Starting A/N: As I said in the first chappy, this story is made in a completely different context then I have written all of my other stories. Not only are the roles of each boy completely reversed, the writing format is slightly different. Good, but different. I kinda like making Naruto the asshole, haha, but I think this might be the last story I made like this. And though it's different, the characters aren't horribly ooc.

Anyways, enjoy & review!

Disclaimer: Naruto isn't mine... Unfortunately dreams like that rarely – if ever, come true.

After School

He offered to drive me home. His hair was rumpled, and his shirt was sloppily buttoned. The collar failing horribly to conceal the angry red marks pasted on his neck. I count several long scratches along his arms.

"I don't have nails that long," I say, almost conversationally while getting in the car.

"No, you don't," He agrees. "But I think you would look damn good with them."

"Hell no."

"Maybe I should grow out my nails then? My hair, too."

I look at his hair; it's spiked today, like it always it, I catch myself idly wondering if he's ever taken a comb to it a day in his life, "You shouldn't. It'd look hideous on you."

"Why don't you do it then? I've told you before, long hair looks good on you."

"Because it makes me look like a girl,"

'And I don't ever want to look like Itachi,' I add silently in my head. I don't even bother to disguise the acidity in my voice, and he doesn't have the decency to look ashamed.

"Trust me," He says with amusement, "I'm well aware of the fact that you're a boy. And I happen to like that."

"You also happen to like breasts and—"

"Girls," The blonde interrupts smoothly. "Yes. I happen to like girls, too. Why not? Why restrict yourself to one gender when you can be flexible and have twice the fun?"

"It's always about fun with you." I state dryly.

"We can't all be serious and intense like you. Then life would be boring."

"Stop the car. I'm getting out."

"I won't, and you're not going to."

"Stop the car, Usuratonkachi."

"You're pissed off," he begins, with that grin I've seen so many times before. It's still half innocent, but now the only way I can describe the other half is as predatory.

I try to sound angry, even while my eyes are fixated on his mouth, parted and pink-lipped. "Well aren't you smart. Here's a fucking cookie, now stop the car and let me get out."

"I think you should stay and work this anger out," he suggests blandly, as if he wasn't implying anything more innocuous than a talk, a heart-to-heart.

"Where, in the back of your car?" I ask sarcastically.

"You've read my mind." And with that he pulls into the vacant area behind an old, abandoned 7-Eleven. The place is familiar to me, although I never get to see much of it; he's always so eager, already fumbling at my belt before he's even parked the car properly. After the first few minutes, I'm too absorbed to pay attention to anything except his hands and mouth.

He reaches over, inching his way up my thigh, stroking, caressing, in a deliberately slow manor: enjoying my mounting impatience. It only takes a few minutes, and then I find that we have somehow managed to crawl and tumble into the backseat. Today I find myself straddling him, unbuttoning his shirt; it's probably the second time today that he's had it torn open by eager hands, but I'm enjoying my new vantage point too much to really care.

"This is new," His words are airy, but his fingers shake as they tangle into my hair, giving him away. "I can't say I'm not enjoying it, though." He keeps on talking, chattering into my ear. I can't distinguish the words, and it doesn't matter. I position my knee between his legs; he lets in a sharp breathe, the words trailing away into a moan.

I shove my knee upwards, he whispers my name.

Gently, I trace the scratches on his arm. Trailing downward until I reach the tips of his fingers. I then move my teasing attentions to the ones that cross his chest, and all the while he is muttering, urgent and feverish now, no longer trying to disguise the tremble in his voice. I have never seen him so open, so vulnerable. It's new, exciting; I want to explore this side of Naruto, want to see how he would respond if I touched him like this, or right here. Every gasp, and moan of my name—it intoxicates me.

Is this how he felt, all those times?

As I bend over him, some of his words catch my ear. "Fuck me," he whispers. "Please—god, please. Fuck me."

'God, hm? I could get used to that.' I haul him onto his knees, answering his moans. It's an uncomfortable and cramped position, but I see his smile; I can still feel it, even as I push into you too soon, too fast. I can feel it even as he bites his lips harshly against the pain, bucking his hips to urge me on.

Locker Room

I'm not sure how long it's been going on, but it must have been a while, because the sense of being watched is familiar. I've felt it before; only I always brushed it off, attributing it to paranoia. Ever since I've begun this thing with Naruto, it always feels like he's just over my shoulder, following my every movement with his gaze, waiting for me to turn around so he can smile that smile, press that body against mine, close enough to feel my heart beat against his chest, and whisper, "I bet you were thinking about me, weren'cha?"

Today I feel those eyes on me again as I'm changing in the boys' locker room. Sixth period sparing is over, and all the other boys have already left; the room echoes the sound of my locker as I slam it shut, whipping around, ready to berate him for spying on me.

But it isn't Naruto.

It isn't his blue eyes I meet, it isn't his smirk I see, it isn't Naruto's voice I hear say, "Hey," and it certainly isn't his hands pushing me against the once open locker.

It's some boy from my class, the kind of boy who I would have expected to be gone with his friends by now, laughing and flirting with girls. But instead he's here, pinning me against the lockers, and the only thing I can remember about him is something Naruto once said: "That idiot. He's always talking about queers and fags, but you know he probably jacks off while thinking about you." I don't know why he assumed that he was gay, let alone that he liked me. Although I am starting to get a good idea, especially now that he's busy applying his mouth to my neck.

I realize that my shirt is still clutched in my hand. I wasn't expecting to keep it on long, but it wasn't Naruto's tanned hands that I had imagined that were going to be on my skin, it was this other boy's. The cold metal of the lockers bites into my back; I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, leave me alone. What comes out instead is a groan.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" I demand.

"Fucking you," he replies, matter-of-factly, before pulling my jeans down.

"Hn, that's what you think." But even the conviction I once felt is gone. I should tell him to stop. But I can't seem to make my voice work, and somehow it doesn't matter.

Naruto's House

Naruto's eyes are cool when he sees the bruises he didn't leave, the swollen lips he didn't kiss, his grip is iron as he pins my hands against the wooden edge of the kitchen table. My wrists ache from the pressure.

He doesn't care.

"How was it?" He asks, calm and even, as if were talking about a stroll in the park, and not fucking another guy.

"Good," I reply, meeting his gaze squarely. "It was fun."

"I'm glad," he says, not wasting any more time on the subject as he leans, tugging off my shirt.

"What if your parents come home?" I try to keep my voice steady. Surprisingly, it is.

"Then we'll go to my room," He smirks. "But whether they do or don't…" He presses his fingers against one of my bruises, hard enough to make me want to wince, "We're going to finish this."

"Let's go to your room then."

"Why?"

"Because this is uncomfortable." I deadpan, "It's a goddamn kitchen table."

"I don't know, you seem to like being fucked in uncomfortable places. The back of my car, for example."

"That was your idea, idiot."

"It wasn't my idea for you to let that jackass screw you in front of the lockers."

"How did you—"?

"So it was him. You were late coming from sixth period and—" He gazes almost dispassionately at the marks he left, "I just put two, and two together."

"Does it matter who it was?"

"Not at all," and with that he turns me around, pressing me against the table.

It's rough, painful; his hands leave new bruises and press into old ones, his teeth rake my skin. Sometimes I cry out, and every time he asks, "Do you want me to stop?"

And I always reply the same, "No." Somehow you hear the want in my voice, knowing exactly what speed I want you to fuck me.

Naruto whispers into my ear, words that expel against my skin as hot gusts of breath, fragments that speak of heat, want, and need, until I come with his name spilling from my lips.

When it is over, I collapse against the table, his forehead leaning against my back.

"God," He rasps, too drained to say anything else.

Only the sound of his parents coming home rouses us, and we both work hurriedly, cleaning up our mess. I feel like a naughty child covering up a broken glass or plate, but we manage to look respectable by the time his parents walk in. He lies, telling them that you and I are going out on a double date, and drag me hurriedly to the car.

We drive to the abandoned 7-Eleven, and for once I don't think about what will happen next. I don't think about which girl I'll see him with tomorrow, or which boy, or about anything except his voice next to me in the darkness, the weight of his arm across my chest, the rise and fall of his breath. I don't think at all. It's enough to just be, here, in this moment with him.

Locker Room

The next time I see him, I'm not surprised. I let him tug my sweat-stained shirt off, let him curl his fingers around the elastic waistband of my shorts. But it's not his name I say, its Naruto's; it escapes from me, unbidden at first. I keep repeating it, over and over in short gasps as I thrust harder, and faster inside of him. Still, I say Naruto's name.

Sometimes I say his name; whisper it as I trail my hands down his stomach, under his boxers, and watch his eyes widen, his cheeks flush a shade of pink that makes me lean in and kiss him. His lips always part eagerly, inviting me in. He always says my name, soft and airy.

Naruto never says anything about it when I come out of the locker room late, and I never offer an explanation.

Afterwards, he always sits on the bench, watching me as I dress.

"Quit staring," I snap finally, unnerved at the way his eyes are focused on every place my finger brushes against bare skin. I am aroused by it, too, but I don't let it show.

"Why? I've already seen you naked, and anyway, you like it."

"I don't even know how this started. It wasn't supposed to." I say, turning the conversation down a different route.

"What, you've got a boyfriend? The one whose name you say all the time?" he jeers. When I don't answer him, he hisses, "Fag."

I glare at him. "You're the only one who's got a problem with that." I state icily. "And if such a big deal that you won't shut up about it, don't even bother with me anymore."

I watch him struggle with himself. I don't bother to hide my satisfied smirk. Deliberately, I let my hands drag along my leg as I pull my jeans on, let my fingers trail across every inch of skin. His breathing quickens, and I press my mouth against his, swiftly, drawing away before he can deepen it. He clutches at my arm but I shake myself free, kiss him on the neck, and refuse to be held down. He half growls, trying to pull me back. I only twist away, shouldering my backpack, and walk out of the room with a cool confidence that makes me think maybe im beginning to become myself again – the self I was before Naruto.

If there's one thing I've learned from him, it's how to keep someone waiting, impatient, wanting. I know that tomorrow, he'll be there again.

I look forward to it.

There are some fragments of Naruto that I know. They are small pieces of him; pieces I thought could fill the empty spaces in me. But of course, they couldn't. You can't take the pieces from one puzzle and try to complete another with them.

His touch, his laughter. These are only a few of the one hundred and one pieces that he is made of. I will never hold all of them in my hands; he will never give himself over completely.

His weight next to me, his warmth. They don't complete me; they can't.

I don't need them to.

~fin~

Closing A/N: Did you like my story? It was written in a completely different style from all my other SasuNaru one-shots & stories. Anyways, please Review and tell me how you think this turned out!!

Review!