What they were, what they could become, it was almost like a mockery of their entire past. If this was here, these little teasing fragile moments that were familiar and comfortable, why weren't they always doing this? Why wasn't this already theirs?
But he knew. He always knew.
Death was cruel motivator, but a motivator all the same. Hate, even moreso. They were as much a master to be obeyed as the head of the clan itself, as much his brother, a living entity inside his head. Was he a puppet to it? Was he in charge of his emotions, or were they in charge of him?
He could have laughed. How foolish was it that Tobirama was so blissfully ignorant in this genjutsu, at peace, while Izuna --the caster-- suffered far worse, far greater moral questions? It was backfiring. Stupidly backfiring. But dammit, how he felt didn't matter as long--as long as he got that --
That thumb against his nipple made him moan, some tortured whimpering thing into the kiss until the albino broke away. Izuna followed him, his forehead finding Tobirama's, his lips parted as he breathed hard, breathed quick, as if could still grab the other's air into his lungs. He started to sit up, hair shifting with him, but he stopped when that hand was there. Blunt and sure and Izuna was surprised the other had it in him, even if he was just like that on the field.
What was romance other than a battlefield, anyway?
His arousal was strong, welcoming that hand, hard and wanting more. Legs spread a little, his back arching off the bedroll as his shoulders drop down once more. If it felt this good through the fabric, the clothes, how would it be when it was skin to skin?
But he couldn't let Tobirama be the first to accomplish it, to know it, to fucking beat him. So, dark eyes half-drunk on the lust and the lust of power, he slid his hand into the other man's fundoshi, fingers wrapping around that length. It was warm and hard and Izuna thought of how unsure he was in that very moment. Did Tobirama like it how he did it? Differently? Slow? Fast? Hard?
Tch. What did it matter? This was just a damn dream. He would take whatever was given to him.
So Izuna was careful about how tight he was, but he started to stroke him, base to tip inside that fabric. The motion was slow but not lazy, speed something to be earned with sounds and motions. He licked his lips, his breath still coming in quick bursts.
"A...are you sure?" he hissed. "I...I wouldn't want there t-to be any doubt."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-08-25 06:05 am (UTC)But he knew. He always knew.
Death was cruel motivator, but a motivator all the same. Hate, even moreso. They were as much a master to be obeyed as the head of the clan itself, as much his brother, a living entity inside his head. Was he a puppet to it? Was he in charge of his emotions, or were they in charge of him?
He could have laughed. How foolish was it that Tobirama was so blissfully ignorant in this genjutsu, at peace, while Izuna --the caster-- suffered far worse, far greater moral questions? It was backfiring. Stupidly backfiring. But dammit, how he felt didn't matter as long--as long as he got that --
That thumb against his nipple made him moan, some tortured whimpering thing into the kiss until the albino broke away. Izuna followed him, his forehead finding Tobirama's, his lips parted as he breathed hard, breathed quick, as if could still grab the other's air into his lungs. He started to sit up, hair shifting with him, but he stopped when that hand was there. Blunt and sure and Izuna was surprised the other had it in him, even if he was just like that on the field.
What was romance other than a battlefield, anyway?
His arousal was strong, welcoming that hand, hard and wanting more. Legs spread a little, his back arching off the bedroll as his shoulders drop down once more. If it felt this good through the fabric, the clothes, how would it be when it was skin to skin?
But he couldn't let Tobirama be the first to accomplish it, to know it, to fucking beat him. So, dark eyes half-drunk on the lust and the lust of power, he slid his hand into the other man's fundoshi, fingers wrapping around that length. It was warm and hard and Izuna thought of how unsure he was in that very moment. Did Tobirama like it how he did it? Differently? Slow? Fast? Hard?
Tch. What did it matter? This was just a damn dream. He would take whatever was given to him.
So Izuna was careful about how tight he was, but he started to stroke him, base to tip inside that fabric. The motion was slow but not lazy, speed something to be earned with sounds and motions. He licked his lips, his breath still coming in quick bursts.
"A...are you sure?" he hissed. "I...I wouldn't want there t-to be any doubt."