Naruto Drabbles
1. House Arrest For Syrraki's Birthday. NaruSasu rated R. (fake cut)
2.
They did it in the book room this time. This was because one was in National Honor Society and had a key and the other one could have had one but didn't give a shit. They were supposed to be stacking that horrible Edith Wharton book where one of the lovers ended up crippled and alone. Hashirama doesn’t remember the rest, just the way the cart wheels squealed as he pushed it away and got Madara up against The Outsiders, spines against the vertebra, all lined up cover to cover. Next to them a stack of The Great Gatsby had been filed incorrectly the bindings all facing inward.
He smells like the cigarettes he smoked out behind the tennis courts, where Hashirama had corned him and pulled him behind the chain link fence-technically off school grounds. "You’re so predictable. I wonder what Miss Goody-two-shoes would say if she could see you now, on your knees under the bleachers." He’d taken a long drag and breathed smoke out of his nose, “but then maybe she gets off on it.” “Don’t talk about her like that” he’d said; it sounded weak even in his own ears, weaker still considering he was face-to-face with the v-notches of the other boy’s hips. A smooth plane to run his mouth over. There was nothing to compare to saliva cooling in the open air, and it was in these sorts of places where their relationship existed, fallen in the in-between places among sprite bottles and sweat shirts in the lost and found. Articles adrift in the rush and tides of the school.
Madara, hands above his head, uses the book shelves for balance when he turns his face away to make some crack about The Scarlett Letter and Hashirama shucks him of his jeans in response. He grabs at the mis-filed stack of Gatsby’s for purchase fingers sinking between their pages, tiny gasps and creeks elicited from their stressed bindings. Under the force of his grip ink transfers from the pages to his skin… the trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams Around them the literary works of the ages lay battered and dusty, the school had its own language after all: grades, prom, AP classes, girlfriends, pep rallies, homecoming, basketball, football, soccer, community service, speech and debate. Above Madara’s clenching and unclenching hands Great Expectations teetered dangerously, but here they kissed only as teenagers surrounded by pages and pages of stories about love. Hashirama stopped and looked at the embossing on his hands bemused and Madara heavy lidded leaned in, sucked the words from his palm.
(As far as nthcoincident and I are aware. This is the only MadaHashi high school AU in existence. I don't know how she talks me into these things.)
I'm sure you will never look at your local high school book room the same again. HA!
2.
They did it in the book room this time. This was because one was in National Honor Society and had a key and the other one could have had one but didn't give a shit. They were supposed to be stacking that horrible Edith Wharton book where one of the lovers ended up crippled and alone. Hashirama doesn’t remember the rest, just the way the cart wheels squealed as he pushed it away and got Madara up against The Outsiders, spines against the vertebra, all lined up cover to cover. Next to them a stack of The Great Gatsby had been filed incorrectly the bindings all facing inward.
He smells like the cigarettes he smoked out behind the tennis courts, where Hashirama had corned him and pulled him behind the chain link fence-technically off school grounds. "You’re so predictable. I wonder what Miss Goody-two-shoes would say if she could see you now, on your knees under the bleachers." He’d taken a long drag and breathed smoke out of his nose, “but then maybe she gets off on it.” “Don’t talk about her like that” he’d said; it sounded weak even in his own ears, weaker still considering he was face-to-face with the v-notches of the other boy’s hips. A smooth plane to run his mouth over. There was nothing to compare to saliva cooling in the open air, and it was in these sorts of places where their relationship existed, fallen in the in-between places among sprite bottles and sweat shirts in the lost and found. Articles adrift in the rush and tides of the school.
Madara, hands above his head, uses the book shelves for balance when he turns his face away to make some crack about The Scarlett Letter and Hashirama shucks him of his jeans in response. He grabs at the mis-filed stack of Gatsby’s for purchase fingers sinking between their pages, tiny gasps and creeks elicited from their stressed bindings. Under the force of his grip ink transfers from the pages to his skin… the trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams Around them the literary works of the ages lay battered and dusty, the school had its own language after all: grades, prom, AP classes, girlfriends, pep rallies, homecoming, basketball, football, soccer, community service, speech and debate. Above Madara’s clenching and unclenching hands Great Expectations teetered dangerously, but here they kissed only as teenagers surrounded by pages and pages of stories about love. Hashirama stopped and looked at the embossing on his hands bemused and Madara heavy lidded leaned in, sucked the words from his palm.
(As far as nthcoincident and I are aware. This is the only MadaHashi high school AU in existence. I don't know how she talks me into these things.)
I'm sure you will never look at your local high school book room the same again. HA!