Author: Carcinya (Isolde on Fanfiction(dot)net)
Author E-mail: carcinya(at)aol(dot)com
Keywords: Naruto Iruka Kakashi
Summary: Jounins don't play fair. (KakaIru, drabble)
Disclaimer: This story is based on situations and characters created and owned by Masashi Kishimoto, various publishers including but not limited to TV Tokyo. The plot is mine. No money is being made and no copyright infringement intended.
Now, now, people. If Naruto was mine, do you really think I'd be sitting at my computer, sipping bad coffee, and writing bad fanfiction? Honestly.
Author's notes: I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistake there might be in this story. I am French, and still only learning the beautiful language that is English. Any comments are welcome, but obviously flames will be used to roast marshmallows. Or flamers.
Hum. Another (silly) drabble. Don't kill me. Meeep!
"Predictable" - Kakashi (500 words)
"You're so predictable, sensei," you sigh, scratching your neck thoughtfully. You are sitting on the windowsill of Iruka's classroom, legs dangling, watching the latter tidy up after class.
"I am not," Iruka shots back, tightly. He stretches out a hand to grab a stray pen that has rolled under a desk, offering you a spectacular view of his (pert) backside.
You grin behind your mask.
No wonder you have not offered to help. You would not miss such a show for the world. Not even for a new volume of Icha Icha Paradise.
You definitely need to convince Jiraiya to write Iruka into his next book, or the pervert reputation you have so painstakingly built will take a blow.
"There. I knew you'd say that," you say, tsking in fake disapproval and eyeing him appraisingly. "Predictable."
He does not bother to answer.
"And then there is your Routine."
He stiffens. Keeps silent by sheer force of will.
"For instance," you begin, counting off your fingers, "You do laundry on Mondays, ironing on Tuesdays, shopping on Wednesdays. On Thursdays, you do the housework. On Friday evenings, you go out for a drink with Anko and Genma. Weekly grading on Saturdays, and Sundays are for training." You pause. "Did I forget something?"
Iruka grits his teeth and says nothing, setting to his self-appointed task with renewed -- furious? -- vigor.
Raising an eyebrow, you go on, "You have color-coded your homework stacks. The contents of your fridge. And your underwear."
The Chuunin's head whips around in horrified alarm.
"How... how did you know that?" he stammers, blushing hotly.
A small, sly smile.
Iruka's face goes from awkward confusion to utter mortification in a split second. Amazing how many shades of red the man can pull off.
You have learnt to read them all.
"But you are predictable, sensei," you say, shaking your head almost fondly. "So very predictable."
You watch him scramble up to his feet and dust off his hands on his pants. He marches straight at you, brown eyes glaring daggers.
He comes to a stop right in front of you, all righteous anger and brittle resentment. Strands of hair have escaped from his stern ponytail, shadowing and framing his face. His forehead protector is askew and there is chalk on his shirt.
He is beautiful. He doesn't know it.
"I'll give you predictable," he growls.
Then he yanks down your mask in one fluid, furious motion, snaking his other hand behind your neck. He crushes his lips to yours and kisses you angrily.
Or is it hungrily?
"Bet you didn't see that one coming," Iruka mutters, pulling back after a few seconds. His hand lingers at the base of you neck, unconsciously stroking the soft,cropped hair. Possessive and furious and clueless. The combination nearly makes your brain melt.
You offer him a slow, rich smile. Raise an eyebrow.
Iruka blushes in belated realization.
"You," he growls, "You...!"
Predictable, you think, before silencing him with another kiss.
¤¤ end ¤¤
Feedback very much welcome.