Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13601778.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Naruto
  Relationship:
      Senju_Tobirama/Uchiha_Madara
  Character:
      Senju_Tobirama, Uchiha_Madara
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Romance, Smut
  Series:
      Part 6 of Tuli-chan_and_H's_Prompt_Challenge
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-07 Words: 1507
****** I'll Make This Feel Like Home ******
by Grinner_H
Notes
     For this_prompt (selected by Tuli-chan).
The sweater is too large and - in Tobirama's opinion - the best kind of fit.
He likes the way Madara wears it, dark gray cashmere against pale skin, the
neckline stretched too wide to accommodate his slender frame, slipping off a
gracile shoulder.
Long rays of summer sun steal into the living room of Tobirama's apartment,
warming them in pale gold. Tobirama doesn't comprehend how Madara could stand
to dress like this in such infernal weather.
Madara does not seem to mind. He sits in Tobirama's old sweater, in his own
orange boxers, eyes glued to the TV. There is a guy onscreen riding what
appears to be some kind of vibrating cushion. Madara seems fascinated by it.
Madara has always been a kind of anomaly, and Tobirama hungers.
He marks a page in the book he'd only been half-reading. He sets it on the
coffee table, where it is quickly forgotten. Madara is a beautiful, distracting
thing; the curve of his bony shoulder, enticing. Tobirama can't help but press
his lips against it.
He hears Madara's breath hitch - subtle, quiet, but it's there. The summer heat
makes him unusually subdued. Tobirama knows this, like he knows the sensitivity
of Madara's skin, how he tastes clean and electric all at once, a current upon
Tobirama's tongue.
Madara tilts his head, baring the flesh of his neck. His eyes slip close.
Tobirama claims his tacit offering. He kisses the subtle lines of Madara's
neck, teeth grazing along the vein, the pulse point. He can feel it quicken
beneath the nip of his teeth.
Tobirama turns Madara toward him. He slides the sweater off Madara's frame.
Pushes him down till his back is pressed against the couch. Works his way out
of his own clothes, quick, efficient. He doesn't take his time, doesn't care to
make a show of it. All he cares about is Madara, Madara, Madara, quiet and
compliant before him.
Madara's eyes remain closed. His mouth does not. It parts like an invitation.
Tobirama does not hesitate to accept it.
He kisses Madara, swallows the quiet of his whimpers, the sweet warmth of his
breath. He kisses the top of Madara's chin, the soft flesh beneath it. Kisses
his way down Madara's Adam's apple, the point between his collarbone, his
chest, his stomach, his hip.
Madara's boxers are in the way. He wants out of them. Tobirama is aware of this
too, but does nothing to help. Not yet. He lowers his head. His mouth traces
the hard line of Madara's cock.
Above him, the sound of Madara's gasp. He doesn't have to look to know that
Madara's eyes have flown open in pleasured shock.
Tobirama smirks against the orange fabric. Smirks against the wet spot that's
rapidly darkening the front of those boxers.
Madara's hand in his hair. His heel against Tobirama's ribs. His voice is
nothing but quiet pants. His body is screaming, Please.
Tobirama can feel it in the way Madara trembles, in every desperate tremor of
his fingers, his flesh.
He raises his head. Licks along the point where Madara's skin vanishes into the
stupidly bright fabric of his shorts. He licks his way upward, feeling the soft
clench of muscles beneath Madara's stomach, the hard lines of his ribs. He
kisses his way through the rise and fall of Madara's chest, his rapid fire
heartbeat, his trip hammer pulse, his lips that beg without words.
Tobirama's hand finds its way past the waistband of Madara's underwear. His
gaze finds Madara's own, settles there like he's found his way home.
The boxers come off. Tobirama slides them past Madara's fishbelly-pale thighs,
past his knees, his shins, his ankles. He pulls back and watches. His gaze,
appraising. Ravenous.
Madara is not well-defined. He is pale, thin, stuck somewhere between a boy and
a man. Sweat plasters his unruly hair to his forehead, his neck. His eyes are
bright like the spark of a gun. He's all bones and passion and too much temper,
a wild heart beneath the messy trappings of a sixteen-year-old body.
Tobirama will never tire of looking at him.
Madara reaches for him. His fingers come to rest around Tobirama's dogtagged
chain. He tugs, and Tobirama can feel the pull of it against his nape. He knows
that, later, he would run his fingers along the pattern imprinted upon his skin
and think of this.
Of Madara, insistent. Madara with his face full of want. Madara spreading his
legs.
Tobirama falls. He never fails to fall, into Madara's gaze, his need, his
returned hunger. Tobirama engulfs him, drowns all of Madara's mad, feverish
kisses with his own. His hand fumbles for the lube stuck somewhere between the
couch cushions. They barely utter a sound.
The tube is two-thirds empty. Tobirama makes quick work of uncapping it,
squeezing a sticky mess onto his fingers, pressing it against Madara's asshole,
coating his own cock.
Madara's a little louder now, breath rough and sharp in the heat. His whimpers,
desperate. Tobirama can hear the ache of them, echoed in his breaths, in his
thundering heart.
He slides in. It is an amazing, breathtaking thing, how easily they fit
together. Almost as if their bodies were designed with each other in mind, like
puzzle pieces, or tumblers and keys, or some other corny ass shit like that.
His body is large, easily dwarfing Madara's own. Tobirama hovers over him, the
space between their bodies ending where Tobirama lies balls-deep in Madara's
ass.
Madara is impossibly flushed, impossibly hot, impossibly tight all around him.
Tobirama moves and the heat pours off him, swirls all around them. Madara
reaches for his chain again. Tobirama follows, letting Madara guide him to his
lips, letting their bodies collide, their hearts thunder in sync in this
fevered heat.
Tobirama hungers. His kisses find their place against Madara's own. His cock
finds its rhythm in and out of Madara's ass. The heat of his flesh. The rush of
his blood. The tremor beneath his bones. They all find their home here - in
this cloistered little world in a stupidly tiny apartment on a stupidly hot
summer's day.
Tobirama fucks Madara as if he could fuck him out of his skin, fuck him till
all he'd feel is Tobirama in his veins, his blood, within the marrow of his
bones.
He sets a ruthless pace. Madara's whimpers give way to moans give way to
almost-screams. His limbs - all four of them - are vise-tight around Tobirama's
muscular frame.
Tobirama's teeth meet the soft flesh beneath Madara's chin. He knows it is one
of Madara's erogenous zones. He bites down hard. Tastes blood and skin and
sweat beneath his tongue. Tastes the accelerated tremors of Madara's body.
The sharp intake of his breath. The heels that dig into his lower back.
Fingernails denting his flesh. It is too much. It is not enough. Tobirama
hungers and wants.
Madara's hair. It stays plastered to his neck. It does not yet reach his
shoulders. But it is long enough, and Tobirama does not hesitate to grab it,
dark threads in a tight fist. His gaze holds Madara captive, the way his hand
does.
Madara has always been this prideful thing. But in Tobirama's hold, he lies
vulnerable. Tobirama knows that Madara is only ever vulnerable with him.
He blankets Madara's body with his own. He can feel the pulse of Madara's cock
against his stomach. His grip doesn't loosen around Madara's hair. Madara's
legs tighten around him. His ass is this blessed, clenching thing around
Tobirama's cock.
The heat builds. It feels like an inferno. It feels like burning from the
inside out. Tobirama is more than happy to be burned till he is nothing but
smoke and ash.
And in the same moment, they cum.
It hits him, white-hot and blade-sharp, hard and violent like a bullet. His
fists clench, against the couch, in Madara's hair. He inhales against the
corner of Madara's lip, inhales the scent and taste and feel of him.
Madara cums with a cry that sounds a lot like Tobirama's name. He is a
trembling mess beneath the cover of Tobirama's body. Tobirama can feel all of
him - his breath that's stuttered with pleasure and heat. His cock that's wet
and throbbing between them. The desperate way he clings to Tobirama through it
all, like he'd disintegrate if he let go.
—
The sun has set.
Tobirama does not reach for the light. He watches Madara, bathed in the
flickering colors of whatever asinine infomercial is playing on the TV.
They are both still naked. He had wiped the sweat and cum off their bodies with
his Dark Side Invasion t-shirt. It now lies in a rumpled mess with the rest of
their clothes, strewn about the floor like a careless afterthought.
Madara is asleep, curled into himself, head pillowed on the armrest.
Tobirama reaches for his hair. He brushes dark strands from Madara's temple,
traces the curve of his cheek. He watches him breathe. He thinks himself lucky.
He thinks, Yes.
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