DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN NARUTO.

ALSO, IT'S MY FIRST YAOI LEMON FIC SO IT MAY BE CRAPPY.

"You love me. Real or not real?"
I tell him, "Real."

-Suzanne Collins

Mockingjay

It wasn't forbidden, but it also wasn't right, either. It wasn't right, but strictly speaking it wasn't wrong. It wasn't wrong, and it wasn't forbidden, so it should've been right.

But it wasn't right

it wasn't right all

it was a conundrum of the worst sort

because he wasn't sure what it was.

Well, in the physical sense, he knew what it was. Sex, to put it simply; pure and simple. Hot, heavy, and slightly animalistic and definitely carnal sex. Sex that he enjoyed oh, so thoroughly. Sex that could make his head spin if he thought too much about it; sex that was the best thing about his day, his week, his month, year, decade, century, existence. He never thought he'd enjoy sex as much as he did, but then again, the person he was engaged in with was probably the best partner to do it with, because They didn't care what he did for him, as long as they both did it to the best of their ability—which, much to his enjoyment, they did; if Their screams of pleasure was anything remotely similar to proof of the fact. Bondage, exhibitionism, subjugation, sado-masochism; they together did anything and everything, and They enjoyed the thrill because through everything, nothing something to be getting them caught.

It was dangerous

and it was amazing

and while he wished it wouldn't end

at the same time, he wanted it to.

He wasn't a person who liked the feeling of being confused—in fact, he tried to avoid it if at all possible. The type of job he had requested that he keep a clear mind that was above and on every situation that could possibly thrown out at him. He couldn't afford to be conflicted, confused, misunderstanding, or preoccupied. If he was any of those things, his ass risked getting fired. Being fired was exactly the last thing he could possibly want. Not to say he couldn't get another job, but he would really rather not have a mark on his resume that was anything less than satisfactory.

He knew the risks

he understood the cons

but he did it anyways.

Why, he had no clue whatsoever. Maybe the escape from the regularity of a humdrum life was something he craved so desperately deep down and the desire was simply now consuming him in his entirety. Maybe the adrenaline rush he got from it was simply too amazing to give up. Maybe despite all his complaining he really was a masochist deep down, and enjoyed the marks left on his skin for all to see. Maybe he enjoyed the feeling of being dominated, or subjugated; and enjoyed the feeling of being a necessary part in someone else's life; a sense of regularity and steadiness. Maybe he was enthralled with the ability that he had over Them; this capability to make Them weak at the knees just at the mention of a new game that they together would be playing.

Maybe it was all of those and more

he didn't know

he tried to play as if it didn't matter

that didn't mean to say he didn't care, however.

When people saw him in the street, they saw a powerful man capable of powerful things. A well-pressed, dry-cleaned, tailored suit and a no-nonsense attitude could get you that far without any problem whatsoever, but he knew that most people knew him past his appearance. They knew of his reputation.

He was a "disappear artist"—which, in his world, meant that he made problems go away. Cheated on your wife? No, you didn't. You have no mistress in Minnesota. You have no mistress in Albequerce. These women have never seen you before. Those claims were never made. Those children aren't yours. At least, they wouldn't be with a little tempering with a paternity test; all for the low price of three hundred thousand dollars deposited into a nondescript bank account under the name Mark Twain. Or Edgar Poe. John Steinback, sometimes. Perhaps even Reginald Hill. It didn't matter. Everyone who mattered knew who he was, what he did. People on the streets knew what he was capable of. Get into contact with him, he can do wonders. Some called him the business world's ninja. He didn't care what he was called, as long as he got paid.

People feared him

and he didn't mind it

what mattered to him was what He thought of him.

When he caught the male, he'd been surprised. He was a more innocent type, in his opinion (or, more correctly, former opinion). He was from a different sort of life than he was from. A different world, even. Speaking with an analytical outlook, they shouldn't even have a thing in common, and therefore, nothing to speak about. And plus... he was a male.

That part was the oddest part for him. Up until meeting this oddity, he'd been into a very particular group of people-high-powered, light haired, light-eyed, well-endowed females. People he would stay with for a couple of days before calling it quits and moving onto the next target. He was okay with any fetish of any type. He was okay with it all. He could handle everything and anything—his job required as much. It required him to be completely and totally versatile and ready for absolutely anything this world could and would possibly and throw his way.

So why couldn't he handle Him?

He did his best, and physically; it was possible. Three, sometimes four times a week, he satisfied all of His physical desires through any means He asked for. He had sex in the oddest of places at the oddest of times for the best outcomes. Handling Him physically was fine; he excelled at it in fact. But... emotionally? Mentally? No. He didn't know how. They were on completely different levels. This man—this wondrous man—was far more intelligent than he was. He was capable of so much more than him. He could find a partner far more satisfying than he was. Or more normal—preferably more normal. He deserved normal.

Why didn't He leave

why did He stay

why did he feel this way... this way that made him believe he'd keel over and die if He simply left

since when was simple and satisfying sex a complication?

He saw Them for the first time at work.

He knew fully well who They were when he came in. How could he not? Every high-powered business that had its foot in every industry known to man had its share of scandals. What the current scandal was, he wasn't sure. He'd long since stopped paying attention to any of that bull crap. It wasn't in his job description to care about it. What he was, before all else, was an office lackey. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn't want to be involved in anything even remotely similar to his boss's lives. It simply wasn't something that made a difference in his life. It didn't make the pay any better. It didn't help make affording his apartment any easier. It was a trivial matter that he chose to pay no mind to.

He didn't care about the scandals or why They were called in, but he, like every other employee, noticed Them when They came in. It was impossible not to. Here comes a proud, well-off man with a successful career (no matter how back-door the career was) and an aura about Them that made one wish that they could keel to any command that came from Them perfect face—only an idiot wouldn't stare, and he didn't think of himself as an idiot of any sort.

They, upon existing that elevator

walked as if They owned that 49th floor of that building

Their eyes not gracing any one person with more than a moment of a gaze

including himself.

Of course, that quickly changed when he accidentally spilled coffee on Their front after running back from Starbucks' on East 41st from a lunch break that he was late coming back from. He'd been meeting up with his best friend and they'd been talking so long that they'd gone overtime. Running back, he somehow managed to not notice the bike messenger who decided to rip up the sidewalk instead of the street until they'd been practically on top of him. In an effort to keep himself from getting injured, he jumped to the side and tackled Them down to the ground and nailed Their slick black suit with the remnants of his black coffee.

He expected to get the shit kicked out of him

if not killed

but he didn't expect

Them to stand up

and offer him a hand.

That first time he saw Him—really saw him—He'd football-tackled him to the ground and spilled lukewarm black and overly sweetened coffee all over his suit.

Usually, his first reaction would be to get up and kick some ass

however

he found himself interested

in that messy bedhead of brown hair

and those large loose wrinkly earlobe that begged to be plugged with something

and those odd tattoos that he could see whenever He moved His arms.

He helped Him without thinking about it, shaking his head in response whenever He offered in that flustered way of His to pay for the cleaning of his suit, and apologized six ways from Sunday for having dirtied it. If it were anyone else, he might've minded. But he'd never felt as interested in someone as he was in this man. He was an intriguing and seemingly-innocent worker bee in a grungy, punky sort of way, what with the obvious marks of lobe expansion and the tattoos on both His arms and even His cheeks.

He had no doubts that He'd spent a plethora of nights in the depths of a mosh pit

running around

and hitting

and kicking wildly

in the beat of the pounding drums

and the rhythm of the screeching guitar.

He apologized again, and at that, he gave the soft vestiges of a smile.

"Tell me your name," he requested.

He did.

"Don't worry about the suit," he told Him, "I can clean it. It's a non-issue."

He asked again if he could clean it.

"Nope," he responded, smirking. "I think I've kept you long enough. Coming back from lunch? You were running, so were you late?"

He nodded.

"Tell your boss that I kept you after. Tell him I wanted a fuller background to feed to the Times," he said.

His eyes went so wide that he was sure they'd bug out of His head, and He immediately started thanking him.

"It's no problem."

It wasn't until they parted ways that he realized that he really was telling the truth with that last statement. A life of lies and dropping lies on top of lies to make them go away makes you really get used to the idea of never saying a single truth. It makes someone really appreciate a singular truth, and that singular truth was the first truth he'd spoken to someone who wasn't related to him or truly close to him in about three years.

The next time he saw Them, it was at his best friend's wedding six months later—the same best friend he'd been at that Starbucks so late for to meet up with. She was one of two people he'd ever call a best friend, and so of course he called sick from work in order to attend her wedding. He wanted to stand beside her when she came to the altar, but her father was a traditionalist at heart so he had to stand alongside her groom and his best man.

They were the best man

and They must've recognized him

because

They greeted him by name.

"Ah... uh... I didn't think you would remember me," he whispered after They questioned his look of surprise.

They smirked at him and mentioned that he was slightly distinguishing.

He looked down at the back of his hands after rubbing tattooed cheeks, where the edge of his tattoos was peaking out from underneath his black jacket. Oh. "You saw them?"

They nodded, and then mentioned that the office he worked in seemed like the straight-laced type that would've normally fired him for it.

"No. I'm too good at my job." He smiled lopsidedly. "As long as I don't come into work with my tapers in and I cover them all up, they don't care."

That was pretty much the end of all conversation, due to the fact that the music signalling the entrance of the bride came up, and he didn't get a chance to start a conversation with Them again until the reception. And, even then, he didn't. He wasn't sure why They were interested in speaking with him. He was normal. He lived a normal life. There was absolutely nothing special about him, or his job, or his life. They were all sorts of interesting. He heard rumors about Them fathering five children. He heard stories about Them being the owner of several islands in the south Pacific. He heard tales about Them single-handedly getting the current present president into office. Their entire life was something out of a movie. He couldn't level up to that.

"Dance with me," requested his best friend, interrupting him from his thoughts.

He smiled into her beautiful face. "Okay."

Her now-husband was busy talking it up with Them, and so she decided that their first dance would wait until they finished. "They're talking business, I suppose," she sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"How do they know each other?" he asked.

"Well, you know what he does, right?" she asked, and he nodded. "Well, they were mentor and student."

"Your husband is a disappear artist?" he asked, raising his brows. Talk about financial security.

"Yes. I met him through my father. My dad was friends with his mentor," she said softly, "Who just so happens to be the president's late father."

He whistled. "Small world."

She giggled softly. "Yes, it is."

"So have you talked to him?"

"Occasionally. He's quite difficult to speak with, actually. He doesn't start conversations."

"Really?" he asked, brow furrowing. It certainly hadn't seemed that way when they'd spoken at the altar.

"Really. I don't think he likes me, though, so that may be why," she said.

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Because I did the impossible. I tied down his mentor."

"That you most certainly did," said the mentor in question, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into him. She giggled, turning pink in the cheeks, and he kissed each one without hesitation. He looked up at him with those mismatched eyes of his, amusement lighting up the orbs. "Sorry to interrupt your dance, but my socially inept student wants to speak with you."

He frowned. "Where?"

"Went out to the balcony I think."

His face scrunched up. "It's cold."

"Yup. Have fun with that."

He was cold. In retrospect, asking Him out to the balcony in the middle of February was a stupid notion, but he'd be damned before he allowed any of these people in attendance (most of whom had probably never even met his mentor before in their entire lives) to hear what he was saying. This was… private. There was no other way to put it other than that. It was simply a private matter, between himself and Him.

"Sorry, are you cold?" he asked softly.

He grumbled out a yes.

"I'll try to be brief, then. I am interested in you."

He immediately looked confused and angry, and asked him what he thought this was.

His mentor was right; he was really inept when it came to talking to people on a friendly stage. Something to work on, perhaps? "Not sexual. I apologize for any misconstrued notion I caused. What I mean is… I'd like to know you better."

He cocked His head to the side and asked if he wanted to be friends.

"I suppose," he responded, nodding and pulling out one of business cards from his pocket. "Here. You can contact me this way."

He frowned and asked if it was his cell on this card.

"I need to be reached at odd times. It is my cell, and my business phone number."

He asked for a home phone.

He smirked at that. "No. The only person who has it is the groom. Please don't take it personally."

He hoped to God that He wouldn't take it personally

because

He was too interesting for him to want Him to take it personally.

The month faded into the next, and into the next, and before he really knew it, it was six months later and he was still deliberating giving Them a call. To say he was hesitant was putting it extremely mildly. He was admittedly curious as to the reasons They had behind giving him a way to get into contact with Them, but at the same time, he was scared to call and find out that They didn't even remember him. Didn't even know him.

Because

that would hurt

that would hurt a lot.

He probably would've kept avoiding calling, but circumstances had called for it, circumstances that were far out of his control; as was much that was involved in the hell that is known as life.

He was at a concert all night—not just any concert; mind you, but an Asking Alexandria concert. An Asking Alexandria concert that he had ended up in the middle of a mosh pit of. An Asking Alexandria mosh pit that, after its effects, some of its members slipped him some drugs. A drug which, in the heat of the moment, he decided to take, not knowing that the drug in question, in its little capsules, was some crushed up ecstasy and, apparently, Sildenafil. Or, as it usually went by, Viagra.

It was embarrassing, but also amazing that he didn't die. The ecstasy made him loopy and excited, and the Viagra… made him excited. Powerfully so, in fact. When he'd tried to take care of the issue in the restroom, it still wasn't gone. He'd ridden the train all the way back to Brooklyn trying to hide the tent in his pants with the drawstring bag he'd been smart enough to bring.

And then came the problem

and that was

he couldn't get rid of it himself

and he didn't know who to ask to get rid of it.

After about the fifth time jerking off, he was worried that he'd have to go to the hospital, and he certainly wasn't in any state to drive, nor was he overly eager to walk in and ask them to stick his dick with a needle. No. He couldn't do that to himself.

He had groaned and deliberated calling the police, house phone in hand, when his eyes landed on Their business card.

He tried to fight it, but… but he needed help. Awkward as may be, he needed the help.

He had been in the middle of a threesome with two buxom blond women when his cell phone went off. An odd time, but business was business and the scandals never stopped, not even for a moment of pleasure that he really wasn't finding with either of these women, or the women he'd had earlier, or the ones from yesterday. For about six months, he hadn't been really been fucking rather than simply having sex for the sake of routine. Funny. It started being about pleasure the night of his mentor's wedding. The same night he asked Him to give him a call.

Six months of silence

and

six months of a lack of satisfaction.

He pushed one girl off his nipple, but allowed the other to continue with her empathetical attempt at giving him head. He saw no reason not to allow the continuation of such a heart-felt blowjob. It was getting him off, but it wasn't really spectacular so it wouldn't leave him unable to speak on the phone. He picked up his iPhone, not even pausing to look at the unrecognized number.

They picked up

They picked up

If he were a girl, he'd squeal right now.

"I… um… do you remember me?" he asked, fumbling with his words.

He could almost hear the awkwardness, and then They asked for his name.

Like an idiot, he'd forgotten to say his name. Voices sounded different over the phone, especially after six months!

Idiot, he chastised himself.

How could he have not recognized that voice over the phone?

He nearly pushed the girl off of his dick.

"Agh… I'm sorry," he apologized, fumbling over his words for the first time. The girl he'd pushed off his nipple whined, but he ignored them. "I didn't recognize your voice over the phone. What's up? How are you?"

He winced audibly over the phone, and he frowned. What was wrong? Was He hurt? His blood boiled at the very thought of it. He couldn't be hurt. No way in hell could they be hurt.

"What's wrong?" he asked, now pushing the girl off. She complained, but he didn't care.

He was in pain

He was suffering

and

someone was going to pay for it.

He tried to stop him, but he was already pulling on a pair of black jeans. "Where are you?" he asked, fishing for a clean pair of boxers.

He responded with a 'home'. Such a beautiful, nondescript little word.

"Give me your address," he immediately ordered.

As if it were a job

as if it were his problem

because to him

anyone who fucked with Him

just fucked with him, too.

He pushed the girls out of his apartment before locking it behind him, flying out of the building, to the parking lot, and to his expensive car that he seldom ever drove (even with his reputation, getting a parking space in New York City was a bitch; and it was more intimidating to come out of his company's limousine than the carbon black Aston Martin V12 Vantage, somehow). Before he even knew it, he was already on the BrooklynBridge, already on his way to the happily easily-accessible Prospect Park area of Brooklyn.

"I'll be there in ten."

Though given proper and more than adequate warning, he hadn't expected the bell to be ringing when it did. Flustered beyond belief, as well as excited, he sprinted to the door, yanking it open and nearly off its hinges—he'd left it unlocked because They were coming—and pulled Them into his apartment, not giving even a moment to think. Overcome with the drugs in his system, he grabbed Them and shoved them against the wall as he slammed the door shut, not thinking as he slammed his lips down upon Theirs, erection twitching, begging for a release.

Naturally, however

(because one does not simply tackle someone and expect to get away with it)

he was punched

for what had to be the umpteenth time that night

and for the first time that night

it was on purpose.

They were beet red, the same color as Their abnormal red eyes, and They were livid. Actually, he wasn't quite sure livid covered it, but what with the need for a release being denied with several unsatisfying and painful dry orgasms and the fact that the drugs responsible for inducing it were still running powerfully through his body, along with the strong amounts of lust, worry, fear, and just general need; he couldn't think of another word to describe it beside livid. All he could think to do was palm himself, moaning like some porn star or whore, eyes half-lidded. Now that They were there, he wanted to beg for Their help. He would bend over backwards for it. He needed it; needed Them.

When he looked up Them again

the livid look was gone

and replaced with interest

and lust

and uncertainty

but mostly lust.

He moaned again, arching his back as he tore back off the loose pajama bottoms he'd managed to put on when he got home, one hand teasing his erect member, the other fondling his testicles. It felt so damned good. He wanted it to be gone. Now. He needed it gone now.

"Please," he begged.

He was begging for him.

Begging.

His heart thumped in his chest as beheld the writhing, begging, lustful and sexually ready young man laying on the floor of His apartment, masturbating without a care to anything around Him. What was wrong, he still didn't know, but he'd have to be an idiot to not figure that it had nothing to do with the raging erection. How long had He had it? Why hadn't He gone to the hospital?

Why

out of everyone possible

did He call

him?

Did He somehow know that he lacked self-restraint and general decency?

In the back of his mind, he wondered if he was even truly sexually attracted to Him but then He moaned again and he quickly decided that he was, and it was something he'd think about later, because right now... right now duty seemed to be calling to him.

He got onto his knees in front of His, pushing His legs apart and settling himself between the two [bare] thighs that hid a rosy pucker that he fully intended on exploiting. He smirked to himself as he gently managed to pull His hands from his balls, leveling his face with the sex organs and fondling them with his tongue. He arched again, whimpering piteously.

He was like putty

in his hands

and he fully intended

on using His body

however he liked.

A hand—his hand—began to lazily stroke, up and down, the erected male organ that he'd pushed Him away from, making Him beg aloud for more, allowed Him to whimper and sob and moan and groan to His heart's content. He did it not with the intention of torturing, but with the intention of pleasuring. He wanted to hear everything He had to offer and more. Absolutely everything.

He licked around the tip of it before mercilessly plunging it deep into his mouth. In the back of his mind, he realized that this was only the second blowjob he'd ever given in his life—the first having gone to his idiotic best friend, AKA the current president [a secret he promised to take to the grave for the sake of his wife] and worried about whether or not it was any good until He screamed his name at the top of His very capable lungs, thrashing and writhing some more. Smiling around it, he sucked as hard as he could, tongue flat against the bottom as he moved his lips up and down, his hands pushing down on His hips in an effort to keep Him from going too deep and triggering his gag reflex.

Because it would be

a major mood killer

if he puked in the middle of giving head.

Lights flashed and danced and strobed behind his closed eyelids, accompanied by the music that were his own moans and shouts and whines and pleas. His body shook with the heat that enveloped him from head to toe, losing control over himself as They sucked on him, as They used those dangerous and feared lips of Theirs on his dick, sucking as if Their life depended on it.

"Ah! Ah! More! Please!" he sobbed.

They merely chuckled and made him moan louder.

They were torturing him

by doing this

by not listening to him

by refusing to go further

and denying his release

which he so desperately needed.

"I'll do anything!" he promised, body attempting to arch more but those warm hands on his hips were refusing him.

Just like They were refusing him.

His smirk changed into a full-blown smile as his free hand made its way to that rosy pucker he so wanted to try out, his finger pressing against the warm muscle. He swore loudly, trying to tug himself away, but he wouldn't have that.

"Ah-ah-ah. You promised anything," he reminded him.

Fuck that! Anything but that!

He writhed, trying to get away this time rather than get closer, but his body wasn't trying as hard as it should. He watched Them raise Their hand to his lips, and gave a simple, one word instruction.

"Suck."

"No! Fuck that!"

He frowned. He wasn't expecting a no.

However, he would not be deterred. "Suck it or I'll finger you dry."

"I don't want to bottom."

"You called me," he reminded Him pointedly, "If you wanted a willing hole, you should've called a bitch. You called me."

"I... I don't know what I was thinking. I'm not in firm of mind."

"I don't need you to be to fuck you. It's not a requirement."

"Why can't I fuck you?"

He hummed. "Maybe later. Not right now. I want your ass. Now suck."

He knew that it was possible that he wouldn't have won

however

He needed release more.

"I fuck you right after," He ordered.

He smirked. "Sure. Now suck it so I can finger you."

"Fuck," He whimpered before He allowed his digits past His lips, sucking as hard as He could on them and giving them as much saliva as the glands would allow. He stared, enthralled by the extreme amount of effort He was giving in, allowing a low moan to escape his lips.

"Stop," he ordered, ripping his fingers away and, without ceremony, shoving them into His tight little hole.

He arched off of the floor, curse words leaving his lips as he tried to ignore the considerable amount of pain he felt at the breach. He wanted to scream his head off and beg Them to stop, but…

…that part They were touching did feel awfully good.

Especially when They

angled Their fingers

just like that.

"G-God!" he moaned, trying to get back the same feeling by thrusting into Their fingers, now unabashedly horny and really wanting this. He was still mad that he was the one getting anally fucked, but then again, why not enjoy this? After all, it obviously felt good—and by good, he meant absolutely mind-blowingly amazing. He wanted more, simply put. He actually liked this feeling, this feeling of being touched in this intimate and slightly odd way, this feeling of getting truly fucked.

"Like it?" They teased, twisting Their fingers as they tapped against his prostate, making him swear and moan. They grinned cheekily down at him and began to spread his tight ring, bringing back some pain but not an unbearable amount, not like when They'd shoved them in to begin with out ceremony. "Loooove it?" They had the audacity to purr at him.

"I AM GOING TO FUCK YOU INTO THE GROUND WHEN THIS IS THROUGH!" he proclaimed through his moans.

"If you live through this," They told him, Their free hand returning to fondling his testicles as They leaned over him, Their tongue escaping Their lips and flicking against a hard nipple before taking it between Their teeth, turning it without problem. Sweat made his body glisten, and his pants became harder as he felt his peak coming around, all of this playing with him getting to his head. He could hardly think straight. All he wanted to do was scream his name and beg for mercy and just revel in this feeling and oh holy shit how good that felt!

"More! More! Harder!" he moaned.

"Don't rush this," They teased.

"Fuck you! I've been hard for hours! If I ask for more, give me fucking more!"

"You didn't ask, though," They said, suddenly mischievous and having him fearing the worse. They removed that hand from his testicles and withdrew from his asshole almost all the way, leaving only the tip of Their fingers in the tight ring. He began writhing again, pushing against the digits in an attempt to get them to strike his prostate again.

"Fuck me!" he begged.

"Here's how we're doing this. I will fuck you, just as you want, only if you truly ask… and ask politely. Use my name. And make sure that I know that you… really… want… my… hard… cock," They purred evilly as They shoved Their hand underneath Their jeans, stroking Their own hard-on. They groaned with the feeling, keeping eye contact with him as They shallowly thrust Their digits into his tight hole and stroked themselves to the sight of him. He wanted to be angry at Them for prolonging his desperately needed release, but damn, he…

He fucking liked this.

"P-Please…" he said, needy beyond belief, reaching out for Them with outstretched fingers, "Please, please, fuck me…"

"You forgot my name," They reminded him, "Say my name with your polite question—no vulgarity, or I will walk out."

He gulped. "Please, please… please have sex with me… make me feel good... oh, God, please, Sasuke…"

His name sounded so sexy leaving His lips.

Sasuke grinned, removing his hand finally, ignoring His groaned complaint as he stood up, making a show out of stripping himself of his clothing, making sure that He got the full experience of what he was getting, from the thin hairs on his chest, to the thin line from his navel leading into his waistband, to the lean musculature that was his upper body. By the time he'd actually pulled off his shirt, He was already playing with himself again.

"I've never been so attracted to a guy before," He admitted softly.

He nodded, smirking. "That makes the two of us," he said without thinking, a fact which he questioned later, realizing it was true. Moving slowly, he unbuckled his belt, undoing the button just as slowly (something he never did and was only doing to continue to tease). He moaned, entire body quivering with anticipation. Before he pulled down his zip, heleveled Him with a stare. "Why me?" he finally asked.

"I… I dunno… but we're here now… so do it… please… I want you… Sasuke, please…" He replied, His voice practically a hoarse whisper.

He had Him wrapped completely around his finger

and he didn't want to let go of that sort of control

ever.

He yanked off his pants, getting onto his knees and yanking Him towards him, not hesitating on impaling Him with his cock.

"FUCK! SASUKE! SASUKE! SASUKE!"

It was painful

so painful

but

it felt

so

fucking

good.

He moaned like a first-class whore as Sasuke thrust into him relentlessly, not going gentle or sweet, but rather plowing into him hard and fast with real power behind the movements of those enticing hips of his. He couldn't keep his eyes open now as he let this feeling take him over, let Sasuke push his legs into his chest, let Sasuke press his chest against the back of his thighs, let Sasuke's hands leave their bruises all over his legs where he gripped him too harshly, let Sasuke's dick continue to throw him absolutely wild and out of control as he helped him get rid of the drug's effects. His mind had gone almost completely blank of his usual proud thoughts, instead falling into the feeling that was completely Sasuke.

Though Sasuke had been adamant about him being the 'pitcher', he otherwise submitted to his will. When he asked Sasuke to play with his balls, he did it. When he asked Sasuke to lick his nipples, he did. And when he asked Sasuke to go harder, Sasuke was unhesitant to do exactly that. He didn't switch positions until he asked, which, much to his own surprise, he did ask for,—pressing his stomach against the hardwood floor, Sasuke's strong body above his, moving unrelenting in and out of him, driving him absolutely crazy.

Why hadn't he tried this before, sex with men? It was fucking amazing!

"Sasuke! More! I'm close! My dick! Touch my dick!" he begged

Sasuke panted out a laugh—or a moan, he couldn't tell—and peeled off his back, pulling up his hips as he straightened his back, his hand grasping the painfully erect penis between the legs of the subject of his passions, moving up and down the shaft with quick movements, Sasuke's other hand tangling into the messy brown locks that covered his head. He screamed when he felt Sasuke's fingers tugging on his head, expecting it to be from pain but finding that it was from pleasure.

When had pain transferred into pleasure?

He felt his peak arising, and he found himself even less in control of himself as he pulled himself up, pressing his back into Sasuke's chest and widening his legs as Sasuke sat back on his heels, the new angle somehow adding to increase his pleasure to an previously assumed impossible point.

He was screeching in his ears, but unlike when the whores he slept with did it, Sasuke found it enjoyable to hear. Without even really hearing the words that He was saying, he thrust harder, faster; the peak he was so looking forwards to on the visible horizons. He'd never felt this way before, with anyone. Not with the whores, not with the sluts, not with anyone. Never before did he see those stars dancing in his vision, those stars that people talked about when having sex. Never before did his body gleam with the sweat from the effort of pleasing his partner and only his partner, and in that finding pleasure himself.

This was new

this was amazing

and he wanted more.

"I'm coming," he whispered hotly into His ear, knowing he didn't have much left and that He didn't either. "I want you to scream for me."

He leaned His head back against his shoulder, eyes closed tight, body moving with the strength of Sasuke's thrusts. "You better scream for me, too," He ordered through his moans and pants.

Sasuke chuckled. Of course even now He would try to be dominate. "Of course I will."

He opened His mouth to speak more, but instead of words, more moans fell out of His lips, and Sasuke took it as a sign to speed up his hand job. He was really interested in seeing this orgasm, this—

Ho

ly

shit.

Back arching, eyes wide open, body quivering, skin flaming, semen spurting out of the red angry tip; that orgasm of His was something that Sasuke only read about in those porn novels. In this moment, He was the definition of pure sexuality, pure hotness, and that was what had Sasuke tipping over his own edge, spilling own semen into His tight opening as he yelled one two-syllable word alongside with His long scream of his name:

"KIBA!"

It was that night that he agreed to be lovers.

It was still confounding.

It was always confounding.

But

the thing was

he liked being confounded

he liked being Sasuke Uchiha's lover

because he liked to feel good

because he liked to feel amazing

because he knew that even though he was confused

and scared

and worried about where they would end

and what they would become

that he loved Sasuke Uchiha

and that wouldn't change.

That night he became lovers with Kiba Inuzuka was the oddest night of his life.

It'd been pleasurable

and exciting

and amazing

and he had found the best lay in his life

and it was also confusing

and scary

and too emotional for words to describe

and it had him confused

angry

afraid

overly protective

vulnerable

and happy.

So happy.

Being with Kiba made him happy. He was odd and fascinating and so much not like the world he lived in that he somehow slipped and fell into love with him.

He figured out how his teacher felt when he married Hinata. He would do anything for him—and, with the type of world he lived in, was only short of sending all those who caused him wrong into the sun.

He loved him.

He wanted him.

And so

when Kiba asked Sasuke to be his boyfriend

and Sasuke asked Kiba to move in with him

He

They

(knowing the cons)

(knowing it wasn't right [but wasn't wrong])

said

yes.

END

My birthday gift (it is my birthday this week) for all of you guys.

Reviews?