Bossy and demanding. Izuna expected nothing else out of the Senju, and in that respect, they weren't so different. Sure, the Uchiha's way of speaking was possibly a little worse, but hearing those words, he knew that Tobirama felt as he did, wanted as he did, lusted as he did. It...was comforting, lie or not.
The confidence with which Izuna stroked was just a bravado front: if he committed, if he believed in it, then Tobirama would, too. He moved the way he liked it to feel on himself, not the hurried moments when there was less than a minute to come and clean up when the urges were too demanding, but the episodes where he had longer, longer to think, the fantasize. Slow first. Lingering. Learning. From bottom to tip, then back down again. Tobirama's felt different than his own, though, a little larger, uncircumcised; his own was cut (old clan traditions died hard), a shade larger than average, and had the barest of leans to the left.
The fact that Tobirama was bigger made him almost scowl. No, he did scowl, but he hid it under the remark over his clothes. Sure. He was angry about losing his outfit. Let him think that.
But the fingers were opening his pants, slipping inside, and he flushed as that calloused hand was down there. He was hard, so hard, against his own fundoshi, and he knew he was slick from his own pre-cum. Was it Tobirama, the feeling of that body, or the fact that he himself was controlling, manipulating all of this? Maybe everything. Probably everything.
"Who is bossy now?" he hissed against that mouth, knowing that he couldn't do such a thing; what would Madara say if he came back without pants? What excuse could he give? Removing his hand, he shoved the other back, away, enough that he could sit up. The wrappings from around his legs were removed with a quick, hurried motion, at one point tearing but it didn't stop him: one, then the other tossed away, unfurling and lying in long lengths on the grass like motionless, white snakes. The pants were already unfastened, so he laid back down, raised his hips and wiggled them down over his hips, his thighs, then kicking them off to wherever without a worry, his fundoshi quick to follow.
And he laid there in his pale, naked glory. There was a burn scar on the top of his right thigh, fire training with his brother gone awry. There was a sharp scar from where another one of the Tobirama's kunai had caught him in the left calf. A birthmark, purple and almost bird shaped, was on his inner thigh, small, no bigger than the pad of a thumb. His body was a roadmap of eighteen years.
Izuna blushed. He attempted not to acknowledge it as he reached over and grabbed the other man's only remaining article of clothing, and tugged on it in hopes of breaking it, tearing it. It was the one thing that he could get away with going home without.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-08-26 04:38 pm (UTC)The confidence with which Izuna stroked was just a bravado front: if he committed, if he believed in it, then Tobirama would, too. He moved the way he liked it to feel on himself, not the hurried moments when there was less than a minute to come and clean up when the urges were too demanding, but the episodes where he had longer, longer to think, the fantasize. Slow first. Lingering. Learning. From bottom to tip, then back down again. Tobirama's felt different than his own, though, a little larger, uncircumcised; his own was cut (old clan traditions died hard), a shade larger than average, and had the barest of leans to the left.
The fact that Tobirama was bigger made him almost scowl. No, he did scowl, but he hid it under the remark over his clothes. Sure. He was angry about losing his outfit. Let him think that.
But the fingers were opening his pants, slipping inside, and he flushed as that calloused hand was down there. He was hard, so hard, against his own fundoshi, and he knew he was slick from his own pre-cum. Was it Tobirama, the feeling of that body, or the fact that he himself was controlling, manipulating all of this? Maybe everything. Probably everything.
"Who is bossy now?" he hissed against that mouth, knowing that he couldn't do such a thing; what would Madara say if he came back without pants? What excuse could he give? Removing his hand, he shoved the other back, away, enough that he could sit up. The wrappings from around his legs were removed with a quick, hurried motion, at one point tearing but it didn't stop him: one, then the other tossed away, unfurling and lying in long lengths on the grass like motionless, white snakes. The pants were already unfastened, so he laid back down, raised his hips and wiggled them down over his hips, his thighs, then kicking them off to wherever without a worry, his fundoshi quick to follow.
And he laid there in his pale, naked glory. There was a burn scar on the top of his right thigh, fire training with his brother gone awry. There was a sharp scar from where another one of the Tobirama's kunai had caught him in the left calf. A birthmark, purple and almost bird shaped, was on his inner thigh, small, no bigger than the pad of a thumb. His body was a roadmap of eighteen years.
Izuna blushed. He attempted not to acknowledge it as he reached over and grabbed the other man's only remaining article of clothing, and tugged on it in hopes of breaking it, tearing it. It was the one thing that he could get away with going home without.
"Are you happy now, your royal highness?"