Work Text:
For the prompt - Day 21. Cum slut – Power bottom – “I won’t break!”
Somehow Tobirama ended up as less of a power bottom and more of a ragdoll. He'll get his chance.
This door is never left ajar. Madara looks at the thin, dark gap of the entrance warily.
“Tobirama?”
Silence. Nothing moves in the gloom. The faint ringing echo of what sounded worryingly like a shelf of glassware shattering, and foreboding silence. He considers, briefly, turning back and telling Hashirama something along the lines of yes, I knocked and I knocked, and the mad scientist wasn’t in. Then he thinks of Hashirama’s crestfallen face, and the mocking that would come with Madara’s own strange sometimes-lover not bothering to answer a door for him - Madara grimaces, and eases his foot around the door. That Senju cousin who told the entire village that they were an item should have had his tongue cut.
Entering Tobirama’s lab is a perilous adventure every time. He’s as likely to be growled at as he is to have something metal and burning tossed at his head, or to find himself on the wrong end of a jumbled, snarling knot of an experimental jutsu and end up dazed on his back for a day. But the quiet unnerves him more.
“I’m walking inside,” he calls out, impolitely. The stone hallway slopes down, bringing the lab some four feet underground and into a cooler environment. He can feel the weight of clay all around him, the contained flicker of flame in covered oil lamps. “Opening the wards. This is fair warning.”
The laboratory, when he reaches it, looks like a recreation of a warzone. The shelves of scrolls are lying in a heap of splintered wood and unrolled parchment over the ground. Disgustingly gelatinous and nauseatingly acrid puddles leak over the stone floor with shards of glass scattered through them, fanning out into smaller glimmering chips around the room. It’s complete chaos, and the air carries a faint tang of something smoky.
He glances around. It wouldn’t do to admit that he’s worried, because he’s not. Tobirama is still firmly in the ‘Hostile’ camp that exists inside the map of his mind, and the fact that they can’t seem to help but fuck each other numb when they’re drunk or frustrated doesn’t change that.
Tobirama himself is hunched over behind one of the long wooden worktables, arms wrapped around his knees like he’s breathing off a cramp. Madara crosses his arms.
“What are you doing?”
One red eye opens over Tobirama’s tensed arm and burnt haori sleeve, and glares at him balefully. His hands tighten closer around his gangly legs, the loose ends of his pants tied tight around his ankles with leather cords.
Madara nudges an unpleasant looking metal contraption away from a spreading spill of formalin with his foot. “Your brother wants to know whether or not you’ll arrive at his engagement dinner tonight. I couldn’t care less what madman’s work you’re up to in here, but I had thought you a better brother than -”
“Get out.”
Tobirama’s voice is strained, hoarse, as if he’s speaking with his shirt between his teeth. Madara bristles. Friction is far too easy between them.
“I thought we were past this,” Madara bites back, and steps over the shards on the ground. Tiny pieces crunch underfoot. “That you were working on your rude manners.”
“Out, you idiot!”
Madara’s temper flares, and he stalks right up to the greatest bane of his life without regard to the chemical spills or noxious fumes. The table groans in protest as he shoves it aside, and reaches to grab Tobirama by the arm -
Some madness has struck Hashirama’s brother. It’s the only rationale for the state of his laboratory and his work, and for the fervor with which he growls and springs up from the ground.
Tobirama crashes into him and bowls both of them to the ground in a brief tussle of limbs and painfully tugged hair and elbows hitting hard stone. He’s a squirming, wild bundle of pointy edges and searching hands on top of him, shoving his fingers up inside Madara’s sleeves and into the collar of his shirt and through his hair. It’s the strangest brawl he’s ever had, but his body knows how to instantly respond with hard punches into open ribs.
There’s too much movement and too much hair in his face to speak. All he can do to take control is use his bulk; to wrap his arms tight around Tobirama - pinning biceps to torso, rolling over, and letting his weight bear down and crush him into the ground while he keeps his neck out of range of those snapping teeth.
Tobirama makes a weak, gasping noise, and his ribs creak.
Madara grunts, and locks his arms tighter, and Tobirama finally comes to his senses and stops fighting - or just loses the necessary oxygen to keep moving. Madara checks, and finds Tobirama’s eyes half lidded and showing only white. Perhaps he’s passed out cold.
Only then with Tobirama no longer biting or kicking does he take notice of other parts of the body crushed against him. Tobirama’s harder under his heavy, coarse hakama than he thinks he’s ever felt him.
Startled, he manages to think of no better option than to shake him roughly. Tobirama makes a groaning noise against his shoulder, still limp beneath him - but for his legs, slowly parting as if to invite Madara in between. His whole body is burning hot, shivering faintly against Madara’s chest, and his spine keeps curving into a shallow arch like a cat presenting itself to a tom. His skin is coated in a fine sweat, glimmering at his temples and the base of his throat.
“You’re coming with me,” Madara says, a little more urgently. “Right now.”
Hashirama will know what to do. Probably. Maybe. Unlikely. Fuck.
Tobirama stirs weakly, and Madara stands up. Tobirama hangs loose and disjointed like a puppet with long strings as he hefts him up, a hand under each arm, and his heels drag along the stone floor as Madara slowly walks backward towards the staircase. He finds the first step with his foot, hefts Tobirama up - and yelps in surprise as Tobirama’s hands shoot out to grab the doorway and hold on tight.
They both fall. One backwards, one forwards, both painfully.
Tobirama crawls forwards sluggishly as Madara groans, rubbing the back of his skull and feeling for telltale wetness in his hair. He’s fallen rather inelegantly off the stairs, and his tailbone smarts almost as much as his head and his pride.
“What do you think you’re doing -” his voice trails off.
Hurriedly, awkwardly, Tobirama’s standing up and untying his hakama and letting the cloth drop to the ground around his ankles. The fundoshi goes next. His right hand falls heavily on the table, and then his forehead, while his left hand reaches back to his naked -
Madara wonders if he might be concussed.
“Nh-!” Tobirama’s spine arches, legs going tense, and his middle finger sinks inside his hole. All the way to the knuckle. His cock spills, a strange trickle of clear liquid that spatters down his bare legs and soaks into his discarded clothes.
He blinks, hard.
Tobirama moans, turning his face into his arm and keeping his ass raised up. His fingers keep working at himself desperately, pulling out just to push back in - but no matter how long and deft they are, he’s hindered by the lack of oil, the angle, the clumsy urgency that he’s fucking himself with. His ring finger joins the second, pushing into the soft-blush pink of his hole and Madara feels a telltale warmth seep through his own gut.
He’s only fallen into bed with Tobirama a handful of times and the lust that sits deep in his stomach hasn’t dried up yet. Out of frustration, of course, nothing more - and yes, he’s handsome for a Senju despite all his other flaws, reasonably strong, unattached in the same manner Madara himself is -
Tobirama makes a keening noise and flexes both calves, collapsing down over the table and continuing to fuck himself as he lies draped on top of it.
“What -” he breathes.
“Toxin,” Tobirama groans. His fingers twist beside each other, caught in the tight clutch of his hole. Madara’s eyes are fixed on it. He couldn’t look away if the whole lab were on fire. “Experiment. Gg-h -”
“You stupid excuse for a megalomaniac,” he snarls, shaking himself back to sense. “You dosed yourself with some ridiculous poison on the day your wedded-sister arrives to Konoha?”
“Spilled it!” Tobirama growls back. His voice breaks as his fingers slip deeper inside, curling out of sight and stretching himself around two spreading knuckles. “You think I - nh - wanted to - ah-h -”
“Is it toxic?”
“No,” Tobirama snaps, as best as he can. A pause. “If I go into arrhythmia…”
His life is clearly one long act of karmic retribution for Indra’s failures.
He staggers to his feet, holding on to the wall. “There’s an antidote, I presume?”
Tobirama’s drooling on his workbench, cheek pressed to the wood and an old stain.
“Surely?!”
“Mh…”
“What would speed this up?” Madara rakes both hands through his hair. “We can’t both be absent. Come on, Senju.”
“F-fluids,” Tobirama gets out, and whines as he starts nudging a third fingertip against his rim. “Heat. Sweating - it out, ah, cumming-!”
That last part, he’s unsure of. Either it’s a possible solution, or simply Tobirama moaning as his cock spurted out another short rush of spend. His cock remains hard, thick, almost reddish-pink and gleaming-wet at the head.
“-needs to be hotter to excrete it. Now,” he demands, white hair sticking down to his damp forehead. His eyes are dazed and he’s bent over a table, and he’s still giving orders. Prick.
If he wants heat, Madara can oblige. He might put a bit too much vehemence into the wave of chakra he extends, rolling out like a simmering haze that dries up the wet stains on the walls and makes one of the suspect puddles bubble violently. It does the job, and even the doorframe creaks from the change in temperature.
Tobirama pants, slowing down as sweat beads up over his lower back. His whole body is flushed, no part more than his untouched cock where it hangs down heavy between his legs. His balls are drawn up tight and full, swaying as his palm meets the very base of his tailbone. Madara’s crotch aches looking at them.
“Fuck,” he curses, under his breath.
One of the shelves has gone untouched - and, fortuitously, so have the contents. He recognises the wooden box propping up a row of scrolls and pulls it free, flipping open the latch and pulling out the full bottle of oil inside. It is, he thinks, incredibly strange and completely in-character for Tobirama to keep a precise stock of sex aids. How many other partners does he keep, in between riding Madara’s cock?
Tobirama doesn’t even startle when he pours the oil down over his raised ass and hand. He just groans, rubbing his temple harder against the wood as his fingers sink in deeper and wetter, faintly golden oil dripping down his taint and off his balls to worsen the mess collecting in his hakama. The sound of him fingerfucking himself grows sloppier and louder, feet spreading apart before the fabric around his pale ankles traps him in place.
“What else?” he asks, urgently. Hashirama cannot find out. The Uzushio delegates can never find out.
“Cock,” Tobirama groans pitifully.
In different circumstances, that would have made it to filing in his eternal library of masturbation material.
“No way.” He shakes his head, backing away. “I’m not getting infected with that stuff.”
Tobirama snarls, lifting his head to look at him with venom. “It doesn’t work like that. I i-inhaled it, when it caught fire - uhn, fu-uck -”
Water, he decides, and pulls the closest empty leather waterskin from the shelf. Tobirama’s laboratory has a direct supply of water and he fills it up quickly, closing the pump and crossing the room back to the table and its shaking, sweating, moaning occupant. He holds it to his mouth and Tobirama lifts himself up to gulp it down, water sluicing over his throat and chest. He drains it in seconds and throws it down, both hands to the workbench and his head hanging.
“You have to - don’t you understand -” His nails are digging into the table, and his voice is a little clearer. His words are never usually so faltering. “I need-”
He looks up at Madara with the most arousing expression he thinks he’s ever seen someone wear - pupils blown massive, flushed all the way from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. His mouth is slightly parted and very red. It’s so unlike Tobirama that it stuns him for a moment like a strike to the head.
Tobirama’s tongue licks at his upper lip.
“Not like before. I want you to do it properly -”
“Properly!” Offence helps to temper his lust, and snaps him out of the spell. “I’ve pleasured you better with one hand than anyone in this village could.”
“Hard,” Tobirama growls.“You’re strong. It’s embarrassing when you touch me like you’re not, you ass. You fuck like your elders are holding onto your balls.”
The speed with which he unties his kimono is a testament to how easily Tobirama can goad him, on or off the battlefield. He tears off the fabric and barely has to stroke his cock to get it fully hard, lunging to cover Tobirama with his body -
He stops - breathing hard - as Tobirama makes a muffled sound, cheek pressed back to the workbench where he’s been slammed down. Tobirama has a peculiar way of laughing, like a faint cough behind a closed mouth. Then again, he is peculiar in every way.
“And you were worried about an aphrodisiac.” Tobirama snorts. His ass is pressed flush against Madara’s cock, wet with oil. “Like you’re not a reckless, lustful fool already.”
He fists his hand in Tobirama’s hair and presses his head firmly down against the tabletop. His nape is so pale, so slender despite the muscle obvious at his shoulders. “You sound awfully lucid.”
Tobirama barks out a real laugh. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s speaking like he does when he’s drunk - slap after slap of agonising truths that everyone else is polite enough to keep unsaid. “You think I engineered this on the eve of my brother’s engagement? A scheme to get your charming attentions?”
“Maybe!”
“I’ve sweated almost half a shō, raised my temperature to the point of fever so that my metabolism can break down the toxin,” Tobirama says, condescendingly, “- and I’m circulating chakra in my kidneys, and using your heat to push it on faster. It’s working, as I explained it would. The toxin is stimulating all the hormones and neurotransmitters that influence sexual appetite, and I am frustrated.”
In truth, even his skin is beginning to flush. There’s no space between Tobirama’s back and his front, plastered together and burning up through the layers of their clothes. Tobirama’s abusing it, lifting himself up on the balls of his feet and lowering back down again so Madara’s cock slides against the oiled cleft of his ass.
“So give me your cock,” Tobirama demands. His eyes aren’t just dilated - they’re vaguely manic. At least, the one that Madara can see is. “I’ve never had to tell a Senju to fuck me like he means it, but the Uchiha, oh-”
He leans in close, and puts his mouth to the soft narrow lobe of Tobirama’s ear. “Stop baiting me.”
“It’s easy,” Tobirama bites back. His foot is trying to hook around Madara’s ankle and pull him closer, still tangled up in his fallen hakama. He’s never seen Tobirama this…hungry.
Madara’s heart pounds and his temple throbs. He breathes, in and out, the bridge of his nose wrinkled up in a glower. His cock throbs where it rests snug against Tobirama - he’s so warm - and his clothes stick to his lower back with sweat. The weight of his hair on his neck and falling over his shoulder is one more stifling layer, and his mouth feels like parchment.
“I thought you could handle everything on your own. But now you can’t even pleasure yourself,” he mocks. “Half your fist up your arse and it’s not enough.”
Tobirama tries to grind back against his cock, as he also attempts to kick the hakama off his feet. He takes hold of both of his hips - soft-skinned, strong-boned - and forces them down, pinning him to the table, holding himself an inch away from skin contact. The underside of his cock is slick with oil.
“How does begging to be fucked fit into your cure, Senju-san?”
“I’m hardly going to - mh - go run it off, halfwit.”
“Lying there and taking it like you always do doesn’t sound energetic.”
“Useless,” Tobirama pants. His mouth is pressed to the tabletop, moving against it as he speaks. “Get off if you’re not going to help.”
“So you do need help,” Madara crows.
Slick with sweat and oil, Tobirama twists around faster than Madara can hope to grasp him and hold him still. He must have freed himself from his hakama as Madara enjoyed the verbal sparring. Aggressively, he thumps down onto his back. Long legs come up and lock around Madara’s waist like a hot-skinned snare. His hands grip the opposite edge of the workbench and his arms flex with thick muscle as he pulls, shifting them both further over the tabletop. Madara grits his teeth, hips brought right to the edge of the table and flush against Tobirama’s ass and the underside of his thighs.
“Fuck - me,” Tobirama grunts. His teeth graze over Madara’s ear, and he jerks his head up to keep himself out of range. Both of his hands are planted to the table on either side of Tobirama’s ribs. “Abstaining won’t make you any more potent.”
“I’m plenty virile.” His cock sits so easily in Tobirama’s cleft. The head rubs and catches at his rim just so, like sword and sheath.
“Your demonstrations of it have been lacking -”
Growling, he presses his palm over Tobirama’s mouth. Dilated, red-ringed pupils watch him as he uses the other to guide his cock where it needs to go. Tobirama’s legs tighten, slowly, and coax him closer as the head of his cock breaches him with a muffled, faint little wet pop.
He inhales and holds the breath tight as Tobirama’s body swallows him down into a hot and slick gullet. It feels like the inside of his cheek does, when he shoves his fingers into Tobirama’s mouth for him to wet them faster.
The corners of Tobirama’s eyes crease, and he feels him grin in that aggravating way of his beneath his fingers.
“Shut up,” he bites, “while I fix the mess you’ve made.”
Tobirama rolls his eyes - and then widens them Madara fucks in hard.
That first thrust smacks his pelvis into Tobirama with a dull, satisfying noise and drives the huge table half an inch forward over the ground. Pale hands tighten on the edge, nails finding grooves in the wood, and Madara grips Tobirama’s shoulder - slick, muscle bulging - to bring the leverage to his next heavy thrust. His other hand stays clamped over Tobirama’s face, fingertips pressing into his cheek.
In the space between their bodies, Tobirama’s cock lies half-hard and drooling cum in the crease of his hip. It takes an age for the damned thing to ever get fully hard, and it looks like the continuous string of easy, unearned climaxes has him constantly stuck between softening and and an erection. His thighs press into Madara’s flanks and his head slowly tips further back as Madara picks up the rhythm and starts a punishing pace.
Madara wets his mouth, and stares at Tobirama’s throat.
He’s so smooth there. The skin is pale and half-translucent over his veins, flowing down over the jut of his collarbone and the soft, glimmering dip between them. It’s the kind of throat that should be ornamented with jewellery -
Tobirama gets his teeth around the meat of Madara’s palm, beneath his little finger, and bites down hard.
- or a damned collar and leash.
He hisses and pulls his hand free. He has no shame and no guilt about tugging Tobirama’s hair hard as he does it. If Tobirama wants to attack him like a child, Madara can stoop to his level.
“Like always,” Tobirama spits. “You give me ten good thrusts and then you sit back and rock into me like a gentle little seaside wave, as if you think you’ve done your job. Either you have no stamina or you just spend your life resting on your laurels. Do you think you’ve fucking tenderised my ass? Are you cooking a tough piece of meat?”
Madara stares, wide-eyed. Whatever Tobirama’s inhaled, it’s like none of his inhibitions have remained. From jumping to fight him, to this frenzied fucking, to his endless stream of -
“Get it through your thick skull that I - won’t - break!”
His hand clamps down on Tobirama’s other shoulder. His thumbs meet right under the divot of his throat. And it seems pointless to waste breath and words on arguing when he can just fuck the bitchy attitude out of him along with the toxin. He's too strong to do this to most people, but right now, that self-imposed limit is crumbling quickly.
After all, Tobirama says he can take it.
“You - uhn!”
The table makes a low, scraping sound as he steadily pushes it bit by bit over the stone and rattles the last flask sitting on the edge until that falls too and smashes over the ground. Tobirama, meanwhile, makes short panting noises and breathy little gasps as Madara fucks every breath out of him in an unhesitating, aggressive rhythm that jostles him on every thrust. His hands tighten and Tobirama moans, sweat beading down his sternum.
“Mm -” he thrusts deeper and Tobirama’s inhale hitches, eyes dazed. “Love your face when I fuck you.”
He slows down and slams into Tobirama instead, drawing all the way out until the head of his cock sits inside that sweetly reddening rim and pounds back inside. He does it again, and again, and for all that Tobirama’s ass is intractably tight, the sound of their fucking gets sloppier and more filthy the longer he spends wrecking him on his cock.
Sweat runs down his spine and soaks into his clothes under the band of his obi. He tastes it on his lips, licking over them as he wets his mouth. Tobirama’s thighs are stiflingly hot where they rest against his flanks - still hanging on, ankles locked - soft skin slipping against him and pressing into his ribs when Tobirama tightens his grip.
“Get them up,” he grunts. His hands tighten over Tobirama’s shoulders, kneading the heels of his palms into his chest. “Work for it.”
For once, Tobirama listens to him.
The control he has over his body is remarkable. Even drugged, half-delirious and writhing around his own workbench on the end of Madara’s cock, he can still unwrap his legs from Madara’s torso and manage to heft them up over Madara’s shoulders - left, then right. The added weight pushes him back and his hands slide down Tobirama’s slick chest, away from his throat. His fingers pass over the hard little nubs of his nipples and he keeps them there, circling his thumbs around each pink bud until Tobirama groans and tosses his head in protest.
But the angle is deeper now, and Tobirama goes limp and breathless as Madara folds him in two. His mouth has fallen open and he can’t seem to close it, not even to swallow down the spit that brims up and spills over. His eyes are half-lidded and Madara wants to pry them open, a thumb over those short white lashes to lift them up and make Tobirama look him in the eye.
He glances down, over Tobirama’s heaving chest and sore nipples to his smooth stomach - and the swell of it, right between the jut of his hipbones. He stares, hypnotized. He thrusts in and Tobirama groans, one hand unwrapping from the edge of the table to clutch at Madara’s wrist.
“So deep inside you,” he pants.
He’s not quite delusional enough to think his cock is that far-reaching, but it makes a smug, mean part of him deeply satisfied to know Tobirama is feeling every single knock against his bladder. Tobirama whines, pressing his hand to his lower belly. Madara’s hand joins it, feeling harder than he needs to over the taut little full shape as he jostles it on every thrust. Tobirama forces his hand away, shielding himself before his hand darts down and grips his own cock.
“How undisciplined are you?” he taunts. “Where’s your control?”
Tobirama hisses. His hand is tight around the base of his cock, not even stroking himself. Just holding on as best he can as Madara overwhelms him and drives every single snide insult out of his brain.
“Do you want to come like this?” he asks, both hands gripping Tobirama’s knees. His cock thrusts back into slick, soft heat - broken in for him, worked into a sleeve made to welcome him. “Beg.”
“Ngh -” Tobirama’s teeth clench, and his throat flexes.
“No?” He affects a surprised tone, and even Tobirama’s nails digging into his wrist can’t keep the grin off his face. “Such a cockslut, needing even more.”
“Shut up,” Tobirama slurs.
“I don’t think so. You’ve had plenty to say to me. Now you can lie there and listen.” He settles into a steady rhythm, breathing and speaking in staccato as his hips slam into Tobirama and the table shakes, one leg stuck in a gap between stone slabs. “You don’t get to moan that I don’t fuck you hard enough when you lie there like a princess with your legs spread. You spend your life with your nose in your books, your head in the clouds, and your ass up expecting other people to deal with your base needs.”
“Is this - ah - the time to have this argum-”
“You started it.”
He starts squeezing Tobirama’s chest again, groping at the muscle that’s almost developed enough to emulate small breasts. A swordsman’s build. His nipples are hard, peeking out between Madara’s fingers and he tugs at them to make Tobirama’s hole clench.
“Did you just get tired of working for everything you’ve ever had? Did you decide that fucking was the one thing you wouldn’t put effort into?”
Tobirama’s groans have shifted into a higher pitch of gasps and little, punched-out noises. The sweat on their skin is dripping, soaking the wood and drying out under the oppressive heat of the room. The smell of smoke changes from a bitter tang to heady rich campfire.
“I would have understood if you told me,” he goads, “that you were just a slut that wants to be used like a pretty doll to hold Uchiha cum.”
The sound Tobirama lets out is strained, agonised, and his hand tightens around his cock. “F-fuck -”
“That’s it.” Madara presses down hard on his stomach and Tobirama sobs, eyes watering. His cheeks are so flushed he looks sunburnt. “Come on my cock.”
He does.
Of course he does. His eyes roll up and his hand relaxes on his own cock just for a moment, just long enough to let himself cum in a short rush, seizing up and clutching both hands over the head of it before he can soil himself. The orgasm rattles his whole body, shaking underneath Madara’s hands and weight, his insides spasming and clutching around Madara’s cock. He’s boneless when Madara pulls out to pick him up, and helpless when he flips him back over to the position he’d started in - face on the table, ass up, and his legs buckle so weakly at the knees they can barely hold weight.
The sheen of oil over his ass is…alluring. Madara spreads it open, thumbs digging into soft flesh, to see the result of his efforts - and it’s as satisfying as he’d imagined to watch Tobirama’s hole gape for him, puffy and red around the rim and pouting open without his cock to keep it full.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, and his cock throbs. He needs to come, before his seed ends up as one more puddle on the lab floor to be hosed into the grates.
He hardly has to think to activate the sharingan and let it burn the memory into his mind in perfect detail. Tobirama struggles weakly, and he just keeps admiring the twitching efforts he makes to clench his gape back into some semblance of the tight little furl he started out with. Faint red marks are already forming over his skin from the slap of Madara’s thrusts into him.
“The reception,” Tobirama mumbles. “Need to -”
“We’ll get you clean,” Madara assures him - and pats the little bulge of his stomach firmly. Tobirama yelps, one foot kicking up. “Look what a good job you’ve done.”
Tobirama’s hips fit so well in his hands. His body is loose and relaxed all over, and he makes a humiliated choking noise when Madara’s cock slips back inside him effortlessly. Like this, he can enjoy the press of their bodies even more. The slap of his testes against Tobirama’s, hanging fat and useless. The sight of Tobirama’s toned arms held behind his back, Madara’s hands gripping his wrists like cuffs. The soft backs of Tobirama’s thighs pressing against the front of his, and the red flush of his nape, and the bounce of his pert little ass as Madara fucks him relentlessly to his own completion -
Tobirama screams when he comes once again - and for the first time since Madara’s known him, loses all control.
The engagement dinner is an elegant affair, and their visitors are obviously impressed behind their reserved masks. With Hashirama and his betrothed wrapped up in each other - quite literally, with their seats turned to face each other at the expense of giving due respect to the elders - it falls to the other clan heads of Konoha to entertain and negotiate.
Tobirama is resplendent in a Senju haori and blue kimono, white obi knotted tight around his waist. His hair is damp and combed back, the neck of his underclothes crisp around his throat, and wandering eyes rest on him appreciatively where he sits in strict posture. The impromptu sauna has given his skin a rather comely shine. His pupils are still just slightly dilated - if one knew him well.
Madara watches over his cup, and the corner of his mouth quirks. Perhaps the glow is just post-orgasmic. There’s something to be said for it - he’s finally undone the knot that had been bothering him between his own shoulders.
There’s a delicious sweetness to having a dirty secret between them on a night like this. To watch Tobirama sternly push back an imbalanced trade offer and turn around to give his ear to his love-drunk brother, working and planning while he sits in seiza with cum and a wooden plug resting in his ruined hole.
When the group rises to take a slow walk around the lamp-lit gardens under the blooming jasmine, he inserts himself between Tobirama and any interloper. Tobirama glowers from the corner of his eye but accepts his hand anyways to step down from the engawa. Ridiculous as it may look between shinobi to act as diplomats, Tobirama knows how to rise and sink to the occasion. He’s handsome in the moonlight, his blue sleeve against the navy of Madara’s. They join the procession, and Madara preens at the knowledge that the most desired of the unmarried Senju is on his arm.
“I wished to extend an invitation,” Tobirama says, looking directly ahead with his chin raised proudly. “To revisit an earlier discussion, perhaps in my home.”
“Oh,” Madara hums. The winding path around the rich green gardens has taken them over stone steps to a charming little stream, one dry stone plinth set in the middle of it for them to step over. The lamplight shines over the burbling surface, and the nobles giggle as they hop over it.
“My…work ethic was called into question.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Indeed.”
“I think that I would like to demonstrate my argument against that ridiculous, offensive idea.”
Madara grins, and nods politely at the Uzushio matriarch as their paths cross over. “I would accept. Once you feel yourself to be recuperated, of course.”
“For once, I would encourage haste,” Tobirama says, and casts him a look that makes his blood rush once more. “While I remain…prepared to receive you.”
“Ah.” Unbidden, his mouth begins to curl into a smile. “I anticipate your rebuttal eagerly.”