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Summary
In the centre of it all, sitting on one of the paint-stained tables, confidence radiating off him, was Naruto. His dandelion blond hair was tousled in a way that was so gorgeous it almost seemed manufactured, like he’d deliberately styled it to look like a sexy bedhead but Sasuke knew it was genuine because . . . well, it was Naruto. He was genuine to a fault.
There were even streaks of red and orange paint on Naruto's cheeks, sideways slashes like coy little whiskers, as if he was a fey or a shapeshifter, come to tempt Sasuke. The wickedness at the edges of his smile didn’t help either, the sharp tilt that whispered, i’ve been dreaming about fucking you.
Sasuke wasn’t one for flowery descriptions in his writing. His style, even in poetry, tended towards sparse, but Naruto—and only Naruto—drew Sasuke’s mind to metaphor and the mythic.
Sasuke visits Naruto at the art studio after hours. He’s stressed about his writing and Naruto has a wicked and messy idea on how to take care of him.
Series
- Part 2 of lavender prose