so i saw this amazing fanart by tumblr user leiandroid, which was originally inspired by one more night by maroon 5, and i kept thinking about it and listening to that song and ta-da i had this
ps everyone should go check out her kibaino art b/c it's amazing
pps sorry in advance for terribleness; i just really needed to get this fic out of me. also if there are any typos or such i apologize for those as well; i'm currently posting from my phone.
i don't own naruto
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He knows that they have a pretty fucked up relationship (if you can even call it a relationship, that is; he thinks they might have left that behind a long time ago); no, really, he does, and so does Ino. No matter what the rumours flying say, they both are plenty aware of the fact that whatever this is that they have is most certainly not the healthiest sort of affair (it's not the worst one in Konoha, though, and that has to count for something, right?)
Knowing that sure as hell doesn't stop them from coming back, though; night after night after night they keep this thing going, and while he knows that he shouldn't, he loves it.
It's like a sickness that you just can't shake, he thinks. Or, no; it's like a tattoo, just like a tattoo, actually. It started with one decision, made in the dead of night, and now he's got the mark of it on him for life, just like the blood red swirl of ink that decorates his left shoulder.
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This thing (he doesn't particularly like referring to it as that, but he really doesn't have a better word) that they have; it started probably a year and a half ago, when they first had a joint ANBU mission. He wasn't supposed to know if it was her behind the mask that bore the painted face of a mouse, of course, and she had a genjutsu running to disguise herself anyways, because her hair would tip off anyone, even if she had chopped it all off the night they returned from the battlefield of the war. There was still something in the way that the agent across from him held herself, thought, and it absolutely screamed Ino.
He hadn't said to her that he knew it was her until after they had finished their mission, until they were safely ensconced in the small apartment given to them for use during this assignment, washing off blood and wrapping bandages around their wounds to hold themselves together 'til the medics could have a go at them. She'd stood at the one mirror of the place, mask still on and shirt off, revealing bound breasts and a bloody stab wound in her stomach. She wound the gauze once, twice, thrice; he sat on own of the single beds, supposedly wrapping a roll of cloth around his own stab wound on his right arm but really watching her.
Then there was his voice cutting through the thick silence, low and rough but still with every word clear.
"I know it's you, Ino. You can take off that damn mask."
She he doesn't move, doesn't say anything back, just keeps winding gauze about the wound on her stomach. When it's wrapped to her liking she tucks in the loose end carefully, making sure it won't come loose. Then, in one slow, careful move, she turns, simultaneously removing the ANBU mask and dropping the genjutsu that had kept her hair a dark, nondescript black for the duration of their assignment.
Before him stands a girl with eyes the bright bright blue of an ocean and hair cut close to her head but still the same vibrant gold he recalls from childhood. Blood still drips from her arm, from a cut she hasn't wrapped yet, and her mouth is set in a grim line, but he thinks she has never looked more beautiful than she does right now.
He doesn't clearly remember what came next: he recalls his hands on her hips and his mouth covering hers, and her nails scratching down his back and her mouth pressing back hard against his, and that they ended up tumbling down onto one of the beds; but the rest is blurry and indistinct, the only thing relating it to the memories before a flash of gold hair mixed with red-tinged brown.
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They'd reported success on their mission, said nothing of anything else that had transpired (ANBU doesn't particularly care what its agents do in their free time, so long as it doesn't affect work; and besides, it's nobody's business but theirs). He doesn't know who has a say on what agents go on which missions, but whoever it is, they must have liked what they saw, because they get assigned the same mission again, separate leaders of two squads temporarily aligning.
They're not as battered after his one; there are a few cuts, a lot more bruises in varying shades of bad, but they've definitely done better than the last mission. He's in his room, undoing his armor and trying not to hit any of his own bruises, when the knock comes on the door. When he opens it, there's Ino, mask in hand and a challenge written in her face and words—"You up, dog boy?"
That's how it goes. They get put on a team together almost every week, now, and at the end, after the battle's been fought and won, one of them makes the trip to the other's room and they tumble down together onto whatever surface is readily available. It shouldn't be like this, he knows; their relationship shouldn't be based off of the need for a stress release, or a quick round in bed, or whatever it is that they started this off. As he catches her thin waist in his hands and mouths at her neck and feels her nails, long and sharp, drag down his back, narrowly missing the spot where a sword caught him, he promises himself that this is the last time—only one more night.
(He knows he's lying to himself, but whatever.)