You call this taste?”

I look around the oppressive atmosphere here again – the burgundy wallpaper, the lusciously decorated tables and long red carpet covering the floor. It's so intense – the reddish-burgundy colour is painful to my eyes. As well as the all too fluorescent illumination. Of course, Sasuke has to comment on my dislike.

“I shouldn't have expected anything from an unmannered ruffian like you.”

I bite back a haughty remark – don't want to infuriate him right now. Sasuke might not look it, but he's awfully sensitive. Takes everything to heart. And I've learnt from past experiences – I know that getting on his bad side is, well, a bad idea.

Besides, even if the surroundings make me want to kill something, Sasuke himself looks good. I mean, he always does, but he looks even better than usual today – delectable. I don't think it's only because I haven't seen him for a while; he's always had this effect on me.

Suddenly, I can't take it anymore. I just want to know why he's come back, why of all things he's approached me now.

“Don't ask me why I left. It's none of your business,” Sasuke answers, but his voice isn't contemptuous or warning. He's just keeping me at bay and that hurts. Even now, Sasuke is still pushing me away.

I'd like to scowl at him, but it's pointless. I've vented out my feelings on him too often. Sasuke is one of the only people who's ever made me degrade myself like this. But I won't lash out on him. I can see the repressed pain on his face. It only takes a split second for me to understand. Whatever has happened to Sasuke -- why he left -- shouldn't be disclosed right now. Maybe he'll tell me, but I won't squeeze it out of him now.

“I won't ask. I'll wait until you tell me yourself.”

Sasuke sighs in relief; a weight seems to have slipped from his shoulders. I feel relieved as well, even though a part of me is disappointed. Oh well, you can't have everything.

Sasuke's never been easy.

...

He follows me back home. It's grown dark, not very dark yet, but slowly – and surely – the day's coming to an end.

As soon as we've reached the door, Sasuke kisses me unexpectedly – it robs me of my composure quite a bit. It's unnerving how much it affects me, how the feel of his warm mouth is enough to make me melt right on the spot.

He's so warm, so damned addictive. I don't even mind the fact that he tastes like cigarettes. Not that I won't force him to quit smoking later on. It's pretty bad habit, if you ask me. Smoking, that is.

I pull him closer, knead my fingers into the white shirt he's wearing and groan when Sasuke rubs against me. He's hard and I'm just hard as he is – fantastic. It's really good to know how vulnerable I am when it comes to Sasuke. My body is a bloody traitor.

It's only minutes later that I realise where we are, what we're doing right here in the hall. Why, my neighbours must have been given a good show and I feel like dying. I never thought I'd be dry humping Sasuke like that, like a rabid animal for all the world to see.

Fuck, I think. And damn Sasuke for being that desperate – he's lost his marbles. I've always known that being deprived from having sex for too long is bound to make someone batty. Especially someone like Sasuke.

I push him away and hoarsely say:

“Wait, let me ... let me open the door.”

I do open the door with a loud click and pull Sasuke in; his warm hand fits perfectly against my own, but I don't marvel too long about that. There are other things on my mind right now; the prospect of having sex with Sasuke again is overwhelming. I can barely think straight.

The door's shut again and, without further ado, Sasuke is slammed against the wall.

I'll make him pay. He'll learn to not be gone for too long next time. No, screw that, there won't be a next time: he'll never leave me again.

Sasuke's skin is flushed with desire and his eyes are closed; he's already on the verge of submitting and I haven't even done anything yet. It's touching because I realise one thing.

He's missed me as much as I've missed him. Sasuke isn't a heartless, cold-hearted bastard: he's been through hell as well.

He's really an idiot, I think. It didn't have to be like this.

“You stupid asshole, you could at least have warned me,” I whisper into his ear, then lick it; he whimpers and I smile, glad that I've remembered. Sasuke's incredibly sensitive when it comes to his neck and ears.

I'd like to tease him further, but I'm about as impatient as he is. It's too bad – I might have even made him beg. But I'm not cruel and claim Sasuke's lips in a kiss again. He returns it and his fingers bury themselves in my hair, which he's always loved doing. For a reason I can't understand.

I drag him into the bedroom, hoping that he won't notice the messy state. But he doesn't: he's too busy frantically kicking off his shoes. His lips are on mine again and Sasuke is trying to – nearly aggressively – tear the shirt I'm wearing into pieces. I stop him.

“Don't – it's my favourite,” I remind him and take it off myself, followed by the rest of my clothes. Sasuke does the same and, for once, isn't concerned with neatness. The clothes are scattered all over the bedroom floor and Sasuke pulls me down the bed with him as soon as he's done.

After taking the necessary precautions, I push into Sasuke gently, knowing that he hasn't done anything for quite a while. You could say I'm an idiot for this, but I trust him. And, apart from that, Sasuke is too much of an icy bastard to screw around casually. He's too proud and haughty. I've often heard him saying that it's undignified and lowly behaviour for an Uchiha to fuck around.

Good for me.

I'm the only one he's ever really let close to him. He's so tight and warm; I'd nearly forgotten how warm he is and how good it felt to be intimate with him. Not that I have much to compare him to.

I've never had anyone else, either. Not that I regret it because Sasuke is more than enough. I don't need anyone else.

“Naruto move. Come on – move,” he hisses out; his voice barely more than a whisper. And he's practically forcing me to continue, to start thrusting into him until he'll break. He wraps his legs around my hips, pulling me in deeper. And it's painful – painful not to move and I can't resist from groaning. Sasuke urges me on, squirming underneath me.

“Fuck Naruto. Just move,” he gasps out aggressively.

Sasuke is such a stupid bastard. He is a bastard for making me feel so powerless against him. And, once again, I can't do more than obey his commands because resistance would be futile. He'd just flip us over and take measures to fuck me himself.

The bed creaks and Sasuke pants while I slam into him. I won't last long. I'd have loved to prolong it, but Sasuke's moans and “fuck me harder” commands just don't make it possible. So, I wrap my hand around his own cock and start pumping; he arches and squirms. He's growing quite loud – something that you'd never expect him to do, unless you really know him well.

But I told you: Sasuke isn't quite as placid as he'd like others to believe he is.

He's over the edge soon enough and I follow, shuddering and burying my face in his shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” Sasuke suddenly says and his eyes are boring deeply into my own; he looks anxious and, though he's not aware of it, he's biting his lips.

“Don't apologise.”

I don't want to think about what's happened. We'll have more than enough time for that. Don't get me wrong. Yet, what's the point to talk about it now?

Sasuke's brain has melted into wax and he's sleepy. I could probably coax him into wearing a pink dress if I wanted to -- he's that exhausted. I'm tired too, by the bye. So, I'll just let it be for today. 'Sides, I'm too happy.

...

Mornings are a hard bitch for me to digest. I don't wake up with ease. And, more than often, I doze off again. I don't fall asleep again this time, though. I'm not alone and, at first, it shocks me. Until I realise it's Sasuke who's here.

It's been a while since he's been here -- far too long for my tastes.

The sunlight shining through the curtains is bright enough for me to perceive that Sasuke's hair is all tousled. He looks relaxed, cosy even.

“You didn't leave," I say, trying to affirm that this isn't just a dream.

Sasuke just nods; he's not in the mood to talk. He's not a morning person either.

I place a chaste, innocent kiss on his lips and watch amusedly how his eyes widen because of my actions. Sasuke hasn't had much gentleness from me. In the past, I was scared of him being turned off by it and -- well -- it's awkward. I'm not big on sentimental values. But, I can't help being emotional right now. Sometimes you just have to be. Perhaps, I should have been more open before.

“Hey, don't do that again,”I say, giving my thoughts a voice. I want Sasuke to understand that he's important to me, that his not being here hurts worse than a frostbite.

“What?”

“Don't ever leave me again.”

He nods, and I feel that he understands this time. At least, I hope so.

I couldn't stand it if he left again and neither would he. That's why I'm nearly certain that Sasuke wouldn't do it evermore because as much as he denies it, we're stuck in the same boat.

Sasuke needs me as well and that's a fact.

...

[fic] Screw Destiny 8

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 17:15:04 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: T

Summary: Naruto hated bastards with the passion of a thousand suns. Too bad that his new partner is a combination of all that. NaruSasu, AU.

Notes:

Not much to say about this; this was bet'd (and made more readable) by Alley-Oop.

---------

Sometimes waking up from a dream is a quick, abrupt process that rips you out of your fancy, pretend-world and-- with tremendous fear clawing at your heart -- you find yourself gasping for breath and clutching the sweat-drenched pyjama shirt sticking ruefully to your skin.

At other times, it's a more gradual process: you hear voices floating in and out of your brain, are aware of the sunlight peeking in through the curtained windows and are enshrouded by that state of semi-consciousness – that, like a cloud, wraps itself around you. It's like drowning, but you're not dying – but slowly resurfacing from the depths of the sea. You hear, yet don't hear; see, yet don't see; and are here, but not here. It's like being in a semi-trance: everything seems vague and blurred. Everything seems better and more hopeful as well.

Naruto was in that half-dazed, half-asleep state. He knew that it was no longer night and that the birds were already twittering and fluttering outside, even though it was raining. He could hear the rain pattering on the roof, the sound of water droplets hitting the windowsill and the droning of the all too potent thunder. A storm was approaching.

Yet, his eyes were still closed. He didn't feel like opening them right now, lest something evil was approaching. He had learned at an early age that, sometimes, it was better not to wake up – not every awakening brought pleasant consequences along with it.

Indeed, most of the time, it was better not to wake up at all.

He could still remember– and probably would never forget– the morning his parents had passed away. He would never forget how the message had crashed upon him like a thunderbolt and altered his life in a matter of milliseconds. In one second- in another lifetime- he had been Naruto Uzumaki, the son of two very awesome and highly accomplished people, and- in another awful, perverse mood of fate -he had been reduced to an orphan. You couldn’t say that this had been a reason to rejoice; it had been worse than death.

Therefore, Naruto didn't want to wake up, but pretend that he was still engulfed by the reassuring indulgence of sleep.

Slowly, however, his eyes blinked and, after some minutes, opened wide– it was a shocking awakening. Naruto had no idea where he was because, wherever this room was, it didn't belong to him. He didn't recall having such whitewashed walls, or such a hard mattress. This was a neat room, not his pencil-littered, messy one. He wouldn't have ever managed to maintain such flawless order and organization. What perturbed him the most, though, was the fact that he was stark naked, only covered by thin sheets. There were also other details about his state that shouldn't necessarily be recounted, but they made Naruto feel more than just horrified; he was frantic and nearly maddened with confusion.

“Shit,” Naruto whispered, trying to sit up in the bed; he was having trouble figuring out what had happened, as his brain was still a pell-mell of trance- like sensations and vague recollections. He had been dealing with too many things lately.

Please not again.

This wouldn't have been the first time that he had woken up under such mysterious circumstances. When Kiba had accused him of screwing around, he hadn't been wrong: Naruto had been through experiences that were more than questionable. Yet, now, he was freaked out because there was no sign of a condom anywhere and this wasn't what he needed now. Contracting STDs was not something Naruto was really wild about. Then again, this couldn't be what it looked like. He hadn't been anything close to remotely drunk.

Something in the back of his mind nagged that this wasn't a usual circumstance, but as of yet, Naruto was still too light-headed to realize what had happened. But his brain was slowly gaining light of the situation and comprehension was starting to sink in.

Images and memories came crashing down upon him; the events of the past two days rolled over him like a steam engine intent on breaking some world record. He had been researching on Sasuke's family, found out more about his creepy-slash-stalker brother, and finally confronted the peevish bastard himself. Sasuke had been reluctant to talk and Naruto, in spite of everything, had still felt pushed back. But he hadn't given up.

Bastard, Naruto thought. He just likes to live difficultly.

And, somewhere along the line, he had slept with Sasuke. The memories of last night rendered Naruto to feeling sheepishly stupid and his stomach fluttered. He blushed as well. He couldn't make out whether it had been a dream, some sort of hallucination, or reality. It was hard to figure that out.

The place next to Naruto's side was empty; merely the slightly sunken in cushion implied that someone had been there. Of course, it had been Sasuke, and it was with a great feeling of disappointment that Naruto digested that fact. As often as he'd woken up alone before in a similar situation, this was the first time he felt hurt, even used.

He might have only done this to forget.

Naruto's next actions weren't as idle and lazy as they had been before. In a sickening frenzy, he leapt out of bed and put on his clothes in a hasty manner, intent on finding out where Sasuke was.

He couldn't keep the nausea from affecting his mood. If Sasuke had left, then this wasn't a good sign at all. In spite of Sasuke's consolation during the night before, he had really made a mistake. He had to find out what had happened. If Sasuke was gone, he would find a way to trace him. He had sworn to never let go of Sasuke, hadn't he?

...

Sasuke, to his innermost surprise and relief, wasn't gone. Had he really been gone, Naruto would have probably run out of the apartment block and searched for him everywhere. He wouldn't have rested his aching limbs for a second. He was too foregone to have simply let Sasuke go.

However, the point in being was that Sasuke wasn't gone, but here: he hadn't just up and left.

In fact, Sasuke was sitting on a stool over a cup of steaming coffee, immersed in what seemed to be a newspaper article. It looked so oddly domestic and –well- normal that Naruto had to suck in his breath – he still had difficulty digesting that Sasuke could be as relaxed and remotely carefree as anyone else.

For the span of a few minutes, he just stared at Sasuke flicking through the pages and leaning his head against his left elbow. The feeling of nausea and anxiety that had been forming inside of his stomach was gone. Naruto was endlessly relieved.

When Naruto, out of breath and trembling nervously, entered the kitchen, Sasuke looked up and wordlessly signaled for him to take a seat. He didn't look dramatically different. In spite of all, he was still the same frustrating, disgruntled, and proud-looking man he had always been. Naruto couldn't help feeling a teeny bit disappointed. He had always thought that sex changed people, but he might have been mistaken. In retrospect, it hadn't changed him dramatically either. And he'd done it often enough– sex had not made him any wiser.

Still, this time it did feel different. Something about this morning after was out of the norm.

It's the first time I've really– whatever. I've never really stayed... This is awkward, man.

Observing the whitewashed walls of Sasuke's kitchen with acute interest, Naruto tried to come up with a decent greeting, but his words failed him. He found himself tongue-tied, like he had been engaged in some philosophical debate lasting from sunrise till sunset.

After a while, he attempted: “Sasuke. It's good you're here. I thought you had... Not important.”

“You thought I had left?” Sasuke asked non committally, even though it was more of a statement than an inquiry. He was no longer looking at Naruto, but flipping through the pages of the newspaper and frowning. Apparently, he didn't like what he was reading, and Naruto found it oddly endearing. Sasuke's slight frown of disapproval was both childish and still so very much him.

“No – Yes. I just don't know-” Naruto started, but he couldn't find the right words. His thoughts were still jumbled and a messy array of self-doubting, contradictory emotions.

“What's going in my head?” Sasuke asked.

Naruto simply nodded, thinking that this was the best way to convey his feelings. He knew that Sasuke wasn't offended in the least. Besides, there was another question on his mind, far more important than anything else. As hard as it was to reconcile the image of a moaning, sweating Sasuke with the one facing him, it hadn't been a dream. At least, Naruto hoped so.

“You don't regret what we did last night, Sasuke, do you?”

Sasuke's eyes met his own again, this time carefully looking at Naruto's worried and anxious face. He sighed and, tossing the paper into the nearby dustbin, rather unabashedly asked: “Do you?”

Naruto nearly gasped in shock. This hadn't been the retort he had been expecting. He had expected Sasuke to either remain quiet, burst out into a furious soliloquy, or deny that anything had ever happened. Yet, this was not what he had thought possible. Sasuke wasn't quite as readable as he had thought. In some way, Naruto liked that. It made life more interesting. However, at present, he was more confused and doubting.

He's not supposed to be the one asking that. I'm not the one who's been running away all this time!

“That's not what I asked you!” Naruto protested, wanting to know what Sasuke was playing at and demanded once more: “Do you regret it? Say either yes or no, bastard.”

He needed to know before they returned to the headquarters; this was more pressing than anything else.

This is no longer just about us being partners. Not just about Itachi.

“No, I don't. But if you keep referring to me as ‘bastard’, I will.”

Naruto couldn't keep the grin from appearing on his face, even though there wasn't anything remotely funny in Sasuke's remark. Notwithstanding, he was happy because, as infuriating as Sasuke's answer was, it hadn't been a rejection, but an approval.

At least he's still himself.

Indeed, Sasuke was just being bitchy as usual and Naruto was indignant. At the same time, something inside of him was glad that this aspect of their relationship hadn't faded away. They were still capable of ruffling each other's feathers like two spoiled brats. Naruto was relieved. This felt like old times before Itachi had invaded. He decided to play along.

“Then you should stop calling me, I quote: ‘moron,’ ‘dumbass,’ ‘idiot,’ and the other charming names you've tossed at me. It's only fair, Sasuke.”

“Well, unlike me, you deserve the nicknames,” Sasuke answered, as if were a well-known fact that couldn't be refuted against. Naruto felt like slapping him or kissing the hell out of him. He had to be losing his mind.

“See, that's why I can't stop calling you a b-”

Sasuke grabbed hold of Naruto's hand and silenced him with a chaste kiss on his lips. It was swift and barely noticeable – just a ghost of a kiss. Naruto shuddered at the contact; the memories of how Sasuke had felt the night before were assaulting him again, making figurative butterflies flutter in his stomach. He was electrified. He wanted to deepen the kiss and pull Sasuke closer, but the other had broken the contact before he could even register what had occurred. Sasuke had become extremely good at cutting him off.

Soon, he'll have me wrapped around that finger of his. He knows it as well as I do.

Sasuke's voice was oddly gentle and not reproachful when he spoke- he sounded nearly tranquil and happy. However, Naruto wasn't fooled. He knew that as long as Itachi roamed about, Sasuke wouldn't ever be quite peaceful.

“Don't call me that, Naruto. And I won't call you idiot– unless you do something stupid again. Now get ready or we'll be late.”

Naruto felt they should have talked about last night's events, but he was too happy for the present. Or, better said, he just didn't want to think about it. He hadn't digested the fruits of his so-called research yet. In fact, as confident and secure as he had felt when he had confronted Sasuke, Naruto now doubted whether any of it was true: he may have gotten carried away in the heat of the moment. Indeed, he might have just grasped at any loopholes he could find.

But now, he just wanted to forget.

----------

There is this existing cliché of people being able to discern or detect a difference in a person after said individual got laid. Well, in Sasuke's case, Naruto was glad to observe that no one in the office seemed to have realized anything. Nonetheless, perhaps, Sasuke was an exception. He wasn't like the common brand of men; his emotions were so well sealed that to thrust them to the scrutiny of the public was an impossible task. Unless, of course, you were called Itachi. Or Naruto Uzumaki.

In contrast to that, everybody seemed to realize that something had happened to Naruto. He was just like an open book and, amongst knowing smiles from his colleagues, Naruto was shocked to see Shikamaru approach him while he was photocopying one of Sasuke's reports. He hoped that it would just be another of his friend's usual jabs. But this wasn't the case. Shikamaru looked serious and worried while he was speaking.

“I'm surprised you weren't late this time. I'd thought that your research last night would have made you sleep longer than usual. What did you look for?”

“Ah, just some things,” Naruto answered, hoping that this would be a sufficient hint.

Shikamaru furrowed an eyebrow. Naruto felt like slapping himself. He should have remembered that Shikamaru, among his genius for strategies, was pretty good at reading people- especially him. He had never been able to lie to Shikamaru and should have just told him it was none of his business. Shikamaru was anything but obtrusive and would have hardly been offended. Or at least pretended not to be.

“You know, it's not my style to inquire after other people's habits, but...you're my friend, Naruto. And you've been acting weird, lately.”

Naruto knew Shikamaru had good intentions; he knew that he could have trusted him or Chouji with his life. However, he just didn't want them dragged into this mess. It wasn't their burden to carry and Sasuke wouldn't have appreciated it.

“Please not you too. I'm starting to getting fed up with everyone behaving as if I'm going to crack soon. Do I seem depressed you?”

“No, but-”

“Then just don't ask that many questions. It's troublesome.”

Shikamaru was puzzled for a moment and then finally answered: “Isn't that supposed to be my line?”

Naruto clapped Shikamaru good-naturedly on the shoulder and assured him: “Look if anything happens– really happens –I'll tell you. Just don't break your heart over little ol' me.”

Shikamaru snorted and shook his head. “Now that would really be troublesome.”

Naruto laughed in return.

---------------

The sun burned obstinately onto Naruto's frame while he sat with his elbows pressed against both his knees on the hard wooden surface of the shaky bench. It was a cruelly hot day, and the sunlight nearly seemed to burn through his skin like a blade. His head throbbed painfully. Any more of it and Naruto felt sure he would explode. It wasn't just that he had a searing headache, but he felt that his tête was like a heavy, squishy watermelon. Whatever it was, Naruto just didn't feel good.

He had come here to get some fresh air – the oppressiveness and dullness of the office had been choking him. Sasuke hadn't wanted to come along, so Naruto had been forced to go alone.

What if he's regretting it, after all? Or am I being too paranoid about all this?

However, Naruto was somewhat relieved he was on his own. Like this, overzealous colleagues or the shadow of Sasuke looming over his head didn’t constantly pester him – it was good to have some sort of distance once in a while.

Yet, when the bench creaked under the weight of another person, Naruto promptly looked up. However, his pleased, even hopeful features fell to a hateful scorn when he perceived whom the individual was. But he was less surprised than he had been in the previous encounters- this had nearly become something of a jolly tradition. Not everyone could claim to be acquainted with a murderer, least of all with such a charming and well-composed one.

Itachi Uchiha was a mystery and each and every time Naruto tried to make sense out of him, his wits failed him.

“Ah. You want to talk to me again, right?” Naruto asked without allowing any of his emotions to pass through his lips. He wasn't going to betray how much the man made the blood in veins come to a chill. If he showed any weakness now, he had no idea what would happen next.

“It's good you were with Sasuke yesterday. He's a foolish boy; he needs someone to guide him.”

Naruto snorted and coldly replied, “What he needs is for you to be dead.”

He could still remember the dull thud of the bullet falling to the ground from the night before; it made him sick to think that it hadn't hit and torn Itachi's flesh asunder. This was the only thing he truly deserved, apart from being ripped to shreds by the Devil himself.

“That might happen soon enough. You never know,” Itachi said quietly and calmly; he sounded nearly vulnerable.

Naruto looked up – his comprehension of the man's words had again flowed down the drain- he had no idea what Itachi was talking about. Perhaps, he thought, the burning sun and the dull, lazy murmur of the day was getting to him. Itachi was either cracking or trying to screw with his head.

“Can't you just once be straightforward? You talk in riddles. I can't figure you out. Why do you always come to me, anyway?” Naruto asked, though he knew very well that Itachi wouldn't provide him with the answers he needed. In that aspect, he was very much like Sasuke – complicated, stubborn and a tough nut to crack. But where Sasuke was explosive and emotional, Itachi was resilient and nearly patient, peaceful.

“Because you're what he needs.”

“What do you-?”

“I've known you for a long time, Naruto. I've known you since that night I saw you at the hospital. When you were...”

Don't continue, please don't.

“Shut up. So you were the one – you shot my parents under the bastard's orders?” Naruto asked carefully, hesitantly. His throat felt dry and the nausea– in other words, bile – was rising upwards again. His stomach churned, his hands shook and the headache increased a manifold; his heart jolted sickeningly inside of his chest, as if eager to escape or harden itself against the immediate shock.

Itachi nodded and, for a moment, the world stopped.

Naruto felt the entire horror of that night collapsing on him again, only more painful and acute.

“I was the one who killed Orochimaru as well.”

“Why-?” Naruto asked, flabbergasted, trying to regain some sort of control over his shaking and shuddering body.

“He was no longer of use,” came the vague, mechanically uttered reply. Now, the painstakingly perfect method of Itachi's homicide returned full-throttle into Naruto's mind. It had been the perfect murder and in its ruthlessness, he now realized that only Sasuke's brother could have been the one. Because it had been all too perfect, too coincidental.

“Do you like doing this? Playing these sick games with Sasuke and –now- me? I won't let you break him anymore.”

And you won't break me either.

Itachi just continued to stare at Naruto. His eyes – so similar, yet different from Sasuke's– sent chills of fear down Naruto's spine because for the first time it wasn't just detachedness Naruto was looking at. Itachi's eyes, it seemed, were sad, wistful, and there seemed to be an age-old despair there, like he had been through a thousand wars. Those weren't the eyes of a young man, but a wretched, tired old soul.

“And yet, what I don't understand is why you didn't kill him? Why did you tell me what he intended to do?”

Naruto was in full cop modus now; he had to break through Itachi's seemingly impenetrable barrier because, otherwise, neither he nor Sasuke would ever find any peace.

There was something obscenely sickening in chatting with Itachi so casually in the park. The sound of traffic, children laughing, and the bees buzzing in the air was incredibly surrealistic. Cool night air, the chill of a winter, or the stormy blows of a thunderstorm would have been more fitting – the scenery at the moment was way too tranquil, too perfect.

Naruto wasn't sure whether he wanted to cry, laugh, or strike Itachi dead.

Itachi finally spoke, his voice eerily soft and his face wore a nearly sad smile.

“My brother was always a fool, now and then. Killing him was never what I had in mind.”

Before Naruto fully comprehended the full implication of what Itachi could have- might have -meant, it was already too late. Itachi, with the speed of light and the quietness of a mouse, had slithered away, run off, and Naruto was too shell-shocked to follow. The weight of the words kept him bound to the bench like invisible shackles.

...

Naruto let his head rest between his folded hands; he was sweating profusely and the rushing back to the office hadn't done much to remedy that. He had wanted to skip work, but thought that it wouldn't have been the wisest move. As it was, he had caused more than enough trouble in the past few months. Tsunade would murder him as well. So, he stayed and was glad that Sasuke, silent as always, didn't bombard him with questions.

Naruto was at home, trying desperately to bring some sort of order into his home; cleaning up kept him from thinking, cogitating over depressing memories that– like ice-cold rain– soaked him wet. He didn't want to recall Itachi's words, least of all focus on his parents' deaths. It had happened years ago. He had cried, poured out his tears till none were left and, for years, Naruto had been empty. Now, he felt like everything was hitting him full-force in the face again.

A loud knock at the door didn't cheer him up, although Naruto was earnestly puzzled. It couldn't be Sakura, as she had resolved to spend time with Lee, since he had returned from doing whatever he did. Naruto couldn't really remember– the sound of her ecstatic voice over the phone had been more like background music. To his amazement, it was Kakashi, the man who still confused him more than anything. As always, Kakashi came straight to the point, but not before he had sat down on the sofa and motioned Naruto to follow him. Naruto gulped.

Whatever it is, please don't let it be about Sasuke.

“I took the liberty of finding out who Sasuke is.”

Shit.

“Why would you do that?” Naruto asked, horrified and thinking that Kakashi had finally lost it. Sasuke wasn't a criminal; there was no reason to probe about his personal files.

“Because admit it or not, something is going on here,” Kakashi said, looking Naruto deeply in the eye. It was unsettling.

Naruto was about to protest when Kakashi's not-covered eye widened, and he found himself slapped on the back. Needless to say, Naruto had no idea what that was about and stared at Kakashi like he had truly lost his marbles.

“Ah, so you've found someone! That explains everything.”

“What?” Naruto asked, leaning further back against the couch and looking for a way to evade the painful discussion. He knew that whatever Kakashi was going to say next was only going to confuse him further.

“You got laid! That's fantastic news. Now, who is she?”

Okay, I'm confused. How did we go from Sasuke to- Ah, never mind.

Naruto coughed discreetly and pretended that the wall was a very interesting artifact. He was a bad liar and wouldn't be able to come up with anything good. He would never fool Kakashi. Ever.

“Kakashi, you see – it's kinda...”

I'm hopeless.

“So, it's a he?”

“... Yes.”

“So what is he like? Someone interesting?”

“Err...I don't know. Quiet and ... it's not important.”

Kakashi was silent for a moment, but then his features gained that knowing look -- he had put two and two together. Naruto felt like running away; this wasn't going to end well. Kakashi drew closer to Naruto and then, a slight tone of irritation mingled in his voice, inquired: “You're not telling me that you slept with Sasuke?”

“Kakashi... That's not– Well, what if I did?”

Kakashi sighed audibly and slapped Naruto on the forehead, earning a yelp from the younger man. Kakashi still managed to make him feel like an idiot, in spite of the years he had known the man. Kakashi leaned back against the couch and, rolling his uncovered eye, shook his head and started his usual rant. Naruto wanted to hit something.

“What did I tell you about getting sexually involved with someone at work? Maa, you didn't learn anything, idiot. It only leads to trouble.”

Naruto wanted to scream. Of all things, this was the worst. He knew what would follow now: a stupid lecture from Kakashi's repertoire of wisdom on life. It was infuriating; he wasn’t a kid anymore!

“Well, I couldn't really help- It's complicated.”

“I'm starting to believe that anything that involves this Uchiha boy of yours is complicated.”

You hit the nail on head, Kakashi. Damn him, why is he that perceptive?

“Look...”

But Kakashi shut him up by snapping with his fingers. He wasn't the type of person that liked explanations.

“Naruto, think about it from this point of view. Jiraiya fell in love with Tsunade, and look what it led him to. Why, he's so terrified of her, he even gave up on his job!”

“But he was writing porn. I don't see how he's suffering under that.”

Naruto failed to understand the connection. Jiraiya seemed perfectly happy. But Kakashi didn't answer and continued. “He's spent the last two weeks sleeping at my house. Anyhow, Naruto. Sasuke Uchiha... He has a rather interesting family history. His brother, Itachi Uchiha...”

“…Was the thirteen-year-old genius kid who killed his parents. I know that.”

“Do you also know that he worked under Orochimaru? At least for a while?”

Naruto swallowed that piece of information, but it didn't shock him anymore – it only confirmed a few things. He now knew for certain.

“No, I didn't know that. But I know he killed my parents. And that he was the one responsible for that bastard's death.”

“Naruto, promise me you're not going to do anything stupid. This isn't a game! Sasuke seems to have only one thing in mind-”

“I know that as well, Kakashi. I know that.”

“And you still got close to him? You allowed yourself to get involved with him?”

It sounded like a reproach to Naruto's ears and he let the question run through his brain. Yes, he had gotten involved with Sasuke. Even though he had been pushed away a countless number of times, he had gotten involved, in spite of everything. And he didn't regret it for a minute.

“What was I supposed to do, Kakashi? Just sit back and watch?”

“That might have been better. You can't always play the hero, Naruto.”

Naruto rose from his sitting place and frantically walked to and fro in the room. Then, he faced Kakashi again. He had to make him understand.

“Tell me honestly: When my parents – my father- died, didn't you want to ... avenge him? Were you really content to just sit back and wait for fate to intervene?” Naruto vented, feeling the nausea rise in him again. “Were you happy to know that the fuckwit who killed him was alive ... and not – I...”

“Calm down, Naruto. You might not understand, but as I told you before, revenge isn't a solution. It only fosters hate and bitterness. And you don't gain anything in return. Nothing.”

The “nothing” had been spoken with perfect audibility in a bitter, hateful tone. Kakashi wasn't an emotional man, but he was not impossible to read either. Looking into his face– the one good eye sadly downcast– Naruto knew that he had struck a chord, possibly even hurt the other man. But he still couldn't help feel the anger rise in him. He wasn't going to pretend that things were better.

“That's easy for you-”

“No, it's not. Naruto, it's not. But I'll tell you about that some other day. Not now.”

Before Naruto could say anything in return, the doorbell rang and both of the men were roused from their reverie. Shakily, Naruto got on his legs and opened the door hastily. He tried to hide the tremor in his voice while he spoke.

“So, what is it?”

Sasuke's familiar voice assaulted his ears and Naruto looked up, more than a little surprised. No, this wasn't the first time that Sasuke had come over out of his volition, but this was unexpected.

And Kakashi's here as well. This is not my day, I'm starting to believe.

Sasuke eyes met his own in a matter of seconds. A shiver passed through Naruto's spine.

“I...this wasn't...I have Kakashi over.”

But Kakashi had risen.

“I'll be leaving, Naruto. You must be Sasuke Uchiha, right? I've heard a lot about you.”

Sasuke just nodded and shook hands with Kakashi, who didn't bother hiding his curiosity. He said nothing more to Sasuke, but before he was out of sight, he pulled Naruto out of the doorway and silently uttered: “When you visit next time, bring your Uchiha boy over. I'd like to exchange a word or two with him.”

------------------

When the door slammed shut behind Kakashi, Sasuke regarded it with poorly disguised interest. In fact, this was the first time that Sasuke looked curious about something and it quite pleased Naruto. He knew that Kakashi would interest Sasuke, even make him eager to get to know him.

“He's not what I expected him to be," Sasuke muttered, obviously finding it hard to believe that Naruto could be acquainted with someone who wasn't crazy in some ways.

“You really thought he'd be some spastic idiot... Well, don't get me wrong: Kakashi is a pervert, but he's also a damn freakin' genius. He's a fantastic cop.”

Sasuke just shrugged. Naruto hadn't expected him to react differently. Sasuke couldn't know who Kakashi was and how admirable his attributes were. Naruto was intent on fulfilling Kakashi’s request as soon as possible. Then, Sasuke would understand and hopefully admire the man as much as Naruto did. But he would wait with that.

“I'm glad that Kakashi didn't walk in on us kissing. That would have been my death.”

Sasuke didn't grace Naruto with a reply, but took his shoes off and walked into the living room. Naruto was too shocked to say anything intelligible.

I won't tell Sasuke that he knows we've had sex. Or that we are... whatever we are. I'd be dead.

Naruto moved away from the door and, feeling the weight of the all too hot day, sunk down into the couch. He was drained and really only wanted to close his eyes; he needed some rest. Before he did that, he wanted to know one thing though.

“Say, what did you come for?”

Sasuke didn't answer again, but merely sat down beside Naruto, remaining silent all the time being. Naruto's head whipped in Sasuke's direction and he lazily contemplated the unreadable expression on the other man's face. He had to tell Sasuke.

“I met Itachi again today. He's confirmed everything I've said. He's the one who– you know.”

“What do you intend to do about this? About him?”

“I don't know. I don't know, Sasuke. I haven’t really... What do you intend to do?”

“My desires and wishes are unchanged. I'll kill him, if it's the last thing I ever do.”

“You know I won't stop you.”

That was true. It wasn't in Naruto's power to stop Sasuke; he would have been a hypocrite if he ever attempted to do that. As much as Kakashi's words haunted him, he wasn't going to stand in Sasuke's way- that would have been futile, anyway.

“I know.”

At least he trusts me. That's good.

“But I won't let you hurt yourself, either. I'll watch your back.”

Sasuke kissed Naruto in return; his unspoken reply rendering everything more meaningful. It was only the ghost of kiss again, but Naruto didn't care. Having Sasuke kiss him was more than awesome. When Sasuke broke the kiss, he used Naruto's silence to say, “You should go to bed, Naruto. You look tired.”

Naruto was touched by the comment, less because of Sasuke's rather random words, but because he knew what that they implied.

He's oddly considerate in his own way. I like how he cares. He doesn't talk, but his actions confirm it.

Naruto wanted to lighten the mood, not only because he felt like it, but also because they had been both through too much recently. Life shouldn't only be wasted on unhappy things. Naruto firmly believed in that.

“Are you sure you aren't implying that you want to do something in particular?”

“No, idiot. You'd only fall asleep on top of me. Besides, last night was-”

“Not bad, I hope. Because you didn't sound displeased.”

“Naruto… You really are a moron.”

“You said you wouldn't call me that again.”

“And I said that you deserve it. So I won't stop.”

Naruto didn't mind their little argument, but, seeing the darkness glaring in from the window, knew that he should go to bed soon. He was tired as hell, too. But there was Sasuke here as well.

“You gonna stay overnight?”

Naruto hoped that Sasuke would stay, seeing that his company diverted him from thinking too much. Besides, he wouldn't mind sharing his bed with him.

“Might as well. I don't see the point in going back to that apartment.”

Naruto found himself asking something he had wanted to ask for ages; he really needed to know. The thought of Sasuke's apartment made him cringe, after all. It was so... empty.

“Why is that empty, anyway? Are you really that bland?”

“As if you have the right to talk: look at your own apartment.”

“Hey, there's nothing wrong with my apartment!” Naruto snapped angrily.

At least, it's not ... like yours.

Sasuke got up from the coach and threw Naruto, who had meanwhile made himself comfortable by sitting in a cross-legged position, an unquestionably “are you pulling my leg” look. He was surveying Naruto's living room with his critical, overly perfectionist manner. He really seemed to hate the sight of it, which wounded Naruto's pride. He might not have been orderly, but he had taken care to keep it free from cockroaches. Sasuke was just being a stupid coxcomb again.

“As I said the first time I came here, this place is a fucking mess!” Sasuke stated and Naruto wanted to throttle him.

“Then redecorate it, if you're that smart.”

Hell, I'm tempted to say, “Move in with me,” but I don't think we're ready for that yet. At least, I'm not ready to die of a heart attack. Sasuke would drive me crazy.

Sasuke paid no heed to that comment. Naruto was starting to become irritated– the idiot should at least answer from time to time.

“I'll go and wash, if you don't mind.”

Naruto's eyes widened. Well, this was interesting. Perhaps Sasuke wanted him to...

“You want me to join?” Naruto asked hopefully. He really hoped Sasuke would answer with a "yes".

Naruto was wagging his eyebrows suggestively and there was a leer in his eyes while he scanned Sasuke's body from head to foot. A little number in the shower was the very thing on his mind now...

“No,” Sasuke said decisively and closed the door to the bathroom with a loud bang behind him.

Bastard. Did I really have sex with him last night? He still acts like the same guy who's– this is stupid!

It seemed like an eternity to Naruto when Sasuke finally came out of the bathroom. Sasuke was rather obsessive about neatness, but Naruto had come to tolerate that aspect of Sasuke's personality a long time ago– it was irrevocably linked with his reluctance to share his feelings and tendency to leave Naruto out of his life. In retrospect, it was one of the less annoying traits of Sasuke's infuriatingly complex character.

His footsteps were light against the wood of the floor and, unlike Naruto, he didn't make it creak. He even evaded stepping on the stubs of the pencils, which Naruto had somehow forgotten to throw away again. During the whole process of entering the bedroom, Sasuke threw a surreptitious glance around the room, the bed itself, and sighed.

“Why are you wearing my clothes?” Naruto asked because he was honestly curious; he didn't even remember possessing those clothes, but knew that the orange T-shirt couldn't possible be Sasuke's. He never wore colorful things.

“You don't think I'd go to bed in what I wear, do you?”

Naruto decided not to comment on that. Sasuke and his anal retentive habits were nothing new to him. He decided it was best not to interfere. Besides, Sasuke looked good in his clothes. Sasuke had already gone into bed, making him as comfortable as he could – which included taking the entire sheet for himself and using not one, but two cushions for his head.

When Naruto was about to get in, Sasuke stared at him incredulously and a look of fury crossed his features. He pointed at Naruto's garb.

“You can't seriously be telling me that you're going to sleep like that?” Sasuke questioned Naruto through gritted teeth. His hands were holding the sheets protectively against his body. He looked positively murderous when Naruto attempted to come closer.

“Well, yeah. I-”

“No, you don't. Either you change or you can sleep on the floor, for all I care.”

“Sasuke...” Naruto started, but catching Sasuke's glare of death, decided to submit to the other's will. “Forget it.”

Without pondering too long, he opened his cupboard and grabbed the nearest T-shirt and pair of shorts he could find; he really didn't care what he put on, as long as Sasuke kept his mouth shut about it.

He doesn't seem to remember that this is my apartment. And my bed. He shouldn't be the one giving orders here. But...I'm too tired to fight over this. Let him have his way.

“Naruto, switch the light off. You're closer to the door.”

Yet, this feels nice. It's almost... like a relationship. Sort of.

“You know, you're like a nagging wife. I-”

Sooner than he had expected, Naruto found himself regretting having said that -- landing on the hard floor was a less than pleasurable experience.

“Hey, that was supposed to be a compliment, bastard! That hurt!”

“Well, I don't think much of your compliment,” Sasuke replied haughtily. His eyes were narrowed, which made Naruto back away slightly. He had managed to inflame the Uchiha's wrath. Indeed, it seemed to be a very bad idea to compare Sasuke to a woman. Naruto decided to remember this for the future, though he didn't fully understand what had been that wrong about the statement.

It's just my luck to be lumbered with this kind of guy: a bastard with zero sense of humor.

Regardless of that, Naruto climbed back into bed and, attempting to soothe Sasuke's nerves, let his fingers brush over the other's hair. Sasuke stiffened and his face was still averted from Naruto's. He was obviously still indignant. Therefore, Naruto saw himself forced to utter a semi-apology while he continued to play with Sasuke's loose strands of black hair.

“You really shouldn't be that angry. I just meant that I like being with you. That I like this.”

Sasuke sighed and relaxed. His face was turned towards Naruto's again and a ghost of a smile briefly appeared on his expression. However, like a badly lit candle, it quickly died, and Sasuke's face was somber again. But his eyes were tender and his voice softened, no longer intent on being witty or sardonic.

“Then find better ways to tell me.”

Naruto's eyes widened and, although he was not necessarily gifted with the fine arts of a quick brain, comprehension sunk in. It made him grin briefly, and his lips met Sasuke's. No matter how difficult Sasuke could be, he was also surprisingly uncomplicated and straightforward at times. He didn't waste time on pointless chitchat.

Naruto let his hands slide under Sasuke's shirt, liking how his now-cool hands made the man shiver and gasp. Sasuke had sensitive skin, which pleased Naruto immensely. He also noted that Sasuke moaned out when his neck was licked, kissed or, breathed heavily upon. He loved the sounds Sasuke made and the way the other's hands found themselves tangling in his hair or held onto him. It was all going on fantastically until the phone rang.

“I'll just let it ring. It's too good and early to stop.”

He dived in for another kiss, but Sasuke's hand was in the way. Naruto was horrified and very, very confused.

“What?”

“Go pick it up. The sound annoys me.”

“Sasuke!” Naruto pleaded, whining like a little boy. He couldn't believe it.

“Now.”

No series of insults could change Sasuke's mind and Naruto saw himself forced to pick up the blasted phone. He had never hated Kiba more in his life. Okay, so he was pleased that his former partner had finally gotten out of the hospital and that he could go on walks with his beloved cur again. He was even elated when Kiba talked of Hinata's pregnancy with all the pride and euphoria of a father-to-be, but still. He wished his friend all the good in the world, but couldn't help feeling more than a tad bit annoyed.

He could have waited. He– Oh, damn! Just why did he have to call now?

Naruto was just about to stroll back to his bedroom, intent on continuing his make-out session with Sasuke when the dreaded noise of the phone toiled again.

“Who is it now-” Naruto started and angrily barked into the phone: “What now?”

As soon as Naruto realized who it was, he winced.

“You know, Naruto. That is really not the right way to greet someone,” Sakura's voice chastised him. Naruto could envision her furious countenance: the shaking of her fist and her body preparing itself for a fight. He really was an idiot; he had to make up immediately or he wouldn't survive the rest of the week.

“I'm sorry, Sakura-chan. Sorry, it was just...I'mnotaloneheretongiht.”

“What?”

She won't spare me. Right, I'll just say it properly this time.

“I'm not alone here tonight.”

Naruto swore he heard Sakura cackling like a hyena over the phone; it made him feel a little scared. She really was a pervert- more so than Kakashi.

“Elaborate now, or I'll come over immediately.”

“Sasuke's staying overnight. Happy now? Can we talk tomorrow, please?”

There was a giggle and a squeal over the phone, along with exclamations of, “Ha, I knew it!” and, “Eureka!” Naruto's temper was rising again, but he told himself to remain calm. Yelling at Sakura-chan was no option. Or he would end up being castrated.

Which would make a very unhappy man. But, sheesh. She's way too interested.

“Oh, sure. I'm sorry I interrupted. Bye. Have fun.”

She'll hoard me for details next time we meet. That will be fun. Not.

Finally, having disposed of all annoying communications, Naruto was happy that he could focus on Sasuke again; he would make up for the time they had lost. He would make Sasuke scream this time, he would.

Sadly, as luck would have it, Sasuke was fast asleep: he was curled up- like a kitten- with his face hidden partly by his hands, and his breathing was soft. Naruto didn't have the heart to wake him up– Sasuke was way too cute like this.

Damn it all, he thought and went to bed, swearing at the Powers To Be and his accursed fate.

--------

Sasuke's breathing was low and his body felt warm against Naruto's. He was close and, oddly, this was more intimate than sex – it was like the lazy murmur of a fire burning in a hearth, a clock ticking, or birds twittering. Naruto felt safe and encompassed by warmth, although he had no idea why. He had no idea why he felt so close to Sasuke, closer than he had ever before. Perhaps, because having someone's cold feet– Sasuke's cold feet- touching his own was an affirmation.

Sasuke's really here. It's not a dream.

It should have been weird; his heart was hammering wildly, but not out of excitement. At least, not the kind of excitement that had hormones going wild or made him frantic with arousal: he had sated his bodily pleasures the night before. And while Naruto couldn't deny that he was very, very eager for a repeat of the performance, this was more than enough at the moment – and none less meaningful.

His heart was constricting painfully in his chest because of emotions he could no longer hold back. He let his one hand – the skin so rough, dry, and the fingernails uneven, uncut – travel over Sasuke's cheek, then his fingers found themselves in the other's black hair. From the get go, Naruto had been obsessed with Sasuke's weird hairstyle: it looked so messy and yet, utterly perfect at the same time. Moreover, it was soft.

Naruto had no idea how to describe this feeling: he felt protected and secure. He hadn't felt like that for ages. In fact, he believed – knew – that he hadn't ever met someone who forced him to fight as much as Sasuke did. Not just for approval, but for his very presence, begging to be acknowledged. Naruto realized that he wanted nothing more, but for Sasuke to accept him– faults and all- like he had accepted and grown to care for him. Naruto liked Sasuke, in spite – or, better said, because of – what he was.

If this was love, then Naruto was fairly certain that he truly loved Sasuke. There was absolutely no point in denying that.

...

[fic] i love the sound of you walking away

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 18:25:25 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: K+ for language, nothing else.

Summary: It was too late -- too late. NaruSasu. Angst.

Notes:

Damn, I'm nervous as hell (read: I have an exam tomorrow, which will seal my untimely death). This is more pointless rambling than anything remotely worthy of a plot; I'm just writing because I might choke myself with my nervousness otherwise. In addition, I wrote this for the last line and the title.

Not a good feel fic. Review if you want, but ... I'm not expecting this to be popular. However, regardless of that, all criticism accepted.
...

The hands circled the cup steadfastly; the nimble fingers ran around and around the rim relentlessly. Sasuke was silent, so beautifully and eerily silent – his quietness contemplated the quiescence of his surroundings to utter perfection.

Naruto couldn't handle it anymore. He didn't know why he was still here – there was nothing for him to do anymore. But still he sat there, on the edgy seat, and watched Sasuke play with the cup in his hands: there was something tantalisingly addictive in watching Sasuke do this.
Naruto couldn't do anything else, but watch and watch and watch.

The vigour with which he'd voiced out, spilled the contents of his over-flooding agony had burnt out; he was empty, drained out and felt like he'd been hit on the head with a shovel. Everything was swimming, blurred and seemed to fade from his sight. He felt like he was dreaming, but he wasn't. A dream would have been his salvation, this was just his undoing.

The iciness of the day, the cool surface of the floor and the chill inside his heart weren't the soothing reassurances of a dream world. Nor was it hot – searingly hot enough – for this to be hell. He couldn't shake it all off or escape; he was trapped.

All was just bleak – empty. Everything was bleak, empty and meaningless; this was life – stupid, worthless and mundane life. Theatrics belonged to drama and it was only in sentimental comedies that feelings reached a high momentum. Life, on the other hand, was a farce: pointless, ugly and rarely – if ever – did virtue get rewarded.

His throat hurt, was raw and Naruto swallowed audibly – the silence was too oppressive. And Sasuke was ignoring him, which he hated – hated with the passion of a devil hell-bent on destruction.

Talk to me, he wanted to say. Tell me that you're still here, and not just another vestige from the past.

But that was futile. Sasuke, being a stubborn bastard, wouldn't talk; he wouldn't open his mouth if life itself depended upon it. And Naruto – well, he wasn't going to wait anymore. He'd waited and waited; waited for years, in hope of getting more than just half-hearted affections from Sasuke. A man could only handle that much; if you fed someone with nothing and nothing for years, you shouldn't be surprised if the nothingness became overwhelming -- so overwhelming that it finally popped in the end.

Naruto had reached a dead end. He had to get out, in order to survive and he wouldn't change his mind, unless Sasuke spoke – unless, he showed him that he cared, if only a little bit.
--
Sasuke was silent; his cool fingers probed the china cup carefully and he tried his best not to look at Naruto, not to observe how his features were slowly, but surely becoming more and more jaded, more distorted by sadness. Naruto was ugly when he was sad; there was something amiss in seeing a man so optimistic rendered sad and unhappy.

It was all his doing. Sasuke knew it, the knowledge of being the one person who'd hurt Naruto Uzumaki like this killed him. Killed him and ate him up from inside out; his insides were falling apart and with every second, he felt how everything was collapsing around him. The world around him was nothing, but a collected mess of dirt and shattered dreams – soon Naruto would fade away and become one with that mess. It was better like this; Sasuke wanted Naruto to begone, so that he could rot and die in his own self-constructed nightmares of self-hatred. He couldn't let Naruto suffer for him – or with him, for that matter.

Oh yes, he was quiet on the outside, but this was only a lie – a carefully constructed veil to spare Naruto any further pain.
He could feel Naruto's eyes burning onto his frame, knew that Naruto was trying to remember like this as well as he could, but -- even this -- wouldn't, couldn't move Sasuke to speak.

I'm sorry, Sasuke wanted to say. I'm sorry for not being able to be different. I'm sorry for what I am, for who I am. But I can't change.

He was doing this for Naruto because he cared. Yes, Sasuke cared -- cared more about Naruto than he'd ever be willing to admit. It wasn't just caring; it was like a fire burning inside him, consuming him like a fog and wrapping its glorious warmth about him. And that was why Sasuke cared, loved because, apart from the ghosts of his past haunting him from day and to night, Naruto was the only one who reminded him of what it meant to be alive, to be more than just an empty shell.

But he couldn't handle it, couldn't handle the pressure of being enshrouded by such warmth – Sasuke didn't deserve it. He didn't want to; being happy wasn't what he wanted to be. He didn't know if he could and he was scared (of losing again, of being confronted with pain yet again). Therefore, it was better to lose now. Better to die from heartache now than later. He'd let Naruto go, so that at least one of them would – could be – happy.

...

“So, I guess this is the end...won't you say something in return, at least? Sasuke, can't you just -- fuck this.”

Sasuke continued to muster the cup hidden between both of his hands; he didn't even shrug. He prayed that this would be over soon, that Naruto would finally give up
.
Please stop talking to me. Don't make this any harder. Just go.

Naruto heaved his chest and sighed; the shake of his head expressed more than a thousand and one accusations could have done. He was done here; there was nothing left.

“Well, forget it then. I'll go.”

Naruto rose from his seat and grabbed the bag which had been placed between his two legs; he clasped one hand tightly round the bag's straps and, with a swiftness that was both cruel and shocking in its fury, moved away from the table, away from Sasuke. He had to. Or he'd have possibly killed someone then, either himself or Sasuke. Or he would have broke down crying.
Naruto had no idea what he would have done; he only knew he had to leave.

Sasuke watched Naruto's movements with painstakingly disguised indifference – he had to keep his mask in check, lest Naruto should look at him again. He couldn't let him see. It was better like this.

But Sasuke couldn't mask his own feelings, couldn't ignore the fact that his heart was being torn open with every step Naruto took; he couldn't stop a voice inside of him repeating the same mantra over and over again; it was like the unstoppable toll of a bell.

Don't go. Stay. Stay, please. Don't go.

But the other man couldn't perceive his inner voice; he kept on walking.

Naruto only paused at the door, waiting for something – a miracle perhaps – but it never came. Naruto could distinguish the sounds of the water tap running, the low droning of the alarm clock and Sasuke's fingers tapping against the table. Otherwise, there was nothing.

It really was pointless, Naruto decided – pointless and hopeless.

Naruto closed the door with a crash behind him and never heard of the sounds of china crashing against the wall. Sasuke's patience and silence had finally broken – now, he could give vent to his feeling as much as he wanted. He started to curse, curse and swear until he felt that his tongue would fall off.

Naruto didn't hear him, though – never would.

It was over – the moment had gone by -- and the following words chanted in both of their minds:

Too late. It's too late -- too late.

...

[fic] Sun Up, Sun Down

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 10:15:33 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: M

Summary: When Naruto “earns” his cash to spend it at the best brothel in town, he expects good service. However, he gets more than he paid for. NaruSasu, AU. Part one of three.

Notes: This is not meant to be historically correct or anything of the sort. I'd suggest you to not read this for historical accuracy, but for the sheer fun of it. This was my first time writing action scenes, which -- for some reason or the other -- I find easier to write than smut (all these years of watching sword fights on TV have paid off). This will have two to three chapters. Not more. Bet'd by the lovely Calamus.
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The bright, flickering torch illuminated the quaint and mannerly looking establishment very much to its advantage, emphasising its elegance and abundance of affluence: it was, after all, one of the best brothels this side of town. Not at all like one of those common shady ones, where drunken men staggered out, leaning against one another and roaring one folk song after the other. There wouldn't be any ugly hags smelling like fish in there either, but proper-looking women – women who washed themselves on a regular basis.

Naruto looked longingly at the building, knowing that it would present him with immediate relief from the pains he had undergone lately. He had nearly been run over by a horse cart, some asshole had wanted to pick up a fight with him and he had been forced to waste his precious sword on aforementioned brat. No, Naruto didn't mind fighting, but the man had been below par. He'd fought like a drunken money and the few minutes Naruto had spent avoiding his clumsy attempts at striking him had been quite a waste of his precious time. He'd been very frustrated.

Anyhow, to return to the present, this beautiful building would make him quite happy – very, very happy indeed. Of course, Naruto didn't care a whit about the building's noteworthy architecture; he wasn't a connoisseur of the arts, but a very simple-minded man (who solely wanted to get laid).

A well-meaning person – the sort who spends all his time in the pubs and wastes his money on women, while his children starve to death – had told him that this place had the best ladies, the sort who knew how to give a good head. Naturally, Naruto, like any wandering up-to-no-good scoundrel, hadn't wasted a minute on asking the older guy for directions and, his feet carrying him quickly, ended up right here. He'd been standing here for a few minutes, waiting and lingering for his chance to get lucky.

Breathing heavily and rubbing his hands like an enthusiastic kid, he was starting to lose patience. Hell, he needed the service, needed to rid himself of tension; he was dying from all the stress overload.

Those bitches there give a bleedin' good head job. That's what the man told me. I hope he's right.

Naruto hadn't been given that kind of service for ages and he felt that it was time to catch up on that. He had spent too much time running away from the police again, but now that his pursuers were all dead and rotting away in some ditch, he had all the time in the world to do what he wanted to do most – until he got into trouble again, of course.

However, Naruto was quite out of cash. His pockets didn't clink with the sound of coins, but were – well, the very reverse of full. He was as poor as could be; however, he didn't care. That problem could be quickly solved; he would just have to wait for the opportunity to arise. As said above, he needed to get lucky.

Meanwhile, he was content enough to scratch against the slight stubble on his chin and lick his lips. He would have fun tonight: life was supposed to be made up of fun and games. Games and fun; anything else was a bother.

Naruto wasn't the type of man who wasted his time on serious, philosophical issues. He wasn't hell-bent on searching for the meaning of life or anything of that sort. He lived for the moment and, right now, he only wanted one thing: to milk the cash he needed out of some unsuspecting victim. It wasn't fair that others got to have fun when he didn't.

The sound of laughter – hoarse and brutish – captured his attention; one rather bulky and middle-aged man had come out of the brothel. The signs of intoxication were more than evident: from his red nose to the zigzagging manner of the idiot's walking, it was obvious that the bloke was more than over the moon – over the moon from the highly pleasant taste of sweet sake. He had definitely been shown a good time. Now it was Naruto's turn. Hell, it was only fair. Besides, if the man's rich and fine clothing were anything to go by, it was likely that the git had some coins to spare.

He shouldn't be the only one to have a jolly time, Naruto thought impishly, grinning when he thought of the amusement he'd receive soon.

The man started to sing again, his voice horrendous but oddly charming –he sang of love, the moon and glittering diamonds.

What a wuss.

"Oh, I'll have some fun with that guy," Naruto said to himself, already reaching for the sword which he carried about with him on his back. He wouldn't kill that man: the coward would surrender before he even made as much as a move. Men like these were always like that – all bark, but no bite.

Naruto squared his shoulders and waited patiently, even though his insides were itching to get over with it already. Yet, once the fool had passed by the lights of the brothel, coming closer to the dark, shanty corner Naruto was standing in, his time had come. They were surrounded by darkness now, the narrow street wasn't bustling with activity and Naruto, swift as a mercenary cat, had the man cornered; escape was futile now.

Showtime, he thought and pressed the metallic blade of the sword against the man's throat.

"Who are you?" the poor soul asked, his voice squeaking like he'd been caught stealing candy.

"No need to know my name, man. Just give me what you've got," Naruto growled, knowing that he sounded intimidating.

"What-?" the man asked confused. He was trembling all over, like one of those old alarm clocks that had been turned on and were very hard to shut up again.

The darkness of the street, the disconcerting image of the starless night made Naruto feel peevish all of a sudden: he didn't like standing too long in the dark. Besides, this guy was an idiot.

"Your money, man. Come on. Or I'll make you better acquainted with this lovely blade here," Naruto answered viciously, pressing the aforementioned blade deeper against the man's throat. If the jerk didn't hand over the money immediately, he'd really slit his throat and just search the fool's pockets himself. Really.

"Please... Please don't kill me. I've got a wife and child. I'-" the man begged, his voice rising to a scream. He was probably crying and peeing in his pants. Naruto felt nauseous: he hated weakness more than anything.

"Interesting. If you're so devoted to them, how come you're here?" Naruto demanded curiously, scratching his head. Honestly, he couldn't understand the point of settling down, if a man couldn't remain loyal to his family.

"Here. Take it. But spare me-"

Naruto let the lamenting man go with an abruptness that made the other gasp out in shock. He let the coins jiggle in his hand and watched amusedly how the man trembled like a leaf; he was still too shocked to move. Naruto decided to have a last bit of fun with him.

"Hey, get movin' or I won't spare you. Your face annoys me."

Interestingly, human nature is quick and surprisingly perceptive when it comes to conflicts; humans can adapt themselves easily to new situations and know better than any other animal what to do in order to survive.

Such was also the case of this man. No sooner did he realise he was truly free, the man, not paying heed to anything, bolted off, running quicker than he had in the last ten years. Frantically, nearly maddeningly, he swore to himself that he would never spend a farthing at the brothel's, but be the good and virtuous husband that he had always wanted to be. Whether his resolutions came to be true, is not in my power to determine, I can only say that it was a life-altering experience for the poor, decrepit person. He would never take anything for granted anymore.

As for Naruto, he smirked and put his sword back into the sheath, deeming that he'd done well. Now, it was time for pay-up.

* * *

Naruto happily let the coins in his hand rustle again, creating a clinking noise. Oh, he was a rich man now and could do what he pleased. He approached the building which he had been observing so wistfully before, with a self-confident, satisfied manner. He'd show them who was boss. Indeed, he would.

The guard, who was leaning against the door, noted his appearance and arrogantly, with eyebrows raised and his lips pursed into a grim smile, rudely asked:

"What the hell do you want, boy? This isn't an almshouse. Shove off."

Naruto scowled. He wasn't a fucking boy anymore, having turned nineteen three months ago. He didn't respond, but pulled out the gold coin and flashed it before the elder man's face. His eyes widened considerably at the sight. Indeed, money does make the world go round. Although this was rather suspicious, considering that Naruto was filthy-looking, the guard didn't hesitate. It wasn't in his job description to question the happenings of life. Besides, he was tired and in no mood to confront issues. So, he simply said:

"Oh well, if it's the case, come in."

* * *

To say that the brothel was damned gorgeous would have been a lie: it was bewildering, amazing and other bunch of adjectives, associated with splendour and mind-numbing beauty. Naruto had never been to such an area before and was oddly out of place in it, although he wasn't aware of it himself. In contrast to that, however, the other folks in the room were.

On the one hand, you had the rich aroma of Indian match sticks filling up the room, sinfully beautiful damask-covered the floor and there was something intricately decadent about the whole establishment. You felt like a sultan, an emperor wrapped up in the ever comforting shade of never-ending, infinite luxury. Still, it wasn't the pompous, baroque-like type of luxury, but simple, down-to-earth; the owner, though evidently fond of the Middle East as it seemed, had maintained some of the traditional and simple elegance of Japanese furniture. There were futons and sliding doors, and the simple lantern illuminating the room conveyed a traditional feel

Naruto, on the other hand, was the very contrast of splendour. He had two whisker like scars on his face, his orange shirt was tattered and torn in places, the huge sword slung over his shoulder looked ominous and his trousers had holes in them. His hair – blond, thick and messy – looked like a withered mop. Indeed, in contrast to this place, Naruto was like a fish out of water, but he didn't feel so. As I said before, he was a simple-minded, hedonistic sort of man.

He was led by some exaggeratedly powdered and overly polite lady into a large hall, filled with women sitting demurely on the floor. Had he been a philosophical or moral man, this would have been disgusting to him – to see women exposing themselves in such a disgraceful manner. They looked like sardines in a supermarket, waiting for someone to grab hold of them. However, Naruto didn't care. He'd come here for the pleasure, not to moralise.

"Am I just supposed to pick one? Do they all cost the same?" Naruto asked curiously, his crotch twitching at the thought of finally getting some action again.

"The price varies, sir," the woman replied carefully, indicating that he shouldn't pick too hastily. She wasn't really sure what the ragged, rather dirty-looking young man was doing in their noble establishment: she'd have a good talk with her husband – ironically the owner of the brothel – later on. Thieves and riffraff like this shouldn't tarnish their good name. Of course, the young man didn't pay heed to her warning.

Naruto rolled his eyes and surveyed the women rather greedily, his gaze resting on each of the dames for a minute; he would take his time.

The women were gorgeous, of course – more than gorgeous. They were stunning and Naruto's hot-blooded nature couldn't avoid drooling like a kid in front of a candy store; the elder, graceful lady by his side was quite mortified, which was not odd. She was the supervisor of a brothel, after all. But she didn't like Naruto's crudeness.

Naruto was just about to pick some buxom red-head when his eyes were attracted by someone whom he hadn't noticed before: somehow that individual had totally escaped his notice.

Holy fuck, Naruto thought.

The colourful cursing was warranted; the woman was more than gorgeous. The powdered white face did nothing but highlight the person's natural paleness and beauty. She was kind of flat-chested, which was revealed by the tightness of her yukata, but this didn't matter at all. Naruto had never seen such a face before: the sinfully black eyes, the aristocratic features rendered the woman more attractive than he'd imagined it possible. From her fine, high cheekbones to the chiselled nose, she was perfect. And the ruby red mouth, small as it seemed, would look perfect around his...

Naruto's questionable chain of thoughts was interrupted by the lady of the house remarking:

"That's Sachiko... she's expensive and..."

"I'll take her," Naruto said firmly, eyeing the perfect creature with undisguised lust. He liked the look of disgust on her face. She looked like a vixen, a vixen with a temper. That was good: Naruto liked his women strong.

"Sir-"

"For fuck's sake, I'll take her," Naruto retorted angrily and his fists clenched: his patience and goodwill had ended. What the hell was it with that old wench? He'd paid, hadn't he? And he wasn't the sort who took no for an answer.

Ever.

* * *

Sachiko was irritated beyond belief. She thought that making herself as small and undesirable as possible would keep annoying customers out of her reach, but it hadn't worked. Some sort of pervert would still order her, just like now. Oh well, she'd have to deal with it. Sadly, she didn't know that she was dealing with Naruto, of all people.

They were in one of the brothel's rooms and Sachiko lay on one of the futons, waiting for her client to undress. She had wanted to pour some sweet-tasting sake into his cup, but he'd declined, claiming that the small talk had started to grate on his nerves. Strangely, Sachiko had never uttered a single word and it unnerved her; this man could get dangerous.

This is a bad, bad predicament. I'll have to do something. I can't let that bastard get too close. Shit.

Sachiko was nervously tapping her fingers against the wooden floor, thinking of a way to get out of this mess. Meanwhile, Naruto had gotten out of his smelly, helplessly tattered shirt and tossed it on the floor. He was only dressed in loose-fitting slacks, which he hoped to dispense off quickly. He approached the woman carelessly and once he was leaning over her, started to whistle. She was really something.

"You're hot. Come on, get goin'. I don't want to waste the night," he ordered impatiently, stooping down to take in the breath of the young woman. She smelled gorgeous.

Sachiko had no intention of doing anything, least of all "get goin'"; however, before, she could voice any protests, Naruto kissed her fiercely, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth. He'd never been one for foreplay and was very much eager to slide his calloused hand under the woman's yukata; he wasn't going to prolong this anymore. He needed some sort of release. He didn't even mind that woman wasn't kissing him back. He'd make her moan out in pleasure soon enough; he wouldn't allow his ego to suffer under the supposition of being lousy in bed.

Sadly, Naruto never got around to doing precisely that because there was loud crash and dull thud when his unconscious body hit the floor; the broken bits and pieces of the pot were scattered all over the floor and Sachiko sighed, rising from the futon. Her life was really a series of idiotic events, she thought.

* * *

"Fuck, this was close," Sachicko commented dryly and – this has to be said – her voice was anything but femininely sweet. Indeed, she had a suspiciously low and male-sounding voice and, upon further inspection, was also fairly taller than the average woman. In fact, she was quite tall and, apart from her facial features, there was nothing soft about her; even her face looked oddly male at the moment. There was nothing graceful or womanly in her determined, fierce and cool expression: she was gritting her teeth and impatiently scanned the room for something.

No, this wasn't strange at all. Sachiko, you see, wasn't a woman, but a man, who for some reason or the other, was working at a brothel. Sachiko, of course, wasn't his name: it was Sasuke and he wasn't pleased.

Sasuke wasn't pleased at all; he had escaped being nearly sexually molested by some perverted freak and now had to find a way to get out of here. The only option he had seemed to be the balcony; he'd tie a rope around the edge of its iron railing and then make haste. In spite of that, this was rather troublesome: he'd been so close and he couldn't help giving vent to his frustrations. Sasuke had always been something of a drama queen.

"This wasn't part of my plan at all. Had he only drunk the damned sake; it'd have put him to sleep, like the other jackasses," he muttered to himself, knowing that the other man in room was knocked out cold.

However, Sasuke didn't waste time pondering over the matter for too long, but let the silky material of the yukata fall down his shoulders. He wasn't naked underneath it, but wore a skin coloured shirt and tight black pants with a pouch-like belt framed around his narrow hips.

He let his middle-length hair out of the bun he'd been wearing and tied it into a ponytail. While he did so, Sasuke swore that he would get it cut as soon as he accomplished his mission. Long hair was a pain in the butt and not worth the fuss; he was contemplating all this with perfect coolness and, taking a rope from the pouch he carried, tied it to the assigned place. He'd escape this hellish, nightmarish situation soon enough.

All of sudden, the sound of someone talking – a rough voice – made him freeze on the spot. The man, the total moron he thought he'd got rid of was standing straight and looking amusedly in his direction.

"So, you're a guy. Interesting. Very, very interesting. I want my money back," he remarked contemptuously. Naruto didn't like being tricked and this was annoying.

"What – you're awake?" Sasuke nearly sputtered dumbly, but he concealed his shock well. It would have been very unbecoming of him to show any sign of weakness to a stranger.

Still, Sasuke was confused: the hit should have been strong enough to make that asshole sleep peacefully for quite a while. Instead, he was standing in front of Sasuke rather proudly, only occasionally rubbing his aching head.

"Hell yeah. I wish I were dreaming. I just stuck my tongue down a friggin' man's throat. Fuck, should have known you were a fraud. You were a bit too flat-chested for my tastes," Naruto ranted, sticking out his tongue and making references to vomiting. Sasuke's ego wasn't pleased and his already stern features become even sterner.

"Look, whoever you are, just ... forget this happened. And leave me alone," Sasuke said carefully, not wanting to spend a minute longer in this room. He didn't have time – he had to get out of here quick and this man was wasting his precious time. Dawn was already approaching.

"Fuck no."

Before he could react, Sasuke had been slammed against the wall and two strong hands had grasped him around the neck; the guy was strong, but Sasuke wasn't afraid. He'd dealt with worse: he wasn't made out of porcelain. With a speed that was nearly inhumane, he kicked the man in the shins and, pulling out the dagger from his little bag, got ready to strike. He'd kill, if it was necessary: his plans had been thwarted and escape was his objective. He'd do anything to get out of here, damnit.

Naruto, having recovered from the kick, looked up and smiled: he hadn't been entertained like this for ages. This was far, far better than a head job – much more stimulating.

"Why, this is getting even more interesting," he replied, tracing the blood that was spilling down his mouth with his finger and then licking it off. Sasuke could only stare at him, horrified.

"I'll kick your ass so hard you'll cry. Then I'll dance on top of your corpse," Naruto said again, flashing a self-satisfied grin towards Sasuke, who had moved away from the wall.

He didn't wait for Sasuke's reply, but lunged forwards again and, having pulled his sword out, was ready to cut through flesh and bone. He'd teach the guy a lesson.

Sasuke wasn't that easily defeated though and skilfully evaded Naruto's attack; he, then, tried to strike Naruto, but the other was equally good at ducking. They continued like this for a while: skilfully evading and then lunging forth again, dancing around each other like two buzzing insects. Naruto's kicks and attacks were hard, unpredictable and bustling with energy, but Sasuke could hold his own. He was fast, not faster than lighting, but fast enough.

He tried to kick Naruto in the stomach, but the other avoided the attack and, suddenly jumping into mid-air, aimed the sword at his head. Sasuke eyes widened; he avoided the hit and, grabbing hold of one of Naruto's ankles, sent him flying against the wall. There was a horrendous sound of something breaking and white plaster fell to the ground.

Sasuke swore and skidded backwards, his sandals created a screeching sound against the floor. He had realised that this wasn't your average Joe. No, this guy – whatever his name was – was fairly strong, stronger than the average scum the brothel threw in his path.

He felt like slapping himself against the head: he didn't have anything but a few shuriken hidden away in his pouch. Judging from how fast the other man was, it wouldn't be of much use to throw any at him. The dagger was pretty useless as well. Sasuke had to escape at once.

He'd only waste time if he didn't and every second counted. Unless Sasuke was stupid, he couldn't remain here. At least twenty minutes had passed since his little fight and soon, the owners of the brothel would come a-knocking at the door; he couldn't change into the disgusting yukata anymore. He didn't want to. In spite of having worked here only a month, Sasuke was already fed up with it.

"So what, you're gonna stand there?" Naruto asked, his chest heaving and body ready for action. He didn't believe in waiting, but this opponent was worth it. It had been a while since he had fought with someone who kept him on his toes.

"Look, as much as I hate to say it, why don't we just stop?" Sasuke asked, slowly moving towards the balcony. The man was tired now and wasn't observing his movements – which was good.

"Stop? We were barely getting started," Naruto complained, his voice gaining a childlike, boyish quality. For the first time, Sasuke looked at him – really looked at him; he was surprised at how messy the man looked, but there was something raw, energetic about his person that attracted Sasuke. He nearly felt sorry that he couldn't continue his fight.

"I don't have time for this. You've – forget it," Sasuke said and, without further ado, climbed down the balcony, holding on tightly to the rope. He hoped that the other man wouldn't follow him instantly: he really didn't want to shed blood, especially innocent one. However, his instincts told him that it wouldn't happen. After all, Sasuke Uchiha was used to not having Fortuna on his side.
............

Yes, it's short and, quite possibly, stupid. Still, I hope you're interested and had fun reading it so far; I had tons of fun writing it and I believe that my writing is generally better in these cases (hopefully -- if it sucks now, then there's really no hope for me ). I will upload the next part and the next chapter of "Screw Destiny" as soon as I can. If it doesn't happen immediately, it's because of the upcoming finals (don't ask me why I'm writing currently – it was to relieve stress). Please tell me what you think -- whether bad or good, I will appreciate it. As I said, I expect this to span another two chapters... I hope you don't think it's too short. However, I can't commit myself to writing more.

[fic] Screw Destiny 7

Fri, 23 May 2008 20:37:33 GMT

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Rating: M/NC-17

Summary: Naruto hated bastards with the passion of a thousand suns. Too bad that his new partner is a combination of all that. NaruSasu, AU.

Notes: Not much to say about this chapter -- I personally think it is rather poor in quality and way too long. Unbet'd -- though, I did spend the entire night searching for errors. However, all criticism accepted.

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On that morning, the sunlight fell sharply into the room, letting the objects – the fridge, the table still littered with cups and dishes and the broken debris of pantry scattered on the floor– bask somewhat awkwardly in the daylight; the light itself was blinding to the eye, mercilessly stern and revealed how dusty everything in the apartment complex was. Cobwebs could be seen dangling from the wall, the scratches marring the table were exposed with humiliating precision and everything looked comparatively shoddy, then again Naruto didn't belong to the richest of people. He wasn't one of the cleanest people out there, either.

Nothing was hidden from the sight of the sun, not even Naruto and Sasuke themselves, but neither of them paid attention to the spectacle the light played upon the apartment. Naruto, in particular, only had one thing in mind and that was to keep Sasuke from going nuts. He would have done anything to protect Sasuke from himself. Ever since he had dropped the bomb of having met Itachi, the other seemed to be going borderline insane; Sasuke's quietness didn't fool Naruto. He knew who Sasuke was – a tumult of repressed emotions lurking behind an icy exterior. Still, for the time being, Naruto's intentions were working.

Sasuke's breathing was less hitched now; his trembling had subsided and he felt warm against Naruto's chest. His weight was a welcome one; it felt like home – just real, tangible and safe. Indeed, this was such a cheesy and way too sentimental association, taken from one of those burlesque romances that you would never willingly admit to reading out loud, but still passed the time with. Naruto hadn't even read novels of that kind, but Jiraiya, though he was critically acclaimed for writing dirty porn, also had a sappy side to him. In fact, he had this tendency to write lots of sap while one of his fictional couples lay together entangled in post-coital bliss. To be honest, Naruto somehow felt like this now, even though this was as far as possible from being sex-related.

Great, I'm losing my mind. I've lost it – officially.

But it felt familiar, all too good and no mincing of words could have made that feeling of security disappear.

Naruto, for that short, fleeting instant, lost himself in the lazy murmur of the bulb flickering above him, the tick of the clock and the intermingling sounds of the morning traffic roaring outside. They were no longer there: the hooting of cars, the outraged cries of pedestrians bumping against one another and the noise of everyday life had been rendered to nothing but a pleasant wave of sound – a unified entity of nothingness.

He honestly liked being with Sasuke, even though there wasn't nothing to relish in at that given moment, but Naruto had finally found out what made Sasuke tick the way he did. The realisation made him both happy and wistful; the former because he now knew that Sasuke was human. The latter though sent a pang through his chest.

He's not here with me; he's thinking of Itachi ... that bastard.

The dream of familiarity didn't last long. Sooner than Naruto could have wished, he felt Sasuke – slowly at first, but with more and more force – trying to shove him off. He didn't let go though, not because he couldn't sense Sasuke's protests but because the selfish part of Naruto wanted to hold on forever. So, he pretended to be deaf and dumb – playing pretend was better than nothing.

Hey, a man can be selfish at times, he thought briefly.

Who knows if I'll ever get to hold him like this again.

He knew it was dumb and cliché. Yet, he couldn't deny that he wanted to be with Sasuke, no matter how much the other tried to fight him off.

“Let go,” Sasuke finally said, his voice dangerously low and sounding chilly.

“What?”

“Forget it,” Sasuke answered, wringing himself free of Naruto's grasp and moving as far away as possible. His back collided with the hard surface of the wall and Sasuke grimaced, obviously not liking how the harshness of the cold surface had scratched his skin. Naruto, had he not been too stupefied, would have called him a ninny, but he was too surprised: he couldn't believe that Sasuke hadn't struck him with his fist. It wouldn't have been difficult for Sasuke to do so; he was strong and could have sent Naruto colliding against the fridge, if he had wanted to.

“You don't have to hold on to me as if I were a fucking girl,” Sasuke remarked haughtily, an indignant tone evident in his voice and Naruto grinned. This guy, even if he didn't intend to be funny, was incredibly amusing. Naruto really didn't understand the Uchiha's wounded pride and wondered how he had come to think of hugging as being inappropriate for men.

No, Sasuke wasn't a girl, far from being anything feminine, even though his looks might have fooled some. But the grin faded from his face when he noticed how Sasuke was looking at him – sternly and calculatingly. However, it wasn't that look which had startled Naruto; it had been something completely different.

Somehow, Naruto wondered how it could be that Sasuke didn't look out of place in the messy kitchen, the dazzling brightness of the furniture and stranger than anything else, he suddenly felt that something abnormal was going on here. This was like a dream – a dream that was shattered when Sasuke spoke once more.

“I should leave.”

“Why all of a sudden?”

“I have things to do-”

“Don't leave yet, Sasuke,” Naruto implored, "Just don't."

“Why?” Sasuke asked, looking earnestly curious.

He was calm – too calm for Naruto's tastes. No, he wasn't trembling with volatile shudders of despair surging inside him, but he was too quiet, too closed off. He was too much like the jerk Naruto had met back on the train and he hated it.

We're not falling back to that again. Ever.

“Sasuke, we should talk,” Naruto attempted carefully; he couldn't immediately come forth with the main objective. He didn't want to send Sasuke into another fit of rage; not only because he feared for Sasuke's sanity, but because – in all honesty – Sasuke was pretty scary when he was angry.

“About what?”

Apparently, he had no other choice. Naruto, feeling the rising urge to slap himself on the forehead, remembered that Sasuke was a man of few words. And as a man of few words, he hated it when people skipped around the bush.

“Itachi.”

There was another slam and Sasuke spun madly around, his eyes blazing and Sasuke's entire body was tense. Yet, he wasn't trembling nor was it horror paralysing him – it was sheer anger. Unrelenting, hideous and ferocious in quality. Naruto backed away again, nearly afraid of Sasuke's all too sudden shift in emotions; it was way too confusing and ugly. Had he still believed Sasuke to be impassive and unreadable, his opinion would have been dramatically altered now.

“Don't fucking mention his name. I shouldn't have have ever told you about – forget it.”

“I can't forget. And you did tell me, moron. Now, you should finally say what's going on here.”

Naruto knew what was going on. He was a cop and, in the long run, he had managed to put two and two together, but this wasn't the point. He wanted to hear it from Sasuke's own lips – the whole thing. He trusted Sasuke and he expected the same thing from the other man. If anything, he wanted Sasuke to be open.

“You already know,” Sasuke spat out, his angry tone not breaking in the slightest,” My brother told you.”

“He only told me his side of the story," Naruto said. "How could he know who I was?”

“He's been stalking me, most likely. He likes doing that, he likes screwing around with the mind of others. He's -”

“A crazy bastard,” Naruto commented dryly, thinking that this description was probably the most fitting.

“No. He's not. He's a genius.”

Sasuke uttered the word “genius” as if it were venom, a bitter substance that galled his throat and made him sick to the core. Naruto had no idea what was going on; he didn't know anything about Itachi. At the same time, he knew Sasuke wouldn't tell him until he saw it fit to do so. And that was -- quite frankly speaking -- annoying.

Sasuke spoke again:

“I came to Tokyo because of him. I knew he was here. “

“And what are you going to do? Kill him?”

“Yes. And I don't want you to interfere.”

“I can't promise that.”

Sasuke's eyes widened momentarily, but he sighed then and just shrugged his shoulders. Naruto felt that Sasuke had mostly liked accepted that he wasn't going to be pushed away easily, that he knew he couldn't run away as much as he tried.

Naruto wanted to say more, but Sasuke's voice attracted his attention.

“Then I'll just have to sever our bonds. I won't be -”

Bonds? He acknowledges that there's something going on between us?

Naruto used this moment to silence Sasuke with a kiss – it was an angry kiss, full of unspoken frustration and annoyance. Sasuke was such a difficult person, an awkward bundle of conflicting contradictions and obsessive convictions. Sometimes Naruto wanted to strangle him to death, or just pretend that he didn't care; life would have been so much easier.

No, Naruto couldn't have found himself anyone more complicated, but at the same time, while he felt Sasuke grow still and stiff under that kiss, he knew that this was perfection.

To his amazement, Sasuke didn't push him away, but returned it, obviously enjoying it as much he did. It was still sloppy: Sasuke was more attack, make Naruto go weak in the knees and slam his mouth against the other until he forgot how to breathe, instead of being all about seductive expertise.

Yet, he was also better at this now, less restrained and he used his position to slam Naruto against the wall, slipping his tongue as effortlessly into Naruto's mouth, as if they had been doing this on and off for years. Just when Naruto thought he was about to implode from the craziness of this moment, Sasuke stopped and fixed Naruto with an amused look.

“You're a fucking idiot, Naruto. I won't let you get involved this. Just forget about it.”

Naruto had to bite his lips, in order to restrain a laugh. Sasuke was trying so hard to be cool and apathetic, but he was so evidently nervous and obviously trying to fight off the anxiety to show in his face. Of course, the façade didn't fool Naruto, though.

“I won't do that, either. We're partners, Sasuke. I'll help you.”

And, fucking hell, I like you. So much it scares me.

-----------------------

Naruto wasn't sure whether he liked this new development in his and Sasuke's relationship. They had transcended the point of fighting with each other on a daily basis, but Sasuke kept himself at a distance. No, he wasn't giving monosyllabic answers or avoiding Naruto completely; however, there was something amiss. Naruto nearly found himself missing the reproaches about his messiness from before; anything was better than this. Surely, the peace was a sign of progress, the non-fighting showed that they had come to an understanding and accepted each other's faults. Yet, at the same time, it was awkward and in some ways, Naruto didn't like things to be this awkward.

He let his gaze wander from the messy scribbles of his own handwriting to Sasuke looking over some paperwork. A few months ago, prior to really knowing Sasuke, he would called him a fucker, gone ballistic at the mere fact that someone managed to ignore him -- Naruto Uzumaki. He would have lashed out at Sasuke and tried to attack his Achilles heel, so triggering a volatile reaction from the supposed wretch. Now, Naruto had no desire to do anything of the sort: he knew that whatever Sasuke was going through at the moment was more than horrendous enough.

Chewing his pencil lost-mindedly, he observed how Sasuke was skimming over his notes; he was beautiful like this. Naruto admired the fine dark eyelashes, the delicateness of his face and the way he managed to make everything seem so graceful. A few weeks ago, he wouldn't have been caught dead doing this.

Funny, how things change.

Naruto sighed and returned to his paperwork, not wanting to show Sasuke that he was preoccupied with thoughts of him. Sasuke wanted to be alone and if he intervened, Naruto feared that Sasuke wouldn't allow to get close to him again. Wasn't there this saying that calm comes before the storm?

He needs it -- the calm.

--------------------------------

The next few days weren't better, each of them had been as dull and dragging as the previous. The paperwork drove him crazy, but what angered Naruto more than ever was that Sasuke still kept him at bay; it was as if they were really merely partners at work and nothing else.

Naruto didn't realise that he was pacing around the room again until Sakura spoke, making him halt abruptly and flush out of embarrassment.

“You should just tell me what's wrong.”

“Oh man, leave me alone with it. “

“It's about Sasuke?”

“I'm not even going to ask you how you knew,” Naruto said with a resigned air and let himself plop down next to Sakura; she didn't shift and neither made any stammers of protest when he used her knees as cushion. After all these years of friendship, Naruto had come to regard Sakura as someone he could trust with anything – and he knew that Sakura trusted him equally. At least, she knew that he wasn't going to molest her.

“Naruto, ever since you've come from that Kyoto trip, it's been all about him. “

“You think I'm obsessed?”

“A little. But also something else,” she answered, giggling a little. For a second, Naruto was dumbfounded. He hadn't heard Sakura giggle since her middle school days – he really had no idea what there was to giggle about. Then, it dawned upon him: Sakura was making fun of him! It was nearly reminiscent of that one time he had devoted a love poem to her and Sakura, being slightly mean back then, had read it out loud. That had been one of the most singularly embarrassing moments in Naruto's life.

“Shut up. That's not funny.”

“I'm not saying it is. I don't blame you though. He's hot.”

Leave it to Sakura to be practical.

“If you go for the stoic, silent type. He isn't all that sexy to me.”

Liar; you do think he's hot.

“Well, don't go all sarcastic on me. You certainly didn't seem to be against his looks when you were making out right there, in the living room," Sakura snapped.

Although Naruto couldn't see Sakura's face, he knew she was blushing and dying to hear more about that incident – he hated how curious Sakura was about this. He didn't understand what there was so awesome about two guys making out: it wasn't any different from doing it with a girl, really.

“Didn't I tell you not to speak of it again?”

“The point, Naruto, is that you can't deny that you're in love.”

Naruto shot up from his position. As much as he had – somewhat reluctantly – admitted that he liked, felt attracted to Sasuke in so many ways, love wasn't something he had associated with the bastard yet. Loving someone was different from lusting after a guy's body: love was something Naruto wasn't exactly experienced with. He hadn't ever expected to taste the bitter gall of love, either – it was for sappy idiots and wimps.

“I never said I'm – you sound like Kiba.”

“Well, then he's more observant than I thought.”

More like tactless. Kiba. Observant, my ass.

He didn't like how Kiba and Sakura were interfering with his life; they probably laughed behind his back, just because he wasn't as socially adept as they were.

“So even if I'm what you say I am, Sasuke's complicated. He's ... damn you have no idea. He's ...”

I'm not going to tell her about Itachi, and all that. She's got enough of her own crap to deal with. 'Sides, it's not like she could help.

“I'm disappointed. I thought you liked challenges and never backed down from one.”

Naruto laughed; he knew what she was referring to and a series of memories flashed through his brain. Everything from playing pranks on his teacher to asking one of the most popular girls in school out appeared before his mind: he couldn't believe that it had been so long ago.

“It's not a challenge, Sakura-chan. Sasuke isn't a challenge – he's ...”

Sakura didn't ask any further, but motioned Naruto to lie down on her lap again; he obeyed wordlessly and sighed when Sakura's hands caressed his hair, the gesture was soothing and reassuring.

“You'll see. Everything will be fine. “

“I'm not sure. But I might find a way.”

Naruto didn't doubt that he would find a way; however, he had no idea what to do. He couldn't turn back time and undo Sasuke's pain.

“You're a cop. Of course, you will.”

Thank you, Sakura-chan.

------------------------------

Kakashi, still pouring over what seemed to be the newest edition of Jirayia's sinfully good porn, offhandedly muttered:

“You sure are a nice boy, not to have visited me before.”

“I had things going on.”

“Liar,” Kakashi responded knowingly, his conveying a sarcastic tone that would have made him a perfect lawyer. He really knew how to make others feel uncomfortable.

Naruto felt another tick approaching: this man, whatever he did, always unnerved him to the utmost extent. It wasn't as if he had really avoided him; they had talked over the phone and met each other nearly daily at the headquarters. Really, Naruto hadn't been ignoring him and besides, Kakashi could have visited him too. He was just too lazy to do it. Or he didn't want to and Naruto knew the reason why. It hurt to admit, but Naruto had to break the ice.

“Oh come on, Kakashi. I just – I know I let you down.”

Naruto didn't have to explain what he meant by that: both of the men knew what he was referring to. Naruto looked about the shady, poorly furnished apartment and abruptly was reminded of something -- Kakashi and Sasuke were alike, eerily so. This was another person, who kept himself wrapped up under the icy façade of nonchalance, but was bleeding inside. Yet, Kakashi was one thing Sasuke wasn't – he could see through Naruto, past the cheery mask and unhand him in a way no one else could.

Perhaps, that was another reason why the man unnerved him the way he did.

“About that: I hope you've learnt your lesson now,” Kakashi answered, his voice betraying no emotion, but the chill in his voice – the emotionless – was enough to make Naruto feel sick. Had Kakashi roared at him, it wouldn't have been less effective.

“I don't know. He did kill- It's not important: the fucker's dead. But it would have been- ”

“Revenge isn't a solution,” Kakashi replied firmly. His eyes met Naruto's again.

“Don't forget that your parents – your father – were important to other people as well, not only you.”

Naruto found himself wanting to change the subject – this was getting too personal. He didn't want to be reminded of pain again. So, he answered instead:

“About my not coming to visit you: I've had -”

I shouldn't tell him about Sasuke.

“Your new partner? You've had things to do with him, right?" Kakashi asked, smiling slightly.

“How did you know?”

“Sakura told me. Unlike you, she's not as neglecting. Tsunade keeps me informed as well.“

“Oh come on, I'm not a kid any longer. It's not like I need to explain myself.”

Kakashi threw him a “you're kidding me look” and bookmarking the page he had been reading, shut his book with a loud snap. His eyes were on Naruto's now, sending shivers of fright down Naruto's spine. He didn't like to admit it; however, Kakashi was a scary person – he wasn't someone you wanted to have as an enemy.

“No, but she's worried. She's afraid that you're running danger of getting yourself too involved again.”

“With what?”

“Don't play dumb, Naruto. You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

“Kakashi, I can't ... help myself from getting “

“You're exactly like your father. He was like that. Just be careful.”

Kakashi looked momentarily nostalgic, as if remembering something that made him both inexpressively happy and sad; moments like these made Naruto wish that he could – just once – see what the man looked like right now without his mask. Yes, it was odd, but he hadn't seen Kakashi without his mask on very often: it irked him. Underneath his mask, Kakashi was a hauntingly beautiful man, with features that would have taken anyone's breath away and Naruto wondered why he hid his face. But that wasn't one of the things he would ever learn to understand.

Kakashi was private and rarely – if ever – talked about himself. Still, Naruto was certain of one thing: that, as much as Kakashi avoided talking about it or shrugged it off, his father – Minato – had meant the world to him. He only wished Kakashi would have told him more. But that was one of the man's oddities: he wouldn't ever talk about his own pain.

--------------------------------------

It was growing dark, but the sounds of outdoor traffic hadn't subsided yet. Actually, it was so far from being quiet that Naruto had difficulty to concentrate on the screen in front of him, being too assailed by a hundred and one conflicting reflections. His back ached, his fingers – similarly to an old rheumatic man's – hurt from typing and he could see swirling dots in front of his eyes. He was tired as well; the lack of sleep lately did take a toil on him. Still, he had to do this, if ever wanted to accomplish anything.

At first, he had attempted to look through old files, but that would have aroused unnecessary attention – Naruto wasn't exactly known for being into research. Additionally, he was a pretty shitty liar tas well and didn't think he could have cooked up a good excuse for prying his nose into old, dusty files.

But I have to do this. My computer's crashed. And Sakura is busy studying. Kakashi would never allow me to use his. Just my luck.

So, under the pretence of doing more paperwork, he had resolved to stay longer in the office, which hadn't attracted anyone's suspicions. Well, Shikamaru had been a bit baffled to say the least, but being the laid-back fellow he was not, hadn't bothered to inquire – that would have been too troublesome for him.

Naruto was pretty sure it was a dumb undertaking, but he didn't have anything to lose. Although he didn't want to bury too deep into the past, this where he had to start. If Sasuke wasn't willing to tell him, he would find out on his own: he was a cop, after all. Finding information these days was easier than procuring cigarettes or getting drunk. And he was going to be damned, if he didn't use modern technology to aid him in his quest.

Sasuke had been right about his brother, Itachi Uchiha: he was a genius and way more than that.

His school records not only revealed him to be a genius, but a truly gifted kid. There were even newspaper articles about him, all praising the kid's intellect and how he would make the family name Uchiha stand out even more. Yes, Sasuke had neglected telling him that he came from a renowned, a former Samurai family that had gained quite a bit of reputation.

Graduated at age 10. Enrolled into university to study. Killed his own parents at 13 and then managed to disappear – just like that. That's definitely not the work of a normal criminal.

It struck Naruto as odd that Itachi had somehow disappeared; there were no traces of him and the case had been apparently forgotten after a year. He believed that, in some way, the Uchiha family must have interfered allowing it happen that the case had been left to rot – they must have thought that it was no good dwelling on a black sheep of the family.

Sasuke hasn't forgotten though.

At the thought of Sasuke, Naruto felt guilt forming in his insides; he couldn't couldn't help thinking that it was unfair to betray his trust like that.

So far, he wasn't doing anything outrageous though. Then, he thought of something else. Just as he had confirmed it, Sasuke had transferred to Tokyo for a single reason -- there couldn't have been any other. Having worked so long with Sasuke, Naruto knew that the man was a fantastic cop: he worked meticulously and had a quick brain which absorbed information like a sponge. However, Naruto couldn't understand one thing.

How could Itachi know me? He even knew where I lived and Sasuke only visited me once. No, it's ...

Naruto thought of Itachi again: the man was creepy enough, but what was even more suspicious, he had seemed quite familiar with him. A horrible thought nagged at Naruto's brain – and it grew more monstrous with every passing minute. However, the pieces fell together and it made click: Itachi had known him before, hadn't approached just like that, but because he also had some business with him. He hadn't just stalked Sasuke.

----------------------------
It was still deep night when Naruto knocked angrily against Sasuke's apartment door; he was resolved to talk with the stubborn Uchiha and give him a peace of his mind. It wasn't only that: he had this driving need to see Sasuke, to talk to him -- outside of that damned stuffy office.

Apparently, Sasuke had been asleep and looking peevish, opened the door with more than just a killer intent showing in his eyes; he looked outright deadly and had Naruto not been a cop, he would have backed away. Sasuke wasn't one to be trifled with: even his looks could make someone shit in their pants.

“What do you want?” Sasuke asked, not hiding the displeasure in his tone. His eyebrows were knitted together and he held the door in a very forced, nearly restrained sort of manner, as if he had to calm himself down.

“To talk, you ass.”

“Past midnight?” Sasuke demanded incredulously, throwing a quick backward glance at the clock ticking meticulously away in his living room.

“Hell yes. Let me in.”

Sasuke sighed and rolled his eyes, but let Naruto in without any further protest. His apartment, to Naruto's surprise looked more alive this time, for lack of better word. There were books piling on the floor and Naruto's common sense told him that Sasuke had been doing some kind of research himself – or he had finally given up on being an obsessively compulsive perfectionist. Naruto whistled and feeling that this was going to be a long talk, plopped down on the sofa without further ado – it wasn't as if Sasuke could protest.

“You didn't tell me that you came from such an old and rich family,” he started confidently. He had to break the ice somehow. Sasuke merely widened his eyes; it didn't seem like he understood the significance of the statement.

“You never asked.”

“That's not the point!” Naruto exclaimed angrily and shook his fist at the other male --Sasuke was so insufferably stubborn; however, he wouldn't give up yet.

“You should have told me about Itachi before, though.”

“ I told you it's none of your business-”

“Shut up. Just shut up. It's as much as my business as its yours.”

Just listen to me once, bastard.

“I don't fucking get what you're saying now.”

“The point is that you don't have to be alone, Sasuke. Are you deaf? I've told you this a hund-”

“I've been alone since my parents died.”

“No, that's just what you're telling yourself.”

“What do you-”

“I know the pain, I fucking know what it means to lose someone you love. As much as you do. Don't think that I loved my parents any less than you did.”

Naruto challenged Sasuke to say something in return and he swore that if the bastard only dared to counterfeit that statement, he would pay dearly. Naruto was fed up with Sasuke's selfishness and there were things that just went beyond tact. He wasn't the only one in this world.

“Well, at least the murderer of yours isn't running around berserk! “

You have no idea.

“He is. Orochimaru only gave orders. He was the sort that never bloodied his own hands, but had scum doing the dirty work for him.”

Sasuke moved away from his position, close to the bookshelf and suddenly he was facing Naruto, his dark eyes boring into Naruto's.

“What are you trying to tell me, Naruto?”

“I'm trying to tell you, shit for brains, that this is as much your concern as it is mine.”

Sasuke fell to laughing hysterically, letting himself lean against the wall and then slump down to the floor wearily. When he looked up at Naruto, he looked dejected and broken, nearly insane.

“And what – do you think it's that easy? That if you work with me, we'd actually have a chance to kill him?”

Naruto didn't say anything and he half-maddeningly continued:

“I've been following Itachi for years, or to more precise, I only know what he tells me. Or writes. He's been leaving me notes behind ... he always seem to know where I am.”

“Didn't it ever occur to you that there might be a connection between me, Orochimaru and Itachi?”

“You're fantasising, pulling some sort of crap out of your ass. This isn't a guessing game.”

Sasuke had a point: he didn't have direct, foolproof evidence. However, his instincts rarely failed him and he knew that he wasn't grasping wildly in the darkness – anything else wouldn't have made sense.

“Think, Itachi didn't show up until after we met, you transferred on pretty much the same day I got back from my vacation, then Oro's found dead in his apartment...it's..."

“Coincidence, destiny...whatever.”

“No, this was planned. “

“Why would Itachi involve you in this? You haven't anything to do with me . Fuck this, it doesn't make sense.”

Sasuke was an idiot, if he didn't get what he was trying to convey now.

“Crime is rarely logical. If it were, we wouldn't have to protect people from murderers.”

“Don't preach on me.”

“I'm not preaching. Stupid being such a stubborn asshole.”

“Naruto, I told you to bloody prying your nose. You don't know who Itachi is. You don't – fuck.”

“Do you really think I'm so stupid that I'd let my partner alone?”

“You idiot, I don't want anyone close getting hurt again. Won't this sink through your skull?”

Naruto got up from the sofa, approached Sasuke and kneeling before him, said:

“I don't want you getting hurt, either. I'm not bailing out on you. Ever.”

“You're crazy.”

“We're even, Sasuke. “

With that he left. Naruto didn't pause to wait for the other's answer – he didn't want to hear it. Being a stubborn bastard, he didn't want to know that Sasuke still defied him, still wanted to do his own thing.

------------------

This time when Naruto sensed someone following him, like a restless ghoul in a haunted forest, he wasn't startled – too many things, which had turned his world topsy-turvy, had happened lately; he was too preoccupied with a thousand thoughts to be scared off by some amateur stalker – most of the time, it was only a beggar or some weirdo anyway.

The efflorescence of the street lamp revealed the figure to be no one other than Itachi, still donning the black attire and looking as enigmatic as ever. To his internal surprise, Naruto wasn't scared or frightened. He was just pissed off and cursed audibly, hoping that the other man would get the hint. He needed a night's rest and it seemed, that like always, he wasn't going to have any peace tonight either.

Itachi didn't talk, but came closer and his footsteps – once again bounced off against the pavement. Yet, that didn't strike Naruto as special, what really impressed him was how extraordinarily the man blended, fit in with the darkness of the night – it was as if he were a phantom. Regardless of that, Naruto didn't back away nor felt the urge to run away.

Naruto only felt anger building up inside of man. So this was the bastard who had hurt Sasuke that much: he would pay for that. Feeling the anger rake inside him restlessly, Naruto clenched his fist, ready to strike someone down and with all the hatred he could muster, said:

“I don't know why I always end up meeting you on dark alley corners or streets. You have a knack for stalking, don't you?”

If Itachi was offended, he didn't show it. He didn't reveal anything, other than very mild, barely readable surprise. Then again, it could have been the illumination playing tricks on Naruto's mind – it was hard to tell. He had never been very good at reading people and Itachi was anything but expressive. He hadn't even shrugged his shoulders or given any kind of indication that he had heard.

“No, I just wanted to talk you, Naruto-kun,” Itachi said softly, his eyes unblinking and steadfastly focused on Naruto's silhouette; it was unsettling, to say the least.

Naruto snorted, thinking that whatever had been worth saying had already been expostulated upon: he really didn't know what the bastard wanted to say. Whatever it was, it couldn't be anything pleasant – their little chit-chat from last time still sent shivers of nausea and disgust running down his spine. The thought that someone could describe homicide with such ruthless nonchalance and cold-bloodiness chilled him to the bone; Naruto couldn't hide the outraged disbelief in his voice.

“I know everything already. You're sick. “

Understatement of the century.

“My foolish brother told you everything, I see,” Itachi merely responded, sounding mildly amused, He had moved closer to Naruto and for the first time, the other noticed that the man's fingernails were painted black.

“He's – well, what is that you want?”

“I told you I want to talk.”

"Well, I don't want to, asshole."

It took Naruto a second to observe that Itachi, in contrast to Sasuke, was a very calm and resilient man; he didn't feel bothered at being insulted at all. Sasuke, at this point, would have either slammed Naruto in the stomach or engaged in verbal fight. Itachi, however, wasn't effected at all.

“Look, I don't know what you're planning exactly, but I'll find you out.”

Naruto wasn't feeling intimated by Itachi: there wasn't anything the man could do to him. Although he behaved like an oblivious idiot at times, he wasn't dumb enough to let his guard down. Besides, he was strong: if the crazy asshole only dared to try something funny, there would be payback. Tsunade hadn't exaggerated when she had accused of Naruto nearly having killed Orochimaru – it hadn't taken much.

“You care about Sasuke, don't you?”

“More than you do, obviously. Sasuke -- he deserves better than you.”

Itachi was unmoved, unconcerned and Naruto asked himself whether that man had ever been pierced by stabs of regret; he assumed the contrary. In all likeability, Itachi was probably one of those dead man walking, devoid of compassion or anything that made one human.

“If you care so much about him, then you'll make sure he won't do anything stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just don't let him out of your eyes.”

“What-”

“Keep an eye on him.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Naruto shouted, confusion marring his features.

Itachi, instead of answering, moved away. Naruto was too surprised and confused to do anything, but watch him walk away. The darkness was slowly growing lighter, breaking apart and to his consternation, Naruto found out that he had spent another night not sleeping at all.

------------------
Itachi's words didn't let go of Naruto, as he ascended the steps to his apartment. He was worn out, exasperated beyond belief, but the sudden appearance of Sasuke's brother didn't suit well with him. Despite all that, he was too tired to do anything now, apart from dragging his half-dead body upstairs. Warily, he grabbed the keys out of his pocket and opened the door with clumsy movements; the second it opened, he let out a sigh of relief. Then, feeling like Robinson Crusoe having escaped the island, he dropped onto his bed and fell into a deep slumber.

Not even the Devil himself could have torn Naruto from his bed. Or so it would have been, had it not been for his damned conscience.

Keep an eye on him...

In a matter of few seconds, he was awake, sat from his bed, cursed and though his head was dizzy and his body felt heavy as lead, Naruto got up. The feeling of the cold floor didn't startle him, for he had gone to bed with his shoes on and was still dressed. Naruto smirked when he thought how disgusted Sakura would have been at all this; he wouldn't have gotten away with it. Perhaps, she would have skinned him alive.

A resounding knack under his shoes brought Naruto back to the present – he had stepped on another pencil. There was no time to be lost now: he had no idea why he felt like this. Maybe it was a premonition, destiny or just that feeling in his guts that, if he didn't do this, something bad would happen.

The twenty minutes that it took him to get to Sasuke's home were the longest in Naruto's life. All the time, sitting in the sunken cushioned seat of the tube, he was frantic with anticipation; the noise of the train rolling and halting at each station was odious, nigh unbearable to him. Each time, the damned vehicle stopped, Naruto had to restrain himself from screaming: he bit his underlip and dug into the material of his shirt, feeling that he had to hold onto something. This was bad: he felt like time was working against him. And he was lucky -- he had been nearly too late. Sasuke was standing outside of his apartment, looking like he was up to something.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“It's -” Sasuke started, but Naruto shut him up by slapping his hand against the other's mouth. Sasuke promptly swatted the hand away, shooting a dirty look at him. But Naruto didn't falter; he was made of harder stuff than this.

I'm not having this shit again.

“None of my concern? You're not going anywhere without me.”

Naruto was dead serious, had never been more serious about anything else in his life. Sasuke could punch a hole through his chest, kill him on the spot or do anything in his power to try to get rid off him. Yet, Naruto was resolved and clinging like a pesky parasite on a symbiotic relationship, he was beyond caring: he would have done anything to make Sasuke understand.

Sasuke must have seen the determination on his face.

“Idiot,” he scowled, his face revealing no other emotion that mild irritation.

“You're the idiot.”

“Fine. It's not like I can persuade you otherwise.”

“Sasuke, just tell me -”

“I'm finally doing what I came here for. Don't get in my way.”

Naruto didn't ask what Sasuke meant by that precisely – there was no need for it.

--------------

The building was dark-greyish, probably the ugliest edifice he had ever seen in his life. Naruto followed Sasuke silently into the inside of the building, his heart jolting with every step they took down the stairs: the stairs creaked and the sickening smell of urine and nicotine assaulted his senses.

God, when I get out of this alive, Sasuke owes me.

The moments before they finally reached their destination spread out into near-infinity and Naruto's stomach churned – he wasn't scared, but he really didn't feel all too good about it either. Perhaps, he should have asked what Sasuke was actually planning to do. Trusting someone blindly wasn't always good, but then again, he wasn't sure how much he could trust in Sasuke.

“Sasuke, I know-”

“Be quiet.”

The sound of voices – loud and evidently in process of debating over some issue loudly – made Naruto's reply die in his throat. Without further ado, he decided to be as inconspicuous as possible. This included not asking Sasuke whether he had gone bonkers over agonising too much over things.

Although it was dark, the glimmer coming from the bulb suspended over the debaters' heads made it easy for Naruto to recognise what they looked like. And he had never seen odder people in his entire life. One of them, a blond with long hair and dressed in some black clock was pointedly wagging his hand in front of another man's face. That man, who looked more like a boy than anything else, was disinterestedly staring at the guy. It was an odd contrast: while the one was practically overflowing with emotion, the other was suspiciously calm. He seemed intent on humouring the other man's mood and also pass the time by grating on the other's nerves.

“Look, I tell you it's art – art isn't something that lasts forever, but is for the moment. A thing that goes blast and remains imprinted in the spectator's -”

“Bullshit. Only something that was created for eternity could have an effect on -”

“Shut up Sasori. You know nothing about real art. My art is infinitely better than yours, hmm.”

What the fuck? They're seriously fighting over art? Are we in the right place?

He also didn't think that they would remain undetected for long because Naruto had no idea how long he could listen to this crap. He didn't give a rat's ass about art; the only sort that interested him either involved naked girls or cars. All of a sudden, a cool voice – familiar and making the blood in Naruto's vein freeze – spoke. It was Itachi's.

“Shut up, both of you.”

Naruto had failed to detect him before; Itachi had been so quiet and unnoticeable. Sasuke was tense, his entire body seemed to have been rendered immobile and his eyes were fixed on his brother; nothing else seemed to exist for him anymore. Naruto knew this wasn't any good – they couldn't remain hidden in the shadows forever.

“You just don't understand art.”

Itachi didn't respond.

“Oh well, we'll go out. The boss wants to see me and the cretin here for the next job. Take care," the blond said flippantly.

Naruto breathed a sigh of relief when the two passed them by without really paying attention. He didn't know what he would have done, if they had spotted both him and Sasuke, hiding there in the darkness. It might have had fatal consequence, but Naruto was nervous; he might have exaggerated.
Luckily, they were too engrossed in their debate over art and, exaggeration or not, the sounds of their argumentative statements faded away into the distance. After they were out of earsight, Naruto turned to Sasuke.

“Sasuke, we should leave. You can't just -”

Sasuke wasn't by his side anymore, but had entered the dingy room. Cursing and shaking his fist at some invisible individual, Naruto followed, even though his gut reaction told him to make a run for it.

-------------------------

Sasuke started at his brother for what seemed like ages. Moments seemed to tick slowly away, as if the world had come to a halt. Perhaps, it had – for Sasuke, at least. Terror is always gripping, and seems eternal when the flash of a proverbial blade slashes through your throat.

Once again, the thought of how similar the brothers looked flashed through Naruto's mind – the resemblance was eye-popping; Itachi and Sasuke looked outlandishly beautiful, too beautiful and graceful to be part of this world. And yet, Itachi was colder and looked more like a shadow than a human-being.

“So, foolish brother, you've finally come,” Itachi remarked carelessly, as if he been talking about the shopping list for tomorrow's grocery, instead of the younger brother he hadn't seen in years.

“I'd have come earlier,” Sasuke said in the same non-committed tone. Yet Naruto could tell that he was bustling -- literally -- with anger and only waiting for the chance to strike.

“What is that you actually want? I don't have time to indulge in useless chit-chat.”

“I'll kill you. I'll kill you, you stupid fuck.”

Sasuke started at his brother for what seemed like ages. Once again, the thought of how similar the brothers looked flashed through Naruto's mind – the resemblance was eye-popping; Itachi and Sasuke looked outlandishly beautiful, too beautiful and graceful to be part of this world. And yet, Itachi was colder and looked more like a shadow than anything else.

“So, foolish brother, you've finally come,” Itachi remarked carelessly, as if he been talking about the shopping list for tomorrow's grocery, instead of the younger brother he hadn't seen in years.

“I'd have come earlier,” Sasuke said in the same non-committed tone. Yet Naruto could tell that he was bustling -- literally -- with anger and only waiting for the chance to strike.

“What is that you actually want? I don't have time to indulge in useless chit-chat.”

“I'll kill you. I'll kill you, you stupid fuck.”

“Language, Sasuke. Mother taught us better that.”

“Shut up. SHUT UP. You were the one who killed her," Sasuke spat out, no longer hiding the hatred in his voice. Naruto had never heard him like this, had never believed that Sasuke could actually yell -- and in such a desperate manner as well. He had never seen him like this either, the devastation was crystal clear: Sasuke looked as if he were experiencing the homicide all over again, as if his parents were being murdered all over again. This wasn't merely hatred, but distraught sorrow and disbelief. Deep down, Sasuke had never stopped hoping that all of this had been a nightmare and not reality.

Sasuke, trembling from head to foot, reached out for the gun hidden in his pockets. Itachi never moved from the spot, eyeing his younger brother with heightened interest, but apart from that, he was stiff and still. He stood there, like a statue and only seemed to wait for Sasuke to draw his sword, gun or whatever else the other had planned.

“So you're going to kill me now?” he asked quietly, contemplating his brother coolly. He didn't look anything, but mildly interested. It would have been enough to aggravate anyone.

Though no longer shaking, Sasuke pointed the gun somewhat hesitantly at Itachi, as if the sight of the other man was painful and horrible to him. Naruto had no idea what the hell was going on through Sasuke's head, but he could imagine that this was breaking him, tugging at his insides and slowly killing him. What happened next was too fast for Naruto's eyes to capture: Sasuke was aiming the gun at Itachi and a bang resounded. But the bullet never reached Itachi. It struck the wall instead and there was a resounding slap of metal against the floor – falling and creating an ear-splitting thud that even had the rats skittering away. Naruto's heart stopped beating; he moved forward, ready to strike Itachi dead, if Sasuke was hurt.

Itachi stood towering above Sasuke, who was pinned against the wall, gasping in pain and what was more, long repressed devastation -- Naruto hadn't ever seen Sasuke so broken. He felt the chill running down his spine.

“Don't approach me again until you're strong enough.”

Then, he left, simply left, brushing up against Naruto's shoulders, as he did so. It didn't seem to be anything, but a game to him. Naruto meanwhile was too concerned with Sasuke to leave; he couldn't leave him. Not like this. Not when his eyes looked that empty.

-------------------------------------------------------
We should talk about this. But what can I say?

The drive back to Sasuke's apartment was a painful one – and it brought memories home that Naruto had wanted to forget. He had been like this too, after they had found Orochimaru's rotting corpse in his apartment. Back then, Sasuke hadn't prodded him for information or forced him to talk. The silence was unbearable though; he could feel the blood pumping in his veins, his teeth grinding against one another and the way his heart constricted painfully in his throat. Any more of this and Naruto was certain he would had to let out a holler -- just to confirm that they weren't dead yet.

Wordlessly, he followed Sasuke into his apartment and shut the door behind him. As long as the other didn't throw him out, he figured that it was fine for him to be here – he wasn't going to leave Sasuke alone for all the price in the world.

The night made the apartment appear even ghastlier than before – the stacks of books piling on the floor looked ominous and again, the tomb-like aspect of the complex had taken reign full-throttle. Naruto wondered whether Sasuke was ever going to do something about this. The apartment's bleak atmosphere made him feel depressed and this wasn't what a guest should have felt like; however, he didn't have time for this now. They needed to talk -- badly.

“Sasuke-” Naruto started hesitantly, biting his lips and fisting his fingers nervously in the material of his shirt.

The addressed never let him finish his sentence, but grabbing him by the hem of the shirt and pining him against the wall, slammed his lips against Naruto's. Shell-shocked, Naruto opened his mouth and was even more flabbergasted when Sasuke's tongue entered his mouth; he responded, partly out of habit, but also because he had no idea what else to do. Naruto's eyes were closed, his entire brain had shut down and he only felt Sasuke's lips moving against his own.

This was getting dangerous. Naruto wasn't naïve or stupid: he knew what Sasuke was initiating and he didn't like it. Okay, that was a lie: his body was definitely not protesting, but his conscience wasn't necessarily agreeing to this. He had done this too often for the wrong reasons and for once, he didn't want to screw up. Sasuke wasn't a toy.

“No, I don't think this is what we should-” Naruto murmured, trying to push Sasuke away gently; however, the other was tugging at his shirt and their faces were close again. Naruto could feel Sasuke's lips against his cheeks, then his voice whispered into his ear:

“Shut up.”

Naruto shivered; he was a nervous mess and if Sasuke continued to tease him like this, wasn't sure whether he could remain cool about this. To hell with it, he was already painfully aroused.

“No, I'm not doing this because -”

You're broken. This is fucked up and you're – no I don't want to make things messier.

Sasuke attacked Naruto's mouth again, not letting him voice his protest – affirmations of why this wrong – any longer; he was insistent and his mouth, those sinfully formed lips were against his.

“I'm not doing this because of Itachi.”

“You're just telling yourself that,” Naruto tried again, shaking his head, but his resolve was dying, melting away like squishy snow being trodden on repeatedly by some harsh footwork.

“I'm doing this because I want to.”

“Sasuke. You're an idiot, if you think this is going to make you feel better.”

“Don't patronise me, moron.”

“You idiot, I just want you to fucking understand, that if we do this, there's no going back anymore. “

“Don't talk anymore, Naruto. Just don't talk.”

He didn't know when they hit the bed or how Sasuke ended up beneath him; he was too lost in the sensation of kissing Sasuke. The other shuddered beneath when he started to kiss his neck, slowly unbuttoning his shirt at the same time: his skin was impossibly soft and smooth, not calloused and rough like he had expected it to be. Perhaps, it shouldn't have surprised him too much. Sasuke was a bundle of contradictions and as such, contained a lot of surprises.

Sasuke's mouth was warm, his hands were all over Naruto's hair and his body was arching upwards, trying to hasten Naruto's movements. They were both still dressed, drenched in sweat and Naruto tried his best not to tear off Sasuke's clothes off, having him bend over and just be done with it. The tension was killing him. Apparently, Sasuke thoughts matched him.

“Hurry up.”

Naruto felt anger building up inside of him: Sasuke was really a stubborn bastard and part of him was compelled to just rip the other's clothes off. Another part of him, however, remembered that Sasuke was a freaking virgin and as defiant as he pretended to be, he was certain that Sasuke had to be nervous. Or this was his own wishful thinking.

“I'll make this good, if you have more patience.”

He kissed Sasuke again – tenderly this time and reached down to touch his erection. Well, at least he didn't have to worry about Sasuke not being into this: Sasuke was hard and looking into his face, Naruto could see a flush of desire forming on his cheeks. He began to stroke, slowly at first, but his movements fastened and Sasuke began to pant, harshly. He pushed Naruto off, but only to pull his shirt over his head and motion Naruto to do the same; the rest of the clothes followed after.

He's really impatient. Must be years of pent up sexual frustration.

“What are you-” Sasuke asked, but shut up when Naruto started to stretch him.

“Trust me.”

“Not in a hundred years moron.”

Naruto had to bite his lips from yelling out loud. Sasuke was a bastard, even vulnerably naked and with his ass being stretched, he was as aggravatingly annoying as always. He had heard the saying that a little argument spiced up one's sex life, but this was testing his patience, more than anything else. Perhaps, jerking off was really better than attempting to do it with Sasuke.

“Shut up, idiot. Unless you want this to hurt.”

“Will you just hurry up!” Sasuke said through gritted teeth. He was red in the face and looked positively enraged – he didn't seem to enjoy the preparations too much. Or, his pride wouldn't allow him to lean back and enjoy it.

“I'm telling you asshole that it'll hurt, if I ram you dry. Trust me. It's not a nice experience.”

And I should know.

That finally made Sasuke shut up and he closed his eyes, dug his fingers into the sheet and tried his best to ignore what Naruto was doing to him. It wasn't like Naruto didn't understand: he knew that having someone stretching and all that in the rectal area wasn't really arousing, at first.

However, Naruto cursed out when he realised that one vital thing was missing: he hadn't brought lube along with him, not having counted on getting laid tonight. The problem was that he had no idea how to explain this to Sasuke.

“We can't really do this.”

“What is it again?”

“The lube – I don't have any.”

“Use spit, then.”

In another circumstance, Naruto would have thought that Sasuke's practical way of thinking was a blessing; however, he didn't feel like jesting now.

“Hell no. It'll hurt.”

"Then use shampoo -- it's in the bathroom."

"No-"

Sasuke just shook his head and with his head pointed to where the bathroom was, Naruto saw no other way, but to obey him. At least, it was better than using nothing. After he came him, he was still dubious and said:

"Perhaps, it'd be better-"

“Use it, Naruto. Or get out," Sasuke muttered angrily.

“You-”

“I warn you,” Sasuke said, his eyes narrowed into slits and promising nothing good. He was breathing heavily underneath Naruto and his arousal was brushing against Naruto's inner thighs.

Well, if he was going to be like this – Naruto had no other choice, really. He uncapped the lid of the shampoo, smeared it on his hand and when all the preparations were done, entered Sasuke with his fingers again – slowly and as gently as he could. He wasn't going to to do this without preparing him. Properly.

“Naruto- fuck...” Sasuke mumbled out in pleasure or pain; Naruto had no idea which it was.

Have it your way.

This time, Sasuke squirmed and groaned; the discomfort from earlier seemed to have disappeared and heightened his sense of frustration. His fingernails were scraping against Naruto's back, leaving angry marks on his skin behind. It was painful and arousing at the same time. Naruto could barely endure it himself – he wanted this just as badly, even though part of him was still doubting the rightness of it.

Sasuke didn't leave him time to think, but hissed and with a skill and fastness that struck Naruto speechless, drew Naruto close to him and thrusting upwards with his hips, nearly frantically conveyed that he was ready.

“You're such a bastard, Sasuke.”

He didn't let Sasuke respond, but kissed him hard, forcing his mouth apart with a roughness that was nearly beastly. If Sasuke had wanted him to be tender, he would have taken this slow and gently, but this wasn't what the other needed. So, Naruto was wiled to give Sasuke what he desired.

He entered Sasuke in one swift movement, not waiting for Sasuke to get adjusted to the sensation of having him inside. But he didn't move immediately, either. It was hard, though.Sasuke was awfully tight, hot and everything else that Naruto couldn't help out groaning loudly – he had never been with someone so virginal before. Then again, there was no comparison to this: Sasuke felt good, impossibly good.

“Are you hurt?”

“No. It's fine.”

Sasuke didn't look to be in any kind of tremendous pain, although the discomfort he felt showed plainly on his features; he was trying his best to appear unconcerned, but Naruto didn't buy it. Feeling sentimental, he kissed Sasuke's sweat-soaked forehead and then, moved to attack Sasuke's neck with kisses. Sasuke began to breathe heavily and sighed, thus giving Naruto the cue that it was fine to move now.

His hips gave an experimental thrust, wanting to see how Sasuke would react to it: Sasuke gasped and his hands latched themselves around Naruto's neck.

“Move faster, do it harder,” Sasuke ordered, his voice shaky with desire and something else Naruto couldn't quite place. It was despair, happiness and anger all mixed into one – jaded, bitter and euphoric at the same time. Naruto wanted to be gentle, wanted to take this slowly and show Sasuke how much he cared. However, the tightness was driving him crazy and the whole tension of the past few months, weeks and days crashed unto him all at once; he started to pound into Sasuke relentlessly, claiming and making Sasuke his own with each thrust. Sasuke didn't mind at all; his fingernails scratched Naruto's back and he writhed under Naruto.

“Sasuke, I -”

“Shh, don't talk. Just don't say a word.”

Sasuke was moaning now, his low voice sounding sexier and more alluring than Naruto had ever believed it to be possible. Although it was dark, the daylight peeking in through the window gave him a good glimpse of Sasuke's beautiful features contorting with pleasure. Yet, there was something nearly forced and wrong about this, something that tugged at Naruto's heartstrings, even while he rode out his own orgasm and reaching climax, buried his head in Sasuke's, trying to ignore the guilt building up inside of him. Sasuke came shuddering under him, panting and moaning loudly.

He had really fucked things up. But, while Naruto was guilt-ridden like this, Sasuke's hands started to caress his hair and his lips kissed Naruto's forehead.

“Sasuke-” Naruto asked, lifting his head from the position and looking into his lover's face. He wasn't smiling, but there was something Naruto had never seen in his eyes before – gentleness and reassurance. No, he wasn't being sappy here. Sasuke wasn't wearing his trademark scowl and by tenderly letting his fingers slide down Naruto's neck, curling them around his shoulders, Naruto – with a pang in his heart – realised that he was the one being consoled, not vice versa. That day had been sheer hell for Sasuke, but he was still like this – if Naruto could have cried at that moment, he would have.

“Don't think too much, idiot,” Sasuke whispered quietly; his voice was different from usual – rougher and raw with emotion. He didn't sound exasperated at all – rather truly concerned.

“You're the idiot,” Naruto responded and buried his face in Sasuke's unruly, messy hair, wishing that he could remain like this forever.
-------------