"Are you sure that you weren't, Senju?" Could he unwind any slower? Seriously, Izuna watched him with a curious glance, but it sped up nothing. Those wrappings were unwound, then rewound without the legs, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes. Was Tobirama doing this on purpose? Being this slow intentionally?
"It has been much longer than two minutes." A little smirk, a little huff of an insulted sigh, and a hand waved with all the annoyed patience of an old man. Was this how it could be with them, banter and teasing, moments that felt almost deceivingly easy? Could this all have been real, lurking under the surface the entire time? "It has easily been three minutes. Three and a half by my count."
His thoughts were foolish, though, and he knew it. If he wanted a moment to breathe, to stop this and collect himself, he wasn't getting it, not as he watched the other step out of his pants and ...just be there. Exist in all his scarred and bruised glory. Izuna looked at every mark, knowing they weren't from his genjutsu weaving, but from Tobirama's; this was his form when...almost naked. Those were the true bruises, the real scars. If he cut the clothes from the man in the real world, his legs would look the same.
Would the same hardened outline behind that thin piece of fabric be there, too?
Izuna was staring too long, and when that look passed over Tobirama's face, he was ready to tighten the jutsu. But his worries were extinguished as the Senju came to him on his own, willing, that question gone. He looked better up close, more real, and the hand on his chest, stilling him, made Izuna's heart hammer. It was calloused and rough, strong, and his own chest was narrow and made up of tight, wiry muscles. That little chastising earned the white-haired bastard a growl and a narrowing of his eyes.
"I can show you how much of an adult I am, if that's what you want," he murmured. But then there was that kiss stealing his breath right from his lungs, making his arms reach up and wind up loosely around the other's neck. The tips of his fingers ran along the top of Tobirama's shoulders, his back broader than his own, a bigger target than his own. Eyes opened just a sliver when he got that playful nip to his lip, daring.
His teeth felt good, intoxicatingly good.
Knees bent, feet flat as they dug into the bedroll, he tried to control himself as much as he could next to a nearly nude enemy. Attractive. Sleek. But a man he should be killing, slaughtering, dismembering. Those wills were gone for the moment, though, and his arms left his neck to run down the albino's chest instead. He felt the scars, felt the marks, felt the muscles beneath his touch, as many different terrains as the world had. His thumb brushed over that once-wounded nipple, then down over his stomach. And all the while, his eyes were on Tobirama, on his face, on his eyes.
You should be ugly, hideous and disgusting. You are the embodiment of my hate.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-08-24 05:42 am (UTC)"It has been much longer than two minutes." A little smirk, a little huff of an insulted sigh, and a hand waved with all the annoyed patience of an old man. Was this how it could be with them, banter and teasing, moments that felt almost deceivingly easy? Could this all have been real, lurking under the surface the entire time? "It has easily been three minutes. Three and a half by my count."
His thoughts were foolish, though, and he knew it. If he wanted a moment to breathe, to stop this and collect himself, he wasn't getting it, not as he watched the other step out of his pants and ...just be there. Exist in all his scarred and bruised glory. Izuna looked at every mark, knowing they weren't from his genjutsu weaving, but from Tobirama's; this was his form when...almost naked. Those were the true bruises, the real scars. If he cut the clothes from the man in the real world, his legs would look the same.
Would the same hardened outline behind that thin piece of fabric be there, too?
Izuna was staring too long, and when that look passed over Tobirama's face, he was ready to tighten the jutsu. But his worries were extinguished as the Senju came to him on his own, willing, that question gone. He looked better up close, more real, and the hand on his chest, stilling him, made Izuna's heart hammer. It was calloused and rough, strong, and his own chest was narrow and made up of tight, wiry muscles. That little chastising earned the white-haired bastard a growl and a narrowing of his eyes.
"I can show you how much of an adult I am, if that's what you want," he murmured. But then there was that kiss stealing his breath right from his lungs, making his arms reach up and wind up loosely around the other's neck. The tips of his fingers ran along the top of Tobirama's shoulders, his back broader than his own, a bigger target than his own. Eyes opened just a sliver when he got that playful nip to his lip, daring.
His teeth felt good, intoxicatingly good.
Knees bent, feet flat as they dug into the bedroll, he tried to control himself as much as he could next to a nearly nude enemy. Attractive. Sleek. But a man he should be killing, slaughtering, dismembering. Those wills were gone for the moment, though, and his arms left his neck to run down the albino's chest instead. He felt the scars, felt the marks, felt the muscles beneath his touch, as many different terrains as the world had. His thumb brushed over that once-wounded nipple, then down over his stomach. And all the while, his eyes were on Tobirama, on his face, on his eyes.
You should be ugly, hideous and disgusting. You are the embodiment of my hate.
So, why aren't you?