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Chapter Text

Tobirama had always known there was something off about those Uchiha bastards—especially the younger one, Izuna. It was laughable how protective Madara was of him, how he hovered like a mother hen, all fire and fury when it came to his brother’s safety.

It was humiliating. If Hashirama had coddled him that way, Tobirama would have taken his own sword to his manhood and then buried himself in the dirt to feed the maggots. No proud shinobi would ever depend on the safety of another man to protect him.

But Izuna was weak. Small.

There had been a time, when they were boys, that the other had been taller than him. Then, one day—over the span of a fortnight—Tobirama had shot up in height, and from that point on, the Uchiha could never keep up. Tobirama bested him in every way: speed, strength, and sheer mass.

One night, after too much sake—though Tobirama usually didn’t indulge—he and his brother snickered around a burning fire. Tobirama didn’t like how the liquor loosened one’s lips, left one in an inebriated state, vulnerable to questions and… honest answers.

Still, he added wood to the fire while Hashirama kept filling their cups. They joked about an old battle. It had ended with only a few scrapes, and Tobirama getting launched across the field—he had managed to pin the slippery younger Uchiha down. Their bodies flushed, his kunai to the other man’s throat. The soft brush of skin, the exposed neck and collarbone beneath shredded armor. His body had responded almost instantly, when he met dark eyes staring at him with a look he couldn’t discern. In a fit of rage, Madara had left his fight with Hashirama and caught Tobirama by the armor and sent him sprawling, rolling into a ravine. 

Izuna had vanished soon after, without a word.

When Tobirama managed to climb out, he was left with a sick feeling in his stomach—so he buried it. Something that day had changed between them.

It was years until he even allowed himself to relive that. But that night, those thoughts resurfaced––unwelcome. Around the fire, they mocked Izuna’s stature, his delicate hands, his too-round face. He wasn’t handsome. He didn’t look like any man they had ever seen.

Toka, their cousin, looked more masculine than he did—and she was as homely as any other Senju woman.

The laughter died as Tobirama stared into the fire, a heat rising under his skin that had nothing to do with the sake souring on his tongue, because that was when Tobirama realized it.

Izuna was… pretty.

And he hated that he noticed.

He didn’t dare voice it to his brother, Hashirama, but he hated how Izuna drew his attention without even trying. Hated how his presence lodged itself in the back of Tobirama’s mind like an unresolved puzzle. Hated how something about his chakra sent a prickle down his spine.

Hated that he wanted to know why.

He hated how confused he felt. How drawn he was to an enemy.

So when he saw him alone, wandering the border between the Uchiha and Senju––picking useless flowers, frilly things that held no medicinal value—no Madara, no guards, no witnesses—he should have just walked away. 

But his hands itched for violence. 

Tobirama didn’t hesitate.

He struck.

Maybe if he killed him, the traitorous thoughts would die with him. The sleepless nights. The shame of reaching for himself in the dark and the messes he hid, afterwards. The unwanted fascination. The confusing, burning frustration that coiled in his gut and left him aching in ways he refused to name.

He remembered the soft curve of the man’s jaw, his small hands, his eyes—deep obsidian that seemed to capture his soul.

Tobirama expected a fight.

What he didn’t expect was for Izuna to run.

And the man was fast—for such stubby legs.

But Tobirama was faster.

He felt the familiar pull of one of his seals—teleporting him right into Izuna’s path.

This time, there would be no escape.

Tobirama had wanted more of a fight. He craved it. Wanted to unleash his aggression and frustration— he wanted the satisfaction of  destroying these confusing thoughts.

Instead—

The moment his strike landed, Izuna crumpled like paper. His armor tangled in the fabric of his enemy’s sleeve, and together they tumbled down a ravine, crashing through brush and loose rock before hitting the mouth of a cave. Tobirama wasted no time dragging the man’s unconscious body inside and pinning him to the cold stone floor––reminiscent of that day in that field, body flush––Kunai to the throat.

It should have been over then.

But instead, Tobirama found himself frozen.

The sheer softness of the man beneath him was… jarring.

Years of training had turned shinobi into living weapons—honed, hardened, unyielding. Even those not built for brute strength carried a certain steeliness in their bodies.

But Izuna felt as soft as wisped cotton wrapped in silk beneath his hands.

Tobirama recoiled.

His breath hitched as he jerked back, moving to the other side of the cave as if burned. His gaze lingered on his fingertips, still tingling from the contact. Izuna smelled faintly of jasmine and parchment. Tobirama’s eyes dropped to the crumpled figure before him, the dying daylight casting long shadows across his face.

And then the horrifying realization finally crept in.

His sharp eyes traced over the delicate features—the impossibly smooth skin like unblemished cream, the small hands, the too-large, almost doe-like eyes framed by thick lashes. Lips, soft and heart-shaped.

His heart pounded, threatening to escape his chest as the panic grew.

And then—lower.

Tobirama’s breath caught as his gaze locked onto the faint rise and fall of a chest that—beneath loose fabric—held a shape that should not have been there. His eyes drank in the softness of the body. The gentle slopes—no longer hidden by armor. The curve of hips that were too rounded, too delicate for a man.

Subtle. But unmistakable.

Izuna Uchiha… was a woman.

He had wanted to kill a man.

Not murder a woman.

The realization sat like a stone in his chest, heavy.

Izuna was a girl.

Tobirama was no butcher of women. He did not slay the defenseless in their sleep. And yet, unease prickled down his spine—not out of guilt, but because he now knew something that must have been a deeply guarded clan secret. Uchiha women didn’t go to battle. They were kept in the compound—hidden away like princesses in a tower.

He knew what horrors haunted those women.

He heard the stories––

What targets they wore on their backs.

And he also knew—if the Uchiha clan found out he knew, the war between them would intensify to bury that secret. Also, he now knew how loaded each blow he laid on her weighed—every event in their life, suddenly making more sense. Madara would burn the world to the ground. Killing his brother was one thing… but his sister?

Izuna stirred.

With a sharp breath, she sat up, her head snapping toward him. Her eyes—already wide—widened further. She clutched at the fabric of her yukata, as if checking to see if he had ravaged her. Small hands trembled as she looked at him in shock.

Tobirama looked away, scowling. He was an enemy—but he wasn’t a monster.

“I’m still alive?” Her voice was different now—softer, more delicate.

His jaw tightened. “I don’t kill women in their sleep.”

Her lips parted, trembling slightly. “I—”

The look on her face wasn’t mistrust. It was a plea–– a silent agreement of sorts.

Begging him to keep her secret.

And in return, she would keep his.

Their clans were enemies. But she had nothing to fear of him knowing her true identity as a woman, the Senju… were not monsters.

He averted his gaze.

“Save it,” he snapped. “This changes nothing. The next time I see you, I will kill you.”

And then, in a blur of motion, he was gone—vanishing into the night.

Leaving her alone in the cave.

Shivering. From the cold… or from fear.

He didn’t know.

And he didn’t care.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Chapter Text

Tobirama told himself that Izuna being a woman changed nothing. 

But that was a lie––it changed everything.

Upon their next battle, he found himself hesitating. A fraction of a second—barely noticeable, yet enough. He didn’t know where he could touch her. The everliving threat of Madara loomed over him, like a guillotine. 

Besides, he didn’t exactly want to… hit her. And that insufferable harpy used it against him. Her lips would curl at the sight of him as she sought him out on the battlefield. 

It was a game to her.

Wounding his pride, emasculating him amongst their clansmen. He had sparred many times with his cousin, Toka, but never with the intention to kill. That had always been good-natured. But this—this was war. He was supposed to fight to the death. 

Or at least make it believable.

But he didn’t want to. 

Hit. Her.

He told himself her having a pair of breasts changed nothing. But… it sort of did. He mourned the idea of driving a blade through them—his steel one, at least. The other? That thought he banished instantly, as if Madara himself might hear it.

To onlookers, it might  have appeared as if he were running from the younger Uchiha “brother” which he––was––not. Whispers of his “fear” and “cowardice” rustled across the grass like leaves. 

But it was not fear that had him running. Their battles were different now. No longer was she a target he intended to kill—she had become something else entirely.

A nuisance. An irritation. A distraction.

Like a damn cat that refused to be shooed away.

And he knew she hated his avoidance. 

Before he had known she was a woman, his attention was solely on her.  His body craved her proximity. His hands itched—not to touch, but to clash. To strike. To feel the thrum of violence between them. But, that all vanished the moment he realized how soft her body felt beneath his fingertips. It was like paper walls, suddenly, she was not durable enough for him. 

He tried to find a new place, fighting amongst her kinsmen––a new… lethal sparring partner of sorts––and the insult was clear. So, she targeted him––irritatingly so. 

And to his dismay, their swords clashed once again. 

Izuna smiled, pink lips curving into an appealing, wicked grin. “What’s wrong, Senju? Afraid you’ll bruise me—or your pride?”

Tobirama glared, stumbling back from the force of her blow.

Somehow, he had become prey in her game of cat and mouse. He was but a rodent for her to tease. She knew what she did to him. The way her eyes lingered, the way her fingers ghosted too close when they clashed—it was deliberate. 

It was war by other means. And this time, he was the casualty.

Tobirama was headed home a day earlier than expected.

He had gone on a solo mission, simple and easily completed. With extra time to himself, he allowed himself to get lost in thought. He stopped to admire how the sun painted the sky in pinkish-purple hues. He had always liked how the sun kissed the horizon before twilight.

His fingers twitched. It was around this time he had found the Uchiha woman admiring flowers. Picking those silly, frilly things, he’d called them… but here he was, doing the same. Admiring something simply for its beauty—but unlike the foolish Uchiha woman, he was still aware of his surroundings.

The trees of the lush forest blurred as he tread the familiar path along the Senju borders. The brush beneath him had grown wild, magnificent—a product of his brother’s doing. On the Senju’s side, the flowers were much more beautiful. He hadn’t questioned it at the time, eager to put distance between them. But that day, Izuna had been trespassing––picking dandelions, and tucking buttercups with their long stems behind her ear.

By right, he could have slaughtered her there. But instead, he had granted mercy—kept her secret.

His steps faltered.

The birds had stopped chirping, the forest eerily quiet. Only the faintest rustle of leaves as his warning. He never saw, felt her coming.

But the forest had warned him.

One moment, it was easy to breathe—the smell of black pine and leaves filling his nose—
the next, a faint smell of jasmine—and then the air escaped his lungs with one precise blow to the solar plexus. He had made the fatal mistake of allowing his mind to lose itself to thought.

Tobirama went flying backward, his red gaze catching a flutter of white robes, the fabric thin, made of chiffon. He landed in a pile of leaves, the air ripped from his lungs.

His eyes widened.

There, glimmering under the twilight glow, was a magnificent creature. She had never looked more like a woman than she did now—no, a kami —a goddess of death.

She fixed him with a smug look as she gracefully dropped from the top of the trees. She made no sound as she sauntered toward him.

The subtle sway of her hips—nearly—hypnotic.

The tangles of her dark hair were replaced by long, silky tresses, as if she had finally taken a comb to those wild, windswept locks. Her head glowed with a false halo. He swallowed thickly, pushing himself up by the elbows, his will fraying as his eyes glazed over her pale skin—clear and glowing, free of dirt. He tried not to look, but his eyes were drawn to her figure, no longer hidden by thick armor, but replaced by a thin yukata that did nothing but enhance the lines of her form and those soft curves.

He was sure he would have been struck dead by Madara if the man had caught the line of his gaze. His gaze lingered on the smooth flesh, pale as ivory—the curve of her delicate neck and shoulders.

Was this it? Was she going to kill him for knowing her secret?

His fists clenched, dirt caked under his nails, and he felt the leaves crumple beneath his palms. His breath came in weak, shuddering gasps as his ribs protested.

Tobirama swallowed thickly; it felt like a stone lodged in his throat. The fall had discombobulated him.

How had she managed to navigate the trees so skillfully as to get the jump on him? He would wonder, in the years to come, how his mind had accepted her presence as something normal. Familiar—welcome.

He was a sensory ninja. Yet the presence of her had been hidden so well that when the feel of her chakra brushed him, it did not set off alarm bells in his head. Instead, he had just… accepted her.

Her eyes glowed red, and she struck as fast as a viper.

Everything around them went black.

How. 

Had. 

She?

Firelight danced across the ceiling of the cave, casting a warm golden glow and deepening the shadows. The roles had been reversed, they were back in that cave. But instead of Izuna pinned, it was Tobirama. 

Blearily, his eyes opened. Memorizing every crevice and divot in the ceiling. He took a shuddering breath, as his ribs clenched. His body felt leaded, slowly, his eyes flickered to the woman on top of him. 

He avoided meeting her gaze.  

She held a kunai in her grasp, as a warning, she increased the pressure of it against his throat. Her stare burned into him, as she watched him intently. He felt––more than saw––when her Sharingan faded to obsidian. 

His eyes flickered to meet hers, his instincts screaming for him to run. 

But his desire begged him to stay. She leaned forward, her knuckles tightening around the handle of her kunai. The curtain of her hair draped over them, veiling them from the world.

Until it felt like it was just the two of them. 

“I make you nervous?” she murmured, her breath warm against his cheek.

Tobirama kept his face still, his expression blank. He refused to play her game. But his traitorous body twitched beneath her.

She grinned.

She had felt it.

It was only logical, he told himself. Any man, pinned beneath a beautiful woman—enemy or not—would respond. It just meant his body was healthy, and all of his facilities functioned correctly–– nothing more.

He gritted his teeth as he shifted his body uncomfortably, the length of brushing against her core. Her dark eyes gleamed wickedly, delighted. “I never imagined my greatest weapon against you would be my body.” Her voice was slightly husky––but still soft, like velvet against his cheek.

Her hips shifted, slow, but each movement was deliberate, as she pressed herself closer to him. The movement was delicious, as it was agonizing––the part he kept hidden from himself, demanding more friction. 

“I should have let you in on the secret a long time ago, if this was how you were going to be.” She leaned closer, and in response, his spine straightened pressing himself deeper into the earth. 

He sucked in a breath. Oh, she was playing a dangerous game. “Izuna.”

It was almost a plea.

She stilled her for a heartbeat, sharp eyes softening.

He swallowed thickly, his jaw trembling as his self-control wavered.

He could flip her. Right now. Break her neck. End this .

But he didn’t.

Because Kami, help him… he didn’t want to.

“You want me to stop?” she asked, voice low, teasing—but her eyes searched his. There was a quiet vulnerability… waiting for his rejection, he wrestled with it. 

He could end this. 

But he hesitated.

She pressed down further, her gaze as sharp as he remembered. “Or are you too weak to break free.” Her lips curled, as her warm breath mixed with his, their lips only inches apart.

His hand rose to anchor her hips against his. He hated how breathless he sounded. “I could get out of this hold, if I wanted to.” he muttered, voice rough, reluctant—but honest.

Her smirk sharpened. “So, you like where you’re at?”

Tobirama said nothing, but his length, once again, twitched against her. 

A wordless responde.

The kunai clattered to the floor, forgotten, as it slipped from her grasp.

“Kami,” she whispered, lowering her mouth to his neck, she brushed her lips against his feverish skin, trailing warm kisses up his throat, until they lingered against the shell of his ear. “You don’t know how bad I’ve wanted to do this.”

She slid her small hands past the lapels of his shirt, he gasped, he had been holding his breath. Her nails scraped over his sensitive chest––eliciting noises from him, later he’d try to deny. 

She captured his lips in a searing kiss, their tongues battling for dominance, like they did on the battlefield. His mind dizzied. He was weak beneath her, putty in her hands. 

He knew he should have said no.

But––

He should have stop her.

His haori was the first to go. His shirt followed. She was ruthless as she tore at his clothes, any drape of fabric that separated them. He didn’t stop her, he helped her, lifted his body easily so she could slip off each barrier between them easier. 

As her prisoner, he told himself, he had no choice but to obey her every command. 

So, when she kissed him—attacked him, with hot kisses, and a wet tongue. Tracing fire against his skin, he was completely, and blissfully at her mercy. 

He trembled beneath her as her hands roamed lower, until she reached between them, grabbing hold of his pulsing length. Thick, engorged from the feeling of her body against his. Tobirama sucked in a sharp breath. 

“What are you doing?” He bit out, strangled. 

He meant for it to sound strong. Commanding. Dangerous.

Instead, it came out more as a whimper. 

Izuna smirked against his throat, voice husky from desire. “I’m going to ruin you, Senju.”

This was the first time he had ever been touched by a woman–– there. He knew he’d embarrass himself if he didn’t stop. But the desire was unbearable as she brushed her thumb against the weeping tip of his manhood—then… heat. 

Izuna sunk onto him.

He nearly came there, the moment she completely sheathed herself on him.

She was warm, slick, and impossibly tight.

It was nothing like he’d imagined––no, it was better. His hand, or imagination couldn’t compare to the real thing–– her. His throat tightened, as his body betrayed him further, his head fell back and his hips rose to meet hers, desperate for more. She rocked against him and––oh, he knew.

She had ruined him.

No longer was she, his enemy.

She was his obsession.

Tobirama growled, his hands snapping up to ground her hips deeper against his, the last of his self-control fracturing. He tightened his hold to a bruising grip and flipped them effortlessly. If he had a Sharingan, he would have memorized the look on her face when he slipped his fingers between her legs and swirled them in the shape of her parted lips—a perfect ‘O.’

If she wanted to ruin him, he could do the same.

He wanted to see her fall apart because of him.

Chapter Text

The walk back to his village was one of shame––but not regret.

To the onlookers, he must have looked like he’d been attacked by a feral cat—half-dressed, marked by her nails and love bites scattered across his chest and neck. The vicious woman had made sure to claim him as her own.

“I hope there isn’t a missus back home,” she’d said, meeting his gaze mischievously. “I would hate to be the reason why you … separate.”

Thankfully, there wasn’t one.

He didn’t have his brother’s healing abilities. If there had been a wife, he would’ve been murdered on sight––a crime of passion. The evidence of his debauchery was on full display. After they had copulated in the cave, he had been so thoroughly satisfied that his guard dropped and he fell asleep. He’d woken up alone, cold, heart pounding from the weight of his fatal mistake, and to make matters worse, his clothes had vanished.

The little he could find was scattered among the trees.

Traipsing through the forest naked, with his bits swaying in the breeze, was a humiliating experience now seared into his memory.

The woman was truly evil.

He had no choice but to brave the whispers and appraising stares lingering on his bare chest and shredded pants—now resembling shorts—from the women of his clan, their heated gazes tinged with jealousy of the mystery woman who had claimed his virtue. 

“Oh, dear brother,” Hashirama said, rounding the corner and spotting his scowling form hurrying toward their house. “It appears you’re a day late—”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “My goodness, your skin is flushed. It appears you’ve been thoroughly ravished.”

Tobirama glared.

Hashirama just laughed, eyes gleaming with brotherly pride.

The next day at the Senju compound was hell.

Tobirama felt exposed. Jumpy. As if the entire clan could see what he’d done—as if they could smell the sin that still lingered on his skin––ylang-ylang and jasmine.

As if they knew how he had devoured an Uchiha woman's lips in that cave.

He had been nothing more than a vessel for her pleasure. She knew exactly what she wanted—and she took it from him. Like a boy daydreaming as he stared off at the clouds... Izuna . He thought the name almost fondly.

His sworn enemy.

His rival.

The one he was destined to kill.

Instead of battle, he had feasted on her plump lips like a starved man—he could still taste the honey and tea on her tongue. His hands, his mouth, his entire body had been consumed by the hunger she awakened in him, along with the loss of his once pure state. At only nineteen years of age, it wasn’t as shameful as some might think to have waited so long. He had always been preoccupied with his studies and with becoming a well-respected shinobi.

But now—he wanted more. 

She had fit against him like a missing puzzle piece, and now her absence was unbearable. His fingers drummed on the council room table impatiently, while the clan elders—and his brother—had the audacity to look flabbergasted.

“Brother, is something wrong?” Hashirama asked tentatively, worry furrowed his brow.

Ripped from his thoughts, Tobirama looked up at the small crowd of five: his brother and the four elders that made up the Senju council.

He wanted to say, yes––brother. I have laid with the enemy and the seductress, has captured my mind and affections, shall we arrange peace with the Uchiha just so I could have another go? 

I’m sure if you give me enough time, I could create an iron-clad allegiance––and a nephew.

“No,” he snapped.

He stilled his fingers. His knee began to bounce a vain attempt to rid his body of the tension, distracting himself from the trail of thought his mind threatened to follow.

And yet, again, his mind betrayed him.

Back to that cave.

Back to her.

Imagining her still there, waiting for him. Wearing nothing but his fur-collared haori—the one she refused to return as they lay together. The only one of his garments she had not destroyed.

A souvenir , she had called it.

A trophy.

And he, Tobirama Senju—the second son of Butsuma, the most disciplined shinobi of his generation—had been too weak-willed to take it back.

Because she was right.

Though he’d tried.

She had been the one to ruin him. She didn’t remain more than five minutes on her back before it was he who was back in her position, thoroughly debauched and defiled. And it had only taken once for her wicked ways to completely corrupt him and turn him into a sexual deviant.

So, he let her have her victory— her trophy.

And then she’d scattered his clothes across the Senju border while he slept.

Had him scurrying across Senju territory like some kind of gremlin.

Death would have been more merciful.

She had forced him to stumble about, dirt had found its way into very uncomfortable crevices. He had no choice but to risk getting caught in nothing but the suit he was born with. He was fairly certain he’d traumatized at least three squirrels—his manhood, after all, bore an uncanny resemblance to a large snake—as he embarked on a desperate quest to recover his underwear.

She was a vile woman.

He sat up straighter in his chair, crossing his arms with a petulant scowl.

“What is taking this meeting so long?” he growled.

The council exchanged looks, and his brother seemed almost apologetic.

“Brother… don’t you recall? You arranged this meeting last week.”

Tobirama sucked in a breath.

Yes. Yes, he had.

He’d discovered special intel on a certain Uchiha. He had wrestled with telling them the truth, there should not have been any hesitation––but still. He faltered, he’d been too occupied to share it at the time, it wasn’t as if the news was pressing, or dangerous. And now... he no longer wanted to reveal what he knew. He felt awkward as he dismissed them. 

Later that week, they met up with the Uchiha in battle. 

Against his better judgement, he let impulse take the reins.

***

As a child, Izuna had always been warned to be wary of fire––even if their people had an affinity for it. 

Even if they were capable of summoning flames the size of mountains. That didn’t mean dispelling the heat was easy. That didn’t mean that they were invulnerable to the burn. 

And when you did get burned––which they usually did––it was devastating.

It was a cruel twist of fate, really, to be capable of summoning something so great, only for it to turn around and suck the air from your lungs, turn you to ash. 

That Senju bastard was fire, and  like any other hot-blooded Uchiha, she loved playing with fire––even when she knew shouldn’t. It was in her blood. 

And that white haired demon kindled a flame in her chest that was hard to dispel.

And, like always when she was a child, she got burned. 

***

Izuna’s fists clenched in fury. She was seething as she stormed into the Uchiha Compound. The small village was in disarray. Foot soldiers had been dispatched to find her after Tobirama fell and she had leapt after him, sword drawn.

All they had found were scraps of her clothing.

They had feared the worst––her dead.

There had been countless fights between her and her brother about the white-haired, red-eyed demon. Madara despised him. The older one, he could tolerate. But the younger one? Insufferable.

“I don’t want you anywhere near him,” her brother growled.

And, as always, she’d grow defensive.

“What is it, brother? You think I’m not strong enough? Just say it—you think I’ll fall to his sword. Say it, Madara. If you truly have no faith in me, I’ll retire into the compound, take up seamstress work or pottery. I’ll be the good girl like Father always wanted.”

Usually, this was where she would pout.

If father hadn’t wanted her to act like a man, perhaps he should’ve named her something delicate, something pretty like––Hana.

Sakura.

She snorted––but no—he had blended her with his other four sons.

Cut her hair short from a young age and told her that when she left the Uchiha grounds, she was to be a boy. Her father had always been paranoid of the evils of other men and what might befall his “princess.” 

But to be a princess, wouldn’t that imply wearing pretty dresses and jewelry? Her father hid most of her feminine items in a dowry box. 

Not to be touched.

So if her behavior was unrefined and unladylike, that was on them.

She was the product of their creation. 

Madara would only frown at her words—tugging at her heartstrings while scrambling to soften the blow. Even if she pretended to be one of them, she was still just a girl. Playing with the boys.

“He’s formidable. I don’t doubt your skill, Izuna. But—”

“But what?” she’d snap. 

I’m just a weak woman? Always remained unsaid.

Around this part of the conversation, he’d switch the tide, and turn her into the bad guy. He never failed to disarm her. When his large eyes went soft and glistened like pools of obsidian. Filled with those manipulative tears. 

“You’re all I have left. I don’t want to lose you too.”

That was how he got her.

Every. Damn. Time.

He was so protective of her—it was suffocating.

So in defiance, sometimes, she acted out. 

She did reckless things—like wander the border between enemy grounds like a yokai, her breasts concealed only by chiffon or silk, stolen from the other ladies—and if she just so happened to run into the younger Senju heir––the one her brother despised––returning from a mission… and jumped him for her own amusement?

Well. That was their fault, wasn’t it?

She was just a stupid girl––and she was bored.

She already knew he wouldn’t hurt her, with the way he seemed squeamish to touch her the moment he discovered she had a pair of breasts. He was safe, another fool rooted in tradition, scared of feminine wiles. 

But she saw it in his eyes, the hunger that matched her own. She wanted him––she wanted corruption. So she waited for him, dangled herself infront of him like a piece of fruit.

And if he happened to take a bite of the lascivious bait dangled in front of him?

Well? Perhaps her father should’ve raised her better.

So she flirted with death—or something far more dangerous… an unsanctioned pregnancy between the two main families currently at war. 

Not that she’d ever let it come to that, but the danger was thrilling. 

Madara’s eyes widened when she stormed through the gate—her blouse shredded, all forms of modesty gone, her hair dripping, soaked to the bone, looking like a drowned rat with murder in her eyes.

The Senju was a mongrel, “The Clan of a Thousand Skills?” Izuna snorted. He was just another Senju mutt, with a plethora of undesirable traits and no class . A dog, who, the moment got his fill, turned around and bit the hand that fed him.

Though the man’s ire was not completely unwarranted––she chose to ignore that. 

He had humiliated her. 

She knew why he was angry––his clothes from the cave had gone missing. 

It was innocent, really. She wasn’t vile. She actually wanted to stay in his good graces. Perhaps, they could have come to an agreement? Every fortnight, meet in the pale moonlight. 

Dance under the stars.

Kiss and make love atop the leaves.

She had noticed there was a stain on one of his garments and took it to the lake to wash. She had placed them over a branch to dry, and then a powerful gust of wind took them. 

She chased them when her brother's hounds howled through the forest––a warning.

She was already gone longer than intended. 

So she made a choice, go home, and the younger Senju lives to see another day.

Or––

Her brother murder him upon sight.

She’d hoped to make it up to him, the next time she saw him. 

Perhaps she had been a little too eager––she forgot who she was dealing with. 

She’d let her guard down. And he tossed into a waterfall.

It had all started in the forest—where she lured Tobirama, fully intending to enjoy her time with the slightly younger man. She wanted to try something that she knew would blow his mind. It involved getting her knees dirty.  

She’d found a filthy book under her brother's futon and created a list.

A to-do list of sorts.

The thought thrilled her. Her clansmen, her father, would be none the wiser. It was a battle, after all. Sometimes––shinobi just “fell.”  Got their knees a little dirty. And if her mouth looked slightly bruised. Well, who’s to say she didn't get punched?

The Senju bastard didn’t know what he missed out on. 

Heaven.

The asshole had his own plans. 

He pulled her into a searing kiss––one that blurred the forest around them and turned her limbs to pudding. She was positive he had never done this before her––he’d been a trembling virgin when she disrobed him––but he had gotten better. He was now dangerously good at it. 

A little flare of jealousy made her wonder where he got the practice. 

It had only been a week.

But she forgot her jealousy, the moment his hands wrapped around her waist.

His mouth chased away all her jealous thoughts as he made her think they were the only ones in the world––made her think dangerously peaceful thoughts. Of treaties. Quiet mornings with tea. Babies.

His babies. 

That night in the cave, he had bedded her like he meant it––all five minutes of it. 

She’d been so amused. He’d been so eager––like he wanted to earn the right to put a child in her womb. And she considered it. When in that cave she captured his gaze, she knew she owned him.

But perhaps she miscalculated slightly. 

Because then he gripped her by her hair, his hand wrapping around her braid like a rope, her scalp protested.

She barely had time to react before he drew his kunai. Her life flashed before her eyes. Her brother's warnings echoing in the back of her mind. She felt foolish to trust him. 

But he didn’t stab her.

No—he sliced clean through her favorite war blouse. It had little flowers sewed around the hem. The shredded fabric had fluttered open. But he didn't stop there. Her breasts spilled free as he cut through the binding that held them in place.

Eyes wide, she was stunned.

She might’ve even been into it … for a moment.

“Right here?” She said, astonished, though slightly flattered. Her cheeks flushed.  She thought they would have found a cave or something. 

But—

With no warning—he gripped her by the shoulder and hurled her off the ledge into the water below.

She hit the surface with a loud splash, surfacing moments later with a glare that could set trees on fire. 

Tobirama took one look at her murderous expression—and the smug satisfaction on his face––and then he bolted, vanishing with a flicker of chakra before she could claw her way out of the water below and then to make matters worse the current took her.

One of the village aunties had once warned her about younger men.

Told her not to waste her time.

They took a little more  … training. 

Dripping, freezing, favorite blouse ruined, and pride obliterated, her mind was steeping in vengeance—even if she had initiated the first offense–– on accident!

That was no way to treat a lady.

“What is the meaning of this?” Madara’s voice was sharp.“What happened to your clothes Izuna?” The concern was evident, his words almost a plea. 

Her brother averted his gaze as he handed her a towel. She still wore Hashirama’s haori, the Senju’s emblem stark on her back. She imagined, she must have been a sight. Stumbling back into the compound, covered in scrapes and bruises, nearly naked draped in the enemy’s clan symbol. 

It was only luck, their men had not seen her and got the wrong idea. 

The Naka River had swept her from the battlefield––right into Senju Territory. By the time she clawed her way to the riverbank, the battle had ended, and Senju voices echoed nearby.

She had froze.

A chill down her spine. One voice—loud, boisterous—was familiar. Hashirama. 

Thinking quickly, she stripped off the remainder of her armor, tossing it into the current. Mournfully, she allowed herself a second to watch the gift her brother had given her disappear under the churning water. She yanked her braid loose, and slapped color into her cheeks––she must've been the color of paper––the river had left her battered and bruised. 

She winced at the throbbing at the side of her head––a parting gift from a submerged boulder.

It was convenient––perfect. 

She dropped to her knees and crawled to the edge of the river, pulling her shredded blouse tightly over her chest, curling to the fetal position. Her breaths trembled, by the water it was freezing. 

She sniffled. The tears in her eyes weren’t entirely fake––she was sore.

Hashirama appeared first, followed by a sharp-eyed woman with her hair pulled into a tight knot.

He stopped short, eyes wide. The woman tensed beside him.

“An Uchiha,” she murmured, low.

There was no doubt that she was an Uchiha woman, her hair was as black as ink and she had a snow-like complexion. But Izuna’s appearance told another story. She looked like a terrified civilian—a young woman––not a soldier. 

Not a threat.

Hashirama stepped forward carefully, hands up like she was a wounded animal. She flinched and curled tighter, as if cowering.

The woman—Toka, she recognized her now—pushed past him with a glare. “Move,” she snapped. Izuna had no doubts on what she looked like. Toka knelt beside Izuna and gathered her into an embrace. “Oh, dear,” she murmured softly, running a hand along her back.

Izuna fell into her touch, letting her shoulders shake. 

The white garment plopped on the floor with a wet sound, her wet hair had soaked it thoroughly.

“Somewhere at the bottom of the damn river,” she muttered, wringing out her hair.

Madara stared at her his fists clenching.

“Did the Senju do this?”

She paused––lips twitching—

“Not exactly.”

“Izuna.” Madara growled.

Her head bowed, he was worried. 

“No. Tobirama and I battled in the forest, he nearly got me with his sword. I feigned left. In my attempt to avoid his attack, I fell into the Naka River. The current took me to Senju territory.”

Madara’s eyes narrowed. 

She bit her lip. “I heard voices, one of them I recognized as Hashirama Senju.”

A small smile played along her lips. “It is my understanding that the Senju believe our women do not go to battle… so I appeared to him as a woman. He walked me as far as the border would allow, and I made the rest of the walk home.”

She continued to dry herself. She was fortunate it had been Hashirama  and Toka who had found her and  not another Senju…or wore a rogue nin.

She was sure she would have been dead.

Not all Shinobi were as honorable as Hashirama Senju.

Chapter Text

The scrape of a pen against a parchment scroll was the only sound in the dimly lit room as Tobirama worked diligently editing his brother’s letters to the Daimyo. His brother had foolishly dreamt of one day creating a village where the folks could live quietly, safe.

Even if the dream was ridiculous, Tobirama also dreamt of something similar.

No war.

He was left to fantasize about peace as he edited his brother’s chicken scratch, trying to make it read as if an adult had written it. That fragile quiet shattered when news of the Uchiha woman reached his reluctant ears

He thought he was done with all things Uchiha and that vapid woman. 

His fingers had gone numb, his body stilling to the core. Slowly, he dimmed the light of his lantern so that he was in complete darkness as his clansmen's voices crept under the door of his late father’s office, like carbon dioxide. Robbing his lungs of breath, his fists clenched around the parchment––ruined. 

His brother had found a woman, half-drowned, bloody and bruised––naked. 

He strained his ears to listen closer, trickling chakra into his ear drums enhancing the voices carrying away. 

According to his brother’s tale, the woman claimed to have been picking flowers when she tripped and fell into the river. However, Hashirama suspected foul-play. Tobirama snorted, there would have been no way for a woman to float upstream. 

The uchiha were located down––

His fists crumpled the paper further. 

His brother feared the woman had been discarded––left for dead. Her clothing had been ripped, clean across as if one had used a blade, or Kunai. Tobirama frowned, he had seen her splashing out of the river before he left her. 

It had to have been some other Uchiha woman.

It couldn’t have been him? He wasn’t the villain, the reason for the new horror tale of the woods. 

The ravager.

Gruff voices were heard outside the door, accompanied by laughs. “Perhaps, the culprit who met her is the same one that met Tobi on his return to the compound.”

Tobirama shook with rage. The village had yet to let the younger man live it down. The running theory was he had gone to a brothel and gotten robbed by a prostitute and her lover. It took every ounce of his will power, to not set the story straight. 

But then that would mean more embarrassment for him.

So he let tales of the “Ravager” in the forest take roots. 

There was a pause.

“So what did she look like?” One of his clansmen asked, his voice near lecherous. The other clansmen's voices lowered. “He said she was quite beautiful, like a doll, with a bosom a bright pink like the petals of the sakura flower … Though, she was slight in the chest––waifish.” 

Tobirama’s pen snapped. 

That was her.

More roars of laughter soured Tobirama’s belly. He pushed his stationery away leaning back against his chair, his stomach in knots. His knuckles shook as he thought of his brother helping her, walking her back to her compound. His ability to act freely, unafraid.

Unburdened.

Unhated––almost welcome.

It was only when the moon in the sky shone above like a silver coin was he able to label the emotion turning in his gut.

It was  jealousy against his own brother, for being able to be so close to her, nonchalantly.

***

Fujiko, the clan’s midwife and only female medic, scolded Izuna the moment she darkened her doorstep requesting emergency contraceptives. It had been well over a week since her encounter with the younger, Senju brother, and the old woman gave Izuna a disapproving look.

After her encounter with Tobirama in the forest—and getting dumped in the river—she had collapsed onto her futon, only to feel a pang in her stomach. She wasn’t sure if it was shame or something more… permanent.

Finally, with that scare, she gathered the nerve to ask for the herbs.

The old woman shot a pointed look with her sharingan at Izuna’s stomach. “You’re lucky, girl. No babe.”

The woman shook her head, hobbling towards her work station. Lighting lanterns along her way, it was well past a decent hour—exactly the time women like Izuna came calling. She’d heard whispers from the other girls about Fujiko and her “Midnight Clinic” which was also the woman’s home.

While the rest of the village slept, Fujiko assisted Uchiha women with contraceptives, fertility aids, and sometimes even abortive teas. Her work was quiet––careful. She was known for her discretion.

Even if Izuna was twenty, and considered to be of childbearing age and wed-able a “proper” adult amongst her people. Her brother once even tried to have a talk with her about eligible bachelors in the compound. She couldn’t imagine what her brother would do if he discovered her womb was with child. 

Without his blessing. 

And even worse, without a husband.

The man would probably have a heart attack, wondering how she slipped a lover past his nose? Without marriage? Oh, the shame. Their dead father would roll-over in his grave.

And if the babe was born with stark white hair?

Her child would be a bastard. And fatherless.

How unfortunate.

Izuna let out a breath of relief and crossed the small living room to settle at the woman's wooden table. The small house was old-fashioned––warm and inviting. 

Fujiko clicked her tongue as she tossed herbs into her stone mortar, grinding the herbs together with a wooden pestle. Her wrinkled face furrowed in concentration. The aroma of the woman’s craft wafted towards Izuna, it mixed with the scent of her house––incense…and earthy. 

Izuna watched carefully as she prepared the bitter tea, her Sharingan flickering as she committed every movement to memory. Nervous, she drummed her fingers against the wooden table, itching to inch closer. Just in case she needed to do this herself one day.

“Do you intend for this to be the only time?” Fujiko asked.

Izuna hesitated, her fingers stilled.

The older woman rolled her eyes. “I only ask so I know how much to prepare for you, not to pry––folish girl.”

Izuna bit her lip. She thought of her white-haired demon—she had committed him to her memory, every micro-expression, the taste of his lips––sencha, green tea and citrus. The flavor of him, just as clean–crisp, as himself. Even ripened from a day's trip, the taste of his sweat had been nothing short of intoxicating to her. 

The thought of him chased all sense of self-preservation from her mind. The look in his reddish, amber eyes, dared her to do dangerous things. Her brother had warned him of the man's sword, and how he’d be the death of her, if she remained so careless––instigating his ire for fun.

Though her brother, Madara did not know the full picture. He was not wrong, Izuna would willingly die on Tobirama’s sword––though it be the one made of flesh––not steel.

She smiled to herself.

Izuna had fully intended on letting the man take her right there in the forest. She had burned for him, since their last meeting. She wondered if his skin would taste different, the perspiration of battle instead of a leisure run and pure lust. She’d imagine the flavor would bite like pepper. 

But he tossed her into the river. 

The cold water had shocked her system, a wake-up call. She had gone to her room and screamed into her futon—humiliated, aching, and unfulfilled. She had never felt so utterly disrespected. And worst of all, he had left her aching in the worst of ways.

So, she asked herself. Did she want that time in the cave to be the only time? The answer was simple.

No. She didn’t.

 Harlot, her inner voice scolded her.

“Yes, please. Make me more.” She said quietly, bowing her head humbly.

Her curled lips softened wistfully––after all, he had stolen a kiss before enacting his revenge. 

That to her, meant he wanted her just as much as she did. It was foolish she knew, there were plenty of eligible men in her village, who could––theoretically, satisfy these cravings of lust, who would be willing––debatable––but she couldn’t help herself. 

She was drawn to him. 

He was unlike any man she’d ever seen. His hair was as pale as snow, lighter even than the Yamanaka. He didn’t look like the others in his clan—she half-suspected some Hatake blood in his veins––or better yet, some form of Yokai. 

The Senju didn’t discriminate when it came to the women they bedded—or those they welcomed into their ranks. The clan was a melting pot of bloodlines, a collective of strength and cunning.

He was her opposite—cold and calculating, where she was fire and impulsivity. 

She should’ve feared him. He wanted to kill her, probably. And yet… she enjoyed his presence. They didn’t banter like her brother and his. The thrill was entirely from their blades clashing, and her subtle taunting. He was easy to provoke––tease. All it took was a suggestive look, a flick of the tongue over one’s lips and then…his tight control would slip. 

That’s when she had her fun—watching him struggle to regain his composure.

She’d imagined together, they could create a child that was as beautiful as it was powerful.

But not right now.

Fujiko pressed a cup into Izuna’s hands, drawing her from her thoughts. The ceramic was warm, grounding. She ran a thumb over the subtle little divots, where flowers and some form of filigree had been carved into it––pretty, decorative. 

Izuna brought the tea to her lips. It was thick and bitter—like poison cut with licorice root. It coated her tongue and left behind the harsh aftertaste of oversteeped herbs. 

She inhaled the scent of her salvation.

She set the cup aside, her gaze honing onto a water stain on the table. She needed to create a plan, figure out how she was going to carry out her dishonorable ways right under her brother’s nose.

Her eyes widened, mind racing.

She didn’t know what she was going to do––but she knew one thing––nervously, she nibbled at a nail. She wanted his corruption.

But how was she going to get his attention again?

Get him back?

“So,” Fujiko said, mildly. “Who was it?”

Izuna shifted in her seat. The old woman had a reputation for being nosey––one of the caveats of assisting with her medicines, but the woman was not a gossip. If anything, she asked out of concern—better to know if one of her patients was at risk of catching something. 

Izuna’s gaze flickered, towards the woman’s patient ledger, it was flipped open. Izuna knew of that book, it made her skin itch knowing, after today, her name would be inked into it, like a stain. She wondered, along with hers. What other names had been etched into it, how many women unknowingly shared the same lover—

Fujiko had gone back to mixing more herbs, she didn’t press Izuna. 

Izuna brought her cup back to her lips, eyes gleaming, she smirked behind the rim. “A Senju.”

The pestle faltered. The old woman blinked up at her in shock. “Come again, foolish girl?”

Izuna laughed, the sound was like bells––light, airy. 

“You should’ve seen your face,” Izuna said with another laugh, lying easily. “It was Kenzo.”

Kenzo was an easy enough lie. He was the village’s known manwhore—handsome, mid-twenties, and absolutely lecherous. Madara had once throttled him for merely looking in Izuna’s direction. 

Bruised his ribs, too. 

She had laughed over her brother’s shoulder as he beat him bloody.

Izuna suspected Kenzo had been every young woman’s first kiss. Or something more.

But not hers.

She had saved herself for the white-haired Senju.

He had been her obsession ever since she was sixteen—since that day they fought in that field. Rolling in the grass, limbs tangled and panting. She had licked her lips… and he had looked pained. It had shocked them both—a shy intrusion. 

Something hard pressing against her thigh, from only a single glance of her tongue.

That day had been seared into her day, the memory vivid. Her sharingan had flared to life, committing to memory the lethal look in his eyes as he brushed against her. Instead of pulling away, he had shoved himself harder against her—as if to punish her for what she did to him––but she just welcomed the touch. 

Then her dumb brother went and ruined the fun.

But it didn’t matter, after that day she’d run home, completely delusional.

So he thought she was pretty? Even as a boy?

After that, she wanted to kiss him. She wondered, what would happen then? Before every battle, she’d suck on honey-flavored confectioneries––just in case. Just in case she got close enough and the opportunity arose.  

She wanted the taste of her lips—of her tongue—to linger like candy. 

He hadn’t even known she was a girl back then. He’d wanted to kill her, not kiss her.

But still… she prepared. 

Every. 

Time.

The old woman tsked. “I don’t like to get involved,” she muttered, “but maybe you should find yourself a different plaything. The one you have currently has been far too used.”

Oh no, Izuna thought to herself, lips curling.. This one’s still brand new.

Izuna’s grin widened, her voice light and slightly air-headed. “Why? Kenzo isn’t that bad.”

Fujiko snorted. “Kenzo?” She said the name, as if it were a joke. “If you start growing boils, don’t come crying to me. I fear those are permanent.”

Izuna laughed, sipping more of her tea.

The woman smirked, as she rummaged through her drawers. Her old gaze was sharp as she studied Izuna, letting her know she saw right through her. “A Senju would be more tasteful. At least their men are well-built. Handsome, too. Especially that Hashirama—I hear he’s an honorable man. And that Mokuton…” She shook her head to herself, wistful. “I’d put that man to work, building me a medicinal garden.”

Izuna laughed again. She suspected that if Fujiko were a few decades younger, Tobirama wouldn’t have been the only one dragged into a cave.

“I am afraid he's going to be married.” Izuna said jovial. 

Fujiko didn’t turn to Izuna,  her retort landed like a bolt of lightning to her nerves and guilt. “There’s still the younger brother. I hear he’s quite handsome too.”

Izuna choked on her tea, eyes bulging. 

The old woman caught her slip. Above the rim of her tea she watched as Fujiko wrote something in her ledger––the scratch of her pen was sharp, besides Kenzo’s name was a doodle of water.

The woman met her eyes from across the table and she looked nothing short of impressed.

“That one huh?”

Even if she hadn’t admitted it, she had been caught.

Izuna swallowed thickly.

Chapter Text

The next time they met on the battlefield, he sought her out almost a little too eagerly.

She was dressed in her usual garb: black long sleeves, navy armor, and strappy sandals. She stood a few steps behind her brother. Every few seconds, Madara cast a glance over his shoulder, as if to assure himself she was still there.

She stood out among them like a daisy in a field of crops—soft, lovely, unexpected, and entirely unwanted. Her presence was entirely the same on the battlefield.

He didn’t want her here.

Her brother Madara didn’t want her here—for once the two of them were on the same page, even on different sides.

She was far too pretty and delicate for the lot of them.

His eyes tracked her, even though she attempted to remain as far away from him as she could.

She had taken up arms against one of the Senju’s younger shinobi and she was playing with him like how a cat played with a mouse, at one point kicking him from behind and sending him flailing into the brush.

Tobirama scoffed. Later… if the boy survived, he needed to have a conversation with him about fighting within his limits.

Forgetting the child almost instantly.

Tobirama had to take a moment to absorb her— as she looked around for her next target—he savored her dark hair and how it was again tied back in a thick braid, exposing the elegant curve of her neck down to her collarbone.

The sight itself leaving him longing.

As the thought of her brought memories to him he still wrestled with, with her right in front of him he couldn’t chase them away.

There was no paperwork, no duties, no chores.

Just her, wreaking havoc in the battlefield as he watched feeling like an outsider in her world.

A strand of sweaty locks stuck to her throat, wrapped around her neck, caught his attention. His fist tightened around his sword as she took his breath away. The slight circumference of her throat—he now knew—was roughly the same as the span of his fingers.

If he wanted to, he could crush her… but all he wanted was to plant a kiss where her neck met her shoulder, lure her into the forest and maybe slow dance under the moonlight, as he told her about his theories on chakra control and his new inventions.

But life was cruel and he knew if he attempted even one of those things Izuna would pulverize him—because she was still angry at him.

Her soft features had sharpened. The serious expression on her face terrified him.

Not once in any of their encounters had the man—woman—ever been serious.

She’d been nothing short of a nuisance, needling at him, teasing him, doing everything within her power to irritate and infuriate him until all he could think of was throttling her—not once had she ever been the one to try to…

Murder. Him?

The delicate, feminine curve of her face was contorted in concentration, adorned with a deep scowl that sharpened her jaw and narrowed her eyes like a feline. Full lips were pressed into a thin line that he knew was deceiving.

He wondered if he was the only one of his clansmen who knew how soft they truly were—how they tasted. So inviting that he felt as though he could swallow her whole.

A cool breeze pierced through his thin shirt, anchoring back to this world as Tobirama blinked.

He was becoming distracted but—

It was fascinating. How had he never noticed?

It was now obvious. Like the subtle difference between a crow and a raven, it had always been there, waiting for him to see it.

He struggled with remaining present.

It took only a second for him to realize he didn’t want anyone else to notice her—to fight her. Because then they might discover her secret too.

His eyes narrowed in jealousy.

There would be some twisted form of competition between him and one of his comrades, and some of his clansmen weren’t as “uptight” as he was.

They’d defect and run off into the night with an Uchiha bride if she were beautiful enough—oh, and she was beautiful—just to return nine months later with a babe and a wife, calling it a honeymoon.

And when their betrayal was brought up to question amongst the council—

“Uchiha? Uchiha who? This here’s a Senju,” they’d say.

Okay, well, maybe none of his clansmen would do that. But he would.

She was his alone. And no one was going to fight her but him.

And damn it, she was avoiding him.

Tobirama scowled as he twisted away from one of the Uchiha men he’d been battling, while watching Izuna. He was an old man; his black hair had long since turned silver, and he had a beard that tucked into the neck of his armor.

Tobirama had chosen him because of that beard; when things were less hectic he completely intended on asking the old man how one managed to grow a beard so long when one’s main form of jutsu was fire.

The older man—Hiro, he believed his name to be—had become his impromptu sparring partner over the past five meetups—formidable, but not the opponent Tobirama wanted.

The man faltered, a flash of disappointment crossing his face as Tobirama danced past stray kunai and blades aimed at his throat. He needed to see her. The separation between them had driven him into dangerous territory.

He’d been jealous since the moment his brother walked her back to her compound and she’d stopped giving him the time of day.

It had been one impulsive decision on his part—while she’d made dozens before that.

And somehow, he was the bad guy?

And now, like some kind of addict, he craved her.

A fool.

A slave to her.

Running back like a dog to its owner.

All he needed was one kiss—or kick—or whatever she was willing to give.

Tobirama juked away from a stray fist, then caught sight of her—a clean opening. He didn’t think. He launched his entire body down the hill, ignoring consequence or the very real chance of getting impaled.

In a perfect—entirely performative and not remotely practical—flip, he landed in front of her.

Singed grass, still smoking from the Uchiha’s katon, crunched beneath his sandals as he straightened from his crouch, brushing invisible dust from his armor.

A bead of sweat trickled down his neck.

Finally.

The only person he wanted to fight stood before him. The one haunting his mind like a phantom.

“Hello there,” he said, slightly out of breath—and nearly kicked himself for sounding winded. It was the adrenaline.

Definitely not the flip.

She took one look at him and rolled her eyes.

The grin he gave her was wolfish.

Half-heartedly, he jabbed his sword at her. She blocked it without effort, scoffing as she aimed an agile kick at his head. He batted it away just as easily.

Around them, shinobi gave the pair space—no one wanted to be collateral damage when these two got rowdy.

She scowled. “What? Senju.”

He smirked, sharp and toothy. He’d never been one to smile. “How are you doing? I think I may have… missed you,” he teased.

Her scowl somehow deepened. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not going to happen again.”

He blinked. “Happen again?” His voice dropped, teasing. “I think you’re the one who wants it to happen again. I never brought up… that thing.”

From the corner of his eye, Tobirama caught his impromptu sparring partner side-eye him. The old man had followed him—as they had unfinished business—but he took a step back, scandalized, as if he’d been burned.

Tobirama cringed. His tone was something he had never used around any woman—much less an Uchiha woman poorly disguised as a man.

He cleared his throat; he was out of his element.

Tobirama had never been the charming one. That was his brother, Hashirama—skilled in every form of conversation. Tobirama was supposed to be the smart one. But at this moment, he felt painfully dumb.

Women were never his thing.

Now, if you asked him some obscure question on chakra theory—which he probably invented—or the political structure of shinobi alliances, he’d have given you a dissertation without blinking.

But standing here, facing her? He couldn’t even remember to say anything more clever than “It’s pretty sunny, does that… bother your Uchiha eyes?”

She gave him a dirty look.

Izuna lunged forward, and from the corner of Tobirama's eye, he didn’t miss the slight flinch from Madara as their blades clashed for real this time. Izuna grunted with a more feminine shriek than she probably intended.

She caught his gaze and acted quicker than he could react or counter.

Tobirama’s eyes widened just as a kick, swift as lightning, struck his sternum.

The air punched from his lungs. His thin sleeves caught the wind like sails, carrying him backward as the momentum of her blow hurled him into the ravine.

His mind blanked for a second as he flew back and they met gazes.

She followed without hesitation, leaping after him.

He understood immediately, and his lips twitched as she flawlessly removed them from peering gazes—and her brother.

He barely dodged her sword from spearing him between the eyes as they continued their fore––swordplay. His chest felt light—exhilarated—with each blow. The clang of metal dulled, their movements slowed, and as they backed away their bodies inched closer.

When they were far enough to her satisfaction, she grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt beneath his armor, her fingers digging in as she dragged him away.

He let her.

Further and further she led him, deeper into the trees, farther from the battle, until the clash of their clans became a distant hum, drowned out by the sound of birds and a waterfall.

She left him, yearning for her touch.

She disappeared as swiftly as a shadow when shown light.

He knew it could be a trap—a calculated move to lure him to his death—but it didn’t matter. Like a siren, she called to him. And he, the great fool he was becoming, followed.

It took a few moments, but he found her by the riverbank, hands planted on her hips, glowering at the rushing current as if it had personally offended her.

His heart sank, and the unfamiliar ache of guilt churned in his gut.

He skidded to a stop ten paces behind her, unsure whether to approach or run for his life.

She didn’t turn.

Of course she didn’t.

She was furious—and rightfully so. He had tossed her into that very river during their last skirmish, and according to Hashirama’s retelling, the ridicule of his clan, she’d emerged looking like a drowned rat.

It hadn’t been that bad… had it?

He hadn’t meant to be so rough.

But then again, they weren’t exactly friends.

Enemies, he reminded himself.

Though, did enemies press you to the cave wall, legs wrapped around your waist, whispering filth into your ear like a song?

He wasn’t sure what they were anymore.

He stopped hating her the moment her lips met his in that cave.

But he wasn’t foolish enough to think of them as friends. They didn’t do any of the prerequisites to label themselves friends like—

Finally, she glanced back over her shoulder.

The look she gave him made his stomach somersault.

It was feral.

Dangerous.

“Come here, Senju,” she said, lifting a hand, fingers curling in a beckoning challenge. Her full lips tilted into a smile that promised pleasure—or pain. Possibly both.

His heart skipped a beat.

Against every ounce of logic, he obeyed. He stepped forward.

He took her outstretched hand, hesitating when she didn’t pull away. His lips brushed her knuckles, trailing lower—down her fingers, over the tips, until they grazed his mouth. He gave the pads of her fingers a teasing nip.

She smiled.

He smirked back. She had accepted his apology. Or so he thought.

She drew him closer, until they stood almost chest to chest.

The scent of her perfumed hair permeated his senses like a whisper. His eyes fluttered as her fingers brushed his cheek with a tenderness that made his breath catch.

And then—smack.

Her palm landed hard against his face.

Stars burst behind his eyes, and he bent over, stunned. Before he could recover, she shoved him straight into the river.

The cold hit him like a slap of its own. He surfaced, sputtering, and she was already sloshing in after him. With a feral gleam in her eye, she seized a fistful of his hair and shoved his head underwater.

The sting of his hair being yanked at the roots was stunning.

He thrashed, disoriented, until she let him up for a single gulp of air—only to dunk him again.

He broke away, gasping, furious and dripping.

She only smirked.

He lunged, tackling her into the shallow edge of the water.

“What’s your deal, wretched woman?” he snapped, breathless and undone.

Pebbles crunched beneath the weight of both of them. Sometime during their fight, her braid had come undone; she was half submerged underneath the lake water.

She tilted her delicate chin up towards him.

Under the glittering light of the sun, her obsidian eyes looked almost indigo.

She looked up at him beneath thick lashes, her dark hair floating around her face, curling in the water like black flames.

His harsh grip softened as he felt how soft she was beneath his fingertips. He shook as he remembered—she was a woman.

Silk and cotton—not steel and leather.

Guilty, he backed away, creating distance between them until he was nearly completely submerged up to his shoulders.

She swam towards him with a grin that was as lazy as it was dangerous.

“Nothing.” Her voice shook him.

He blinked as he remembered the question he had asked her.

They were once again face to face, but this time her chest pressed against him.

Cotton and silk against steel and leather. Their differences shouted at him.

Their positions became glaringly obvious.

What she was. A woman.

What he was. A man.

Who they were, and how improper everything was. Two heirs of rival clans.

His worries melted away as she reached for his collar and tugged him down until their lips nearly met, breath mingling in the humid air.

“Nothing,” she murmured, “but fun.”

Her soft voice caressed his eardrums like the petals of a flower.

He swam closer towards her until they were floating in the center of the river, melded like two pieces of a puzzle.

“What are we?” he asked her. It was more a plea.

He wanted to understand.

Their noses nearly touching, her sweet breath reminded him of honeysuckle and spring.

Black irises like obsidian met his… “Whatever you want us to be?”

His lips trembled, tilting slightly downwards. He took a deep breath to speak.

What he was going to say was forgotten as the sound of voices stole the air from his lungs, and he turned sharply towards the direction of distinct Uchiha voices.

“The Princess—”

She disappeared underwater and he felt her chakra vanish.

Like a sitting duck, she left him in the water. He came face to face with Madara; beside him was one of his kinsmen. It was the Uchiha he had come to know in battle. Their eyes met, and familiar dark pools narrowed.

Tobirama felt his fingers slowly drift towards his kunai.

Ripples in the water gave away his movement.

Madara motioned to grab his sword—more instinct than actual intent. The older man also subtly reached for his weapon, but Madara stopped him.

Madara studied Tobirama, and they exchanged looks.

Tobirama swallowed thickly. The older man’s thoughts read as clear as day I hate you… but I won’t kill my best friend’s brother when he’s at a disadvantage.

Tobirama shook as the two Uchiha retreated. They had spared him?

The man must have had more honor than Tobirama, because he would not have hesitated to slaughter him. But things were changing.

And quickly.

Tobirama released a breath he had not realized he was holding; he nearly crumpled in fright—then he was getting splashed with water. He jolted and found the soaking figure of Izuna right before him.

“I thought you left.”

She smirked. “Not before I got my kiss.”

Her lips pressed against his and he stood frozen, and then this time she was gone… for real.

His eyes followed the ripples of her retreat.

She was something else…He knew if he gave her enough time... she’d ruin him.

She was an enigma to him.

What game was she playing? And why, despite knowing better, did he want to keep losing?

***

Once again, Izuna darkened Fujiko’s doorstep.

But this time, she kindly waited until the wee hours of the morning instead of the dead of night.

The old woman opened the door with gusto, her long silver hair pulled into a braid. She ushered Izuna in.

“Some of the ingredients you requested were out of stock, so I had Hiro go and retrieve them.”

The familiar scent of herbs wrapped around her like a blanket.

Izuna looked over to the elder’s table and there sat Hiro, the old man who had taken Tobi’s favor. He stuck out like a sore thumb in the woman’s small house. He was old and weathered, clashing with the delicately feminine touches of Fujiko’s decor.

He smiled at her kindly.

She smiled back nervously.

She knew he had heard their exchange, but like Fujiko he had created a second business smuggling things into the village that were… not allowed.

He had been the one to bring her dresses when her father had taken all of her things, storing them in her dowry box. She’d never thanked him, he had wonderful taste in chiffon and silk.

He had told her that it was punishment too cruel to take all things beautiful from a lovely girl.

“So, what do you need with rouge?” he said playfully, but behind his playful exterior was a sharp, inquisitive look of a shinobi. His eyes told her he knew more than was comfortable.

Izuna laughed, and the old woman saved her. “Is it a crime for a woman to want to feel pretty?”

Hiro laughed, slapping his thighs as his cue for his exit. He stood up with a groan. He brushed past Izuna as he made for the door, and their gazes met.

Quietly, he murmured into his collar, “Be careful, little girl. The games you’re playing… will only get you in trouble.” And then he was gone.

Izuna stood stunned in the corridor as she saw the man’s shadow disappear through the paper shades of the old woman’s window.

“What does he know?” Izuna said through a trembling jaw. She was beginning to feel as if she was starting something she shouldn’t. 

Fujiko laughed as she guided her to the seat Hiro had once occupied. “Who do you think has been telling me everything?”

The cushion was still warm.

“I have eyes and ears everywhere,” the woman said quietly.

A warm cup of tea was placed in Izuna’s hands. Since her last encounter with the Senju, Fujiko had warned Izuna to keep her distance as the herbs she took as a nightly tea took its time to take effect.

She’d thought the woman would have warned her against the younger Senju.

Instead, she encouraged it.

She helped her plan it.

Fujiko slid a narrow sheet across the table. “Nothing illegal.”

Izuna frowned. “What is this?” Izuna’s hands shook as she read through the slip of paper.

“Lotus, hatomugi, ginkgo… kozo? You’re making paper?”

“I want Senju-grown seed stock.” The old woman retorted.

Izuna looked up in confusion as the woman sat in front of her, her smile wide.

“Hiro says the boy is quite taken with you.”

Izuna’s brow continued to furrow as she read the list. “I don’t think you understand the relationship I have with the Senju… He’ll call this treason.”

“Perhaps.” Fujiko’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she shifted her gaze. “But having you warm his bed was not? Everything there is harmless, it shouldn’t arouse suspicion.”

Izuna folded the piece of paper. “Oh, and what’s all this for?”

Fujiko sat back in her seat. “It’s best not to share one’s plans prematurely.”

“I need to know some of it, if I’m going to risk my neck to get this.”

The older woman hummed into her tea. “Let’s just say, I want to test how quickly a Senju Garden wakes to a whisper.”

“And?” Izuna demanded.

“Formulas are delicate,” Fujiko said, eyes on the cup. “Tonight’s blend favors warmth. Don’t douse it with cold.”

Fujiko poured more tea for Izuna. “Bring the seeds girl.”