A dark alleyway, another clandestine meeting—it’s nothing new, nothing they haven’t seen before, and the dance is a familiar one as they step deeper into the shadows. Sasuke’s still got his tux on, two buttons undone to reveal the faintest sliver of collarbone, and Naruto’s got lipstick smeared on one cheek, but their eyes are on each other. Their gazes, hungry and all the more harsh in the lacking light, don’t ever waver.
But when have they ever throughout the years? When had Naruto ever turned away from Sasuke, even when a sword had been pressed to his back and promises of death were crooned in his ear?
It’s nothing new, an age-old tradition neither of them can shake, and in seconds they’re kissing each other in a nondescript room.
Stupid anniversary dinners, Sasuke snarls in between one kiss and the next, bottom lip bleeding from Naruto’s canine and hair spiked crazily on his head. Trying to show me off to the public—making me look like some tame pet and Naruto grunts, reels him back in by his lapels for another kiss and swallows down the insults bubbling beneath Sasuke’s skin. I was there too, he replies dryly, but there’s nothing dry about the way their mouths and tongues clash.
There’s nothing tame about their maddened rutting, fabric rustling with every slide of one clothed dick against the other. There’s nothing loving about the fingers ripping through buttons, shoving shirts off—nothing intimate about the nails scratching down newly-exposed skin and nothing gentle about the hands tangled in their hair—but their eyes stay locked with each other as they clash again and again.
Hinata, one of them says, and the other snarls shut up in their wake. But Sakura… and then she can suck my cock if she wants seconds later, surprising a laugh out of both of them.
Because it’s absurd—their wives, down on their knees with their pretty lips stained by their precum? Their beautiful wives letting curses and insults stain their mouths?
Hinata and Sakura were fierce once, able to incapacitate battlefields on their own with nothing more than their hands and a few hand movements—but what’s that compared to the eons-old rivalry they share? There’s nothing else that can compare to the sun and moon etched into their palms, the hum of their chakra resonating with each other—
Sasuke drives into Naruto with one long thrust and the electricity racing up his spine is enough to make his Chidori feel tame.
The pace is rough and dirty, hips slapping against each other as Sasuke’s hands vice around Naruto’s waist. Tan hands scrabble at the sheets, nails bearing the faintest hint of sharpness and his back arches at one particular thrust. The fuck! that falls from Naruto’s lips is half-yelled, hoarse and all the more surprised for it, but Sasuke pounds into him and soon his forehead’s doing its level best to sink into the mattress.
There is nothing loving about their names hissed out between clenched teeth, nothing affectionate about the hickeys bitten and sucked into Naruto’s nape. There is nothing sweet about the hand that shoots up to shove Sasuke back, unbalancing enough to make his cock slip out when he tumbles onto his backside with a barked curse.
Don’t treat me like a paid whore, Naruto snarls, throwing his head back and moaning when he sinks down onto Sasuke’s cock by himself. His thighs ripple with every motion as he fucks himself open, rides Sasuke with a slack mouth and half-glazed eyes, and Sasuke’s only down for a few moments before he plants his feet into the mattress and thrusts up with every fall.
It’s quick, after that—Naruto hurtles over the edge with a strangled shout and Sasuke follows right after, cursing all the way. Their chests are splattered with cum and their hips are sore but it’s all fluid economical movements when they separate, skin wiped and clothes donned in silence.
And it’ll go like it always does in the end, promises that never get kept and assertions nobody believes. Go back to her, they’ll say to each other, eyes tired and unwavering all the same. It won’t happen again, this was meant to be temporary, and they’ll leave for their respective households.
They’ll kiss their wives on their cheeks, smooth hands over their children’s foreheads—
But in the moments nobody’s looking, when their fingers drift up to their lips or their hips twinge in discomfort… well.
“Ah, young love—it’s always nice to see in times of peace!”
“Isn’t it just?”
But I didn’t want to let go of the devil’s hand.