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Chapter Text

You remember seeing Konoha for the first time— a bustling village nestled in the heart of the Land of Fire. It was growing rapidly and seemed like the perfect place to start anew. You spent your entire life in a small, matriarchal village in the West. You hailed from the Hikari clan, known for their intelligence and marrying off their daughters to other powerful clans as a sign of prestige. It was not a fate you wanted for yourself, so you sought a new beginning.

And it was refreshing— until it wasn’t.

You quickly landed a job as an assistant to the founders of the city, which was exciting at first.

But you soon discovered it was going to be the most irritating position on the planet.

Hashirama was the easiest person to work with, so you always sought him out first if you were able. Unfortunately, your work was typically delegated by Madara or his equally tense counterpart, Tobirama.

You weren’t sure who was worse.

Tobirama at least didn’t act disgusted by your presence, so there was that.

The same could not be said for Madara.

Like now. The papers felt heavy in your hands as you stood in the entrance to Madara's office, watching him scowl over a scroll without acknowledging your presence. The late afternoon sun filtered through the window behind him, catching notes of dust and casting half his face in shadow.

"Excuse me, Lord Madara," you said, clearing your throat as you entered the room. "I have some reports that need your attention."

His dark eyes flicked up to you, narrowed with instant irritation. "Leave them on the desk."

You hesitated, the stack of papers clutched to your chest. "Lord Tobirama specifically asked that you review these immediately. He said there were some errors that needed—"

At the mention of Tobirama's name, Madara's face darkens further. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he glares at the papers you're holding as if they might burst into flames—which, given his nature, isn't entirely impossible. "Of course he did," Madara cut you off, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Always finding fault, isn't he? And sending you to deliver the message."

The way he emphasized "you" made your skin prickle with heat. You placed the papers carefully on the edge of his desk, trying to maintain your composure. "He's been quite busy with the eastern boundary today."

"And I'm not?" Madara snaps, gesturing to the mountain of scrolls already piled before him. "Does he think I sit here twiddling my thumbs, waiting for his paperwork?"

The scent of ink and iron mingles with the faint smell of burnt sage that always seems to cling to him. You notice the untouched tea at his elbow, long gone cold.

"I could help sort through some of these if you'd like," you offer, trying to be helpful despite the tension thickening the air.

His laugh is harsh, without humor. "Help? From you? I think not."

Something inside you cracked. Weeks of sideways glances, dismissals, and barely veiled contempt finally broke through your professional front.

"What exactly is your problem with me?" The words burst from your lips before you can stop them, and your voice rose sharply in the quiet office.

He scoffs as he continues to work, attempting to blow you off. “Do not irk me, girl. You have accomplished what you came here for. Now, I suggest you leave.”

You stand in front of his desk with a scowl, crossing your arms in defiance.

"I have done nothing but work diligently since arriving in Konoha, yet you treat me like I'm your enemy. This isn’t fair."

“Life is not fair, and you are pressing what little patience I have left. Go.” His final word was nearly a growl as he flashed you a warning glance that made your heart freeze.

For such a cold man, he was devastatingly handsome, making him even more insufferable.

Biting your tongue, you turn to leave, letting his office door slam behind you without a care.

Chapter Text

It was only a matter of time before you lost your self-control. Never in your life had you been talked down to as Madara does. He is crass and out for blood, quick to demean you for the simplest mistake, acting as if your very existence is a burden.

So when the day finally came, you exploded like a bomb.

Several weeks later, you found yourself in the Hokage's library, surrounded by towering shelves of scrolls and the lingering scent of aged parchment. The space is quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper and Madara's irritated sighs as he reviews your latest report across the table. You've been cataloguing border incidents for the past month— tedious work requiring meticulous attention to detail.

Your fingers tap nervously against your thigh beneath the table. The silence between you stretches thin, ready to snap at any moment. Madara hasn't spoken in nearly ten minutes, but his frown deepens with each page he turns.

"This is unacceptable," he finally says, his voice cutting through the stillness. He slides the report back toward you, a single finger pointing to a section you'd spent hours compiling. "The chronology is jumbled. The witness accounts contradict each other. And your analysis lacks any meaningful insight."

You swallow hard, heat creeping up your neck. "I followed the format exactly as instructed."

"Following instructions doesn't equate to competence," he replies, leaning back in his chair. The sunlight filtering through the windows catches in his dark hair, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. "Perhaps the Hikari clan's reputation for their superior intellect is merely propaganda."

It was a low blow, even for him. His attack was getting personal, and all you could do was clench your jaw as you met his eyes.

"I spent three days on that section alone," you say, struggling to keep your voice level. "The contradictions in the witness accounts are clearly noted in the footnotes."

He barely glances at the pages. "Footnotes that fail to reconcile critical discrepancies. This level of work might be acceptable where you're from, but not in Konoha."

"Where I'm from?" Your voice rises slightly, drawing a sharp look from a scribe across the room.

"Your clan sends women to secure political alliances through marriage, does it not?" His tone is casual, conversational even, which somehow makes it worse. "I imagine thoroughness isn't a priority when your primary value lies elsewhere."

Your eye twitches, and something inside you snaps. The weeks of condescension, the sneers, the insults— it all comes pouring out in a torrent you can no longer contain.

"How dare you?" You hiss, standing so abruptly that your chair scrapes loudly against the floor. "You know nothing about me or my clan. I've worked twice as hard as anyone else here just to be treated with basic respect, and you sit there judging me based on prejudices and assumptions."

Madara's eyes widen slightly, but his composure remains intact. "Lower your voice. This is a library."

"I don't care!" The words burst from you, louder, more intense than intended. "I've endured your attitude since the day I arrived. What exactly did I do to piss you off so much? Or is it simply that you can't stand the idea of working alongside a woman? An outsider?”

Madara's jaw tightens, his shoulders squaring beneath his high-collared robe. The temperature in the library seems to rise several degrees as his chakra flares subtly, making the air pressure shift around you.

"You mistake my criticism for contempt," he says, voice dangerously controlled. "Perhaps if you focused more on your work and less on perceived insults, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

You lean forward, palms flat against the table as you deepen your scowl. "You've barely looked me in the eye since I got here. You dismiss every suggestion I make. That's not perception— that's reality, Madara."

He rises slowly to his feet, his height forcing you to tilt your chin up to maintain eye contact. "Reality is that I have a village to protect. I don't have time to coddle your feelings or validate your presence."

"I've never asked for coddling," you counter, the blood rushing in your ears. "Just basic courtesy would be a nice start."

"Courtesy is earned," he says coldly. "Not demanded like a petulant child throwing a tantrum."

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. "And how exactly am I supposed to earn anything when you've already decided I'm worthless?"

"I never said you were worthless." His voice remains steady, but his eyes flash dangerously. "I said your work was inadequate. There's a difference."

"Is there? Because from where I'm standing, you've judged me based on my clan, my gender, everything except my actual abilities."

A muscle twitches in his cheek. "Your abilities have yet to impress me."

"Because you refuse to see them!" The frustration building in your chest threatens to choke you. "You look at me and see only what you expect to see."

Something shifts in his expression— a crack in his carefully maintained facade. "And what exactly do you think I see?"

"A woman you can dismiss. A foreigner you can distrust. Someone beneath your notice."

His lips press into a thin line. "You know nothing about what I see."

"Then enlighten me, Lord Madara," you challenge, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "What exactly is it about me that you find so objectionable?"

The silence stretches between you, charged and dangerous. When he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet you have to strain to hear it.

"Your presence is disruptive."

You laugh incredulously, throwing your hands up. "How the fuck am I disruptive— to what? To your precious routine? To your—"

Something snaps behind his eyes as you go on. In an instant, his meticulously controlled demeanor shatters.

"TO EVERYTHING!" He roars, slamming his fist down on the table with such force that scrolls scatter to the floor, causing you to flinch. "You walk into rooms like you belong there! You question decisions like you have the right! You look at me with those damned eyes!" His voice echoes through the library, shocking even himself with its volume.

The scribe gasps as his Sharingan flares, causing you to freeze under his daunting glare. Your hesitation only lasts a moment before you snatch up your notebook with a matching glare, saying nothing.

You leave as swiftly as you can, not daring to let him see the tears pooling in the corners of your eyes. You practically run, your throat burning with repressed emotion as you hurry home. You don’t know what you want from Madara— perhaps it’s approval, or just simple acknowledgment.

But he refuses to give you anything but hostility.

The tears finally come once you reach your tiny apartment, spilling hot and shameful down your cheeks. You curl into yourself on your futon, his words echoing in your mind like thunderclaps.

Disruptive.

To everything.

What had you done to deserve such animosity? You replay every interaction, searching for the offense that turned him so completely against you. Was it your questions about the village defense plans? Your suggestions about improving clan relations? Or was it simply your existence—a woman from a clan he clearly despised, daring to stand in his presence?

The moonlight filters through your thin curtains as you wipe your face with the back of your hand. Your chest aches with each breath, and you hate yourself for caring what Madara Uchiha thinks of you. Yet the hurt lingers, cutting deeper than you want to admit.

Chapter Text

By morning, the hurt has crystallized into something harder, sharper. Determination. You splash cold water on your puffy eyes and stare at your reflection in the small mirror. Enough is enough. You've traveled too far, sacrificed too much to be treated like this.

You dress with purpose, pulling yourself together to resemble your normal grace. The morning air is cool against your skin as you make your way to the administrative building, rehearsing what you'll say to Hashirama. Surely he'll understand. Surely there's another position where your skills could be useful, away from Madara's scorching contempt.

The corridors are quiet this early, your footsteps echoing against the wooden floors. You take a deep breath before knocking on the door to Hashirama and Tobirama's joint office, squaring your shoulders.

"Come in!" Hashirama's cheerful voice calls out.

Your heart sinks the moment you step inside. Madara stands by the window, his imposing figure silhouetted against the morning light. His eyes find yours immediately, and the memory of yesterday's confrontation hangs between you like a physical thing.

"Ah, good morning!" Hashirama beams at you, seemingly oblivious to the tension thickening the air. His desk is covered in architectural plans and proposals, a half-eaten breakfast pushed to one side. "What a pleasant surprise! What brings you by so early?"

You feel the blood rushing to your face as you struggle to maintain composure. Tobirama glances up from his work, his red eyes assessing you with quiet interest.

"I..." Your voice catches. Madara hasn't moved, but his presence fills the room like smoke, making it hard to breathe. "Lord Hashirama, might I speak with you privately for a moment?"

Before Hashirama can respond, Madara scoffs, pushing himself away from the window.

"The brat's here to ask to be relieved of her duties with me, isn't that right?" His voice is cold and full of spite.

His words and demeanor reignited the embers of rage, embarrassment, and shame that lay in your gut. You longed to scream, to hit him in the face, to do anything but stand here and cower beneath his gaze.

"Actually, Lord Madara, that's exactly what I was going to do," you snap back, no longer caring about propriety. "I don't see how I can continue working for someone who clearly despises my very existence."

Hashirama's eyebrows shoot up, his face forming a perfect expression of surprise. "Now, now, I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding—"

"There's no misunderstanding," Madara cuts in, taking a step closer. "She's incompetent and argumentative. I have neither the time nor the patience to babysit someone who can't follow simple instructions."

Heat floods your cheeks as hot anger courses through your veins. "Babysit me? Is that what you call hurling insults and ignoring every contribution I make? If that's your idea of leadership, it's no wonder half the village walks on eggshells around you!"

Tobirama sets down his pen, leaning back in his chair with the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes dart between you and Madara like he's watching an especially entertaining sparring match.

"You dare—" Madara begins, his chakra flaring so intensely that papers on Hashirama's desk flutter.

"Yes, I dare!" You step forward, meeting his glare with equal intensity. "Someone needs to tell you that your behavior is unacceptable. You can't treat people like they're beneath you just because you feel like it!"

Hashirama rises from his chair, hands extended placatingly. "Please, both of you, let's take a breath and discuss this rationally—"

"Rational discussion requires rational participants," Madara growls, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm looking at the most irrational, stubborn woman I've ever encountered."

"That's ironic coming from you," you retort, crossing your arms. "A man so blinded by prejudice he can't recognize competence when it's right in front of him."

Tobirama clears his throat, drawing your eyes to him. "I find it interesting, Madara, that you're so affected by someone you claim is beneath you." His voice is cool, measured, but there's a glint in his red eyes that suggests he's enjoying this immensely. "One might think you're protesting too much."

Madara's attention snaps to Tobirama, his Sharingan activating in a flash of crimson. "Stay out of this, Tobirama. Not everything requires your unsolicited opinion."

"On the contrary," Tobirama continues, unperturbed by Madara's flaring temper. "I've reviewed her work myself. Her assistance has proven beneficial for the village. Perhaps your judgment is compromised in this matter."

Madara's voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "Are you implying I can't assess the work of my own subordinates?"

You stand frozen, genuinely shocked that Tobirama came to your defense. Your eyes dart between the two men as tension crackles in the air like lightning before a storm.

"I'm merely stating facts," Tobirama says nonchalantly, rising from his chair with grace. "Her report contained insights about the border patrol rotations that even you missed. Her work is exemplary. Perhaps it's not her abilities that have you so perplexed."

Madara takes a menacing step toward Tobirama, his temper flaring so intensely that you can practically feel his anger move with him. "You know nothing about how I conduct my affairs. The girl is—"

"The girl has a name," Tobirama interrupts coolly, "and skills that would be better utilized if you weren't so determined to find fault with everything she does."

Your mouth falls open slightly. Never had you expected Tobirama— cold, analytical Tobirama— to support you so openly. The shock must show on your face because Madara's eyes flick to you, narrowing dangerously.

"Don't look so surprised," he snarls. "Of course, he'd take your side. Anything to undermine my authority."

"This isn't about taking sides," Tobirama counters, crossing his arms. "It's about efficiency. Your personal vendetta is wasting time and village resources."

Madara's laugh is sharp and brittle. "Don't flatter yourself, or her. I simply expect competence from those who work for me."

"Enough!" Hashirama's voice cuts through the hostility, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by his strong, commanding presence. The wooden floor beneath your feet trembles slightly— a subtle reminder of his formidable power. "This petty bickering undermines everything we're trying to build in Konoha."

Silence falls as all three of you turn to face him. Hashirama's eyes are hard as stone, his disappointment palpable.

"I've watched this tension fester for weeks," he continues, circling his desk. "Madara's hostility, your frustration—" he nods toward you, "—and Tobirama's... provocations." His brother scoffs but doesn't interrupt. "This ends today."

The finality in his tone makes your stomach clench. This is it— you're about to be dismissed from your position, possibly even removed from the village. You straighten your spine, preparing for the blow.

Instead, Hashirama's serious expression melts into something far more alarming— a broad, mischievous smile.

"I have the perfect solution," he announces, clapping his hands together. "The three of you will work together on the western district development project."

"What?" The word escapes your lips in unison with both Madara and Tobirama, creating a discordant chorus of disbelief.

"Brother, you can't be serious," Tobirama protests, his usual composure slipping.

"Absolutely not," Madara growls simultaneously.

Hashirama's smile only widens. "I'm completely serious. The western district needs infrastructure planning, security protocols, and community engagement— perfect for your combined talents." He begins shuffling through papers on his desk. "You'll share the field office by the river. I expect daily progress reports. Signed by all three of you."

The horror of the situation dawns on you slowly, like ice water trickling down your spine. Forced proximity with both Tobirama and Madara… There is no worse fate than this, you dread internally as both men argue and plead with Hashirama to no avail.

“So it’s settled!” Hashirama chides as he smiles at you, your face void of any emotion.

Behind him, Madara glares at you with a chilling gaze, and beside him, Tobirama’s sinister scowl is aimed at Madara. You felt sick; there’s no way you’re going to be able to do this. Dealing with Madara’s moodiness was one thing— getting caught between the Uchiha and Senju was another.

Chapter Text

Morning comes too quickly, the sun's amber light filtering through your curtains as you stare at the ceiling, dreading the day ahead. Your stomach churns as you dress, selecting your most professional attire— a silent armor against whatever awaits at the Western Field Office.

The path to the riverside office takes you through a section of Konoha still under construction. Workers call greetings as you pass, oblivious to your inner turmoil. The scent of fresh-cut timber and wet earth fills the air, mingling with the soft hum of the nearby river.

When you arrive, the small wooden building stands solitary against the backdrop of tall, swaying trees. Your hand hesitates on the door handle, pulse quickening before you gather your courage and step inside.

Relief washes over you when you see only Tobirama occupying the space. He stands by a large table covered with maps, his white hair catching the morning light. He looks up at your entrance, his red eyes softening almost imperceptibly.

"You're early," he observes, returning his attention to the map.

"I thought it best to get a head start," you reply, setting your bag down on one of the three desks arranged in the room. "Before..."

"Before Madara arrives and the air becomes unbreathable?" Tobirama finishes for you, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Something like that."

A comfortable silence falls as you unpack your materials. The morning light filters through the windows, dust motes dancing in golden beams. Without Madara's oppressive presence, the tension in your shoulders begins to ease.

"I wanted to thank you," you say suddenly, looking up from your notes. "For what you said yesterday. About my work."

Tobirama studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I merely stated facts. Your analysis was thorough."

"Still," you persist, "not many would have spoken up against Madara like that."

He makes a noncommittal sound, turning back to his map. "Madara's temper does not intimidate me. Never has."

You move closer, curious about what he's studying so intently. The map shows the western district with various markings and notations.

"I've been considering security protocols," Tobirama explains, sensing your interest. "The river provides a natural boundary, but also a potential vulnerability."

"The terrain itself presents challenges," you reply, leaning in to trace a finger along the riverbank on the map. "These bends create blind spots that could—"

The door bangs open, slamming against the wall with enough force to rattle the windows. Madara stands in the threshold, his imposing silhouette blocking the light from outside. His eyes sweep across the room, narrowing when he sees you standing so close to Tobirama.

"How cozy," he remarks, voice dripping with disdain. "Planning without me already?"

The peaceful atmosphere shatters instantly. You step back from the table, crossing your arms defensively. "We were just discussing security concerns along the riverbank."

Madara stalks into the room, the air growing heavy with his chakra. "I'm sure you were."

Tobirama straightens, his face returning to its usual impassive mask. "Since you've finally decided to join us, perhaps you'd like to contribute something useful rather than baseless insinuations."

You watch Madara's jaw clench as he drops a stack of scrolls onto the empty desk farthest from both of you. "Unlike some, I spent the morning gathering actual intelligence on the district, not making drawings."

"Yes, intelligence," Tobirama's voice turns cold. "Is that what you call intimidating the local merchants?"

"I don't intimidate," Madara snaps. "I inquire directly. Something a Senju might find difficult to comprehend."

You clear your throat, desperate to redirect their attention. "I've prepared a schedule for our first week. If we divide the tasks—"

"I don't need a schedule made by you," Madara interrupts, not even glancing your way. "And I certainly don't need to be managed by someone with barely a year's experience in administration."

His words make you feel small, and you try to keep your emotions in check, wanting to avoid an encounter like the last. "It was just a suggestion."

"A poor one," he retorts, finally turning those dark eyes on you. "This project requires experience and authority, not... whatever it is you think you're bringing to the table."

Tobirama makes a sound of disgust. "And there it is. Your inability to work with anyone who doesn't bow to your every whim."

"It’s not inability— I just don't need instructions from an assistant," Madara interrupts again, turning his cold gaze back on you. "Especially one who seems to have forgotten which founder she reports to."

Heat rushes to your face. "I report to all of you. That's the entire point of this project."

"Is it?" Madara's voice drops dangerously low. "Or is this just another of Hashirama's misguided attempts at forcing cooperation where none is wanted?"

Tobirama scoffs, rolling up the map with quick, precise movements. "If you're finished with your tantrum, perhaps we could begin the actual work."

For the next several hours, you attempt to navigate the frigid hostility between the two men that would occasionally get thrown back on you. Every suggestion is met with opposition— not because of the ideas themselves, but because of who proposes them. When Tobirama outlines a sensible approach to drainage systems, Madara immediately finds fault. When Madara suggests a layout for residential zones, Tobirama criticizes the efficiency.

You find yourself speaking less and less; any spirit you harbored was crushed under the weight of their mutual antagonism. The small office feels increasingly crowded, dense with tension, even as everyone works in silence. A while later, Madara abruptly leaves, leaving you alone with Tobirama once again.

Tobirama's pen scratches softly against parchment, the only sound in the office now that Madara has gone. The late afternoon sun slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. You massage your temples, trying to ward off the headache building behind your eyes.

"This project is going to be the death of me," you mutter, more to yourself than to Tobirama.

He glances up, his expression softening slightly. "Madara has that effect on people."

A small laugh escapes you, easing some of the tension from your shoulders. "How do you maintain your composure around him? I feel like I'm constantly one comment away from throwing something."

"Years of practice," Tobirama replies, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "And the occasional count-to-ten technique."

You're surprised by this momentary lightness between you. In all your time in Konoha, you've rarely seen this side of the usually stoic Senju. He was all business, sparing little time for chatter for all alike.

"Would you mind looking at this?" Tobirama suddenly asks, gesturing to a document on his desk. "It's a requisition for building materials for the western district. Something about these numbers seems off."

You push yourself up from your chair, grateful for the distraction. Walking over to his desk, you lean forward to examine the parchment, bracing one hand against the polished wood.

"Which section?" You ask, scanning the columns of figures.

"Here," Tobirama points, his voice closer than you expected.

You lean in further, and as you shift your weight, your knee accidentally brushes against his. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through you, and you immediately stiffen, acutely aware of his proximity. His scent— clean like rain and cedar— fills your senses.

"Sorry," you murmur, feeling heat rise to your cheeks as you try to focus on the requisition form. Your heart beats at a rapid pace against your ribs, your reaction catching you off guard.

Since when did Tobirama Senju make you nervous?

"I think..." Your voice sounds strangely breathless to your own ears. "I think they've calculated for reinforced foundations. See this notation here?" You point to a small mark, acutely aware of how close your hand is to his.

"Ah," he says quietly. "You're right." Tobirama nods, seemingly unaffected by your closeness.

The door swings open again without warning. Madara strides in, his dark eyes immediately locking onto the scene you and Tobirama present. His expression hardens as he takes in your position, leaning over Tobirama's desk, your bodies close enough to touch.

"Don't let me interrupt," he huffs, his voice laced with venom. "I just came for a folder, but clearly you two have found more... pressing ways to pass the time."

You straighten immediately, embarrassment and anger flaring in equal measure at his bitter hint. "We're reviewing requisitions, which is more than I can say for you since you stormed out earlier."

Madara's lip curls as he retrieves a folder from his desk. "Say whatever you wish, you do not fool me."

The insinuation hits like a slap. "Fuck you, Madara!" The words explode from you as rage boils through your veins. "You have no right to—"

"I have every right when you're making a spectacle of yourself with Tobirama right in our shared workspace," Madara snarls, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously. "If you wish to throw yourself at a Senju, do it on your own time, not when we have a village to build."

The further accusation strikes like lightning, shocking and burning all at once. You've never felt such rage before— it consumes you completely, turning your vision red at the edges.

"You insufferable bastard—" Words fail you as fury closes your throat. "You know nothing about me!"

"I know enough," he spits, turning on his heel and storming toward the door. "And I've seen enough."

You're moving before you can think, propelled by a storm of indignation. "Don't you dare walk away from me!" You follow him out the door, your shoes clicking against the wooden porch.

Behind you, you hear Tobirama sigh heavily. "Don't waste your—" he starts, but you're already out the door, chasing Madara's retreating form.

Chapter Text

You chase Madara down the dirt path, heedless of the villagers watching with wide eyes and hushed whispers. The afternoon sun hangs low in the sky as you follow his swift strides toward the construction site.

"Is that what you think of me?" You shout at his back. "That I'm some... some shameless woman throwing herself at men? After all the work I've done?"

He doesn't slow, doesn't turn. "I think you're a distraction this village doesn't need."

"How the hell am I a distraction?" You quicken your pace to keep up with his longer strides. "I've done nothing but work myself to exhaustion since arriving here! I left everything behind to come to Konoha!"

"No one asked you to," he retorts coldly, weaving between newly-built structures.

The construction site looms ahead, several buildings in various stages of completion rising from the cleared earth. Workers pause their hammering and sawing to watch your approach, tools hanging forgotten in their hands.

"You're impossible!" Your voice rises with each word. "What exactly is it about me that offends you so much? Is it simply that I don't cower before the great Madara Uchiha?" You spit.

He continues walking, jaw clenched, deliberately ignoring you. The dismissal only fuels your anger.

"Or maybe," you say, your voice dropping dangerously low, "you're threatened by the fact that I see through your intimidation tactics. That I'm not afraid of you like everyone else."

That gets his attention. He stops so suddenly that you nearly collide with his back. When he turns, his eyes are blazing with barely contained fury.

"You think I care what you think of me?" His voice is soft, which somehow makes it more menacing.

"I don't give a damn what you care about!" You shout, stepping directly into his space, close enough to see the flecks of crimson beginning to swirl in his dark irises. "You've been nothing but cruel to me since the moment I arrived, and I deserve to know why!"

The construction workers scatter, abandoning their posts as your chakra flares involuntarily with your anger. Dust rises around your feet, swirling in the charged air between you.

"Go away," Madara warns, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder.

"No." You plant your feet firmly, tilting your chin up defiantly. "Not until you explain yourself. What have I ever done to make you hate me so much?"

His nostrils flare as he takes a measured breath. "You're making a scene."

"Good! Let them all see how their precious Uchiha founder treats people who don't worship his feet!"

Something dangerous flashes across his face— a crack in his careful control. "Last warning."

"Or what?" You challenge, pushing even closer. "You'll shout at me? Insult me again? I'm not afraid of you, Madara, and I won't be dismissed like some—"

Without warning, his hand closes around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Not here," he mutters.

Before you can protest, he's pulling you away from the curious onlookers, dragging you toward one of the finished buildings. Your feet stumble over uneven ground as you struggle to keep pace with his long strides.

"Let go of me!" You demand, but your words fall on deaf ears as he yanks you through a doorway into the shadowy interior of the bare structure.

The moment you're inside, he releases your wrist, only to grasp your shoulders and back you against the nearest wall. The wood presses against your spine as he looms over you, his powerful frame caging you in. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek.

You gasp at the sudden proximity, your heart hammering wildly in your chest as your anger shifted to something else. The dim light filtered through small windows, casting half his face in shadow, making him look even more dangerous— and devastatingly handsome. Fear mingles with something else, something molten and unexpected that pools low in your belly.

"You want to know why I can't be around you?" His voice is barely above a whisper, rough with honesty. His eyes search yours, no longer cold but burning with an intensity that steals your breath.

You should feel threatened, should be pushing him away, but instead, you find yourself frozen, captivated by the change in his demeanor. The anger is still there, but beneath it lies something raw that caught you completely off guard.

"Yes," you inhale, the word barely audible even in the silence of the empty building.

"I can't stand it," he growls, his voice strained with something primal. "The way you act, how you challenge me, look at me—" His fingers dig into your shoulders, not enough to hurt but enough to feel his strength. "I can't focus when you're around. I can't think clearly."

Your breath catches as understanding dawns. This isn't hatred— it's something else entirely.

"I’ve tried to ignore you," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "but you're always there, in my thoughts, distracting me. Making me want things I shouldn't want— from an impotent outsider, nonetheless."

His hand moves to grasp your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The gesture is rough but controlled, his gloved fingers warm against your skin. Heat floods your cheeks as his dark eyes bore into yours, no longer cold but blazing with barely restrained desire.

"Is that what you wanted to hear?" He demands, his knee pushing between your legs, pressing you more firmly against the wall. "That I can't keep my eyes off you? That you haunt me day and night?"

You can't speak, can't breathe, as his proximity overwhelms your senses. The scent of smoke and sandalwood that clings to him fills your lungs, making your head spin. His body radiates heat, and you're suddenly acutely aware of every point where he’s touching you.

Chapter Text

Madara's eyes drop to your parted lips, and something in his expression becomes predatory. His mouth descends to your neck, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

"Look at you," he murmurs against your pulse point, "trembling for me now. Is this what you wanted when you chased me out here? When you pushed and pushed until I broke?"

A small sound escapes your throat— something between a gasp and a whimper— as his lips brush against your skin. Your body betrays you, responding to his touch with shameless eagerness despite all the anger that came before.

His hand slides from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. "You're enjoying this," he says, his voice taking on a mocking edge that somehow only heightens your arousal. "Where are all those spiteful words now, hm?"

You try to summon your indignation, to remember why you were so furious with him, but his proximity makes coherent thought impossible. Your hands, which should be pushing him away, instead clutch at the fabric of his shirt.

"I should hate you," you murmur, your voice unsteady.

"But you don't," he says with certainty, his lips curving against your neck in what you feel is a smirk. "Your body gives you away. So eager and needy— is this how you act with Tobirama too?"

The accusation stings, cutting through the haze of desire he was lacing you with. "You’re being ridiculous," you manage to say, your voice coming out as a harsh whisper.

Without warning, he shifts his weight, pressing his muscular thigh harder between your legs. The increased pressure against your core draws a gasp from your lips, your body instinctively arching toward him.

"You’re dangerous," he growls, his mouth moving closer to yours. "You make me lose control."

You tremble as his hot breath fans across your lips, your hands rising to grasp his shoulders— whether to push him away or pull him closer, you're not sure. Your fingers curl into his tunic, feeling the solid muscle lying beneath.

His lips hover just above yours, and you can't suppress the slight, needy sound that escapes you. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression darkening as he takes in your dilated pupils, your parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

"Tell me," he commands harshly, his voice laced with satisfaction and scorn. "Is this why you've been so desperate for my notice?”

The accusation hangs between you, his words stripping away your defenses. You didn’t ponder your need for Madara’s approval. Yes, you could have simply ignored him, and he would have ignored you just as much as possible in turn. If he and Tobirama managed to work together, then you could too.

But instead, you took everything personally, because you wanted him to like you.

Truthfully, you wanted everyone to like you.

"Why is it so bad for me to want your approval? Would you prefer I didn’t?” You question with your chin up, conjuring the fire of defiance in your bones.

Madara’s face twists with a dark smirk— hints of triumph mixed with a primal hunger at your admittance. "So the little Hikari princess has been begging for my attention all this time," he murmurs, his voice dangerously soft. "How pathetic."

Before you can respond, his mouth crashes against yours, swallowing your gasp of surprise. The kiss is brutal, controlling— nothing like the soft embraces you've imagined in your weakest moments. His lips claim yours with punishing force, his teeth catching your bottom lip and biting down just hard enough to make you whimper.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer as he devours your mouth. His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring the heat of your mouth with demanding strokes that leave you breathless and trembling.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're panting, your lips swollen and tender. His eyes are molten with desire, Sharingan activated, memorizing every detail of your flushed face.

"You’re despicable," he growls, his voice rough with contempt and desire. "Giving yourself to the man you hate."

"Shut up," you breathe as your body betrays you, arching into his touch.

His laugh is dark and knowing, giving you goosebumps despite the heat running through you. "Here you are, pining like a common whore."

He presses you harder against the wall, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides beneath your tunic, the leather of his glove trailing across your skin. You feel like you're burning alive, consumed by a need that overshadows your pride, your anger, everything but the feel of his hands on your body.

"Madara," you gasp as his fingers trace the curve of your waist, moving higher.

"Say it again," he demands, his lips back on your throat now, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

"Madara," you repeat, the name falling from your lips with a whimper as he bites your flesh gently.

His hand moves suddenly, pulling off his gloves, dropping to the hem of your skirt and pushing it up your thighs with impatient movements. The cool air against your exposed skin makes you shiver, but it's nothing compared to the jolt that runs through you when his fingers move against your inner thigh.

"Spread your legs," he commands against your ear, his voice leaving no room for refusal.

You comply without thinking, your body responding to his command with an eagerness that should shame you. His fingers trace higher up your thigh, reaching the edge of your panties. There's a momentary pause— just long enough for your breath to catch— before he pushes the fabric aside and rubs his fingertips through your sopping lower lips.

"Look at you," he hisses against your ear, his voice dripping with disdain even as his touch remains deliberate and precise. "Soaked through already. Is this what fighting with me does to you? Makes you wet and desperate?"

Heat floods your face at his crude assessment, humiliation warring with the pleasure coursing through your veins as his fingers explore your slickness. You try to turn your face away, but his other hand grips your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Answer me," he demands, his fingers dipping between your soaked lips.

"Yes!" You cry, the confession torn from your throat as he circles over your clit.

His laugh is dark and cruel. "I suppose having you around will serve some purpose." He slides a thick finger inside you without warning, making you gasp. "If you make yourself useful."

Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, seeking more friction. He adds a second finger, stretching you in a way that sends sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

"How desperate you must be," he taunts, his voice rough with desire, loosely concealed beneath the contempt. "Spreading your legs for me on mere impulse." His fingers curl inside you, finding a spot that makes your knees buckle. "You really do submit too easily."

You should hate this— hate him for reducing you to this trembling, needy mess as he talks down to you— but his skilled fingers are drawing you closer to the edge with each deliberate stroke. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt as tension coils wickedly tighter in your core.

"Please," you breathe, not even sure what you're begging for.

"Please, what?" Madara's voice is dangerously smooth against your ear. "Please fuck you? Please make you cum?" His thumb circles faster, his fingers pumping in a rhythm that has you teetering on the edge of your sanity. "Is that what you want? To cum on my fingers like the desperate little slut you are?"

"Yes," you gasp, beyond shame now as your body tightens around his fingers. "Please, Madara, I—"

And then, without warning, he withdraws completely. The sudden emptiness leaves you shaking, hovering at the edge with no release. Your eyes fly open to find him watching you with dark satisfaction, his Sharingan memorizing every detail of your frustrated need.

"Did you think I would reward you so easily?" He asks, bringing his glistening fingers to his lips, eyes locked on yours, as if savoring not just the taste but your raw humiliation. A slow, wicked smile blooms on his lips as he withdraws his fingers with obscene leisure.

"You should see yourself right now," he murmurs, closing in on you once again. "No shame at all. I will take you right here and you’ll only beg for more."

The hunger in his gaze is dizzying, a shock of heat that makes your thighs tremble. Every inch of your skin prickles with anticipation and mortification, and he was right, you still want more. You want everything, even if it means surrendering what little pride you have left.

You reach for him, desperate for any contact, but Madara seizes your wrists and pins them above your head in a single, effortless movement. His body presses you into the wall, and you can feel the hard line of his cock through the layers of cloth, already straining against his pants.

"You don’t get to touch," he hisses, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. "Not until I say so."

He let go of your hands and moved to his waistband, freeing himself with a practiced motion. You hear the rustle of fabric and then feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip. The sight is almost as dizzying as your own desire, as is the knowledge that you did this to him— that beneath all the contempt and mockery, he is every bit as desperate.

"On your knees," he orders, pulling you down with a fist in your hair.

You collapse in obedience, palms hitting the rough wooden floor. The musty scent of sawdust and earth fills your nose, grounding you just enough to process the feral hunger in Madara’s eyes as he towers above you. He grips his cock at the base, then steps forward so the head of his cock smears precum across your parted lips.

“You wanted my attention?” He growls, tapping it against your mouth. “Now you have it.”

You hesitate only a fraction of a second before your lips part, tongue darting out to taste the salty bead of precum at the tip. He doesn’t wait for you to get your bearings— the moment you open, he thrusts forward, sheathing himself halfway down your throat with a low, guttural sound of satisfaction.

"Fuck," he grunts, hand twisting tighter in your hair as he sets a merciless rhythm. Your jaw aches, but you force yourself to relax, to breathe through your nose and keep up. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as he uses your mouth with a personal intensity— shallow, punishing strokes that leave you gasping in between for ragged breaths.

He never looks away, watching your struggle with vicious pleasure. Every time you gag, he mutters something filthy— "Such a mess," or "You can take more,"— until you’re trembling not just with arousal, but with the sick thrill of being completely and utterly dominated.

Your hands find his thighs, digging into the thick muscle as you try to anchor yourself. He fucks your face harder, his pace unrelenting until saliva is running down your chin in profane strings.

He pulls back suddenly, his cock leaving your lips with an obscene wet pop. You gasp for air, the rawness in your throat proof of what you’ve endured. Madara looks down at you, his expression a study in predatory satisfaction. He uses a thumb to wipe the trail of spit from your cheek, then shoves your hair behind your ear with a tender roughness.

“You’re ruined,” he sneers, though his voice quavers with restraint, “and yet you only want more.”

He yanks you to your feet by your hair, your vision spinning as you’re hauled upright. The world lurches dizzyingly, the muscles in your neck and scalp straining from the force. He pins you to the wall again, your back slamming into the rough timber. Your legs tremble, barely supporting your weight, so when he pushes his thigh between them, you cling to him instinctively, arms winding around his neck for balance.

“Hold on,” he commands, hands gripping beneath your ass and hoisting you up with ease. Your legs scissor around his waist, skirt pooling at your waist, and you’re all but suspended, caught between the wall and the crushing weight of his body. Your hands tangle in his wild hair, pulling him down until his mouth is on yours again— less a kiss, more a claim, as he bruises your lips with the ferocity of his hunger.

He breaks away with a snarl, breath ragged, and shifts his hips so the head of his cock drags through your dripping folds. He teases you with it, rubbing harsh, taunting circles over your swollen clit, smearing your arousal everywhere, refusing to give you the relief you want most.

“Is this what you want?” He growls, biting your lower lip until you gasp, eyes watering. “Say it. Tell me how much you want it.”

You glare at him, teeth gritted, clawing for any scrap of dignity. “I want you to shut up and fuck me.”

He laughs, a volcanic sound deep in his chest. “Still defiant. Even now, when you’re all but sobbing for it.” He lets go of your ass, balancing you easily with one hand, and uses the other to slap your clit. The stinging shock makes you yelp, your whole body jerking in his iron grip.

“Try again,” he says, his gaze pinning you like a butterfly to the wall.

You bare your teeth and spit, “Please, Madara, I want it.”

He raises an eyebrow, as if daring you to go further. So you do— leaning in until your mouth is pressed to his ear, voice low and hoarse: “I want you to ruin me.”

He growls— actually growls— and with a single, brutal thrust, he buries himself inside you to the hilt. The shock of it steals your breath as you cry out, the stretch and fullness so sudden and overwhelming you can only cling to him, nails digging into his nape. He moves immediately, a punishing pace, rutting you against the wall as though he intends to fuck every last thought from your head.

The world narrows to the brutal rhythm of his hips, the lewd slapping of skin, the harsh sound of your breathing tangled together. He holds you, your legs hitched around his waist, your back rubbing against splintering wood. Each movement drives you higher, your body tight and trembling, tears dampening your lashes from the sheer intensity.

“It’s too much—” you gasp, but he cuts you off with a hand at your throat, squeezing just enough to slam your cries back into your lungs. Your vision blurs at the edges as he fucks you harder still, the world reducing to the slick, relentless pounding, the bruising pressure of his hand at your neck, the split awareness of pain and pleasure.

“Shh,” he hisses, lips dragging hot along your jaw. “You want everyone to hear you getting used like this?” His teeth grazing the flesh at the crook of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark that will last for days. You shriek, or try to, but his grip at your throat throttles the sound to a muffled whine, your body arching instinctively, desperate for oxygen, for friction, for release.

He shifts, hand sliding from your throat to your jaw, digging his fingers in so you’re forced to look straight into the spinning crimson of his Sharingan. His hips never slow, slamming into you with a savage, powerful force. “That’s it,” he growls, voice low. “Take every inch. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?”

You want to deny it, to spit words back in his face, but you can’t. Your brain has liquefied, your body a live wire of sensation, every thrust leaving you closer and closer to shattering. He feels it, senses it in the way your body clamps around him, in the desperate clutch of your thighs. He leans in, voice so low you feel it rather than hear it: “You will not finish until I allow it. Understood?”

You nod, tears streaking down your cheeks, your whole world reduced to the heat and hardness of him filling you over and over. Then his hand moves, releasing your face to slap your cheek, hard, twice in quick succession. The sound rings out in the tiny space, echoing off the hollow beams.

You dig your nails into his nape, clawing for purchase, and he laughs— low, cruel, ragged. “Cling all you want, girl. You belong to me now.”

He punctuates his words with an especially brutal thrust, and you cry out, the sound echoing in the empty, half-finished house. He chokes off your scream with his mouth, swallowing your broken whimpers as his tongue invades, teeth scraping your lip. His hand drops between your bodies, finding your clit with talented cruelty— he circles it, presses down, slaps it, keeping you high on the edge but never tipping you over. Every time you get close to release, he slows, or stops, or bites you somewhere new, dragging your agony out.

You’re babbling by the time he finally relents, the words barely a language: “Please, please, please—”

“Pitiful,” Madara sneers, but his own voice is shaking, hips stuttering, cock throbbing inside you. “Fine. Cum for me. Cum on my cock, and let everyone know you’re mine.”

The command obliterates your restraint. You shatter instantly, a tidal wave of heat and electric pleasure ripping through you, violent and uncontrolled. Your vision whites out, your body spasming around him, gushing slick and wet, soaking his cock and thighs. He keeps moving, grinding into you through your clenching heat as he rides out every pulse, refusing to stop even as you sob through the aftershocks.

He’s insatiable, rutting into you until he’s right at the edge—then, abruptly, he pulls out. You cry out at the sudden emptiness, only for his hand to snake down and jam two, then three fingers inside your pussy, knuckle deep, curling to find your softest, most sensitive spot. Overstimulated, you jerk in his grasp, legs kicking weakly in the air as he fucks you with his fingers, palm grinding your bruised clit. The pleasure is torturous, almost painful, your body raw and hypersensitive.

“Wait—” you slur, shoving at his wrist as your nerves short-circuit, “Madara—”

He only smirks, red eyes glittering. “No,” he says, voice dark with satisfaction. “You can take it.” And he keeps going, relentless, his fingers plunging and curling until your entire body arches with a violent shudder. You scream as a second orgasm rips through you, this one so fierce you gush violently around his hand, splattering the floor, his sleeve, his abdomen. It’s obscene, the wet sounds echoing in the empty structure; you almost collapse, but he holds you up easily, savoring your helplessness.

“Messy girl,” Madara sneers, his hand dripping with your release. He presses his palm to your clit again, and you jolt so hard your teeth snap together. He finally relents, letting your legs slide limply down to the floor, your chest heaving with the effort of breathing. For a moment, you just slump there, boneless, the wall the only thing keeping you upright.

But he isn’t finished.

Not even close.

He grabs your hips, spins you, and shoves your chest against the rough boards. You whimper, but he kicks your feet apart and lines himself up again, slamming into you from behind with such force that your forehead cracks against the wall. You’re still so wet, so wrecked, that his cock slides in to the root on the first thrust, filling you utterly. He takes you hard— brutally, each movement punching what little air you have from your lungs. Your face streaks with tears as you steady yourself, raw and desperate, your climax instantly reigniting.

He fucks you with rabid intensity, one hand pinning your wrists behind your lower back, the other gripping your hair and yanking your head back. He fucks you like he hates you, his cock thick and merciless inside you, every stroke bruising your insides. You can feel the new orgasm building, and when it hits you, it feels like you’re drowning— you scream and sob, your body buckling, but Madara just holds you tighter, rutting through the convulsions with single-minded purpose.

The world blurs; you can barely see through the tears, your body so shredded by pleasure and exhaustion that you barely register the next orgasm building, then detonating in another helpless spasm. He growls, the sound vibrating through your spine as he cums deep inside you, hips slamming forward so hard the wall shudders. Heat floods your pussy— thick, possessive, inescapable.

He holds there, panting, your bodies trembling together. For a long, taut moment, neither of you moves. You hang suspended between his body and the wall, pinned in his iron embrace, utterly spent.

When he finally eases his grip, you sag forward, knees buckling as his softening dick slides from your pulsing center. Madara doesn’t let you fall; he supports you against his chest, his arm a steel band around your ribs, his other hand braced against the wall beside your head. You wilt under his weight, unsteady, the aftershocks shooting up your spine. The smell of sweat and sex is thick between you, your pulse a fast hum in your ears.

He doesn't speak. He simply holds you there, chests rising and falling in a jagged duet, while his seed seeps from between your thighs and down the inside of your leg, slick and unsparing. You become aware of your own whimpering breaths, your jaw slack and raw from his rough kisses. Shame gnaws at the back of your mind, but it’s a distant, powerless beast compared to the vivid pleasure still echoing through your body.

You expect him to shove you away, to leave you broken and stalk off in disgust. Instead, he straightens after a moment, hands gripping your hips, and spins you around. You tumble back against the wall, loose-limbed and dizzy, your knees threatening to fold entirely. He cages you in again, looming over you with a treacherous aura. He’s breathing hard, sweat tracking down his temple, hair wild and damp, eyes black as an eclipse.

Your gazes catch and entangle— electric, raw, dangerous. You can see it in his eyes: he’s still hungry, still furious, and something else, something that aches as much as it burns. You can only look up at him, helpless, exhausted, pleading for something you can’t even name.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, his voice making every nerve in your body stand at attention.

“Like what?” Your lips are numb, your thoughts tangled, but even now you won’t let him have the last word.

He sneers, exposing the sharpness of his teeth. “You know exactly how.”

He leans in and takes your mouth again, his lips bruising, tongue insistent, fingers threading so deeply in your hair as if he might tear it out. You still expect him to hurt you more, to bite until you bleed, but the kiss is almost tender—almost.

He breaks it off with a staggering abruptness and stares at you, his brow knitted, breath still harsh. “You’re a fucking disaster,” he rasps, and for a second, you can’t tell which of you he means.

He lets go, finally, and you nearly crumple to the floor. You can feel the slick of his cum dripping down your inner thighs, pooling on the floor, and the knowledge that you did this, that you let him do this, is a fire in your blood and a blade in your heart.

“Clean yourself up.” He’s buttoning his pants, his back already turned, the words tossed over his shoulder like an afterthought. “I’m not walking the streets with you looking like that.”

Chapter Text

Life didn’t feel real.

No matter how much you wash yourself, you can still feel Madara’s corruption clinging to your skin.

You threw on a cropped tank top and a pair of shorts as you paced around your room. You tried to will him from your mind— from every crevice he had masterfully sunken himself into.

After your problematic entanglement with the Uchiha, you fled to your apartment to scrub away the burning shame he filled you with.

But it wasn’t enough.

You threw yourself on the bed, staring at the ceiling hopelessly, the sun slowly succumbing to the horizon, filling your room with orange and yellow hues. You close your eyes and try to breathe evenly— in through the nose, out through the mouth— but it only makes your thoughts louder, more raw. Every time you squeeze your eyes shut, you see Madara’s face, shadowed by fury and hunger, feel the pressure of his hands on your wrists, the bruising demand of his hips.

You press your thighs together, mortified at how the memory of him— his heat, his voice, the way he’d made you beg for him— still throbs between your legs. The place where he’d marked you, used you, is still sore, and yet your body sings with the urge to do it all over again.

What’s wrong with you?

You should be disgusted, horrified, at least angry, but all you feel is this gnawing, desperate ache, an emptiness that only seemed to grow.

You roll to your side, hand drifting beneath the hem of your tank top, tracing the bruises that bloom along your hip and ribs. You find one just below your navel— a perfect fingerprint, purpled and tender. Madara’s calling card. You trace it absently, shivering. The flash of how he’d bitten your neck, the way his sharingan spun as you fell apart for him, the low, rough sounds he made when he finished— these memories play in hot loops in your mind, stoking the need inside you.

You try to distract yourself by counting the beams on your ceiling, by planning tomorrow’s task list, but every thought circles back to the unbearable, exquisite shame of how completely you’d surrendered.

Your hand slips lower, fingertips ghosting over the waistband of your shorts. You hesitate, staring at the wall, listening to the cicadas outside, the low hum of village life winding down. No one would know. No one would see. You could take the edge off, just enough to get some sleep, to stop replaying the scene in your head.

You slide your hand into your shorts. Your cunt is already slick, pulsing for touch, and when you press your fingers gently against your clit, you let out a hoarse, involuntary noise. The relief is immediate, the sensation almost too much on your raw nerves, but you circle softly, savoring it, letting your mind drift to the fantasy of Madara’s hands instead of your own.

You imagine him kneeling over you, pinning you, spitting cruel words as his fingers work you open. You imagine the harsh, hot pressure of his mouth, the way he’d commanded you to come, like it was his right. Your hips buck weakly, your breathing ragged, and you arch into your own palm, chasing the memory of his violence.

You’re right at the brink when someone knocks at the door.

You jolt upright, hand torn from your shorts, heart slamming against your ribs in panic. You wonder who could possibly be here— no one ever comes to visit you. You wipe your hand hastily on the sheets, smoothing your hair, wrestling your breathing under control.

The knock comes again, more insistent.

You scurry to the door and hesitate, blood rushing to your face as you realize you still look flushed, disheveled— a mess. You pray it's not Madara, or anyone who might sense the ruin still clinging to your skin.

When you open the door, Tobirama Senju stands on your porch, arms folded behind his back, white hair catching colorful glints in the evening dusk. His eyes flick up and down your figure in a sweeping analysis, and you realize, with horror, that your tank top is barely containing you and your shorts are riding scandalously high on your thighs.

For a moment, you both stand there— then you remember, with a jolt, the last time you saw him was this morning, in the office, right before you chased Madara out. You feel as though you’ve been caught mid-crime, though you aren’t sure what you’re more afraid of: that he guesses what you’ve done, or that he’ll judge you for it.

“Tobirama,” you stammer, attempting to sound casual. “Um. Hi.”

He raises an eyebrow and glances pointedly at your bare legs, then back to your face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you say, voice squeaky. “Just— rough day.”

He nods, but does not move away. “You did not return to the office after your… confrontation. I wanted to check on you.”

Yeah— you want to die.

Chapter Text

You force a smile, tucking stray hair behind your ear. “I’m really fine. Just needed some space. Sorry for— yelling, I guess. I can send a report to you in the morning.”

He watches you for a long moment, silent as the crickets chirp, then speaks. “If you are sure.” But he doesn’t leave. His gaze is far too intense— not hungry, like Madara’s, but piercing and cold, as though he could sense the energy prickling over your flesh.

The silence stretches again as you watch his gaze flicker over you, as if mapping something. It is only then that you realize the bruising evidence of Madara’s touch was displayed right before the Senju. Purple and yellow marks that weren’t there hours ago now litter your flesh. Tobirama’s nostrils flare, the faintest crease between his brows.

“Is something else the matter?” He asks, voice low and even.

You shake your head, but the lie doesn’t convince either of you. Tobirama’s eyes narrow. He continues to glance over your body, and the dissecting interest shifts into something else— something you’re too rattled to define.

“You may invite me in,” he says suddenly. “If you require… assistance.”

You huff, half-laughing, “Are you always this formal?” But you step aside, letting him in. He ducks his head as he passes through, carrying the scent of cedar and mist with him. He stands awkwardly in your cramped space, surveying your scattered books, the half-dead house plants, and a pile of unopened letters on your table.

You stand defensively, wrapping your arms around yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin. Tobirama’s gaze moves to you again, taking in the tension in your shoulders, your bitten lip, the faint shake in your thighs, the way you hesitate when he moves toward you. There is a long, scrutinizing pause as he waits for you to explain, but you only fidget, running a hand through your hair and avoiding his stare.

He lets the silence build because you suspect he’s a man who can outwait anything, and just as you’re about to break and babble something idiotic, he speaks.

“What did Madara do to you?”

It’s not a question, really. It’s an observation.

You blink at him, mouth going dry. “Nothing,” you say, maybe a little too quickly. “We argued, like always. I yelled. He yelled louder. That’s all.”

Tobirama studies you. His face is as impassive as always, but his eyes are sharp— a piercing crimson— tearing through your pathetic mask. “You left visibly shaken.”

You hug yourself tighter. “Yeah, well,” you mumble, “he can be intense.” You try to force a laugh, but it comes out hollow.

Tobirama steps closer, lowering his voice. “Did he hurt you?” The words are so direct you almost choke, but the concern in his tone— subtle, but there— trips you.

“No!” You say, shaking your head so hard it makes you dizzy. “God, no. He just—” you pause, dancing along the edge of truth— “he just gets under my skin.” You say as you try to ignore the fingerprints lurking all over your body, unable to bring yourself to meet his eyes.

There’s another silence, this one deeper. Tobirama’s shoe scuffs the floor, his arms crossing in a mirror of yours.

“I see,” he says finally, voice softening a slight measure that you almost missed it. “Yet you’re shaking.”

You realize, now, that your hands are quivering. You force them still with an inward grimace. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re not a very convincing liar,” Tobirama deadpans. He approaches, slow, deliberate, stopping just inside arm’s reach. Then— unexpectedly— he reaches forward, taking your wrist in his hand, assessing it. His skin is startlingly cold, and you almost yank away, but his grip is firm, yet gentle. He looks at your pulse, then at your face.

“You should not let him provoke you.” His voice is a low, even hum. “He feeds upon reaction, and your anger only excites him further.”

Your heartbeat quickened under his touch, reminding you too much of your earlier tryst with Madara. Even Tobirama’s presence was affecting you, no matter how much you tried to ignore it. Something had awakened in you, and it was simmering in your blood like hot venom.

“He doesn’t provoke me,” you blatantly lie, your voice brittle.

Tobirama’s fingers tighten, just for a moment. “You reek of him,” he says, and it is not an accusation or a judgment, but a flat, observational remark that cracks you.

You pull your hand away, narrowing your brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You try to sound indignant, covering the nervous tremor lying below.

He tilts his head, studying you with that unsettling patience— as if you were a problem to be solved, rather than a person threatening to come apart at the seams.

"You tell me.” He says after a long pause, the words almost gentle. "Is there something you wish to confess?"

You feel the prickle of sweat on your brow, a cold shudder up your spine. You open your mouth to protest, to lie again, but words fail you.

Tobirama understands the silence better than any confession. You watch as his gaze lingers on your throat, just below your jaw— where you know faint, violet marks are beginning to show. His hand moves before you can flinch, cool fingertips tracing the curve of your neck, pressing just above your collarbone where Madara had bitten you.

“You wear your secrets poorly,” he says, voice lower than before. His thumb presses just beneath the bruise, sending a pulse of heat down your spine.

You shudder, unable to decide if it’s fear, shame, or something worse. You don’t move—can’t move—as he stands over you, the faintest hint of a concern softening the severity of his mouth.

“Did he force you?”

The question is sharp and harsh, cleaving your composure in two. You shake your head, the movement jerky, almost desperate. “No,” you croak, cheeks ablaze. “It wasn’t like that.”

He studies you for a long moment, his hand still cupping your neck. You can feel your pulse, frantic and wild, thundering against the cool pressure of his palm.

You’re sure he can, too.

“Then why do you tremble?” He asks, but this time it’s not an interrogation— it’s curiosity, dark and something deeper. There’s an undertone, almost of amusement: as if he’s waiting to see how much it will take for you to crack completely.

You can’t look at him. You fix your gaze on the stitching of his sleeve, on the faint bloodstain at his cuff. “I don’t know,” you say, voice barely audible. “He just— he gets into my head.”

Tobirama’s hand slides up, thumb hovering at your jaw, forcing your chin up until your eyes meet. His irises are burning red, and they bore into you with a terrible focus. “And what of me?” He asks, and the question is so intimate, so unexpected, that you struggle to breathe.

You swallow, throat dry. “What do you mean?”

A pause. “Does my presence unsettle you as well?”

“Unsettling isn’t the word I would use, Lord Tobirama.”

His lips twitch at the corners into a subtle, sly smirk. “Is that right?”

You want to explain, to say that his presence does more than unsettle, but even the idea of giving that away makes your heart still. Tobirama’s expression is cool, but you sense the shift in the air between you, the minute dilation of his pupils, the way his nostrils flare at your scent. He is reading you in real time, noting every reaction.

“You’re unnerving,” you finally manage, breath hot in your throat, “maybe— intriguing is better.”

His thumb moves— just a fraction, barely a touch, but it’s enough to make you shiver. You sense the way his gaze traces the lines of your face, cataloging every twitch and tremor, every flicker of want. Tobirama doesn’t leer or smirk; he simply absorbs, weighs, and adjusts his grip.

“You don’t recoil,” he observes, his voice a fraction rougher.

“No,” you affirm, and your arms uncross. You set your fingers lightly on his pale, cool wrist.

His hand at your throat tightens just a hair, a gentle but controlled measure. “Why did you allow Madara to mark you?”

It’s a simple question, but the way he says it— voice pitched low, almost possessive— hints at a deeper intention.

A laugh, nervous and bright, escapes you. “Allow?” You echo, eyes dropping to his mouth, then up. “You think I wanted him to?”

“I think,” he says, eyes narrowing, “that you wanted something from him.” The word something drags, weighted, as if he’s dissecting it with every syllable.

You almost protest, but the words catch on your tongue. Instead, you throw it back on him. “Why do you care?”

Because honestly, you want him to care. Because the ache in your chest is not just shame, but hunger.

And right now, you want to feed on him.

Tobirama leans in, close enough that your breaths tangle and the coolness of his lips threatens the fever of your skin. “Because I can taste it,” he murmurs. “You are not the only one haunted by compulsion.”

You tremble, and he feels it— your pulse jumps under his touch, revealing your true state to Tobirama. The silence is a vacuum, every movement suddenly exaggerated and electrifying. You think he might kiss you, but he waits, the question alive in the space between your lips.

“Did you enjoy it?” He asks, but his tone still clinical, though you sense the tension coiled in his body, the way he holds himself at the edge of restraint.

You open your mouth, but the only answer is the quickening of your breath, the involuntary whimper at the base of your throat when his fingers brush lower, following the bruises Madara left. The shame is gone, replaced by a familiar, wild, pulsing need.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, threading through your hair, tilting your head so he can examine the damage with irritating thoroughness. “He is careless,” Tobirama says. “Crude.” His eyes flick to yours. “You could have refused him.”

You want to say that you could have refused, that everything with Madara was a mistake, if untrue, but the words dissolve on your tongue before you can move your lips. Tobirama’s gaze is sharp, hungry— in its own way, more dangerous than Madara’s overt violence. With Madara, you saw the hit coming; with Tobirama, you’d never even sense the blade until it kissed your neck.

He studies your expression, as if reading the thoughts as they float, wild and unfiltered, behind your eyes. You don't tell him that you want him to kiss you. You don't need to.

Tobirama’s face is close enough that his lips brush the corner of your mouth when he finally speaks: “If I were Madara, I’d have already bent you over a desk and left you sobbing and hollow in front of the other.” His grip tightens ever so slightly around your throat as you quiver.

“But I am not Madara.”

Chapter Text

His mouth finds yours, then— neither brutal nor hesitant, but direct and certain, the kind of kiss that asserts, not asks. His lips are firmer than you expect, the pressure steady, the heat unfolding with the force of a dam cracking. You arch against him, and he responds with a low, pleased sound, deepening the kiss just enough to make you gasp. Your own hands slide up his chest, knotting in the collar of his shirt— he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t push or press, as if granting permission.

Tobirama kisses you like he has all the time in the world to take you, and he plans to savor every second.

You open for him, letting his tongue slide over your lower lip, coaxing rather than conquering. His hand travels lazily upward, tracing the curve of your spine, pausing at your ribs, fingertips grazing the edge of fabric. The feeling ignites every nerve, leaves you trembling more than you care to admit.

He walks you back with a hand at your nape, his mouth locked on yours, even as your knees buckle, threatening to collapse with every step. He guides you as if he’s done this a thousand times, the back of your calves meeting the arm of the couch, and you sink into the dark cushions. Tobirama follows, his body folding over yours.

You expect him to ravage you, to paw and gnash as Madara did, but instead— he slows. His hands, cold and controlled, drag up your thighs with a stark gentleness, giving you goosebumps as his fingers dance over your skin. His gaze is heavy and possessive as his lips return to your neck, tongue tracing the bruises, as if he intends to cover them.

He consumes you with a calculated intensity— methodical, patient, relentless. Your shirt rides up, tank tracing the line of your breasts, and he hums as he moves lower, trailing kisses along the newly bared skin.

You learn instantly that sex with Tobirama is not violence but invasion— no less intense, but thorough, more precise. He does not command you to spread your thighs, does not force your body around like a doll. Instead, he slides his hands under the backs of your knees and simply lifts, folding you open and settling himself there.

You thread your fingers in his wild white hair, needing something to hold you. His mouth is at your sternum, trailing over your flushed skin, and then he moves further down the line of your desire. He noses at your breast, mouthing the soft flesh through your shirt, then pulls the fabric aside to bare your nipple. The cold air tightens it instantly; Tobirama’s teeth clamp down, a shock of sharpness that draws a gasp and a pulse of heat between your legs.

He alternates, licking, then biting, then kissing, watching your every reaction with hot intensity. You arch up, seeking friction, and he lets you writhe, lets you beg with your body and whimpers.

Tobirama’s mouth migrates lower with torturous intent, peppering a path down your ribs, your navel, pausing to mouth the soft skin just above your waistband. The white of his hair grazes your belly, unfurling the electricity from the pit of your stomach. His hands, cold and determined, caress your thighs, thumbs tracing firm, possessive lines. You clutch his shoulders in heady desperation, clawing for more.

He pulls your shorts down with a brisk movement, never breaking eye contact. He hungrily watches the way your breath stutters as the air hits your cunt, the way you arch your back instinctively, greedy for touch. He drags his tongue from the tender hollow of your hipbone to the place you ache, lingering, watching you twitch under the softness of his breath.

“Stunning,” he murmurs, his voice charged, “I intend to ruin you properly.” His hands slip beneath the backs of your knees, folding you open, exposing you in full, and you feel heat rush to your face, your chest, every inch of you.

He doesn’t embarrass you with cruel words or lewd scorn. Instead, he studies your pussy with dark interest. “You’re swollen,” he observes, one thumb tracing through the slick folds, not yet touching your clit. “And sensitive. How hard did he fuck you?” His tone is neutral yet rigid, but the question ignites an inferno of humiliation in your gut. You wince, unable to speak, and he hums knowingly, expression unreadable.

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, closer and closer until his mouth is hovering over you, breath hot against your desperate center. Then he licks you— drawing his flat tongue up the seam of your puffy center. The sensation shoots throughout your body, and your back arches off the cushions as you wail desperately.

He holds you steady, hands pressing your thighs apart as his tongue traces slow, spiraling circles around your clit. He explores you, not with the brute force of Madara, but with a mix of determination and curiosity. He flicks, then sucks, then laps with maddening patience, noting every gasp, every tremor.

You can’t help the sounds you make— the quick, pleading whines, the choked moans— and he listens, adjusting his attack with every reaction. If you buck your hips, he pins you down harder, hands bracketing your thighs in an unyielding grip. If you try to squirm away, he follows, relentless, tongue mercilessly exploring your softest, slickest places.

He glances up, eyes dark as blood in the low light. “Did he do this for you?” His voice was hard, as if he were beginning to lose himself. He doesn’t wait for your answer, doesn’t give you time to think; instead, he doubles down, sucking your clit with just enough pressure to make you see stars.

You sob, the pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. “No,” you gasp, hips writhing, “he didn’t—oh god—”

Tobirama gives the tiniest huff of satisfaction, tongue never leaving your clit as he murmurs, “As I thought.” The vibration travels through you, igniting your nerves, and your hands fly to the back of his head, white hair clutched in your fists as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide. He devours you, mouth working your pussy with technical precision, alternating between flat, broad strokes and focused, relentless flicks of his tongue against your swollen clit. You are slick, your folds puffy and aching, and he makes it clear he has no intention of stopping until you are nothing but a trembling mess beneath him.

He buries his face deeper, nose pressed to your mound, inhaling the scent of your arousal with a greedy little sound. His hands, still bracketing your knees, slide beneath your ass, lifting your hips until your thighs are folded back against your chest, your cunt spread and open for his mouth. You cry out, the position exposing every soft, wet inch of you— your clit, your fluttering hole, your ass, all on display and utterly helpless to his assault.

He doesn’t stop at your clit. He works lower, tongue dragging slow, unhurried circles around your quivering entrance, then dipping inside, fucking you with it until you are writhing and moaning, clutching the cushions, the air, his hair, anything. You plead, but the words dissolve into incoherent, pitiful whines. “Please,” you beg, “please, Tobirama, don’t ahh—” and it only makes him more relentless, more resolute.

Your thighs clamp around his ears, but he wrenches them wider, holding you open, licking you deeper. When you begin to shake, when the pleasure crests so high you’re sure you’ll splinter from it, he drags his tongue down, down, lower than you ever thought anyone would dare. You convulse, trying to close your legs, but Tobirama pins you in place, mouth pressing to the puckered ring of your ass. He circles it, slow and deliberate, and when you cry out— mortified, shocked, desperate— he hums, low and satisfied.

He flicks his tongue over your hole, once, twice, before plunging it inside. You shriek, clutching the fabric of the couch until your knuckles go white. The sensation is so intense, so obscene, that your mind blanks, the world reduced to the relentless invasion of his mouth, his icy grip on your flesh, the way his hair tangles over your sweat-slicked thighs.

He alternates, tongue fucking your ass while his thumb grinds slow, bruising circles into your clit. Your vision blurs, stars exploding behind your eyelids, and you sob, not caring if the whole building hears you. “Please, please, please—”

You’re shaking, nearly coming apart, when you feel the cool slick of his tongue— and then, abruptly, the press of three thick fingers ramming into your pussy, stretching you with a rough, insistent rhythm. The sensation is overwhelming— your cunt is sore and swollen from earlier, but the pressure of his mouth on your asshole instantly overtakes the burn. He moves with purpose, tongue working the quivering ring while his fingers piston in and out of your dripping slit, each thrust punctuated by a lewd, wet noise. He forces your knees back until you’re nearly doubled, ankles up by your ears, and you can see his white hair buried in the space between your cheeks— the pink of your center on full display as he consumes every part of you.

It’s obscene, the way he devours you, tongue dragging slow, taunting circles before plunging in, grinding your clit with his palm, coaxing your orgasm expertly. His other hand splays over your lower belly, pinning you to him as he works you over with brutal efficiency. You can only shriek, tears streaming down your face, as the pleasure streaks up your spine and explodes behind your eyes.

You cum— violently, shuddering, the orgasm wrung out of you like a confession. Your whole body snaps rigid, your hands clawing at the cushions, your hips jerking up into his mouth as you sob his name. Tobirama doesn’t stop, not even as your cunt milks his fingers and your ass spasms around his tongue; he keeps devouring you, tongue and fingers moving in tandem, pushing your mind into the stars.

He only relents when you collapse, boneless, your body a trembling wreck. He pulls back, withdrawing his hand and mouth with a stark slowness. You hear, in some distant, mortified corner of your mind, the slick pop when he removes his fingers from your ruined pussy, the way your muscles clench around the emptiness he leaves. You can feel the sticky mess between your legs, the shameful wetness pooling beneath you, and streaking your thighs.

He rises, planting a final, wet kiss on your quivering pussy lips, tongue flicking your clit in a lazy afterthought. Then he stands, looming over you, and you watch through blurred eyes as he pushes his pants down. His cock is thick and flushed, bigger than you’d imagined, the head already leaking a bead of precum.

He pulls you upright, setting you in his lap, straddling him with your knees spread wide. His hands cup your ass, cold fingers digging in, grinding your battered cunt against the length of his cock. You’re so slick, so open, that every pass of his shaft through your folds sends a pulse through your core.

You meet his eyes— crimson and sharp, almost glowing now— and see, for the first time, a crack in his composure. His jaw is tight, his breathing ragged, and when you lean forward to claim his mouth, he kisses you back with a ferocity that steals your breath. You taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and tangy, and it only makes you want more.

You rock your hips, grinding down, and he shudders, groaning into your mouth. Hands on your ass, he guides you along his cock, letting the head catch at your entrance, teasing it in shallow thrusts that make you gasp, and claw at his shoulders.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he hisses as the head prods at your entrance, slow and deliberate, pressing into your swollen center.

You gasp at the first thrust, the sensation almost unbearable— your cunt raw, and Tobirama’s cock is unyielding, thick and hard, pulsing with every heartbeat. Your whole body trembles, but he gives you no time to adjust, no mercy; he pistons upward, planting his ass to the couch and driving you down onto him, burying himself to the hilt in one firm, punishing stroke.

You wail, the sound cracking through the tiny room, and he growls in approval, the vibration rumbling up through your bones. “That’s it,” he says, and his voice— usually so measured and cold— is rough and unfiltered, tinged with delight. “Take it all, don’t disappoint me.”

Your head lolls, vision blurring, and you try to steady yourself, but he holds you locked in place, muscles like steel bands around your hips. He’s so deep you feel him in your ribs, in your lungs, in the frantic hammer of your heart. You try to move, to ride him, but he keeps you impaled and motionless, savoring the way your cunt spasms around his length.

“Fuck,” he pants, eyes boring into yours, “you’re a greedy girl.” He rocks his hips in small, devastating circles, each movement forcing another moan from your lips. “How much more can your little pussy take, hm? Are you ready to find out your limits?”

You choke on your own breath, unable to answer, only able to shudder with every grind of his hips. He laughs, then, a cold and satisfied sound, and finally lets you move. His hands skate under your ass, lifting and dropping you onto his cock with brutal rhythm, watching the way you bounce and whine and claw at his shoulders.

“Harder,” he commands, and you obey, slamming your hips down, the slap of wet skin echoing in the small room. Your tits bounce with every thrust, and he catches one in his mouth, teeth scraping the sensitive peak, tongue flicking over it until you gasp and whimper his name.

He sucks, hard, pulling blood to the surface, leaving purple marks to bloom under his tongue. One hand slides up your back, fingers splayed, pushing you down until your breast is mashed to his mouth. He feeds on you, biting, licking, and all the while fucking up into you, never missing a beat.

“Good girl,” he mutters, his mouth hot and wet on your nipple. “You learn fast. I like that.” He bites harder, making you yelp, then releases you with a pop. “But can you take more?”

You sob in pleasure. “Yes, please, Tobirama,” you plead. You want it, you want him, you want more.

You want everything he’ll give you, and he knows it.

He smiles mercilessly and clamps down harder on your hips, lifting you and slamming you down on his cock, over and over, the rhythm punishing and relentless. He fucks you methodically, every thrust calculated to make you cry out, every grind of his pelvis designed to rub you raw. The pressure is so intense, so consuming, it’s as if your entire body has been reduced to the hot, tight channel of your cunt, stretched and stuffed until you’re sure you’ll split.

Then, as you’re gasping for breath, his hand slips lower, fingers gliding through the slick mess he’s made of you, dragging back to your ass. He circles your rim with a slick fingertip, first a tease, a brush, and then a deliberate pressure that makes your whole body jolt. You whimper, unable to control the sound, and Tobirama chuckles in approval, pinning your thighs wider until you’re utterly exposed, spread open on his lap for him to take apart.

“Sensitive here too?” He taunts, and you can’t answer, not with words, only with the stuttering moan in your throat. He presses harder, the tip of his finger breaching your asshole, just the smallest intrusion, but it’s enough to send a sharp, delirious spike of want through you. You never imagined you’d beg for it, but now you’re rocking down onto him, greedy for more, sobbing as his cock pistons in and his finger rubs slow circles over your rim.

"You like that," he growls, the words low and rough against your ear. "You want to be fucked everywhere, don't you?"

You choke on the need in your chest, unable to stop yourself from nodding, from gasping, “Yes, yes, I—please, Tobirama, please—”

He pushes the tip inside, slow and easy, the slickness making it slide in with shocking ease. You yelp, the burn and the stretch making fire flicker up your spine, but you don’t want it to stop, you want more, you want everything. He pushes deeper, matching the rhythm of his cock in your cunt, and the sensation is so harsh that your body begins to convulse, the orgasm starting low and then detonating through you like a bomb.

You scream his name, thighs clamping around his hips, every muscle in your body locking as you cum— hard, and for so long you’re not sure you’ll ever come down. Your pussy clamps down, squeezing his cock, and your ass spasms around his finger, and the overstimulation is so much that you almost black out. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just keeps fucking you, harder and faster, until you’re sobbing, a drooling, senseless mess in his lap.

"Impressive," he rasps, as your body clenches with the aftershocks, your cunt still fluttering and leaking down his cock. His hand slides up your belly, palm resting just beneath your ribs, feeling the hammer of your heart. "But I’m not finished with you yet."

You can't even answer, pulse roaring in your ears, thighs shaking uncontrollably as you cling to his shoulders for purchase. He holds you there, impaled, making you feel every twitch of his cock inside your hypersensitive flesh. Then, with a sudden shift of his hips, he pulls out— slowly, so slowly it feels like agony— and lifts you, tumbling you forward until you collapse face-down on the couch, drool soaking into the upholstery.

You barely have time to gasp for air before he grabs your hips, hoisting them up, spreading your knees so wide your ass is shamelessly on display, splayed and quivering. You hear the slap of his palm against your cheek, feel the sting echo through your nerves, and you whine, caught between exhaustion and a greedy, bottomless want.

"Keep up," he orders, and you do, bracing your elbows and arching your back like he wants, desperate for him to fill you again, to finish what Madara started.

You feel Tobirama’s thumb drag through your folds, circling your swollen clit with a feather-light touch. You jerk at the contact, whimpering, but he only grunts in approval, watching your pussy flutter in the aftermath of your last orgasm. He dips his thumb lower, gathering your slick, then smears it up, circling your asshole, rubbing it in slow, wicked circles as you tremble and cry.

You moan, a helpless, desperate noise, as he teases the rim again, pressing with slow, steady force until the tip pops inside. Your vision blurs as you moan, your hips bucking back involuntarily, greedily clenching around the intrusion.

“Settle, woman,” he scolds lightly, barely raising his voice. “You are barely coherent, and yet you still want more— can’t even control yourself.”

He fucks you with his thumb, teasing it all the way in while the other hand strokes your clit. The foreign sensation is so strong, so dirty, that you can only sob, hips rocking desperately back in search of more— more friction, more intrusion, more of him. He pumps his thumb deeper, drunkenly watching your body shudder around it, before withdrawing it. He drags the head through your folds, teasing your entrance, then back to your ass, smearing precum over both holes until you're a slick, needy mess.

He pushes back into you, the angle so sharp your jaw unhinges with a raw, voiceless wail. He rocks in slow, monstrous, deliberate thrusts, pushing every last inch into your abused pussy. Your mind blanks— there is only the stretch, the ache, the wet sound of his cock beating in and out. You can’t think; there’s nothing left in your head but the wild, ragged need to be filled and used, to give in and let him take whatever he wants.

Tobirama leans over you, chest pressed to your back, his lips at your ear. “One more,” he whispers, and the words are not a request but a decree. “You’ll give me one more, won’t you?”

You nod, or maybe you sob, encouraging him to finish what he started. He pulls out halfway, then slams back in so hard your body lurches forward on the couch. One arm snakes around your waist, securing you, while the other slides under your belly, palm splayed over your lower abdomen, pressing down so you can feel every movement inside. He fucks you fast, brutally, your insides raw and weeping, until you are dizzy with the burn of it.

He straightens, one hand at your nape, pinning your face to the cushion, the other sliding down to where you are stretched and gaping around him. His thumb collects the creamy mess pooling at your entrance, smearing it up to your ass, circling and then plunging in, all the way to the root. You gasp as your eyes roll backwards, nearly slipping from consciousness as your next orgasm approaches. His cock pounds your cunt, his thumb fucks your ass, and you sob, every fiber in your being convulsing.

“Damn, woman,” Tobirama groans as you squeeze against his length with a death grip.

You come apart with a scream, a real one this time, your whole body seizing and shaking. He fucks you through it, hand wrapped in your hair, his cock swelling and pulsing inside, the rhythm turning erratic, desperate, as he chases his own release. Your body clenches and pulses, trying to push him out. Tobirama grunts, a low, shuddering sound, and you feel him stutter inside you, his own climax charging at the edge.

Tobirama shoves himself deep, grinding into you, and you feel the throbbing of his cock as he finally loses control. He cums with a guttural moan, and the heat of it floods you, filling you in thick waves, mixing with the slick mess already leaking down your thighs. Your body clenches, spasms wrack your limbs, your battered cunt milking every last drop. He shudders behind you, holding himself tight to your ass.

He releases you and slips from your pussy, hands lingering as he admires the mess: your pussy swollen and gaping, leaking his cum, the rest of you trembling and debauched. You whimper, folding forward, unable to keep yourself up. You’re a disaster: thighs shaking, hair disheveled, face streaked with tears. You can feel every bruise, every mark, every stretch. And the way Tobirama’s gaze drags over your body— hungry and proud— makes the humiliation burn all the brighter.

You roll onto your back, legs splayed, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your skin. Tobirama settles beside you, surveying you with frank interest, as though observing the damage he’s wrought.

“Are you alright?” He finally asks, deadpan, as you blink up at the stained ceiling, limbs still shaking.

You let out a jagged, incredulous laugh. “I don’t know what the fuck I am.”

He grunts, the barest note of amusement threading his voice. “I could have gone further.”

“God,” you groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. “That’s not a threat, is it?”

“An observation,” he says, his hand curling around your knee and across your thigh. The touch is unexpectedly gentle, as if he’s testing to see if you’ll shatter. You drop your arm and meet his gaze as you chew your bottom lip, heat sparking again when he smirks lazily. He toys with you, fingers tracing idle patterns over the sticky mess between your legs. You swat at his hand, half-heartedly, but he snags your wrist and pins it to your chest.

“You’re relentless,” you whine, but you don’t pull away.

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear. “You started this.”

You could argue, but that’s a battle you lost the moment you let him through your door. Instead, you arch your neck, daring him to bite, to mark you alongside Madara, and he obliges, mouth finding the hollow below your jaw and sinking in until the skin blooms with pain. You hum with approval as he places a kiss over the fresh mark, pulling back up to meet your eyes.

“So,” he asks, as if you are not still trembling, “was it satisfactory?”

You almost choke. “What kind of question is that?”

He shrugs, releasing your wrist. “A practical one.”

You want to slap him. Instead, you roll your eyes with a smile and wrap your legs around him. His hands rest on your thighs, fingers splaying possessively. You’re about to say something when you sense the shift in his energy— a sudden, silent tension. You recognize the battle-readiness in the set of his jaw, the way his gaze cuts to the window. For a moment, you brace for attack, but there’s nothing in the night except the hush of wind and your own ragged breathing.

Then his gaze meets yours once again, a new, heated look flashing over them. And when he speaks, his voice is softer, as if the sentence costs him.

“You realize he’ll return.”

He’s right.

He does.

They both do.