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And the Beat Goes On
Chapter 22: Rebel!

"Iruka, please," Naruto whined, his knees becoming very well acquainted with the linoleum of the kitchen floor.

"No," Iruka said, not once turning back to look at the blond, begging on his knees and kept stirring whatever he was cooking.

No, Naruto was not begging Iruka to sexually gratify him. Naruto was not that hard-up that he'd ask his "big brother" for such a thing. Naruto was merely asking Iruka to go out and have some fun, and take Konohamaru with him, so he could be home. Alone.

There was a very plain and good reason that Iruka was refusing as blatantly as he was. Naruto. Alone. At home. Those three sentence fragments were a very dangerous combination, as Naruto would not be home alone very long, but home by himself with one Uchiha Sasuke, and gods-knew where what would end up if those two had the run of the house.

"Pleeeeeasee. . ."

"No."

This carried on for a quite a while, until Iruka became so incredibly annoyed, that he nearly burnt the soup, which Naruto later found out was what he'd been cooking, and started yelling at the blond, who beat a wise and hasty retreat to the sanctity of the dining room, where Iruka could merely glare at him, as he continued to beg and whine.

Iruka rubbed his temples and grumbled, complaining to the cheerfully bubbling pot of soup, which was very glad it was only a pot of soup, and therefore, did not have to deal with the trials and tribulations that humans encountered on a day to day basis.

Iruka, being the wise creature he was, wished he could trade places with the soup, so it could deal with Naruto. Though, he wasn't sure how much he'd enjoy being placed on the burner and boiled alive.

While he'd been contemplating, Naruto had gone strangely silent. He paused, looked around, then peered into the dining room. Seeing not a trace of the blond, he ventured into the room further, only to hear Naruto's thudding footsteps on the stairs as he returned downstairs, clutching two pieces of paper in his hands.
Tickets. Iruka swore under his breath.

Naruto grinned wildly and handed them to Iruka, who took them only on reflex of being shocked. Naruto closed his eyes and his face took on such a vulpine aspect that it was ridiculous.

"Kakashi said he wanted you to go with him to this concert, and I know you like this band," he said, in an almost teasing tone.

Iruka spluttered. "But what about Konohamaru?"

Naruto tapped a finger against his temple. "Got it all worked out," he said, grinning cheekily.

Iruka sighed, defeated, by the conspiracy of Naruto and Kakashi. He grinned darkly. Woe would come to those two, if he survived this night.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The instant Itachi breezed into the house, Orochimaru knew something was wrong. There was something wrong about the way Itachi was smiling, more of smirking, so sedately and serene, yet smug even so. There was something wrong about the way he held himself, the poise that of a man who had thwarted a long-hated foe, after a long struggle.

He knew something was wrong with this, so why did he hold his tongue and stay silent, observing how out of place all this seemed?

What was more, Itachi's clothes were all mussed, and hung off of him all askew, his hair hastily having been tied back, as though it had been untied, then swept back again. His lips were bruised, his nails had blood under them, and he reeked of sex, sex that was not him and he. It was sex, sex that he'd shared with someone else.

Orochimaru wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Who else would Itachi dare to let touch him? Who else would Itachi welcome into his bed? Who else, who else but himself, could make the elder Uchiha cry in pleasure, and become so submissive? More importantly, how long had this been going on?

Itachi, on the other hand of most lovers having affairs, was not doing a damn thing to try and hide this. He knew he looked like a mess, he knew he looked far too pleased with himself, and he knew he smelt of sex. He knew he was pissing Orochimaru off.

He plonked himself down beside his boyfriend, taking the initiative and pressing his lips to Orochimaru's, touching the serpentine boy with tainted flesh that had been touched by someone else. He would make the older boy know where he'd been touched, and how, and by who, by recreating those touches and making Orochimaru see them, even as a pale memory, or a slowly colouring bruise against pale flesh.
He was not afraid that Orochimaru would be angry with him, because that was exactly the reaction he wanted. He would not hesitate, he would not be unsure of his actions, and he most certainly would not be sorry that he had done it.

His solid resolve was broken when he pulled back, and looked Orochimaru in the eye, seeing instead of pooling anger, anger watered down with the pains of betrayal and hurt, of distrust and confusion.

Orochimaru could not comprehend why Itachi had done this, and the only reasoning seemed to be that he was out to hurt him, and well, he'd done a damn good job, now hadn't he? The serpentine boy barely cleared the emotions away from his eyes, from his being, before Itachi read him too deeply.

If Itachi wanted to fuck around, he could too. Revenge was not made for one and only one, and two could play the game of get-backs, and he knew very well how to do it. Hate brewed inside his whirling head, fuelled by a heart he would not admit that was broken beyond repair, at this now final blow. Hate was easy, and hate was biting, crueller, harder than love, and it was much simpler to grow and harvest, then sew again.

He pushed Itachi, Itachi who was tainted now, and not his, no longer solely his, away from him, unable to stand the presence of the lying weasel he had entrusted, unable to remain completely detached from the world for much longer, not with him that close.

The hate was newly formed, and though bitter in its resolve, was still fragile, and threatened to break, if Itachi happened to make one motion, happened to look one way at him, happened to speak one word to suggest that he was sorry, and let him forgive, and then, to plough on and be hurt again, because he had not punished misbehaviour in the beginning, and let it flourish, like a flower in spring.

So, he must punish this act now, and let it be made known that he didn't stand for this type of thing. He glowered at his boyfriend, now his ex, while Itachi just looked back, his face unreadable. Even the depths of his eyes were blank, with practised precision.

"Who?" Orochimaru asked, his voice having gone all raspy on him, for some odd, inexplicable reason; namely, the chaotic state of his emotional self.

Itachi's smugness had died and withered within itself, and now, he seemed abashed, almost shamed, and he lowered his head, veiling his expression, a sure sign of submission, though his voice, when he spoke, still held a note of pride. "Kisame."

The word brought the older boy's blood to boiling, searing through his veins on the wave of anger so intense that, the rational part of him that hid in the shadows of the anger, thought he might act upon whim and strangle Itachi to death, kill him, let his blood spill . . .
Itachi's eyes were up now, the dark depths aflame with something, and his voice oozed acid, but still smooth and thick, like warm honey, as he said something, his words barbed with poison as they fell from sweet, tainted lips. "I do not belong to anyone."

And he was gone, before Orochimaru could commit some act of stupid violence, harm the other boy beyond repair, as Itachi had done to him. He called after the boy, but to no avail, and in a fit of passion, grabbed the nearest expendable item which happened to be a rather expensive vase, and threw it to the floor, letting it smash into a hundred million shards, each one barbed razor sharp, sharp enough to draw blood.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

To have music meant to be moved by the beat; to be moved by the beat meant to dance; to dance as some idiots were meant they had to drink beforehand.

The only thing Naruto was drinking, was the sight of what a mess his home was going to be before Iruka got home, and what a mess his body was going to be after Iruka got through with him.

Vaguely, Sasuke said something to him, but he didn't hear it, because he was mad at Sasuke. When his bloody, mangled body finally gave up the ghost, he was going to become a very vengeful ghost and haunt Sasuke till his dying days.

He glanced over at his boyfriend, who had obviously drunk a little too much, because he was flushed, and draped all over him, giggling drunkenly when the drunk git - Shino ,he thought his name was - on the other end of the sofa pinched his ass, then belatedly tried to swat away the offending hand.

Naruto growled, low in his throat. He might become a very vengeful boyfriend right then, if that ass did not stop touching his stuff. His stuff, being Sasuke's ass. He might just have to reinstate his control over that territory.

He was thinking like some wild animal, and he knew it, so he shook his head, but the thoughts stayed intact, clinging happily to the perverted part of his brain, and his libido welcomed them with open arms. Great, now his brain was conspiring against him.

Sasuke gasped loudly in his ear, then started giggling and wiggled closer to him, sitting down on his tush, so nobody else could grope him there. "Don't," he whined, almost like a slutty girl, smirking lopsidedly at the guy on the other end of the sofa.

'Go for the jugular, tear it out, nice clean kill,' Naruto's thoughts whispered in his ear, and he unconsciously clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm hard enough to leave imprints.

At least Sasuke was snuggled up close to him now, nice and safe where he could keep and eye on him. "Oy, stop that," he grumbled, trying to push the overly inebriated boy off him, for said boy was now licking his ear - sloppily, of course.

Sasuke giggled - which was becoming rather annoying - and lay his head down on Naruto's shoulder, sighing softly, as if content. It was a sigh Naruto rarely heard, generally used after they had hot, rampant -

Oh, good, now his thoughts were running away into the gutter. Wonderful. From the way things were going, it looked like he would do one of three things that would get him in major shit from Iruka before the night was over.

One, he'd kill that guy who was looking at Sasuke like a starving dog looks at a piece of meat. Two, he'd get so drunk, he'd pass out on the floor. Three, he'd take Sasuke to his room and fuck him senseless. Unless, of course, some other couple had already found his room, and his bed.

He'd already done the stupidest thing, which was to allow Sasuke to have the party at his house, anyways. Iruka was going to kill him. . .

Something shifted, and Sasuke was sitting on his lap, nearly losing his balance, and brought them nose to nose, so that he was staring into the alcohol-hazed depths of Sasuke's eyes. It took him a second to realize that the dark-haired boy was pouting.

"You're no fun Naruto," he slurred, obviously having some trouble stringing the words together.

"Would you like me to be some fun?" the blond asked wickedly, deciding that option number three would get him in less shit than option one or option two.

Besides, the wheels in his head were still reeling from what he'd read nearly a week ago now, in that little book that Sasuke wrote his thoughts in. What better time to act out one of those little fantasies than now, and fulfill it, and in the morning, there would be no embarrassment of asking how Naruto found out about that, because Sasuke, he was quite sure, would be too drunk to remember.

And that kind of doused Naruto's fire. After all, what was the point of having absolutely mind-blowing sex, when one of you didn't remember it in the morning? Could you really verify then that it had been mind-blowing?

Ah, screw it. Option number three was still the best option, and hell if he wasn't going to get some from Sasuke, because the boy was obviously willing and ready to give some out, and if he didn't get it, then the dark-haired boy would be giving it to someone else. He sighed. His logic, at times, scared him.

Sasuke had said something while he was thinking, and he'd completely missed it, and it probably wasn't that important, because the boy was drunk. So, he opted for picking Sasuke up, and instantly decided that the boy was heavier when he had little to no control of his muscles. The dark-haired boy was, in fact, like a deadweight hanging from about his neck.
Naruto grunted and made his way, as gracefully as he could, from the room.

He saw a flash of pink-hair, and a blonde girl standing in one corner, Ino and Sakura obviously, each with a drink in one of their hands, the other intermingled with the other girl's free one. Ino pointed at Naruto, and Sakura giggled, and they both waved to him exaggeratedly, wishing him luck in his. . .endeavours.

Sasuke licked his ear and cuddled. He was amazed at how sweet the boy could be at times, and when he was drunk, he was definitely more sentimental than when he was sober. A wicked grin crossed Naruto's usually cheerful features. This was going to be fun.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Ino was the first to notice Lee approaching herself and Sakura, and almost instantly had the urge to hide Sakura away, out of sight. Lee was wearing an expression of determination, which was never a good sign. Ino could only hope that he was as hell-bent on getting Sakura as everyone always said he was.

Ah, hope was stupid and petty anyway.

Lee gave her a curt nod, before smiling winningly at Sakura, who smiled timidly back, and curled a little closer to Ino, clutching the girl's hand tighter, as if saying, 'I'm with her. Fuck off.'

Ino wished that Sakura could be that crude then, because her smile only egged Lee on, while he did his best to ignore the hand-holding.

But no, Sakura was almost always too polite to people, even when she didn't want them to stay around her, wanted them to go away, and her inner self was screaming at the person she talked so quietly to.

Ino felt so terribly uncomfortable, because Sakura was too close to her now, eating away at her personal space, and Lee just kept talking, and as he did, Sakura just kept scooting closer to her blonde lover. 'Just say it,' she urged Sakura silently, although she knew that the girl never would.

Hesitantly, she broke into the conversation, saying to Sakura, "I'm going to talk to Shikamaru. I'll be back in a few."

A dark look, one of possession and even jealously overtook Sakura's face at the mention of the boy they'd dubbed 'pineapple-head' when they were nine, but she let go of Ino's hand, and the blonde girl beat a hasty retreat to see said pineapple-head.

Shikamaru, who had miraculously dragged himself to the party, was sprawled in an armchair, not too far away, so that Ino could excuse herself from the Lee-situation, but keep a close eye on it, just in case he tried anything. She wasn't sure that Lee would, for he was far too nice for that, but if he was desperate, there was always that last resort.

She was lucky that Shikamaru didn't say much to her, or anything about her drawn out silences when he did ask a question, because she'd been glaring at Lee as he took Sakura's hand in his own, or something like that, but it was hard enough to talk over the music anyways, and conversation was almost pointless. Of course, Shikamaru always thought it was pointless.

At last, Sakura gained the courage to stand on her own two feet, her voice rising against the music, rivalling all other sound in the room, as she screamed at the poor boy. Ino felt almost a pang of sympathy for him, because Sakura was scary when she got pissed off. The pink-haired girl hid behind a demeanour of shy kindness, a demeanour that housed a wildcat, waiting for the chance to sharpen her claws on the next thing that ticked her off.

"No, Lee! Fuck off!" the girl was screaming, now ranting about how she'd never go out with him, and so on and so forth.

Any of the party-gores who had stopped to look now turned away, shaking their heads, because this was the same endless rant that Sakura always had whenever Lee pushed a little too hard. Some of them even remembered the days when she'd blow up at Naruto like that, back when the blond had a crush on her.

Whatever happened to that crush, none knew, but Ino suspected that the answer lay in the love-hate line he walked with Sasuke, which was a far more emotionally challenging relationship than his one with Sakura had ever been.

Sakura was walking her way now, her face red with anger, flipping her hair over her shoulder, a clear sign that she was pissed. Her glass was empty - Ino wondered if she'd thrown the drink on Lee before she'd stormed away. She almost didn't doubt it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Iruka did not like rock concerts. They were loud, too loud, they were smoky, and dark and crowded. Most of the people were drunk, or high or something, and the rock band could not play music that Iruka actually classified as music.

Give him an opera any day, and he would be a very happy Iruka, but this wasn't about Iruka being happy, this was about Kakashi being happy. Apparently, both the silver-haired teacher and Naruto were into this garish stuff.

Kakashi was having the time of his life apparently, screaming and singing by turn, banging his head up in down to the tune of the music. Tune, Iruka mocked in his thoughts, what tune? There was certainly none he could hear, and he hated that.
The heavy scent of weed was in the air, and almost everyone there reeked of it, or alcohol. Kakashi was no help, disappearing into the melee every now and then, leaving Iruka to fend for himself. Iruka thought himself far too old for this kind of thing.

The lights were sweeping the crowd, and he was nearly blinded by them, and collided with someone else, who was drunk, and obviously, a confrontational drunk. "Oy, you asshole! Watch where you're going!"

"Sorry," Iruka murmured, turning away, but the guy grabbed him by the back of his collar, growling.

"I ain't through with you."

Iruka ducked the punch thrown his way, letting the drunk's fist land in someone else's arm, and said someone turned about, glaring. A little scuffle broke out between the two, then more and more people joined in, turning 'scuffle' into 'fight'.

Iruka scuttled away in the chaos, stumbling back into Kakashi, who just grinned down at him. Iruka glared and scowled a bit. "We can leave," Kakashi mouthed over the music, and Iruka's heart melted at the thought that Kakashi was willing to throw away his hard earned tickets, and something he obviously enjoyed, for him.

He shook his head, because Kakashi would likely blackmail him later, or guilt-trip him into doing something for him, and with Kakashi, you could almost guarantee that said favour would be perverted.

Iruka could almost envision him having to suck Kakashi off in the teachers' lounge on Monday morning. The thought sent a blush sprawling across his cheeks, and Kakashi grinned lazily, then took him by the hand and started pulling him through the crowd.

Iruka could only stare at the other man's back, confused.

They exited the building, heading quickly for Kakashi's car. Iruka chanced a glance up and saw that the sky was churning with rain clouds, and now, it was starting to rain. He cursed under his breath, because Kakashi's car was parked all the way on the other side of the parking lot.

Just his luck, the heavens opened the second they reached the car, Kakashi sliding his key into the lock as the torrential downpour began. The silver-haired man, with his hair sodden down and straggling in his eyes, held the door of the car open for Iruka, who scuttled in, smelling the fresh scent of rain clinging to him, as he shivered because the water was freezing. He stuck to the leather interior.

Kakashi slammed the door shut and hurried about the other side of the car and, once inside, slammed the door shut, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. He grinned at Iruka, and Iruka couldn't help but grin back.
The rain beat down on the car, pattering against the windshield. Kakashi started the vehicle, and turned on the wipers, trying to rid the window of the excess water rivulets running down it. He fastened his seatbelt.

"Buckle up," he told Iruka, shifting the car into drive.

Iruka stared at him, half in shock. "You're not going to drive in this, are you?" he asked, incredulous.

He could barely see out the windshield. "Bah," Kakashi said, letting the car roll forward, then revving the engine a bit. "A little water never hurt anyone."

Iruka would later argue that, as he claimed that 'a little water' and Kakashi's driving combined was near enough to give him a heart attack. He felt liked he'd screamed the entire way, sure that they'd meet their demise, either by ditch or on-coming car.

The rain started to slow, and Kakashi pulled to the side of the near-deserted side road he was on, having claimed it was a faster route home. Iruka had claimed it was a faster route to their deaths.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, and crawled carefully over the gearshift on the floor, over to the passenger side of the car. "Iruka," he said, looking at the younger man with serious eyes. "You need to calm down."

Iruka said nothing, looking blankly at Kakashi, who leaned toward him as if he were metal and Iruka was a magnet, locking their lips together, and their tongues met, meshing and melding together in a rather one-sided battle of sorts.

Iruka pulled back, blushing furiously, but went back for more, and Kakashi was only to happy to deliver. He was pulling at Iruka's trademark ponytail, letting the younger man's hair fall free for once, simultaneously licking Iruka's bottom lip, nibbling on the soft flesh once or twice for added measure.

Kakashi grinned smartly, then moved his attack downward, letting Iruka roll his head back and give a throaty groan. Tanned hands came up to tangle their fingers in silver hair.

A set of headlights rushed over the two, and they paused, pulling away from each other a bit. The lights faded, and they giggled a little, nervously, at almost being caught. Kakashi made his way back to the driver's seat.

They glanced at each other, sending each other into another fit of nervous laughter, and Kakashi finally said, "Here isn't the place," before he put the car in drive and pulled back onto the road.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Orochimaru was glad that Itachi had been asked to babysit Konohamaru. At least he could keep an eye on the boy. Itachi had said nothing to him since their earlier encounter, and they'd been almost pointedly avoiding each other.

Orochimaru thought he could hear Itachi's great-grandmother (who was out for the evening, playing cards with some old bitties she knew) crowing in victory. Itachi only defended what he firmly believed in, and he no longer believed in Orochimaru or 'love', if one could have called what they had that. It certainly hadn't been a fairytale, but it was better than anything Orochimaru had before.

Itachi had suddenly reverted to the introverted creature he had been before, and sometimes even after, Orochimaru took him, and his cold indifference to the world made it unlikely that he would disobey anything the elderly Uchiha woman said, did or had done to him, even if he might sneer with disdain inside his head.

Itachi was currently doting, if not coldly, on Konohamaru, who seemed almost perturbed by Itachi's presence. Itachi had made him dinner, Itachi had let him watch TV, Itachi had sat there and watched it with him, Itachi was now helping him construct a castle out of cardboard, blocks and construction paper. Currently, the older boy was stitching some kind of flag that he could place at the top of the old metal curtain rod he was using as a flag pole. Itachi had already drawn and coloured a rather large dragon that he could later 'fight'.

Orochimaru found it almost disturbing as well, for Itachi did not speak, unless it was required of him, and then, the shortest answer, in the deadest tone was used. His eyes were blank and dead, like they used to be, Orochimaru remembered, when they had done schoolwork in the classroom, and his mouth was pursed in a tense line, but that expressed nothing. His face was like a mask of ice now, and not even the warmest fire could seem to melt that.

Konohamaru's play should have been loud and wild, filled with shrieks of laughter, but he was strangely silent, almost morbid, and he kept glancing over at Itachi, as if he expected the older boy to turn and lop his head off without a second's notice.

Itachi, remained impassive, not even intently focussed on his work. His natural genius let him weave the design to the fabric, without even really thinking about it. His mind was elsewhere, wandering. Where, Orochimaru wished he knew, because then, he might have been able to answer some of the burning questions that filled his mind now.

Orochimaru had been too filled with blind rage before to even think of these questions, but now, the rage had settled and saw again, mingling with bitter hate, so that the emotion was raw and tasted sour in his mouth.

Had it been better, had Itachi enjoyed himself more with that damned shark than he ever had with Orochimaru? Had it been rough, demanding, or the exact opposite to that, and. . .gentle? What had driven Itachi to that point, what had made Itachi conspire with the enemy and trade sides in the important battle?
Why could he not ask these questions? He knew the answers meant nothing to him, should have meant nothing to him, because he did not care. Itachi, as far as he was concerned, was a thing of the past, and he could go and suck that fish bastard's cock until he choked.

So, why was he still here?

That, he wasn't exactly sure of, but perhaps, it was because he was waiting for Itachi to make things right again, to apologise and cry and have the break down that the woman - he thought that with a snort - was always supposed to have, and then, they'd fuck, and wake up, and everything would be as right as rain.

Wishful thinking was for the stupid.

Itachi had not told him to leave yet, though, which was strange, for before when they had fought and become this toxic to each other, Itachi had deadened his voice and told him to leave, and he had, without question, for one did not question Itachi.

He pondered now, and realized just what a sick relationship they'd had, with him being cowed into submission most of the time, his partner letting him take control in bed, only with prior permission though, and then, the other few times, a battle of wits, and strength for dominance and control.

It was a power struggle, and his lover was both that and his enemy, for they were secretive around each other, careful to hide emotions and careful to bite off words in the middle of a too-revealing sentence, careful never to let their guard down and act soft, or gentle. Their love, if one could call it that, was rough and tumble, and could never be soft like the bed sheets that they'd shared.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dark eyes met blue, though the vision of the dark ones were hazed, by alcohol and confusion. The room was darker, quieter than the previous one had been, and the cushions underneath him, softer, more relenting.

Teasing lips against parted ones, licking and nipping, in such a manner to make the other needy, but never give enough to satisfy, touches meant to make the addict crave more of them, but he could never have enough.

Lips, all over him, his lips, his ears, his cheek, his throat, down his throat and he rolled his head back, exposing the column for this lover he'd taken. A hand tugging impatiently at his shirt, for Naruto - this was Naruto, right? Right? - never had control enough to tease him, like he'd often wanted to be teased.

His shirt was gone, into the oblivion of the dark room, and he would find it, hung-over in the sunlight in the morning. Hands raked down his flesh, marking pale skin angry red. A pinch to one nipple, then the other, making him hiss between clenched teeth.

That mouth now, coming to rest where the hands had been, taking up their territory, claiming it as its own. The tongue slid, like velvet, down from his throat and rolled across his collar bone, then down, directly over his poor tortured nipple, and around it, lapping at it, as if it were an ice cream. Then, hot and heated, the mouth closed over the erect bud and sucked on him.

Since when had Naruto learned that being tortured like this turned him on? His thoughts were fuzzy, and he let that one go for now, because he'd probably find it later.

Other side now, and his poor nipple was left, red, bitten, tortured, and with only a cool parting kiss that left him shivering at the chill to comfort it. That tongue kept sliding downward, loving each part of him, without loving the part he really wanted loved.

In his navel now, swishing around, making him scream. He bucked wildly, unable to control, unable to think why he shouldn't buck, and his hands tangled in short, rough hair. This was Naruto, this was so Naruto.

That hand, his right one, was taken hold of, and his fingers were sucked, till they were slick and saliva trailed like dew on a spider web back to the lips that enclosed the mouth that had given them the wetness.

Other hand now, same treatment, and then, with a passing lick to his exposed hip, his arousal was entirely passed over, and his feet were next in line.

It made him shudder happily, to know that Naruto had control like this, to think that the blond could toy with him, making him feel blissfully good, and he would never really reach his peak. It was slow torture, of the best kind.

And his toes were massaged by nimble fingers, then the pads of his feet, and the mouth took up the fingers' prior task and his body tingled with sensation. He may have cried out, but he wasn't really sure of his reactions anymore.

His shorts slid down, slowly, almost painfully, the material chaffing against his skin, and then, that rough touch was replaced with a gentle one, the feel of skin on skin. The treacherous tongue rolled up his leg, starting with his ankle, stopping to lavish attention on the indent of his knee, then up, up the inside of his trembling thigh and arced high, missing that spot again!

He growled, knowing now that Naruto was teasing him, playing with him, which made it worse, because that made him all the hotter. And the blond was saying such dirty things to him, when his mouth wasn't busy torturing him in others ways, and his hands were always dancing over his sensitive spots, leaving him breathless and weak.

And when it finally came to it, the love-making was slow, and torturously slow at that, and it made Sasuke scream and cry in vain, and beg for Naruto to go faster, but the blond merely grinned at him and kept with his lazy pace, despite that it was driving him insane too.

Then, in a heated moment, the fastest out of that whole session, it was all over, and Sasuke was a heap of satisfaction in Naruto's arms, not an inch of him having gone without some affection.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Temari was not at all disturbed by the idea of walking in on the two sleeping boys. Gaara, on the other hand, regarded this, for once, as something special and sacred. The sanctity of their union was spoiled by his presence there, and he knew it.

Naruto was beautiful in his sleep, like an angel, almost, with his eyes closed, his lashes fluttering just out of reach of the flesh of his cheeks, his hair more askew than usual. Sasuke, who was entwined with him, was more like a fallen angel, his features too contrasting, like yin and yang, in the moonlight, and even more elegant than Naruto, almost sinisterly so.

Temari picked her way around the room without care, carefully picking up discarded clothes, gathering them, and when finally there, sat down on the bed, beside the sleeping angels. Softly, she ran her hand through Naruto's, a strange smile twisting on her lips.

"So this," she murmured, sounding almost amused, "is Naruto."

She turned her gaze on the other boy, seemingly more enthralled with him, than with the blond. Gaara just felt like screaming at her to leave, and half of him wanted to run away as well. Instead, he stood by the door, like a stone statue, never saying anything, never moving, just watching.

Slowly, and with some effort, Temari drew Naruto away from Sasuke, and began to dress him. And when the boy was deemed decent, she signalled to Gaara, who finally moved and cursed his sister and their task.

Naruto was removed from his room that night, and early the next morning, from Konoha altogether.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hinata stared at her feet, blushing. The alcohol had a dizzying, sickening effect on the poor girl, the effect of one who had drunk far too much. Kiba had an arm draped about her shoulders, which pretty much accounted for her furious blush.

Kiba had kissed her. Not one of those gentle, lip to lip, chaste and sweet kisses, but something entirely more feral, more deep, more promising.

His tongue had danced in her mouth, for only seconds, but she had wanted it to last forever, and blushing furiously, she found she wanted that hot tongue plied to other places. She was still shy, but she was holding herself closer to Kiba than ever before, breathing in the heavy scent - the smell of dogs, and beneath that, musk, and something else - that was Kiba.

It was probably more the alcohol talking than herself, but she wanted him, like she had never wanted anything before. She burned with her want, and she was almost afraid, with the fear of the irrationally drunk, that she was going to roast herself alive with this burning want.

And then, he'd kissed her again, another one of those burning kisses, that left her breathless, and aching inside for more.

And when he kissed her a third time, she made that known to him, kissing him back fiercely, clumsily, for she had never kissed properly like this before, and she didn't know how.

He had looked surprised, then happy and gentle, and soft, and she smiled, and blushed, because he wanted her to feel good.

In the privacy of some bedroom, now forgotten which, they had clumsily struggled against each other, vying to make the other feel better. It hurt a bit, and it wasn't smooth, and it was all together a more embarrassing experience than what the movies made it out to be, but they'd reached the pinnacle - or at least, he did, and he'd called her name, so she'd called his, and that had to be a good thing, right?

Right?

Hinata wasn't so sure, there afterward, but that could have been her hang-over talking, and the fact that she didn't really remember, because everything was fuzzy.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Itachi was tainting that last holy shrine, that last wonderful place that was still untouched.

Konohamaru was asleep on the couch downstairs, exhausted from his play, and Orochimaru had left sometime around midnight, to go where, he did not know, and did not care. Or at least, that was what he told himself.

He was having a much more gratifying time with Kisame, in his parents' long unused bed, the dust from an age of innocence being upturned and lifted into the air again. He told himself it was better with Kisame, but he was unsure, for it didn't seem all that fun.

Perhaps the thrill was gone now, because Orochimaru knew his dirty little secret, which made it a non-secret.

He doubted that anyone could have made him feel the height of passion that night, for his thoughts were too heavy and muddled, like a deadweight, pulling him back and sending him the wrong way down the hill he had to climb to reach the peak.

He'd put thrill in this though, so he couldn't see why he wasn't excited, why he wasn't charged with the adrenaline that had overcome him the last time and hyper-charged his nerves.

This was wrong, this wasn't right, and the ghosts that haunted him behind his eyes screamed that he shouldn't be there, not then, not with that man. It was a holy place, and he was destroying it, tainting it by dragging it into his little plot for revenge, into his escapade for cheap thrills.

He threw a glance at the clock, and saw that it was nearly one in the morning, and he pondered where Orochimaru had gone, and when his relatives would get back. Kisame was hollering out his ending now, but he couldn't care less.

Unless, of course, his grandmother happened to hobble into the room at that exact second, and shriek in complete and utter horror.

Itachi fled the scene the second Kisame pulled out of him, hastily taking the sheets, fleeing to his own room, leaving Kisame stranded to explain, then be thrown out on his ass.

And that was exactly what happened. And as soon as the door was closed, Great-grandma Uchiha decided that it was time to lecture her great-grandson about upholding the pride of the Uchiha name.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Two could play that game.

Lips met lips, tongues duelled and tangled, and he felt no passion, only anger and the need to hit right back. Kabuto didn't mind, Kabuto knew that there was no love or emotion involved in this. He was a pawn in the scheme for revenge, and he was happy to be so.

He was honoured that Orochimaru had chosen him, of all people, to hurt Itachi, honoured that he could help Orochimaru regain something that he'd lost.

Hands in hair, pulling, tugging, that anger making him rough, making him want to hurt. Kabuto did not mind. He was happy that Orochimaru would do this to him, would put his hands near him, would touch him in this way.

It did not matter to him that there was nothing between them, except for friendship, which at times, was rickety and rocky, and often threatened to collapse, and he had never been led to believe there was anything there but that, and sometimes, he doubted that it was even there at all.

But he was happy to be the toy that Orochimaru fucked with. He liked Orochimaru, liked when he was around, and if he hadn't, he could have easily walked on by, now that Orochimaru had, or once had, Itachi.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Voices raised, anger coursing through them.

Neji and TenTen were arguing again. TenTen was sitting on the bed, her head held in her hands, her voice shaking and cracking every now and then, her body wracked by sobs. Neji's voice continued to rise, angry tones practically vibrating through it and that scared her, scared her so much more so than anything she had seen and nearly done.

He could have at least been a bit more comforting, a bit more gentle. At least she hadn't done it, for he'd have been even more upset then. He could have been glad for the fact that she hadn't done it, because she had changed her mind at that last split-second, her resolve had weakened. Had it held out a little longer, the life inside her would have been snuffed out.

But no, all he could see was that she had tried, and that was a fact he was angry at, because he had told her not to. Oh, it was a sick, sick little circle. He should have been happy that she hadn't done it, and at last, he came to realize that, with a soft sigh.

He had sat down now, wrapping an arm about her shoulders, his voice softer now, more comforting, and she sobbed into his shoulder, feeling a sense of comfort that she only derived from his presence.

At least she hadn't done it, at least she hadn't done it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -