With each piece of clothing that fell from his skin he only felt hotter. Crisp evening air wrapped around him like a soothing embrace and still Tobirama burned from inside out, finding no relief in the autumn chill. Sweat was already beading on his brow as he fell back on to the mattress and let his limbs sprawl out across the covers. Naked and hot and already panting, Tobirama closed his eyes and let one of his hands run slowly down his own chest.
This was all Madara’s fault of course. He had to wonder if the other man even knew what kind of damage he was causing, brushing their fingers together so many times. Surely he had to know what sort of thoughts he was putting in to Tobirama’s mind – although Tobirama desperately hoped he didn’t. All of his troubles lately could be traced back to Madara and he would give the man a rather sharp piece of his mind if he didn’t think it would be the most embarrassing conversation of his life, to demand recompense for his constant state of arousal.
A frustrated huff escaped him, the hand stroking his chest slowing to a stop and resting atop his belly. It just wasn’t the same feeling his own familiar hands. His mind was filled with the callouses he had felt on Madara’s fingers, the roughness of the palm that kept brushing against him as they walked side by side. It was a craving his own skin would never be able to satisfy. Every shinobi had callouses of course but that didn’t mean every man’s hand was the same. Madara’s grip was different, the angles he preferred the throw were different, the weight of his weapon was different; his callouses were worlds apart from Tobirama’s but it was those hands he wanted to feel right now.
Cracking his eyes back open, swallowing a rush of shame at just the thought of what he was about to do, Tobirama checked the room to make sure he was truly alone. This was his own room in his own house yet the habit of checking for foreign chakra was deeply ingrained and this was not something he wanted any witnesses for.
His clone gave him an understanding look when it popped in to existence at his bedside. For a single breath he lay still and bore the sympathy in his own eyes before his mirror image lifted both hands for a transformation jutsu. Then it was Madara standing over him with burning eyes and wild hair, wearing evening shadows around his shoulders like a cloak just as he had when they parted ways only minutes ago. Even knowing it was a clone of his own making didn’t stop the hitch in his breath when the image of Madara knelt down on the mattress.
Tobirama remained sprawled out on his back as he took both of Madara’s hands in to his own, running his thumbs across the palms and shivering.
“Perfect,” he murmured to himself. And they were. The callouses were just as he remembered, rough on the fingertips and thick across the arch of the palm. With barely a passing thought for how wrong this was he dragged those hands towards himself and pressed them against his chest, directing them to slide down, down, down until they brushed against the patch of hair between his legs then brought them up against, greedy for the slide of those callouses dragging against old battle scars.
Madara said nothing, only smiled encouragingly and leaned forward to free one of his hands. The firm pressure of his fingers tracing Tobirama’s ribs made it very difficult to remember that this was not the actual man he was becoming obsessed with but for the moment he found it very hard to care. Small details like that mattered very little when Madara shuffled closer and swung a leg over to straddle one of his, riding his thigh and dragged rough palms down his naked hips. Tobirama bucked in to the sensation without bothering to restrain himself. It was only him here after all.
“Touch me,” he rasped, staring up at the face above him and allowing himself to pretend. “I want your hands on me.”
“Whatever you want,” Madara told him with a smirk.
His hands pushed up to caress the sides of Tobirama’s ribs one more time before shifting up to dig his nails in and rake down the creases of his abdominals until they were tangled in pale wiry curls. Their eyes held each other’s gaze as Madara wrapped a hand around him, fingers gripping just that little bit too tight. Sweat dripped down the sides of his temples and Tobirama arched in to the touch until he was almost fucking himself in to the other’s hand.
Curiosity drove his own hand out to claim a fistful of Madara’s hair, hanging loose and so tempting. The softness of the dark strands in contrast to the roughness of the palm around his erection was almost enough to drive him out of his mind.
“Faster,” he demanded mindlessly. Madara complied without question, unusual behavior for him. It made it feel as though he were riveted to the sight of Tobirama writhing beneath him, completely devoted to his pleasure alone, and that by itself was hotter than any of the endless dirty fantasies that bombarded his dreams of late.
“Just like this?” Madara asked him, hand too tight and the pass of dry skin over dry skin too rough to take him as high as he desperately wanted to go.
“Yeah,” he panted in reply. “Just like that.” It was perfect, just how he imagined the real Madara would touch him.
Eyes falling to half mast, he flung one arm out to feel around for the small tube underneath his pillow. When he found the lube he thrust it out towards Madara with a desperate whine. The last time he had indulged he had wanted exactly this, scraped his back against the bark of a tree in the middle of the forest and wished he had the time to open himself up, but he’d been too impatient then, too close to the edge before he even started. Now he had all the time in the world and Madara straddled across one thigh looking beautiful in his own feral way.
The other man took the lube from him with an understanding look as though he knew just what Tobirama wanted. Admittedly that had to be fairly obvious anyway but it was still a good thing that he didn’t have to spell it out. He wasn’t sure he had the words right now.
Letting his eyes fall closed entirely, Tobirama tilted his head back and lifted the one leg that wasn’t pinned down with another’s body weight. He tucked the knee against his chest then groaned appreciatively at the feeling of slick fingers tracing his entrance. It had been far too long since any but his own fingers explored that area, long enough that he felt a dangerous twist in his stomach at nothing more than the anticipation.
“Faster,” he gasped again when he recognized that he was too close to the edge again. He couldn’t help it. Madara lit a fire in him like he’d never experienced before, burning bright and hot and fast, uncontrollable and undeniable. Luckily Madara seemed to know what he wanted without further instruction.
A single finger pressed inside of him just this side of too rough, emptying his lungs of air. If his body had been hot before he was close to melting now. Not even the cool air was enough to keep the boiling heat at bay; every inch of him felt ready to burn right off his bones and all he wanted was more, to fall back in to the fire and let it consume him. Self-control and inhibitions abandoned him further with every tiny increment that thick calloused finger pressed inside, perfect pressure until it curled to drag along his walls as Madara slid it back out.
His belly was tight with need when a second finger slid in, his throat choking on a high keen as he felt his peak drawing ever closer and fought desperately to hold back. Madara’s kept the rhythm of his fingers steady and leaned forward, pressing Tobirama’s knee further in to his chest and dipping his head to draw a wet tongue up the side of his neck.
And then Madara began to speak.
Snippets of the poetry they were both so fond of, the words dark and delicious on his tongue, each phrase given new meaning as they rumbled passed his lips. Between each stanza a pause to growl some fantasy or desire, things he wanted to do to, places he wanted to taste. Tobirama was panting in no time. Callouses and rough touches were incredible but nothing got to him quite like Madara’s voice. Something about the way he formed his words made it sound like he was purring through the letters, making love to each syllable as it fell from his lips, and it was all made worse by the way he hardly seemed aware of the effect he had on those around him.
Partway through a beautiful poem about moonlight on skin Madara slipped in a third finger and bent down to bite the shell of Tobirama’s ear, eliciting a helpless whimper as he writhed and bucked.
“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you To-bi-ra-ma?”
“Fuck yes, don’t stop talking!”
Bringing his second hand back to Tobirama’s neglected cock, tightening his grip until it was just on the edge of too uncomfortable, Madara twisted his other hand until the glorious pressure of his fingers against Tobirama’s prostate made him cry out unfettered, unashamed of his own pleasure.
“Anything you say, pretty boy. Do you know how you like right now? I could write a hundred sonnets for the shape of your jaw, a thousand for your hair. Go on, pretty thing. Let go. Come for me.”
Unable to deny that voice anything, Tobirama did. He came with his teeth grinding for fear the shout clawing in his throat would wake the neighbors three streets away. Euphoria rushed through him and his body quaked under the hands that refused to let up until he was clutching the blanket hard enough to tear and whining brokenly. When finally Madara let him come down from the high he collapsed, gasping for air, staring up at the ceiling with his vision hazed with lingering aftershocks.
Rest lasted for barely a minute, however. As soon as he had breath in his lungs he was scrambling around in the covers and grabbing a startled Madara by the hips, drawing him in and pulling at the obi holding his robes closed.
“No,” Tobirama growled. “I’ve had my fun. Now it’s your turn.”
He gave the other man no time to reply, pulling out his cock and sinking his lips over the thick head with a satisfied groan. It took almost no time at all to have Madara curled over him with both hands fisted in his hair – unsurprising, considering how hard he had already been. Tobirama brought every ounce of skill he had to bear, used every trick he knew would have driven himself crazy.
Triumph and a jolt of exhausted lust burned through him when he felt Madara jerk and something salty touched his tongue. Then he cried out in surprise when suddenly his mouth was empty and his body convulsed under the memories of a secondary orgasm, experiencing it all over again in the aftermath.
For a moment, a handful of shining beautiful moments, he’d forgotten that Madara was only a clone.
Disappointment flooded him and Tobirama buried his face in the blankets to hide his shame. Even with no one here to sit witness he still couldn’t bear to face the world at that moment. It was his own clone, how could he have forgotten that Madara wasn’t actually there? Some kind of genius sensor he was. Even distracted as he was it should have registered that there were no chakra signatures in the room except his own.
Rolling over and stretching out his limbs, he allowed himself a few minutes to at least enjoy the boneless satisfaction currently making it feel like he could melt in to a puddle any moment now. It was a little sad to come back down to reality for sure but it was hardly unexpected. He was more than aware that he and Madara were far from an item – although if he had his way that would change. And why couldn’t he have his way? There was nothing stopping him from at least attempting a few flirtations. It had never been his area of expertise, per se, but he could still try.
With his head full of half-baked plans and his limbs still somewhat in a liquid state he never even realized he was falling asleep. Tobirama drifted off in to dreams of calloused palms and a dark voice whispering his every fantasy, uncaring for the chill that pricked at his naked skin or the mess that remained on his sheets. Those were problems to be dealt with after he had found the rest he so deserved.