A/N: Hope you enjoy, I had fun writing and I hope you'll have fun reading. :) It's narrated in Madara's point of view. And and and Hashirama and the aforementioned HO are both in high school. Having copious amounts of sex. On desks. Where people plant their butts at for a good portion of the day. And eat. Hashirama and Madara never clean up after their trysts. Gross. :0


Simply, it's (pull over of teeth and tongue, that venomous spit and drag of lips to end it all and all before) another excuse. Tomorrow, five pages and two thousand words of crafted high literary analysis for some inordinately long book is due – Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, but at Hashirama's push of tongue against his thigh, he can't remember. Just as the pages blurred together during reading in quick succession, so do their hands and the expressions on their faces rapt with interminable pleasure and pain.

Sometimes, it's just one tug too short of regurgitating his last meal and sometimes Madara pretends he really wants to be manhandled like catered food on PTA nights. And yet there's a small symphonia of trust twining through (much insisted otherwise) his lack of better judgment when Hashirama calls the shots and he's moaning through a face full of desk and not the other way around this time.

But the worst (that incorrigible smile like all of Buddha was implanted in his cheery coalesce of cheeks), the very worst – so much worse than the nights spent in pitiful apathy and longing searing his chest like the burns from his once-upon-a-fucking-time house inflamed until shingleless (until he grasped all the air in the universe; until his legs keeled and he forgot to exhale). He hates every sliver of the tongue (he dearly wants to bite down and rip), every second of defenseless neck looming above him (a jaw set of flashing teeth and it's over), but even now he hates the way he's gasping at the rhythm and Hashirama doesn't elicit a single sound.

There are times when Madara thinks he can end it, because he remains the victor in every attribute of a fight even when he's a ragged mess of broken bones and bruised flesh and it presses upon him (like leaves preserved in books and that one deodorant Hashirama insists on wearing) until he's signed, stamped, and delivered.

Simply, Madara knows he won't win this time around. And simply, maybe it matters little in the stifled moans and clenching of bared skin and frequent glances at the classroom door in the way of things.