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Tear Into Your Soul

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“You’re doing so well, Madara,” Hashirama says, loving how Madara’s back shudders with pleasure every time he says it. “You’re doing so good; I knew you were the right one to help me with this.”

He means it, too, cheerful and forthright with his emotions and his love; the way he means everything he says. Madara calls him guileless, naïve, overly trusting, foolishly optimistic, and Hashirama supposes he is, but he doesn’t see those things as bad things the way Madara does.

Though it occurs to him that Madara might not say those things anymore, after this.

Hashirama dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes.

Sure, Madara had been – a little perturbed, yes, to find himself bound by the Mokuton, roots twining through his fingers and around his tongue to keep him from using jutsu to escape, roots around his arms and legs and hips to keep him still, and a thick one around his neck as a precaution. And maybe he’d been a little irritated at how Hashirama had had to cut away his clothing, even though he’d taken such efforts to make the cuts right along the seams so that it’d be easier to sew back together later. And, certainly, he’d thrashed under Hashirama’s hands when he’d cleaned him with a nice warm wet towel, especially when he’d reached the intimate places…

But honestly, what was Hashirama supposed to do?

The Uchiha are such prudes, after all; Madara would never have agreed from the start. He wouldn’t have even considered it.

What a shame that would have been: look at how he’s enjoying it now, his hips arching helplessly, his face flushed red with pleasure, his tongue pressed against the root in his mouth as if seeking to pass along a kiss, his eyes wide and desperately flickering Sharingan-red.

Hashirama can’t blame him for trying to memorize the scene: Tobirama does looks so very sweet on his knees.

Hashirama is distantly aware, in some part of his mind, that most brothers wouldn’t care to know such details, how there’s a flush painting Tobirama’s white cheeks as red as his eyes, how his legs have widened just a fraction from how he’s started in an effort to get some relief from the pressure between them – how serious he looks, even with his lips wrapped around Madara’s cock and his jaw no doubt getting tired, how determined to complete his task.

Perfect.

Honestly, all those other brothers were clearly just falling down in their brotherly duties.

Hashirama has and always will take the very best care of Tobirama.

Just like he is now.

“Try using your tongue a little more, Tobirama,” he advises. “Just because you’ve figured out how to take him deeper doesn’t mean you should forget about the basics.”

Tobirama doesn’t do anything as crass as nodding, but he applies himself well, if Madara’s muffled groan is anything to go by.

Tobirama was always such a good student.

“Wonderful,” Hashirama praises. His father, for all his attempts to mold Tobirama into a mindless sword in his image, never figured out that Tobirama responds better to praise than to sternness, and Hashirama has never had any problem exploiting his brother’s weakness. “Wonderfully done, both of you. Isn’t he good, Madara? And on his very first try, too.”

He reaches out and runs his fingers through his brother’s hair, petting him the way he would a cat.

Madara makes a strangled noise.

He probably wants to come, Hashriama concludes. Perhaps it was a little cruel of Hashirama to wrap a root around the base of his cock, keeping him trapped on the edge the way he has been, but this isn’t about Madara, not really.

Madara’s just helping Hashirama out.

That’s what best friends do, after all, and they’re best friends, best friends forever. They always were, even when the war lay between them – Hashirama is sure that Madara felt the same despair at the circumstances, even if he didn’t always show it on his face or in his voice – and now they were working on that village they’d always dreamed of, together, and it was perfectly reasonable that Hashirama ask Madara for a favor now and again.

And, of course, who else could he trust this all-important task to, if not his best friend?

Only Madara knows what Tobirama means to him. Hashirama’s little brother, his last little brother. Infinitely precious, deserving of only the best.

It’s not Tobirama’s fault that he’s not good with people, after all. He never has been, not from the start; always a quiet child, needs drowned out by Hashirama’s rambunctiousness, quiet and too serious, never quite able to understand jokes that were too abstract, and Hashirama would swear that he’d almost been relieved when their father had instructed him never to meet anyone’s eyes because the Senju couldn’t afford to get used to looking at red eyes.

And now that Tobirama was getting older, well, it just wasn’t healthy for him to stay locked away in his labs or his office, slaving away over new jutsu or figuring out yet another form that should probably be filled out if the village is going to be administratively manageable.

Poor, virginal Tobirama.

Left to his own devices, he’d never figure any of it out, and sex is far too enjoyable for Tobirama to just dismiss out of hand as a ‘people’ thing that was too difficult to attempt. He barely even made time to touch himself, as Hashirama, who’d insisted on sharing a bedroom with Tobirama since the day he’d lost Madara on the riverbank in a desperate attempt not to lose track of anyone else he loved, is all too aware.

No, clearly what Tobirama needed was a chance to learn properly – to try and fail, without being judged, and to enjoy the pleasures of succeeding.

Hashirama basks in the feeling of knowing, in his heart, that he’s a wonderful brother.

And a wonderful friend, too, however much Madara may had protested at the start. He’s seen the way Madara watches his brother sometimes, out of the corner of his eyes when he thinks no one’s paying attention.

Yes, Hashirama thinks to himself, this is perfect. The trees were right, when they told him it was time for Tobirama to learn to flower.

(They’re not always right. Crush your enemies, they told him, drink their water steal their nutrients block their sunlight strangle them as saplings so that they will never grow to challenge you. Their bodies are nothing but fertilizer to the growth of your own power. But humans are more complicated than that, Hashirama knows, even if their bodies do make surprisingly good fertilizer when they start too-seriously resisting what he’s trying to achieve in the village. Humans need more than the merciless iron fist of natural competition; they need hope, too, and love, and Hashirama has always been so very full of love to share.)

His hand is still in Tobirama’s hair, feeling him move up and down, growing ever more confident as he does.  They’re doing so well, both of them, Madara for giving his body to this purpose and Tobirama for learning it, and Hashirama doesn’t hesitate to tell them both that, to applaud them, to make them glow in happiness that only he can give them, happiness he longs to give them all the time.

Maybe, he thinks happily to himself, this will be the first step to peace between them, peace between his precious people the way he has brought peace to his village.

He ignores the fact that he had to kidnap Madara and lie to Tobirama, who would have surely objected if he knew that Madara hadn’t volunteered of his own free will the way Hashirama had told him he had, implying that the roots were just some sort of kinky game they liked to play, presenting the whole thing as if it was so obviously normal that no normal person would question it, and poor Tobirama who didn’t know people for anything other than fighting hadn’t known enough to find the gaps in the argument, even if he’d been suspicious and reluctant to participate for rather a long time.

(He gave in at the end, that’s what’s important. Tobirama always gives in to what Hashirama wants, in the end, and that’s how Hashirama always knows that he’s doing the right thing because surely, surely, if what he was doing was really wrong, Tobirama would hold stubbornly fast the way he does with new jutsu or, more annoyingly, brand new forms that always seem to require Hokage-level review.)

“How do you feel you’re doing, Tobirama?” Hashirama asks, solicitous as ever. “You think you’ve got the hang of it now? Should we let him come?”

Madara frantically nods his head.

Tobirama considers the issue – serious as always, Hashirama’s little brother is, serious and hard-working and always willing to push his training longer than anyone else – but eventually his fingers twist in an affirmative sign.

“Good choice,” Hashirama praises. “I’m so glad you’re being considerate, Tobirama, I know it’s not always your first instinct.”

Tobirama flushes a little extra in embarrassment, Hashirama thinks, but what? It’s true.

Besides, Hashirama likes humiliating his younger brother once in a while, and he thinks he can teach Tobirama to like it, too.

“All right,” Hashirama says. “I’m going to let him go now, and that means he’s going to come. Now, while I want you to learn to swallow – it’s cleaner that way, and I know you like to be clean – in this instance,  don’t worry if you end up pulling your head back; the feeling is something you get used to. But in case you do, I want you to keep your eyes closed. Okay?”

Tobirama gives it a decent try, all told: he swallows some, lips moving prettily, but then he gags and pulls back, come spilling onto his chin, and Madara finishes instead on his pretty red-flushed face.

“Well done,” Hashirama says. “Both of you! You did so well! I’m so proud of you both.”

Tobirama looks up at him, still on his knees, Hashirama’s hand still in his hair, and when he sees that Hashirama means it, he smiles, that tiny little twitch of the lips that means that he’s happy that he’s done a job well and pleased Hashirama.

“Now, we’re not done yet –” Hashirama ignores Madara’s strangled squawk, because that’s just Madara being a drama queen as always; seriously, why did he think that Hashirama had asked him to make sure he had the week free before coming to meet him? “– but I think we should give Madara some time to recover, don’t you?”

“Anija, we really shouldn’t be neglecting the village for so long like this,” Tobirama says. Such a good, dutiful little brother, though sometimes he really is something of a killjoy.

“Honestly, Tobirama, it’s like you don’t trust me,” Hashirama says mournfully, ignoring Tobirama’s pointed stare that suggests that in matters of paperwork, he really doesn’t. “I arranged coverage for all three of us and told everyone that we were on a super-secret-level mission.”

“S-rank,” Tobirama grumbles. He’d invented the new ranking system a month ago and he’s been on everybody’s case to start using it ever since. “They’re called S-rank. And something like this certainly doesn’t deserve to be –”

Hashirama rolls his eyes and moves his foot forward until its between Tobirama’s legs, pressing against his cock, and Tobirama makes a strangled sound, almost as if he’s surprised by the feelings his own body is generating, and grinds forward involuntarily against Hashirama’s leg.

“You don’t really want to go back to all that paperwork,” Hashirama tells him, because he’s a good brother that knows what’s best for Tobirama. “Come on, Tobirama; you’ve only barely just learned how to suck someone off – you don’t want to leave your lessons unfinished, do you?”

Tobirama, ever the orderly and sometimes compulsive completionist, scowls at the thought.

Hashirama isn’t above using his brother’s quirks against him.

“Now, we can’t move onto fucking until Madara’s feeling better,” Hashirama continues briskly, ignoring the way Madara’s eyes go wide in favor of noting how his cock gave something of what was probably a painful twitch of interest. “But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing we can do. Take off the rest of your clothing, Tobirama.”

Tobirama clutches as what’s left of his outfit, however disarrayed. He’s too obedient to actually ask ‘do I have to?’, but Hashirama can see the plaintive question in his gaze.

“At least get your cock free,” Hashirama compromises. They could work on getting Tobirama comfortable with full nudity around Madara later.

(It’s like Tobirama thinks Hashirama hasn’t noticed how he uses his sensor abilities to make sure he’s never in the onsen at the same time Madara is, and all because he’s worried about how Madara will react if he sees that one stretched-out scar on his chest, the Uchiha fan crudely drawn into much younger flesh with a kunai – the signature of Tajima’s child-killing squads, though that one had never managed to complete their work, what with Tobirama accidentally using his too-powerful suiton to explode their mostly-composed-of-water-eyes right out of their skulls in an act of unintentional eye-stealing he’d regarded as an abominable disgrace ever since. Tobirama thinks Madara will lose his temper, and Hashirama’s not entirely sure he’s wrong about that, though he’s always thought Madara was far more likely to be angry on toddler-aged Tobirama’s behalf instead of his blinded clansmen.)

The next step takes some maneuvering on Hashirama’s part, mostly to get them both into proper position, but between the roots around Madara’s body and Tobirama’s habitual obedience it’s only a few minutes before Tobirama is curled around Madara’s back, his cock sliding between Madara’s clenched thighs, and making wonderful little whimpering sounds as he does.

Hashirama settles himself down to watch, his hand finally sliding down to wrap around himself the way he’s been wanting to from the beginning. He’s been holding off, knowing that Tobirama needs guidance, but this is easy enough for Tobirama to manage on his own, and Hashirama needs to make sure he won’t lose control of himself (or Madara) when the two of them start fucking.

Lessons first, he reminds himself; audience participation later.

“Hashirama –”

He looks up, blinking in surprise; that was Madara’s voice. Oh, oops, he must have pulled the root away from Madara’s tongue to use it to stabilize his head against Tobirama’s thrusts; he hadn’t meant to do that. But Madara’s all breathy and from this angle Hashirama can see him getting hard again already, so surely he’s not about to protest now.

Still, he tightens the root around Madara’s throat, threatening his airflow, just in case Madara gets it into his head to say something distressing.

Not that Madara seems to object to that.

“You realize,” Madara grunts, his eyes boring straight into Hashirama’s even as Tobirama’s hands clench against his arms to steady himself, “that this isn’t normal, right?”

Hashirama feels his hand move faster on his cock without his say-so, which is bad of him – this is for them, for Tobirama and Madara, not for him – but, well, a totally virtuous life never seemed like that much fun.

“Tobirama’s a virgin, if you couldn’t tell already,” he tells Madara, ignoring the way that Tobirama mutters a muffled curse into Madara’s shoulder, his face burning with embarrassment. “I’m just being a good brother and helping him figure this out.”

“That,” Madara says through gritted teeth, “is that not normal part.”

His eyes suggest that the whole kidnapping business has also not been forgotten.

(Hashirama’s hand moves faster at that, too. He likes Madara like this, tied up in Hashirama’s Mokuton, because this way he can’t go, he can’t leave, he can’t pick his family over Hashirama again; this time all the choices have been taken away from him and given to Hashirama, who’s so much better at making these choices for him, for Tobirama, for everyone. Hashirama wants peace, yes, peace in his village and in his country, but for all of the infrastructure and democratic trappings Tobirama is working on building, the village is, at its heart, a dictatorship. And the village, just like Tobirama, just like Madara, is his.)

“Just let him get it out of his system,” Tobirama says in Madara’s ear, panting hard in a way that suggests he’s not going to last much longer. “You can’t stop in the middle - he just gets like this sometimes, it’s fine.”

“It’s fine?!”

“It’s a Mokuton thing, I think,” Tobirama says, because that’s the excuse Hashirama has always given him for, well, just about everything, and it usually works. There’s some advantage to being the only Mokuton user in the clan; he can blame it for anything and no one knows well enough to call him out on it. “He gets these stupid ideas into his head sometimes and won’t give up on them. And besides, this is somehow still less embarrassing than that time he decided to teach me to jerk off. He went on for hours.”

Madara makes a groaning sound, but Hashirama’s pretty sure it’s not because of the physical sensations this time. Apparently Madara likes the mental image of that, Hashirama teaching Tobirama how to pleasure himself – and honestly, Hashirama should have thought of that to begin with, the Uchiha being as visual-minded as they are.

Maybe he should bring in a mirror. Let them see what a beautiful sight they make.

A good thought.

“He’s probably going to want to tattoo you, too,” Tobirama adds.

Madara tries to twist around at that, but Hashirama holds him tight with the Mokuton and doesn’t let him. “He wants to what now?” he demands, the promise of Uchiha fire in his voice.

“He never grew out of the period in his life when he wanted to write his name on everything he thinks of as his,” Tobirama explains, managing to sound a little long-suffering even through the overwhelming lust and need that fills his voice. “I just barely managed to convince him to put mine on the bottom of my foot so not everyone can see it, even in the onsen.”

Hashirama had originally been planning something right over Tobirama’s heart, so that his little brother remembered who he belonged to first and foremost, but he’d been charmed by the idea of Tobirama having his name on his foot like he was one of Touka’s dolls, pliant and ready to be played with whenever Hashirama feels like.

Hashirama likes playing with Tobirama.

He likes playing with Madara, too.

“And you let him?” Madara demands.

“He’s my anija,” Tobirama says, confused, as if that’s the only answer he needs – and it is. Hashirama’s taught him well over the years, gave him everything he could, and it would take a lot more than Madara’s questioning to make Tobirama doubt the purity of Hashirama’s affections.

Well.

Purity might not be the right word, given the context.

“It’s just to remind Tobirama that he’s mine,” Hashirama explains to Madara. “It’ll be the same for you. And don’t look at me like that; it’s just a little tattoo! It won’t hurt that badly. You’ve had much worse.”

“It’s not the pain I’m objecting to!”

Uchihas. So unnecessarily stubborn.

Still, there are ways of making his point.

Hashirama lets his chakra fill the room, powerful and overwhelming and almost suffocating the way he knows it can be – more powerful than Madara’s ever seen before, because Hashirama’s never used his full power against him on the battlefield and Madara knows that, just as he’d never used everything he has against Hashirama, too.

“You’re mine,” Hashirama tells his precious people, a blazing beacon of sunlight to their finely tuned senses. Sensors, both of them, even though Tobirama is the stronger; both of them made vulnerable by their own abilities to the strength of Hashirama’s emotions when he aims it straight at them both, overpowering their ability to think or refuse with the affection he feels for them both, the joy he has at seeing them happy, the love that fills his heart. “Both of you. I love you both so much.”

Tobirama makes a choked little cry and comes between Madara’s thighs, and judging by the dumbstruck look on Madara’s face he’d be doing the same if he had the slightest bit more stimulation.

Hashirama meets Madara’s gaze, even though he knows it opens him up to a genjutsu – not that Madara is in any condition to be doing anything like that.

“I only want what’s best for you,” he says kindly, because Hashirama is kind, above all else. It’s who he is. Maybe he doesn’t show his kindness the way other people do, through the occasional well-meaning murder and kidnapping, but then, he is a shinobi; no one should have expected him to be any other way. “Just trust me, and I’ll take care of you. Trust me, and say you’ll be mine. Say it.”

He comes at the sound of Madara’s strangled yes.

Hashirama is the best of brothers and the best of friends.

He’ll even, out of the kindness and love in his heart, give them a few minutes to recover before introducing Tobirama to the delights of getting fucked. Maybe he’ll even let them skip ahead to having Tobirama learn to take both of them at once; Hashirama does so want for the people he loves the most to learn to share, going forward, and it’s good to start impressing the importance of that early on.

Hashirama smiles, and plans.

Chapter Text

Tobirama probably thinks he won a great victory, convincing Hashirama to let him keep on one layer as they proceeded to the next lesson, Hashirama thinks fondly.

Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. Far from preserving Tobirama’s modesty, leaving on the simple yukata (and nothing else) left him looking more indecent than ever: the lower end pooled in his lap, doing nothing to hide how hard he was, draping over his hips almost as if it was designed to highlight how long his pale legs were, how thick and muscular his thighs. Belted tightly at the waist, it was old enough to have been worn practically translucent, and Tobirama’s sweat made it cling to his skin even as it gaped open at the neck to expose the long line of his collarbone.

Best of all, Hashirama was able to trade the ‘concession’ of letting Tobirama keep it on in return for his compliance in other ways: an agreement to do just as Hashirama says, no matter how embarrassing, and even not protesting Hashirama’s use of the Mokuton on him, allowing the little roots to twine around his thighs to pull them open, and creeping up his sides and across his chest - doing nothing yet, but available should Hashirama feel the need to interfere.

And Madara claims Hashirama doesn’t know how to negotiate.

“Don’t I have the cutest brother?” Hashirama asks Madara, who looks like he’s been hit by a particularly well aimed genjustu. That might be because Tobirama is currently working his cock in both hands, but honestly he’s had that expression ever since Hashirama made Tobirama crawl across the floor to climb into his lap. “He’s so shy and adorable.”

Tobirama flushes so nicely when he’s humiliated - his face goes nearly as red as his cock.

Perfect.

“Now, there’s no reason to be nervous,” Hashirama says, and slides himself in right behind Tobirama, wrapping his arms around his brother and putting his chin on his shoulder. He knows exactly the sort of picture they make, him still fully dressed with a blushing Tobirama in his arms, one of the only people who can make his brother seems small, but even if he didn’t, he would’ve guessed it when Madara makes some strangled noise that sounds halfway between a prayer and a curse. And he doesn’t even have an excuse of a root in his mouth to excuse his mumbling. Madara’s always had a bit of a crush on Hashirama as well, and now that Madara belongs to him, Hashirama’s going to make all his dreams come true. “This is going to be fun.”

Tobirama looks a little doubtful, but it’s fine; Hashirama has definitely convinced him of stranger things than this.

He drops his hands onto Tobirama’s thighs, pushing them a little further apart and pushing him forward, until his brother is pressed between him and Madara both.

“Next lesson,” Hashirama says with a grin. “Fucking. It’s a little more complicated, so I’ll be helping out with this one.”

“Hashirama!” Madara hisses, his eyes wide. “It’s his first time, you can’t –”

Hashirama exerts the tiniest bit of will, tightening the root around Madara’s neck and cutting off his air.

Madara thrashes, causing Tobirama to gasp as he bucks up into him, the force causing his cock to push against Tobirama’s. Madara’s lips form a curse.

“If you don’t have anything helpful to say, Madara,” Hashirama scolds, though in a loving tone. He adores Madara, but really, there’s no cause to jump the gun. “Then don’t say it.”

He releases him, and Madara chokes on the air he sucks back into his lungs.

“That made him start dripping,” Tobirama observes, looking down at his hands with interest. “I wouldn’t have thought it’d do that.”

Hashirama settles a hand around Tobirama’s neck, giving it a gentle squeeze – not enough to cut off air the way he had Madara, but enough to remind Tobirama that he had the strength in that one hand to snap his neck if he wanted.

“Maybe I’ll show you,” he says, only half-teasing, watching Madara’s eyes go round at the casual display of power. “If you’re very good for me, I’ll even make sure you like it.”

“I – can be good,” Tobirama says, gnawing a little at his lower lip.

Curiosity has always been his vice of choice.

“I know,” Hashirama says, pressing a kiss to his cheek and removing his hand, dropping it back down to his thigh. “And you are. But you’re also a tactile learner –”

Madara makes a slight choking sound at that, no root around his neck required.

“– so I’m going to show you what to do next. Your job is to do to Madara what I do to you.”

Tobirama nods, clearly comforted by the simple instruction – much of shinobi training is of the ‘do as I do’ school, so he can lie to himself that this is just another exercise like that – and then hisses when Hashirama’s hands slide up his sides under his clothing. He obediently copies the gesture onto Madara, whose hands Hashirama pulls onto Tobirama’s thighs to replace his own.

There’s definitely a bit of extra stroking involved that isn’t Mokuton-driven, though, Hashirama is pleased to notice, even though it stops the second Madara sees that he’s noticed. Still, it’s about time Madara started taking some of the initiative, even though he’s currently still pretending to himself that he’s here under pressure.

Okay, kidnapping, so maybe he is a bit, but that’s fine. Hashirama can make him forget all about that.

Madara’s not going to leave him ever again.

None of Hashirama’s precious people will ever want to leave him.

Hashirama’s going to make sure of that.

His fingers slide up to Tobirama’s nipples, tweaking them gently, causing Tobirama to cry out in surprise, even as his hips jerk forward and his cock twitches.

A touch of Mokuton, and Madara’s left hand is firmly wrapped around Tobirama’s cock, stroking just gently enough that it isn’t enough to push him over the edge.

Tobirama is panting, his eyes gone wide and a little mindless at the two pleasurable sensations at once, so Hashirama tsks in his ear. “Remember to copy,” he reminds him, and Tobirama nods. His gestures are much sloppier already, and he forgets for a moment that he’s supposed to copy Hashirama, not Madara, making Hashirama laugh and press his lips on the side of Tobirama’s neck where he knows he’s sensitive.

“Anija,” Tobirama whimpers. “Stop that; I can’t think –”

“Copy me,” Hashirama says mercilessly.

Tobirama leans forward to press his own lips onto Madara’s neck, then cries out again when Hashirama licks a line down the side, timing it to match perfectly with his hands on Tobirama’s chest and Madara’s hands on his cock.

Tobirama tries to keep up, but Hashirama’s got experience and four hands on his side, and it’s not hard at all to drive Tobirama entirely out of his mind. Throwing in an extra bit of Mokuton at that point, the little roots he’s wrapped around Tobirama tightening on his thighs and hips and curling onto his chest to leave Hashirama’s hands free to explore other parts of Tobirama’s body – well, that’s probably just cheating.

But then, they call Hashirama the god of shinobi, not the god of playing fair.

It’s nice to see Tobirama so lost in pleasure, desperately trying to replicate what he can of all those overwhelming sensations onto an enraptured Madara and failing miserably, his head lolling back onto Hashirama’s shoulder as he whimpers and whines.

And they haven’t even started the real fun yet.

Tobirama’s far past the point of listening already, so it’s up to Hashirama to take the oil and slick up one of Madara’s hands, meeting a helpless Madara’s gaze over Tobirama’s shoulder as he does, then using the Mokuton to guide it down to hover between Tobirama’s legs.

He doesn’t do anything else, though, just goes back to tormenting Tobirama.

Tobirama, who’s started making demands in the most delightful drunken voice for something, anything, more – something he knows he needs, but doesn’t know what –

It would take a stronger man than Madara to hold out against that forever, and he breaks, shaking off his stubborn refusal to actively participate in favor of pushing two fingers into Tobirama.

“Yes – oh – yes, that, please, more of that – I need more –”

It takes only a little bit of prompting in Tobirama’s ear before Hashirama’s proud younger brother starts begging in earnest for Madara’s cock.

“Don’t I have the cutest brother?” Hashirama asks again, watching Madara’s face now, eyes lidded with pleasure as he watches Tobirama fall apart between them, riding Madara’s fingers like he was born to take them. “What do you think, Madara?”

“Beautiful,” Madara breathes.

“He’s being so good for us,” Hashirama purrs. “So good, so obedient…don’t you think he deserves a kiss, Madara? I don’t think he’s had one of those before.”

Madara’s eyes go wide at that, as Hashirama expected they would, and he uses his free hand to catch Tobirama’s red-flushed face and pull it close to him.

“Would you like me to kiss you?” he asks, their lips close enough for Tobirama to feel the air behind the question.

Hashirama hides his face by nibbling at Tobirama’s neck, thinking gleefully to himself that Madara has always been a sap, to ask such questions, but also that he really did pick the right person for this.

(This is why everyone should let Hashirama make all of their decisions for them.)

“Please,” Tobirama breathes back. Hashirama’s not sure Tobirama even knows what he’s asking for, at this point, but it’s clearly enough for Madara, who pulls him close and kisses him properly.

Tobirama’s eyes flutter closed, moaning against Madara’s lips, and it’s a long few seconds before Madara pulls away, Sharingan spinning in his eyes as he burns this moment into his mind forever.

Hashirama can see the exact moment when those red eyes finish running over Tobirama’s face and drop down casually to scan the rest of the body, only to go still in horror at the sight of that crude but still entirely recognizable fan carved into Tobirama’s chest like so much meat.

Madara knows what a scar like that means.

Maybe it was a little cruel of Hashirama to use their first kiss as a distraction to push Tobirama’s yukata open without his noticing, but, well, he wouldn’t be a Senju if he didn’t know how to best press an advantage against a Sharingan user, even if his goals are a little different than the usual.

Tobirama frowns a little when he feels Madara stop moving entirely, a stillness Hashirama deliberately echoes, and opens his eyes.

He sees where Madara’s eyes are focused at once.

His hand automatically flies up to try to pull clothing over it, but the gesture is futile and he knows it; once the Sharingan catches sight of something, there’s no erasing it.

“The child-killers,” Madara says. His voice is blank, though something heavy lurks in its depths, something Tobirama will not be able to recognize but which Hashirama knows is the hatred Madara has always had for that policy, which he blames for the deaths-in-revenge of two of his brothers. “They caught you.”

His hand falls down from Tobirama’s face to rest over the mark. His thumb traces over the shape, misshapen now – pulled apart by age as Tobirama grew older and larger.

“I –” Tobirama starts, then stops, clearly unsure of what to say.

“Is this why you hate us?” Madara asks. His eyes are no longer red, but they’re just as intense, focusing fiercely on Tobirama’s face even as Tobirama averts his gaze. “You’re always so stern…is this the reason?”

Actually, Tobirama is stern to everyone – it’s just his way to be well-meaning but communicate it terribly; the man could (and has) made the delivery of a perfectly innocent birthday present sound like a threat of slow death by poison – but Hashirama’s not planning on clarifying.

Not when things are working out so well.

Not when he knows what Tobirama will say in response.

“No. The fault is mine,” Tobirama says, his gaze still averted.

Madara’s eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”

“I know it’s no excuse,” Tobirama says. “But – I knew only one jutsu at the time. Water-summoning. Not even a bullet, nothing offensive, just pulling. There wasn’t water nearby, but I thought I could maybe use some blood to throw into their paths, if they were injured. They weren’t. I – it was an accident. Their eyes – the water – I didn’t mean to. I overcharged the jutsu.”

“…are you trying to apologize to me?” Madara asks, and his voice has dropped low, guttural. Enraged. “For surviving the child-killers?”

Tobirama grits his teeth. “The Senju don’t steal eyes,” he says, with what dignity he can manage. “Dojutsu or not. That’s what makes us honorable enemies to your clan, rather than – bandits. If…if you’d prefer not to help me any further, I understand; I will explain it to anija, if he doesn’t.”

“Help…?” Madara’s eyes are red again, this time with fury. Hashirama so very carefully phrased all of this exercise as some sort of favor Madara is doing for them both; it’s clear enough what Tobirama means. “You think I won’t want to touch you because you blinded some child-killers?”

“I –”

Madara’s on him before Tobirama can finish the sentence, kissing him brutally and fingering him open with a brand new fervor, and it’s less than a heartbeat before Tobirama’s already thrashing in mindless, overwhelming physical pleasure again, this time accompanied by relief of a terrible emotional burden being lifted.

Perfect.

Hashirama grins where neither of them can see him – they’ve forgotten he exists, really, Madara using his body as little more than a convenient wall to press Tobirama up against. Normally he’d be peeved by this, planning a punishment for them for ignoring him so readily, but not now.

Not now, when Madara’s crooning meaningless phrases in Tobirama’s ear, compliments and admiration mixed in with promises of fidelity and pleasure beyond imagining, when he’s using his hands and his fingers to drive Tobirama wild, when he’s pulling out his fingers and replacing them with his cock.

Hashirama wouldn’t dare interrupt this now.

Not when things are working out just as he’d hoped.

Madara had to be the one to take Tobirama’s virginity, after all; him and him alone, and not in a way he could excuse by blaming Hashirama, either. His actions, his responsibility – his lover, to protect and care for.

Uchiha possessiveness is as predictable as the sunrise.

(Madara is never going to leave Hashirama again.)

Tobirama is taking Madara beautifully, too, his back arching as he clings to Madara’s arms, his legs pushed up high, his back pressed against Hashirama’s chest; he’s moaning like the highest paid whore at a brothel, pulling Madara towards him further, greedily demanding more, faster, harder, yes, like that, just like that, keep doing that, forever –

Hashirama does so love it when a plan works out.

Though really, Madara should be more considerate of his poor virgin lover – he’s going far too quickly, using too much of his overwhelming physical power in his thrusts, egged on by his simmering fury and his overwhelming lust, and while Hashirama’s all in favor of Tobirama being able to feel this come morning, he doesn’t want Madara to actually hurt him.

Luckily, he never did remove that root around Madara’s throat.

He clenches his fist.

The root squeezes.

Madara chokes, his hands flying up to his throat, but his hips keep moving – albeit at a somewhat more sedate pace.

“Now, now,” Hashirama says mildly. “This is supposed to be a lesson, remember, Madara?”

Madara glares death.

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, what with all of that talk about keeping him forever,” Hashirama continues, widening his eyes innocently as he looks to the ceiling in thought. “Tobirama might want someone else, you know, now that he knows what to do. That nice ambassador from the Hyuuga’s been dropping some hints about sealing their alliance to the village with a marriage –”

Never, Madara mouths, even as his fingers turn white scrabbling at the root around his neck and his eyes go blurry, though his hips never stop moving. The rivalry between the Hyuuga and the Uchiha over whose dojutsu is better is nearly as legendary as the endless infighting between Uchiha and Senju; Hashirama picked his goad well. Over my dead body.

Since Hashirama agrees, having said as much to the relevant ambassador along with a recommendation that he be very grateful to their incipient alliance lest he accidentally find himself impaled on a tree branch on his journey home – not that Hashirama would ever be so crude, of course, he’ll wait until the man is involved in a fight of some sort, maybe some bandits-mercenaries that could be hired through anonymous contract, and then use his roots to trip him at an inopportune moment – and also because he really does like Madara, he releases him.

“Madara,” Hashirama says, and Madara looks at him. “Take him apart.”

Madara isn’t much of a long-term strategist, despite his best attempts at it, but he’s always been marvelously task-oriented.  

Hashirama doesn’t have to do anything at all, just sit and watch and bask in his own brilliance.

Not that that’s going to stop him.

“You make such a pretty picture,” he sighs, putting his chin on Tobirama’s shoulder again. He’s anchored himself with chakra, making him unmoving even as Madara’s steady thrusts force Tobirama against him. “Both of you, my precious people – you’re so good for me, doing so well, being so beautiful…I wish I had the Sharingan, to keep this picture of you forever. Guess you’ll just have to do it for me again and again, just so I can keep seeing it.”

They were both moaning, now. It’s so convenient, both of them responding so well to praise – Hashirama wonders sometimes if it’s something to do with how they were all raised, child soldiers in the midst of war, or if he’d subconsciously trained Tobirama to respond to the same stimulus as Madara in order to cut down on inefficiencies.

He runs his hands over them both, smiling down at them: his precious people, his; if they didn’t know it yet, they would – he would burn the knowledge of his ownership into their bones if that’s what it took. He’d tattoo Madara’s foot, making them a matching set (perfect, both of them, perfect because they are his) and maybe more than that, if they need a further reminder.

Maybe he’d weave a tree branch, thin as a string, into the collars of their clothing and close off their air whenever he felt the urge to remind them – during a council meeting, perhaps, or when they’re nagging him about finishing his paperwork – it would be a collar they couldn’t escape from without losing their shirts, using their own sense of propriety against them. He could use it as a leash, never letting them escape his reach for as far as his chakra extended.

Or maybe he’d turn their own clothing against them, remind the cotton of its origins as a plant at his command and use it to force them to perform for his amusement the way he’d captured Madara here today, only more subtle. He’d like to see them on his desk in the Hokage’s office.

“We’re going to have so much fun,” he tells them earnestly. “This week, of course, but not just that. Now that you’re getting along, everything’s going to be so much better now.”

He slides his hands down Tobirama’s body – fully nude now, as he’d hoped, with the last of that shame gone.

“So much fun,” he repeats. Then, with a wicked smile, he slides a finger in alongside Madara’s cock, causing them both to cry out in surprise.

“Anija!”

“Hashirama!”

“What?” he asks, batting his eyelashes at them both. “I want to play too. It’s not fair for you to ignore me.”

“You – you won’t fit –” Tobirama starts to protest, but Madara cuts him off.

“You should,” he says, and his eyes are glowing red again. “C’mon, Hashirama. Help me remind him where he belongs, so he’ll never leave –”

Such a change from his earlier position; clearly that Hyuuga taunt was working better than Hashirama had dared hope.

“I really should,” Hashirama says, pretending to think about it. He won’t, of course; it is Tobirama’s first time – he needs to learn to adjust to one person before he can think about two. “After all, neither of you get to come until I do.”

That’s when they both realize that he’s worked his Mokuton between them both, a loose curl around the base of their cocks to keep them on the edge as long as Hashirama pleased, and they both start begging for release at once.

It’s amazing how it suddenly became incredibly urgent once they realized they weren’t allowed.

“It’s not fair,” he objects over their pleas. “What about me? You wouldn’t leave me behind.”

“Please, anija,” Tobirama begs as prettily as he ever has. “Please, just let me – you can be later – please – I’ll do anything –”

Hashirama arches his eyebrows. “Anything?”

“Anything!”

“An intriguing suggestion. What about you, Madara? Same deal?”

Madara looks a little more hesitant, so Hashirama ripples the roots still wrapped around his body in pointed reminder.

“I could keep you going for hours, you know,” he says. “As long as I wanted. Maybe I’ll let Tobirama come, like the good boy he is, then use you myself – and keep you around for Tobirama to play with you again, after, like a good little puppet dancing on my strings –”

“Anything,” Madara cuts him off, his eyes gone a bit wild at the idea. “Fine, anything. Just – do it!”

Hashirama releases them, and smiles to hear them scream out garbled versions of his name in thankfulness as they come.

His precious people.

Tobirama’s practically unconscious, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling; Madara’s not much better, collapsed like a limp rag doll, not even bothering to pull out.

Hashirama uses his Mokuton to help extract himself and goes to get some nice wet cloths to wipe them both down. They’re probably very tired, after all, and now that he’s gotten what he wanted, he’s satisfied.

Well.

Not entirely satisfied.

He waits until they’re both stirring again, reason returning, to sit on the edge of the bed and smile beneficiently at them both.

“Now that you’re awake again,” he says kindly, relishing the fear that’s entering both their eyes, “let’s talk about that ‘anything’…”

Chapter Text

Once, during training, Tobirama made a left when he should have made a right and ended up running straight into one of Hashirama’s trees head-first at full speed. He’d ended up flat on his back and staring up at the sky, watching the little explosions of light his eyes created in the sky above him and wondering vaguely if he could somehow turn how he was feeling – a numb sort of spinning, like he’d somehow managed to whirl his spirit like a top without moving his body – into an attack of some sort.

He’s pretty sure he’s not actually concussed at the moment, but the feeling is not entirely dissimilar.

Tobirama really hadn’t been expecting this when Hashirama announced that they would both be taking a week off for training purposes. If anything, he’d suspected a plot to avoid work and tried to refuse, but Hashirama had insisted – and as Tobirama has long since learned, when Hashirama really wants something, Hashirama gets it.

(Tobirama doesn’t remember a time he didn’t give in to Hashirama when he truly wanted something, a time when he wasn’t dazzled and overwhelmed by Hashirama’s merciless chakra and endless willpower, but it only make sense – even under the harshest circumstances and no matter the force required, plants will find water to support them; it’s no surprise that it should be just the same with Tobirama and his brother.)

No – Tobirama hadn’t expected this at all.

But – walking into the outpost to find Uchiha Madara stripped bare and covered in Hashirama’s signature combination of roots and vibes, that magnificent chakra of his just pouring out of him in boiling waves of energy, a bewildering mix of lust-rage-confusion-affection-killing intent, and before Tobirama could back away Hashirama was at his back, whispering in his ear that this was all for him, that Madara had agreed

Tobirama barely put up a fight.

Though he’s starting to wonder if he should have, watching Madara pace a hole in the floor like a caged tiger.

He’d been like that since shortly after Hashirama left, called back to the village to deal with something sufficiently urgent that even he couldn’t refuse (though he’d grumbled something about making sure they knew he was not to be bothered after that, using what Tobirama privately calls his planning-a-rose-garden-on-somebody’s-corpse voice).

Tobirama immediately offered to go as well, of course, but Hashirama shut that down immediately, ordering him to stay put and relax.

“Madara can be in charge of continuing your lessons while I’m gone,” Hashirama said in a tone that suggested he would be very disappointed in them both if his wishes weren’t obeyed. “This won’t be more than a few hours – and it’ll give me time to get your surprise ready.”

The surprise being whatever it was they’d very foolishly promised him they’d do for him.

A matter of some serious concern, as Hashirama took such promises all too seriously, but Tobirama couldn’t even begin to imagine what his brother might ask that he wouldn’t already willingly give.

Ultimately, despite his half-hearted arguments that he would be needed if there was anything administrative to be done (because Hashirama was worthless when it came to filling out forms), Tobirama hadn’t objected to staying too much, being at the time both languidly post-coital and inclined to blush at the thought of what Madara had taught him already, and what more there might be.

Madara hadn’t said anything at the time, his chakra still and deep with sated pleasure, but once Hashirama had left –

Well.

Tobirama might not have much experience with lovers, but even he can figure out that opting to furiously storm around a room, occasionally slamming a hand against a door, instead of proposing a second round isn’t exactly a good sign.

Normally, watching Madara is one of Tobirama’s favorite pastimes. The man’s chakra is truly breathtaking – most sensors of Tobirama’s acquaintance go for the cliché and compare it to fire, standard Uchiha, but Tobirama, with his suiton affinity, has always been more reminded of the metallic vapors that rise from the boiling depths of a hot spring, sharp and ashy and endlessly complex.

(He’d once laid the sharpest edge of his sword on his tongue, heavy and dangerous and refined with the blood and sweat of hard labor, and that was the closest he’d ever come to replicating the feeling that Madara gives off so easily.)

But right now –

Right now, it’s making his stomach sink.

“There’s no point in trying any of the exits,” he finally says, watching Madara put a palm against one of the windows this time. “This place was meant to withstand a siege.”

A siege of Uchiha, technically, given that it’s a Senju outpost, albeit one whose purpose was rendered moot several generations ago when the land around it became unquestionably theirs.

Tobirama had designed the seals Madara was struggling with himself, in fact. He had been here many times before: this was the usual place Hashirama locked him into to keep him safe while Hashirama suffered the black rages of springtime, the season’s savage battle for dominion of the forest rendering his brother more dangerous and less human than ever, the amoral fury of the flora given animal freedom, and Tobirama had used the opportunity to experiment with warding seals in a place that wouldn’t actually put any of their front lines at risk if and when they failed.

(Tobirama loves working with jutsus and seals – each action matched with a set of reactions that, if not predictable, are at least consistent, a trait he has always found lacking in other people.)

And Hashirama had been so pleased with him when he’d made the ones that locked people in, as well as keeping them out…

Tobirama isn’t an idiot. He knew that he was giving Hashirama the keys to his own cage when he did it, but, ultimately, it doesn’t matter.

Tobirama would do anything to make his brother happy.

Besides, with Tobirama’s taste for solitude and distaste for other people (loud-confusing-not enough chakra-too many emotions-too facile faces and bodies-too many indicators to keep track of-too much), allowing Hashirama a safe place to keep him when his fears overwhelmed his reason is not really so much of a sacrifice as all that, especially when Tobirama suspects he might’ve wanted the same for the younger brothers he lost almost before he’d really had a chance to get to know them.

(It’s natural for an older brother to want to protect the younger, Hashirama always assures him, an expression of their love; and Tobirama, who was always a little too strange for the taste of the rest of his family, has always clutched tightly to any sign of Hashirama’s affection the way a drowning man reaches for air, no matter how he sometimes wondered at Hashirama’s ways of expressing it. But he wondered less and less as time went on, grew more accepting, and reaped the benefit of his  compliance in Hashirama’s approval.)

“Does he do this sort of thing often?” Madara demands suddenly, interrupting Tobirama’s introspection. “This – taking – locking us in here with no way out – and then he – with you – is there no custom or tradition or taboo Hashirama won’t trample over if it gets him what he wants?”

Tobirama blinks. What a strange question.

“Of course not,” he says. “Hashirama measures things by value; if tradition doesn’t serve him, he discards it. Or did you think he convinced our clan to make peace by asking nicely?”

Madara throws himself down into a seat, scowling fiercely, chakra flaring –

a blacksmith thrusts the red-hot sword into the water and the roiling steam hisses forth

“That’s certainly what he did with my clan,” he says, crossing his arms before him in what living in the village has taught Tobirama is the classic Uchiha pouting pose. “Always holding back in the battlefield, always calling out with offers of peace – better terms every time, like a bribe – caring for prisoners of war and sending them back without even imposing terms –”

Tobirama shrugs. “It’s what worked,” he explains. “Your clan needed repeated reassurance of our good intentions before they’d yield to peace talks, much less see the village as something that would be beneficial to their interests. You’re too numerous, too powerful, and too proud to just be broken to the yoke the way we did the Hatake, for example.”

Madara’s chakra simmers close beneath his skin, pulsing with the accelerated beat of his heart. “The Hatake? The wild ones, with the wolves and dogs? I knew they’d agreed in principle to sign on to the village before we did…what happened to them?”

Tobirama shrugs again. He doesn’t like to think of it, though he’d recognized the necessity of having a clan on their side capable of matching and opposing the Inuzuka; but all logic aside, something in him always twists at the memory of those proud lightning-white men and women falling to their knees in supplication, tears in their eyes and oaths of unbreakable loyalty on their tongues if only Hashirama’s forest of deadly briars would release the less-human members of their pack –

The Hatake valued each other more than they did victory, and Hashirama knows very well how to make love into a leash and a lash to force others to bow to his will.

As so the Hatake bowed.

Some of them, anyway; the truly wild ones found that they could not bend without breaking.

There were – less of those, now, than there once had been.

The Inuzuka should give daily prayers of thanks that they had allied with the Uchiha, not Senju.

“Hashirama convinced them that peace was for the best,” he says shortly. They didn’t discuss clan politics, Madara and him; as a typical matter, they barely discussed anything other than the administration of the village. “It’s Hashirama; you know what he’s like when he gets his mind set on something.”

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?

Madara is Hashirama’s best friend. Madara is the one who understood Hashirama’s dream of peace before anyone else did, maybe even before Hashirama himself did – the one who helped give that dream form and shape, when before it was nothing more than the confused yearning for never-ending conquest that the oldest clan records warned would eventually consume most wielders of the Mokuton.

Losing Madara turned those dreams into concrete ambitions.

Madara being forced to choose between his family and his friend had taught Hashirama the importance of having the power to take and defend what he wanted; being denied by him had taught Hashirama patience; fighting him had taught Hashirama the benefits of cleverness and manipulation when raw power wasn’t enough to get him what he wanted.

Everything that Hashirama is, however twisted, Madara helped create.

Surely, then, that means that Madara, like Tobirama, knows exactly what Hashirama is like.

But if he knows what Hashirama is like –

Well.

That means that his current state of irritation and confusion must be due to Tobirama, instead.

It’s – a disappointment, Tobirama isn’t going to lie, but it’s one he’s long grown accustomed to. For all his ruthlessness, Hashirama rarely faces the consequences of his decisions. He is endlessly charismatic, kind and generous and friendly to a fault, and even people who are angry at his decisions can’t bring themselves to be angry at him. They love him too much, they value him too much; their minds cannot reconcile their love and their anger, and so they displace it.

It’s so much easier to blame Tobirama for not having stopped Hashirama from acting, than to blame Hashirama for having decided to act in the first place.

Even Madara, when it came to matters of village infrastructure –

(Sometimes Tobirama wants to scream in Madara’s face a reminder that he is his brother’s right hand, for better or for worse; his brother innovates and he implements, and not every decision made was made by him – not even the ones that seem cruel and even pointless, ones that can only be understood as the deliberate breaking of clan bonds in favor of loyalty to the village as a whole. Some of those were his, yes, but many, even most, were not. No one knows better the delicate fragility of an ecosystem, how easy it is to disrupt and reshape it, than the master of the Mokuton.)

But it’s fine.

Tobirama’s used to it.

A red-eyed child born to whispers among a clan that hated such things, younger brother to the living fulfillment of the promise of their bloodline –

He’s used to shouldering the weight of Hashirama’s wrongs.

Still, he must admit that he’d hoped, a little, that this would be something at which he could excel, the way he did at fighting or jutsu creation, rather than yet another field where he would never be more than a (not-Hashirama-never-Hashirama) disappointment.

(Only Hashirama loves him enough to never find him lacking. Knowing that, how could Tobirama not do everything in his power to please him?)

“I usually improve on repetition,” he finally says, hoping to distract Madara from whatever it was he was stewing angrily over, his chakra a feeling of summer thunderstorms, clouds filled to bursting with warm wet water and lightning to burn a man alive.

“How’s that?” Madara asks, looking up with a frown.

“I improve on repetition,” Tobirama repeats. “Let me suck you again – I thought I was getting pretty decent at that; I’m certain I can do better the second time.”

Maybe the fucking hadn’t gone as Madara might’ve hoped (a disappointment, if so, as Tobirama had rather enjoyed that), but his chakra teemed with lust when Tobirama had been on his knees.

Oddly enough, the suggestion causes Madara to flush bright red, Tobirama observes without entirely understanding, and to start flailing his limbs wildly around like he’s an untrained genin rather than the highly controlled shinobi Tobirama admires on the battlefield.

His chakra is black with lust again, though, summer thunder giving way to the slithering inexorable hiss of lava, a river of flame and earth but a river nonetheless and therefore falling within his domain, so Tobirama thinks there’s a decent chance of convincing Madara.

“– what in the world gave you the idea that you need to do better?!” he shouts.

Tobirama arches his eyebrows. For all his fearsome reputation as a sensor on the battlefield, people sometimes forget about it in the face of his overwhelming awkwardness in social settings. But his problem has never been figuring out what people are feeling – his senses tell him that, overwhelming and sometimes excruciating – but in figuring out how those feelings transmute into thoughts, and thoughts into words, and in determining how his own words could affect those thoughts and those feelings in turn –

For all his talent at repurposing jutsus and seals, Tobirama has never mastered that strange alchemy of dealing with other people that it seems that all the rest of the world knows to do by instinct.

“You’re obviously upset,” he points out, his voice level and calm. It may be that Madara, a sensor himself, thinks that Tobirama must be actively using his chakra in order to read him; it’s a mistake that Tobirama finds sensors make even more often than others. He’s not like the other sensors in that way – he was born with his eyes closed and his mind open, and he can count on his fingers the number of times in his life that he hasn’t felt the chakra of others. When his chakra is exhausted, it is the last of his skills to go; when it is sealed, if the seal is not Uzumaki-made, it is the first to return, seeping in through the inevitable cracks in the seal. “I’m not blind.”

“And you’re, what, offering me sex to cheer me up? Better sex, apparently, because you somehow got it into your head that your first effort was somehow inadequate?”

“Wasn’t it? My performance being somehow lacking seems like the most obvious explanation for your – ” boiling water furiously gushing out from a deep crack in the earth burning all it touches “– mood, since nothing else of note has happened.”

“Nothing else has..! Hashirama locked us in here and ordered us to have sex!”

Tobirama blinks. How is that different from what he said?

Madara throws his hands into the air. “Do you honestly not see a problem with Hashirama just – deciding your life for you?”

“Not…really?” Tobirama says, things becoming clearer with the question. He thinks he might understand the problem Madara’s having. “He’s my older brother, and the head of my family, and the head of my clan, and my Hokage. My life belongs to him to spend as he wishes; it always has. And now that you’re part of the village, so does yours, though it’s undoubtedly an easier adjustment for me than for you.”

Unlike him, Madara has spent the last few years being the leader of his own clan, his own general. Could that be the issue? That he has simply forgotten how it was to live and serve at the will of another?

“It’s easier if you stop making a fuss about the little things and save your protests for when they might actually do some good,” he adds, hoping that he can help make the transition easier for Madara. “He may be unbearably arrogant about it sometimes, but Hashirama does usually seem to know best.”

The universe itself bows to Hashirama’s will, and Tobirama does not flatter himself to think he is somehow an exception.

“There is,” Madara says through gritted teeth, “a difference between having the ability to spend the life of a shinobi under your care, to send them on missions they might not return from or to lead them into battle, and in – in managing their sex lives. You can’t possibly tell me that Hashirama does this with everyone in your clan!”

Tobirama thinks of Hashirama’s tendency to match-make, usually facilitated by abusing Tobirama’s sensor abilities to determine who has feelings for who and deciding whether the pairing was beneficial enough to let it flower or, if not, to yank it out by the roots like a weed, but he knows that’s not what Madara means.

“I’m pretty sure he limits his, uh, personal involvement to people he – cares about,” he offers. “You should take it as a compliment.”

Madara hisses like a teapot, even as his chakra curls around him like gushing steam.

“You’ve lusted after him for years,” Tobirama points out, increasingly confused. “You must have known he’d take advantage of it one day.”

Hashirama is far too manipulative not to take advantage of such a weakness. Tobirama had personally expected it to be used to support some major initiative in regards to the village, either a war or (far worse in Hashirama’s mind) the threat of Madara leaving again, so if anything he finds himself rather complimented that Hashirama thinks enough of him to use him like this.

“He knew –”

“I’m a sensor. I knew, which meant that he knew. Lots of people feel lust around him, or me; he doesn’t use it against everyone. It’s an honor.”

Madara covers his face with his hands, muttering something about captivity bonding not generally applying to sibling relationships, and also about brainwashing being particularly effective on stupid selfless Senju, but after a moment he says, voice slightly muffled through his fingers, “I think Hashirama might not be – entirely sane. You must realize that this isn’t normal. This isn’t how clan heads behave. Or brothers, for that matter.”

Tobirama shrugs. It’s not that he doesn’t know that the latter is true, though he’s suspicious of Madara’s claim as to the former. There are brothers who fight over their inheritance, brothers who raise sword against sword, brothers who live in the same house but hate each other – far better to have Hashirama’s love than his indifference or his hate, no matter what form that love takes. It’s all Tobirama has, and beggars cannot be choosers.

“It’s what Hashirama wants,” he finally says, since it seems like Madara’s waiting for him to say something.

Madara scowls. “Is there any part of you that doesn’t think first and foremost of what Hashirama wants?” he snaps.

Tobirama considers the question seriously – it might be rhetorical, but he’s never been good at figuring out when people want answers or not, so it’s easier to just reply as if they are. “New justus,” he finally offers. “And seals. The process of creating new ones bores Hashirama, but even he has to admit it’s useful, so he doesn’t stop me. Training, too – it irritates him, sometimes, how much time I spend on it, but he knows it’s necessary to make sure I don’t die in the battlefield, so he allows it.”

Madara groans. His chakra is a bizarre mix of irritation-affection-protectiveness that makes Tobirama want to shiver – having it aimed his way is like standing in the rapids of a river letting the water thunder over him, welcoming but fiercely dangerous all the same – and he shakes his head. “Of course. I should’ve guessed; no wonder you spend so much time on those. I’m going to kill Hashirama for pushing you into this.”

Tobirama isn’t worried: there’s not even the smallest drop of killing intent in Madara’s chakra right now.

“I’ll do better to try to stop him next time,” he promises, even though he already regrets the loss. “Or at least to try to refuse him; that might slow him down.”

Madara lifts his head at last, looking at Tobirama, his eyes suddenly intent. “It’s not your responsibility to stop him, you know. Why would you – oh, damn. Everyone always blames you for not stopping him, don’t they? Even me, I’ve been…damn. Damn. Of course you can’t control him; you’re younger, and weaker, and he doesn’t have to listen to you – no. That ends. That ends now. It’s about time Hashirama took the blame for his own choices.”

Tobirama feels – warm. All over. Madara’s chakra pours over him the way his best jutsu do, power and feeling muffling his senses until there’s nothing around him but Madara-Madara-Madara.

Is this what it feels like, to be the object of Madara’s affections?

No wonder Hashirama is so reluctant to risk losing him again.

“You liked it, though, didn’t you?” Madara asks, and he’s suddenly right in front of Tobirama, crouched before him, warm hands on Tobirama’s shoulders, intense gaze focused on Tobirama’s face even as Tobirama averts his eyes on instinct. “Even if Hashirama directed it, you still liked it, with me – you should have things you like.”

Tobirama swallows, his lips suddenly dry. “If you don’t want – if you regret –”

“I object to Hashirama’s lack of concern for consent,” Madara says. “But you – that was your first time. You shouldn’t regret it; I certainly don’t.”

He smiles, then, and his chakra flares again, this time dark and hungry.

“You’re not the only one who improves on repetition, you know. What did you like, the first time? I can do it again. I can do it better.”

Tobirama’s skin feels red and hot. How could it not, surrounded by Madara’s warmth?

“I – I –” He’s stuttering. He never stutters. “Kiss me?”

Madara does.

His lips and his tongue and his hands trace over Tobirama’s face and Tobirama’s making sounds like an animal again, needy and desperate already and they’ve barely done anything but somehow Madara’s pulled him into his lap and is tracing lines across his body and it’s wonderful.

“What else?” Madara breathes against his lips. “What else did you like? What was good for you?”

Tobirama’s dazed and hot and not quite thinking, which is probably why he blurts out, “When you like something.”

Madara’s eyebrows go up even as Tobirama flushes. “I asked what was good for you, not for me.”

“I was answering your question,” Tobirama says, because the only way to continue once you’ve started is to keep going. “I…when you like something, your chakra flares. It’s –”

He can feel his face going lax, his eyes dreamy and unfocused in the power of the memory of it, Madara’s hot-boiling-metal chakra all around him and even inside of him, and he doesn’t know what he looks like but from the way Madara’s cock twitches under him he thinks he must look quite obscene.

“It was good,” he finally concludes, however inadequate that is to explain it.

“My chakra,” Madara murmurs. “You were sensing? Then?”

Tobirama shrugs. “Always.”

“Hn. And feeling me makes you make a face like that, all greedy for me…how sensitive are you? Is it like this with everyone?”

“N-no,” Tobirama’s voice cracks over the word when Madara deliberately washes his chakra over him, hot as always but this time with intent, an animal on the hunt. No wonder they make the perfect match, Madara and Hashirama; Hashirama contains with him the world of plants, but Madara’s core is all animal instinct. “Not everyone. Just – you’re very strong. Like Hashirama. He can blind me with his, if he wants.”

“I bet I could do the same,” Madara says, smirking. “But I’d rather see if I can make you beg with it.”

And suddenly he’s on top of Tobirama, tumbling him back onto the bed and pressing him down with body and hands and chakra all together, and everything is too much but in a good way where he can’t see or hear or feel anything but Madara, Madara and that chakra of his – the taste of metal on his tongue the feeling of boiling water around his body the sound of hissing steam and nothing to see with his eyes but spinning Sharingan red –

Everything gets a little blurry after that.

Madara’s lips on his throat, on his chest, on his cock. His hands on his hips, on his thighs, around his throat to hold him down (and oh, that’s why Madara had liked it so much –). His fingers tracing patterns over his skin that make Tobirama think wildly of seals he could make just for this, just to keep this feeling forever, and he’s never been jealous of the Sharingan before, never wanted the ability to brand memories into his brain for all eternity his near-perfect memory doing that well enough already but now he burns with envy because Madara will have this forever while he’ll one day forget and the only solution to that is to keep Madara with him so they can do it again –

“You’re crying,” Madara whispers, and traces his cheek with his tongue, kissing him so Tobirama can taste the salt. “Is this too much for you?”

Yes.

But Tobirama doesn’t care, clinging to Madara and begging as well as he can for more, not sure if those are words or merely mindless sounds pouring from his throat and finally Madara gives him what he wants, what he needs, and it’s too much too much but Tobirama doesn’t care because it’s his.

He comes, a wash of relief that has him seeing stars, but Madara doesn’t stop there, just keeps working him over, touching him, fucking him, and he gets hard again too soon too much and then there’s that chakra again, drowing him, and he’s coming a second time, sobbing with the pain-pleasure-perfect of it.

He clutches to Madara, eyes wide and vacant, memorizing all of him, and Hashirama is right, of course he is, he always is, always knows best, because Tobirama needs Madara, he has to have him not just now but always, he has to keep him and that means he can’t go.

Madara has to stay with them, with Tobirama and Hashirama, and maybe he’s still a little angry with Hashirama right now but he’ll get over it and they’ll have their village and they’ll have each other and who even cares how it happened, just that it did.

“I’ll show you how to like it,” Tobirama whispers in Madara’s ear, wrapping his longer legs around him; he feels drunk with the joy of it, the words spilling from his mouth without his conscious control, saying what he needs to stay. “I know Hashirama’s a lot, but he loves you, he loves you like he loves me, totally and completely, nothing will ever change that, nothing, not ever, and it’s wonderful. It’s so good and it’s so much better when he’s happy, you have no idea. You’ll see, though. I’ll show you. He’ll show you. You’ll stay with us and we’ll make you happy, you’ll be happy with us, you’ll be so happy that you’ll forget you ever wanted anything else; I’ll teach you how to give yourself up and you’ll teach me this, and we’ll be happy, he’ll be happy, and nothing else matters –”

Madara moans, moving harder and faster, his body wild, his chakra furious like a hurricane, like a typhoon, like a tsunami, rushing relentless and unstoppable, but Tobirama is the master of water, no matter what temperature, and he can ride out these overwhelming sensations the same way.

“You’ll stay forever,” Tobirama says, because he knows that’s what Hashirama wants, because that’s what he wants, too. “You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours and we’ll both be his –”

“Yes,” Madara whispers against him. “Yes – yes –”

And suddenly there’s not just Madara there, black-animal-lust-hot-boiling-metal, but something else, too, something familiar, something white-bright-life-pleased-happy-warm, chakra that’s as familiar to Tobirama as his own. Hashirama’s hands come down on both of them, something green and intricate and full of power twining out from his fingers to wrap around their, almost choking with the desire to hold them tight and safe and his, and he says, “You’re both so good for me.”

And that’s it, Tobirama’s coming again, a third time, painful and dry but endlessly wonderful, and Madara is howling as he comes, too, and – yes, this is good.

This is perfect.

Hashirama really does know best.

Chapter Text

Tobirama stumbles a little when he leaves his labs, but that’s probably just because he ran out of food at some point and didn’t bother to stop what he was doing to get more.

It’s fine, though. Totally worthwhile. He’s come up with something really great, tested it and recorded it, and once his chakra reserves are back the way they ought to be, he’ll show it to Hashirama and -

Hashirama’s here.

Why is Hashirama here at home in the middle of the day?

Tobirama squints at his brother, who has his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl. “Don’t you have work you’re supposed to be doing?”

“I declared a holiday.”

That gets Tobirama’s attention. “Anija, no!” he exclaims. “Do you know what an administrative nightmare a new holiday would -”

“He’s joking,” Madara interjects, because he appears to have also skived off work for the day. Is Tobirama the only person with a work ethic around here? “We finished today’s meetings early and took the rest of our work home. We’ve been worried about you.”

Tobirama blinks owlishly at them. “Worried…?”

“You’ve been in there for six days,” Madara continues, scowling. “And from the look of you…have you slept at all?”

That depends; do catnaps count as sleep?

…maybe he shouldn’t answer that question.

Not that it matters; he’s sure the bags under his eyes tell the truth for him.

“You’ve been very naughty, making us worry like that,” Hashirama says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “That’s not very nice of you, you know. I think you need to be punished.”

Tobirama is going to protest, because whatever Hashirama might think he is not a child anymore, except suddenly Hashirama is shining very bright, chakra overwhelming, and it’s going straight to his head and -

Tobirama wakes up feeling considerably more refreshed.

Also, in a more concerning development, unable to move.

At all.

There are roots and vines twined everywhere around him, immobilizing each limb, crossing over his chest and hips, even climbing up to hold his head and neck steady. His chakra is being suppressed – with an Uzumaki seal, no less, so breaking it will cost more than it’s probably worth.

He’s stuck.

But not unsafe.

“Oh, good,” his anija sings out from somewhere he can’t see. Not that it matters; his comforting chakra is everywhere around, meaning that Tobirama hasn’t tensed up or started to panic. “You’re awake!”

The roots ripple around him - a surprisingly pleasant feeling - and next thing Tobirama knows he’s suspended upright, hanging from the wall and still unable to move.

“Why?” he asks, meaning his current situation, since asking to be let go would clearly be futile.

Hashirama cups his face in both hands, pressing a kiss to Tobirama’s forehead. “You worked yourself into near chakra exhaustion. Again. What if you’d collapsed in your labs?”

Then he would lie there until time had healed him, like he’d done before. Obviously.

Equally obviously, telling Hashirama that was not going to be conductive to getting out of this.

“You shouldn’t worry your big brother like that,” Hashirama continues sternly. “If you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, I’m just going to have to do it for you.”

Tobirama sighs. He knows where this is going.

 "You’re just going to be punishing yourself, too, you know, keeping me tied up like this,“ he tries. “If you don’t let me down, you’ll have to do my paperwork.”

Hashirama’s grin tells him his gambit isn’t going to work this time.

Whatever. It’s fine! While admittedly this level of total immobilization is moderately new, Hashirama has locked him away before, tied him up like this before, it’s something he does when he wants to reestablish control; Tobirama can handle it. Sure, he’s helpless, but it’s just Hashirama. Hashirama would never truly hurt him…unless he thought it was for Tobirama’s own good, anyway.

Still. He’s mostly safe.

“What. What are you doing?”

…right. Madara lives here now, too.

Tobirama feels the back of his neck go hot with embarrassment.

Madara’s presence is…new. He’d tried to go home after their little week together - and seriously who was Hashirama kidding with his concerns about chakra exhaustion, he’d nearly killed them all with sexual exhaustion - only for Hashirama to announce that it was rather inconvenient for members of the Hokage’s office to live far away from the administrative center and that Madara, as the only one distant, should move in with them.

Madara asked, very politely, if he was insane.

Hashirama responded by suggesting, very kindly, that if Madara preferred to limp on home, stinking of sex and newly applied ink, to explain himself (and the brand-new tattoo on the sole of his foot) to his brother and the rest of his clan, he was welcome to do so.

Madara agreed to move in with somewhat alarming alacrity.

Tobirama hadn’t quite understood what was wrong with explaining (he himself would never, of course, but then he’s a very private person, while Madara had always struck him as rather extroverted in comparison, particularly with his close family), but he’d been cheered, briefly, by the thought that maybe, just maybe, he could finally escape being used as Hashirama’s favorite cuddling pillow every night.

No such luck.

It turns out that Madara is also a rather aggressive cuddler, and somehow Tobirama seems to always end up lying right in the middle. It’s a good thing he enjoys being warm at night or else he would be forced to murder them both as they tug him back and forth between them in their sleep.

Really, is it any wonder he retreated to his labs at first instance?

Though maybe – and he’d never admit this out loud – he may have gotten a little bit carried away, if it was enough to make Hashirama break out…this.

“I’m punishing him!” Hashirama chirps, entirely unphased by Madara’s twitching. “So that he learns it’s not good to worry us like that.”

Notably, Hashirama doesn’t suggest that he thinks this will be effective at deterring Tobirama from doing it again in the future should Tobirama think the cause justified. He’s at least figured out that much.

Madara’s mouth opens and closes mutely for a moment. “So you tie him up on your wall? Naked?” he finally says.

“He clearly can’t be trusted to take care of himself,” Hashirama sniffs. “So I’m going to have to do it for him.”

Tobirama really isn’t looking forward to being spoon-fed again. It’s humiliating, even if Hashirama takes such glee in doing so.

It’s not that Tobirama minds being hand-fed in the normal course of events – he’s certain that Hashirama’s been sticking food in his mouth with a “Try this, Tobirama!” since he was a baby, so at this point he’s resigned himself – but he has a distinctive distaste for being fed because he can’t use his arms.

Worst punishment ever.

“…he seems uncomfortable,” Madara finally says, after apparently dismissing at least five other objections that seemed to come to mind.

“It’s a punishment,” Hashirama points out. “He hates keeping still –”

“He sits still all the time.”

“No, he fidgets. Haven’t you seen him playing with that spinning figurine the Nara gave us, the one on his desk?”

“I thought he did that just to irritate me.”

No, that was just a fringe benefit.

“I’m fairly sure that’s just extra fun,” Hashirama, who knows him too well, says with a shrug. “He used to fidget with his arms but he – doesn’t anymore. Anyway, he hates being kept still, which makes it a perfect punishment. I usually keep him like this for a few days.”

There’s an entire history in that brief pause, of Tobirama’s one point of contention with their father and tears shed on Hashirama’s shoulder and the way their father sometimes coughed up flower petals in the weeks before he died while Hashirama smiled, but that wasn’t history Madara needed to know.

Not when Madara’s already done so much for Tobirama already, the hot press of his lips on Tobirama’s chest and the wash of forgiveness turning a mark of shame into nothing but old scar tissue. There was no need to burden him with more.

“A few days seems a bit much,” Madara says, crossing his arms. “Especially since the village will probably fall apart without him.”

“See, anija?” Tobirama can’t help but say. “I told you.”

“We manage fine when he goes out on mission,” Hashirama says, ignoring him entirely.

(That was the other part of this punishment that Tobirama disliked: Hashirama would dote on him or ignore him, but Tobirama never has any say in the matter when he was bound like this.)

Madara’s still frowning, though, so Hashirama finally heaves a great big sigh and says, “Well, if you like, I could do something faster if you promise to help.”

Madara squints at him suspiciously. “Promises to you are dangerous, as I’ve recently learned,” he says.

Tobirama can’t help but snort at that. “Recently? You’re the one who promised to build a village with him; now look where we are.”

Madara doesn’t look at him, keeping his eyes focused on Hashirama, but he hasn’t mastered Hashirama’s ability to compartmentalize anything he doesn’t immediately care to think about so Tobirama still sees it when his lips twitch upwards suspiciously.

Hashirama shrugs grandly. “It’s not like I’m going to force you –”

“Since when?” Madara and Tobirama ask in unison.

Definitely a twitch of Madraa’s lips then.

Hashirama pouts at them both.

It’s an absurd expression on someone so powerful.

“Tobirama, what do you think?” Madara asks, surprising Tobirama. “It’s your – er – punishment.”

“I feel like asking that defeats the purpose of this exercise,” Hashirama grumbles.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make me suffer either way, anija,” Tobirama says, automatically reaching for a way to comfort and support his brother. It’s a terrible instinct, especially under circumstances like this.

Hashirama brightens, though, and that’s worth anything.

…he thinks.

“Fast and with audience participation it is,” Hashirama declares, because of course he thinks that any decision left to Tobirama is his to decide, and unfortunately he’s not wrong about that.

Tobirama still takes the time to nod at Madara, who in a rather confusing turn of events seems to care much more about whether Tobirama agrees to things and who prefers confirmation that Tobirama doesn’t mind. Which he doesn’t! He’s already resigned himself to whatever Hashirama has in mind – especially since Hashirama will be absolutely insufferable if he doesn’t get a chance to try whatever he’s thought up – but also he really would rather be able to move sooner rather than later.

So it’s basically the same as him agreeing.

Then Hashirama whispers in Madara’s ear, which is mildly worrying, and Madara smirks, which is more worrying, and next thing Tobirama knows he’s got Madara’s mouth on his cock, which is very worrying but also mind-blowing enough that it distracts him from worrying.

“You realize, anija,” he chokes out, trying desperately to thrust into Madara’s hot mouth even though he knows logically that it’s a terrible idea and he’s only setting himself up for future misery, and anyway that it’s pointless because his hips are being forced into stillness right now, “that sexual deprivation isn’t going to work every time.”

“I don’t know,” Hashirama says, sprawling out in a chair that curls its way out of the floor. He’s never bothered to go get an existing chair in his life, even if there is one two feet away as there is now, and this is why Tobirama’s always giving people sets of slightly mismatched chairs as housewarming presents. Eventually someone’s going to figure out his motives. “I think I have a good window of time before it stops being effective. That’s good enough for now, Madara, come back here.”

Tobirama whines when Madara retreats, which he knows is essentially conceding Hashirama’s point, but still.

Madara’s chakra crackles, making him whine again as the nerves down his spine light up, and it’s really entirely unfair how quickly Madara learned to do that.

It’s also unfair how much Hashirama has warmed to the idea of providing visual stimulation (if by stimulation Tobirama means additional torture, which he does), because he’s pulled Madara into his lap and watching Madara sprawl out like that, all boneless and moaning and head lolled back onto Hashirama’s shoulder as Hashirama’s clever fingers work him over –

Unfair.

Tobirama struggles to move, even knowing that he can’t, and he feels that burn of humiliation that he always gets when he fails to escape except now it’s mixing in with lust in a way that speaks worryingly of Hashirama’s future plans and how he’s playing right into them but he really can’t bring himself to care right now because he just wants – something.

“You’re doing so well for me, Madara,” Hashirama purrs into Madara’s ear. “Helping me like this, worrying about Tobirama – you’re the best friend a man could have.”

“I – I feel like we’ve gone – ah – somewhat beyond – yes, that, more of that– beyond friendship at this point,” Madara pants.

“Nonsense. Whatever else we are, we’re still friends,” Hashirama says. “You’re my dearest friend, my precious person, and I’ll love you forever and always, no matter what.”

And he means it, too, shining and sincere, charismatic enough to make anyone believe in him even if he were lying but it’s all the more potent because he’s not.

Tobirama feels what is almost a prickle of jealousy, but he learned that he must share his brother’s love with Madara years ago by a riverbank and had that lessons seared into his mind again during that previous week, so instead of jealousy he just feels envy that Hashirama is praising Madara and not him.

If that’s the punishment, it’s a very good one, but somehow Tobirama suspects there’s more to it.

“In fact, you’ve been so good, I should reward you,” Hashirama continues. “Would you like a reward, Madara? Say please.”

Madara grunts.

Hashirama leans down and bites Madara’s shoulder, sharp and sudden, and Madara’s whole body spasms in a way that suggests he enjoyed it tremendously.

“Use your words, Madara,” Hashirama scolds, if anything said in that low growl, menacing and overwhelmingly sexual, could be properly classified as scolding. “Come on, pet, you can do it for me.”

It takes another minute of torment, but eventually Madara forces out a desperate-sounding “please” between his lips, biting them with his teeth until they’re red and plump and Tobirama wants to kiss him more than anything.

Well, maybe not more than he wants to come, watching them like that, or more than he wants to join them, but – more than anything else.

Hashirama’s not done, though.

“Please what?” he asks, eyes round with innocence.

“Please – reward me,” Madara chokes out between groans. “Please!”

“Well, all right. Since you asked so nicely. How about a nice show?”

Show? What type of –

Tobirama feels one of the vines curled around his legs unwind just a little, making its slow, creeping way up his inner thigh.

Oh.

That type of show.

No, wait – Hashirama can’t mean – not with his Mokuton, not with vines and roots instead of hands and fingers and –

Anija!” he shouts, feeling the vine slide up higher and start to prod in a purposeful sort of way. Hashirama’s used the Mokuton on him before, of course, and even during that week he used it liberally enough to hold him down or move him in place but he’s never – not inside

“Shh,” Hashirama says. “You’re being punished; this is Madara’s reward. You should be quiet and let him enjoy it.”

Tobirama opens his mouth to say – something, he’s not sure what, but he’s certain he would have come up with something adequately snarky and cutting, except before he can get a word out there’s a thick wooden branch sliding between his lips, fat and heavy on his tongue, and he can’t do more than make incoherent noises around it as it forces his jaw open wide.

“Oh,” Madara says, a half-choked off sound full of something like wonder, and Tobirama feels his face burning again. It hadn’t occurred to him how it would look, his lips wrapped around the branch as if he were sucking it, but now that it has he can’t stop thinking about it. 

It’s only made worse when Hashirama’s murmur – “Look what a pretty picture he makes” – drifts over to him.

The roots binding his body start shifting then, too.  They don’t give him any leeway to move, but crawl all over his body, alternatively tight and confining or soft and stroking, and Tobirama finds himself whimpering as they curl up on his chest, flicking at his nipples until he’s sure they’re bright red against his pale skin, as red as his cock is, hard and straining and wrapped around with one of Hashirama’s vines that start moving back and forth in a pale imitation of what Hashirama’s hand is doing to Madara.

It’s such a conflicting burst of sensations – the tightness around his cock, the branch in his mouth, the feelers on his chest, the feeling of two chakras pouring over him, the sight of Madara falling to pieces before him – that Tobirama, unforgivably, forgets for a moment about the vine between his legs.

Naturally, that’s the moment that it pushes into him, slick and wet with its own sap, and the surprise makes him shout, muffled by the branch in his mouth as it is.

“What are you doing to him?” he hears Madara ask, but he’s distracted by the strange way it feels – the vine is cool, not warmed with blood the way fingers or a cock would be, and it twists around inside of him in an altogether unfamiliar way.

“Let me show you,” Hashirama says, and suddenly Tobirama is moving – not of his own volition, but being moved, the roots rearranging his body as if he were a doll to be posed at Hashirama’s pleasure – for Madara’s pleasure.

The posing comparison is particularly apt, he finds, as the roots put him on display. He feels himself burn up again, that overwhelming humiliation-tempered-by-lust sweeping through him again, as his legs are spread open and raised up so that Madara can see him, pinned and immobile, getting fucked not by a person, no, but by the manifestation of Hashirama’s will, watch him reduced to writhing and grunting and moaning by nothing more than a vine –

A second vine slides up his legs, a smaller one, twining around the one already there, and Tobirama has less than a moment to realize what it’s going to do before it does it and suddenly there are two vines moving in and out of him, one dedicated to hitting that spot within him that makes him see stars and the other to opening him further, pushing in deeper and harder, and he moans.

“Fuck,” he hears Madara say. “Oh, fuck, look at him – just look –”

“I bet I can fit another in his mouth, too,” Hashirama says conversationally, and Tobirama doesn’t think he’s right because his jaw is already aching but apparently he’s wrong, he can fit in two, and now he’s got them thrusting in there as well – less a gag now than a substitute for a cock, and he can feel himself drooling all over them, leaking from the corners of his mouth, messy and filthy; he must look disgusting –

“Beautiful,” Madara says. “So beautiful.”

And now Tobirama’s burning again, embarrassed beyond belief that Madara is seeing him like this, skewered open like this.

Even his hands are being used now, thick vines slipping in through his fingers and with the barest encouragement from Hashirama he finds himself working his hands up and down them as if they were real.

“Beautiful,” Madara says again, and that’s enough, that’s reason enough even if he knows he’ll wake up in the middle of the night for weeks thinking of this moment, blushing furiously at the sight he must be making, the display he’s putting on, whorish, so greedy that not even the half-dozen thick vines Hashirama is forcing on him is enough.

And he hears Hashirama saying as much, too, laughing at him, teasing him, “Look at him,” he says, “all that and he still wants more, don’t you think? Look at my stern, serious little brother, always proper, knowing every rule of etiquette; look at him now, what do you think of him now?”

“I think he’s perfect,” Madara says, his voice low.

“Oh, he is,” and Hashirama’s voice is fond as ever, fond and loving, and that’s why Tobirama lets him do things like this, obscene things he’s never even imagined, all because he loves him so. “He’s always perfect, my Tobirama – perfect fighter, perfect scholar, perfect administrator, perfect little slut.”

Humiliation should make him thrash with fury, embarrassment should make him turn away in shame, but instead his cock is leaking and tears stream down his face as he tries so hard to thrust his hips only to be stopped by the vines. As an object lesson, it’s a very good one: he’s not in control here, not at all, not even over instinctual responses that his body is begging him for.

Everything about him belongs to Hashirama, now just as always, and by hurting himself he’s hurt something of his brother’s and that is not allowed.

“What do you think, Madara? Look at him – perfect, just like you said. Putting on a display like that, the perfect wanton little whore. The best brothel in Konoha couldn’t put up someone better than him, taking all of that at once like that and enjoying it too. Doesn’t seem like much of a punishment, though, does it, with him enjoying it so much – I bet he’d do it for real if we asked nicely enough, don’t you?”

Tobirama writhes, red in his cheeks and his ears and blush going down his chest because he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, surely, he has too much pride than that, too much dignity –

But if his brother asked…

“Think about it,” Hashirama laughs in Madara’s ear, Madara’s eyes spinning red as he brands the image Tobirama is making into his brain forever. “The village’d never lack for money if we rented him out. People would line up for the privilege, and no one would care how many he’s had before as long as he takes them, too. Or maybe we could offer him to visiting diplomats as a perk – see how well they negotiate in the morning when they’ve had him on his knees the night before, sucking them all off, letting them come on his face, on his hands, on his body until he’s sopping wet –”

No,” Madara growls, and his gaze is so intense that Tobirama imagines he can feel it on his skin, burning and hot and dark the way his chakra is, bubbling oil scorching him from the inside. “No one else. He’s ours.”

Tobirama wants to say something, do something – wants to kiss Madara, take him into his arms, thank him somehow – but he can’t do anything, anything at all; he’s entirely at their mercy.

Hashirama laughs again.

“All ours, yes,” he says, smug and satisfied. “All mine, both of you. I could have you like this any time I want, Tobirama, you know that, right? Doesn’t matter where or when: all the houses are made of wood.  Just think about that for a moment. You could be in my office, sitting at your desk; you could be kneeling at the dinner table at home; you could be snug asleep in your bed, and none of it would matter. You’d never have the slightest warning until my roots are wrapped around you.”

Tobirama’s thinking about it, oh, he’s thinking about it. Thinks about waking up in the middle of the night already split open, legs pushed apart before he was ever aware; thinks about his office chair suddenly reaching up for him when his mind is preoccupied with paperwork; thinks about the flimsy door to the Hokage office and the window where shinobi come through on a regular basis without warning – where they could see

Yes, he’s thinking.

He really wishes sometimes that he could stop thinking.

He wishes he could beg Hashirama for forgiveness, for mercy, for relief, but gagged as he is he can’t do more than plead with his eyes.

“Should we have pity?” Hashirama asks Madara. “I don’t know. I’m not sure he’s adequately made it up to us, all that worrying he’s put us through. I think we need a little more.”

Tobirama’s not sure what more he can possibly give.

But Hashirama’s voice is dropping too low to be overheard and he’s whispering instructions in Madara’s ear, Madara nodding obediently – because everyone obeys Hashirama eventually – and the next thing Tobirama knows Madara’s not in Hashirama’s lap anymore, he’s pressed up hot and heavy against Tobirama, and the vines between Tobirama’s legs are pulling out, leaving him empty, but Madara’s there for him, pushing in instead.

It’s so much better, hot flesh giving easily the way the wood and plant matter didn’t, and Tobirama moans, helplessly approving.

The branches slip out of his mouth, too, and Madara kisses him, whispering, “Beautiful” at him even though Tobirama knows his face is wet with tears and drool. He’s not beautiful, he knows he’s not, and especially not now, but sometimes when Madara says it he could almost believe it.

But then Hashirama’s there, too, pressed up behind him, pressing up inside him, first fingers and then cock, sliding in easily where the vines have already stretched Tobirama open, and – oh –

“Anija,” he whimpers. “Anija – you’re – you’re inside – you’ve never –”

It’s not really the first time he’s had his brother’s cock, not really; during their week together he’d learned to suck him, had him in his mouth while Madara rutted inside him, and certainly he’s had Hashirama’s fingers in him from well before then (that horrible talk about the importance of masturbation in maintaining one’s health, fuck, the demonstration portion of that went on for hours and hours and he’s still mildly shell-shocked to this day about it) and Hashirama certainly talked about doing this, but somehow, somehow, the reality is still different.

“Fuck,” Madara says, and buries his face, red and hot, in Tobirama’s neck. “Oh, fuck, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, fuck, why does that do it for me –”

“You’re so cute,” Hashirama coos, even as he wraps his long arms around them both. He really is far too tall; he can make even Tobirama feel small. “Both of you, my precious people, so cute. Tobirama, make that cute little face again and say ‘please fuck me, anija’.”

Tobirama has no idea what face Hashirama’s referring to, but he needs to show that he can be good, too, the way Madara was being good earlier, so that Hashirama will be pleased with him, will praise him, too, so he obediently says, “Please fuck me, anija.”

Madara groans and stops holding still, starting to move, and Hashirama’s moving, too, and somehow this is nothing at all like the two vines from earlier, it’s less coordinated, less timed, and it’s so much better. Tobirama’s being tugged between them, as helpless as he was beneath the roots, being used by them, feeling their cocks rub up against each other inside of him, hearing Madara curse and Hashirama laugh and it’s so good, he loves it, he’s so happy that he can do this for them when even a few weeks ago it would have seemed impossible.

“So good,” Hashirama says. “You’re so good, Tobirama, taking us both like this. Don’t you like it when we share?”

“Yes,” he gasps, and his voice is slurring as if he’s drunk, drunk on pleasure instead of sake. “Yes, yes, please, please share me, share me whenever you want, have me, use me –”

“How are you this perfect,” Madara says, and his hands are tight on Tobirama’s hips and his chakra is metal-bright and warm on Tobirama’s tongue and he’s not even asking a question, not really, he really thinks that, he thinks Tobirama is perfect, no one thinks that, no one but Hashirama.

And Madara, now.

“Anija, please,” he begs, because he can do that now, he’d forgotten somehow. “Please, I’ll be good for you, I won’t make you worry, please, just let me come, please –”

“Us first,” Hashirama says, not without sympathy. “This is a punishment, after all.”

Please, anija, I’ve learned better, I know better, I won’t, I’ll be good, just please –”

“No, Tobirama. Us first.”

“Don’t worry,” Madara grunts. “I’m not going to take long.”

He doesn’t, thankfully, and Hashirama loves seeing them after they’ve come, all fucked out and mindless and split open right down to the core, so he’s coming not much longer after that.

Tobirama can feel them, both of them; feels them both pull out, their come dripping down his thighs and mingling together until it’s impossible to tell whose it is, and he’s sore and he’s hard and he whines, long and high, and finally, finally, Hashirama has mercy on him, releasing him from the vines – all of them, even the ones that were stimulating him, and reaching down with an amused expression to push his fingers inside once again, coating them with his come, with Madara’s, and just thinking of that has Tobirama coming at last without any more help than that.

He’d be ashamed of himself, of how easy he is to please, except that he doesn’t have any space to feel anything other than pleasure and relief so sharp it almost hurts.

“Shh, shh,” Madara is saying, his hands running across Tobirama’s overheated body gently. “Come down, nice and slow, we’ve got you.”

Tobirama comes back down to earth, finding himself on the floor with Hashirama on one side and Madara on the other, and he doesn’t want to move a single muscle ever again.

“I think that was a good punishment,” Hashirama says, satisfied.

“Stop gloating and go to sleep,” Madara says, his eyes already heavily lidded. “Though I guess someone should probably go get some water to clean us up.”

Tobirama considers the possibility of someone leaving right now, even for so short a time, and finds it unacceptable, so he lazily makes the signs one-handed and douses them all with warm water pulled from the humid air right outside their window.

“That,” Madara, now awake again and glaring, says, “was not what I meant.”

Hashirama starts laughing.

Tobirama decides he doesn’t care – Madara still hasn’t left, after all, and the water was hot so really he has no basis to complain even if his hair will probably get a little tangled from it – and so he closes his eyes and goes to sleep, his brother’s laughter and his lover’s grumbling still ringing in his ears as he does.

Chapter Text

Senju Ryota was not a very distinctive man.

He did not mind this fact. On the contrary, he would happily describe himself as average in virtually every respect: a decent but not particularly notable fighter; a moderate earner who took on missions on a regular basis, neither slacking nor exceeding expectations; a man who married at the average age and had an average number of children.

Being average in an age marked by the appearance of legends, the gods of shinobi, might be disappointing for some people, but Senju Ryota did not mind.

After all, he was still alive.

This was much more of an achievement than those outside his clan might think.

His first clan leader was Butsuma, whose rabid hatred of the Uchiha clan, their traditional enemies, led him to take risks he should not have and who would violently crush any dissent.

His second clan leader was Hashirama, against whom no one wise even considered dissenting.

Hashirama, the first to inherit the Senju bloodline limit in several generations – who smiled as brightly as the sun, who was as powerful as a god, who loved his clan dearly and peace even more –

Who would kill you without so much as a blink if it suited him. 

(After all, everyone knew what had happened to Butsuma, even if they had no proof, though what good proof would have done them against such monstrous power he does not know.)

Senju Ryota had survived Butsuma by being lucky, and he survived under Hashirama by being average. He kept his head down and never questioned, supported his leader’s decision to create a village in alliance with their traditional enemies, smiled and said everything was fine and normal if ever he was asked.

Which he was, sometimes; the Uchiha had a pesky habit of poking at things that were better left unsaid. They learned better, eventually, and only a handful of new rose gardens appeared to line the streets of Konoha before that happened.

If he sometimes glanced at his leader and thought, in his heart of hearts, that the man’s brother had never had any chance at a normal life, a wife or husband and children of his own – that the Uchiha clan leader had lost some vital part of himself when his wild and free independence was broken – that certain taboos were not meant to be trifled with –

Well, those were thoughts, and everyone has thoughts, even average men, but average men who are just a little bit wise know better than to speak those thoughts.

(After all, they slept in a bed made of wood under the watchful eye of the most powerful sensor in the world, and if that wasn’t bad enough, Uchiha Madara had not lost an iota of his fearsome temper.)

Senju Ryota was average, and did not make a fuss, and so he was alive.

He had survived Butsuma. He had not expected, in all honesty, to survive Hashirama.

But he did.

The news of their clan leader’s death spread like fire – Hashirama dead, the kill confirmed, the body brought back to the village for burial according to their customs – and, like many others of his clan, Senju Ryota did not know how to react. 

Dead?

Hashirama, dead

Surely not. Not that great man, who defeated the Uchiha and brought them all to peace, who tamed the bijuu, who broke the spirits of his enemies, whose influence shaped all their lives. How could he be dead?

But it was true.

He could see it on the numb features of Uchiha Madara, the way he moved as though he had been stabbed, the way his usually fluent speech broke and cracked whenever he said anything – which wasn’t much. That famous heart lit black flame was now all but extinguished by the depths of his loss. He tugged often at the detailed collar that he wore, which rumor said was a gift from Hashirama himself.

Senju Tobirama reacted, if anything, even worse. He had disappeared from the spot where he stood, his hiraishin activating, and he had not reappeared since then, leaving the entirety of the work of carrying on in Madara’s hands. He did not even reappear to attend the funeral, a grand state affair like none other, with respects (sent from a respectful distance) coming in from all over the world.

Funny – Senju Ryota would have thought Tobirama the one more likely to be named Nidaime, not Madara, as the former’s skill in administration by far exceeded the latter’s, even though the latter was notably more charismatic. But then, it was his brother, his last brother, his brother who dominated every last inch of his life, and anyway Tobirama had never been one to go public with his grief.

The village had lost their leader, but those two? They had lost the center of their lives.

Loss was far from unknown to shinobi, but somehow, somehow, it felt like they had never had a loss of this magnitude. 

And yet –

The village went onwards.

Life went onwards. 

It had to.

Senju Ryota attended the meetings called by the entire village to discuss the matter of succession: Tobirama’s name was put forward, as was Madara’s, and several others besides in the event that those two would be unwilling to take up the mantle of Hokage.

Some people suggested that perhaps a co-leadership was in order, instead, to take advantage of each man’s strengths to compensate for the other’s weakness and furthermore to let them lean upon each other in their grief, and this was favored by a significant majority.

But before the official election could occur – Madara, on his own and on the absent Tobirama’s behalf, resisted and postponed, but even he could only do so much – he saw Tobirama walking out of his laboratory.

He was smiling.

The circles under his eyes had become more akin to gashes; his skin was grey and utterly colorless; he was thin as though he had forgotten to eat for months; the familiar red marks on his cheeks and chin had become accompanied by others; there were bandages apparent under his clothing suggesting injuries that had been neglected, or even potentially self-imposed –

But he was smiling: broadly, happily, with all evidence signs of pleasure. 

This was unusual enough, even before his brother’s loss, that Senju Ryota, despite his commitment to avoid all things of note, slowed his walk to gawk in wonder.

Madara was the next one to exit, and there were tears trailing down his face even as he laughed and pounded Tobirama on the shoulder in what appeared to be sincere joy.

And then –

No. 

No.

It could not be.

And yet – 

It was.

Hashirama.

Standing tall as ever, yes, but different, too. His face looked as though it had been recreated from clay and baked too quickly, resulting in cracks all over; his eyes were pitch black and empty, nothing but a single white dot in the very center to signify that the body contained a soul.

But the smile was his, a cheerful and infectious grin, and the way he threw his arms around his brother and his best friend was unmistakable.

It was him.

He was not alive.

“Ha, Ryota!” his clan leader called, spotting him across the way and nodding a greeting. “Guess what? Tobirama invented a resurrection technique, and robbed me back out of the Pure Lands right under the Shinigami’s nose! Isn’t my little brother wonderful?”

“Anija, please,” Tobirama said, ducking his head, abashed. “It’s hardly perfected yet; I will continue to improve on it.”

“I don’t know,” Madara countered. “A body that can’t die – untouchable by fire, water, earth or wind, by lightning or illusion, that neither feels hunger nor requires sleep – one that will never suffer the infirmities of age – it’s not that bad a starting place!”

“I have some ideas on returning the ability to eat and sleep,” Tobirama said. “It should at least be optional.”

“We have time,” Hashirama laughed. “Thanks to you, we have all the time in the world!”

And Senju Ryota knew, with a sinking feeling in his heart, that what his leader – once former, now forever – had said was true.

He had all the time in the world.

As for the world itself, though –

Senju Ryota belatedly realized that he was very, very afraid.

No amount of being average was going to save him this time. 

No one was going to be saved, this time.

Chapter Text

There comes a time in a man's life when he has to think about the choices.

About what it was that led him to where he is now.

For Madara, where he is now happens to be hiding behind a dango stall so that Izuna doesn’t find him.

So, really, what even is his life right now?

He feels like he knew, once, but then things just sort of happened.

First there was war, then there wasn’t, and then there was all of the negotiations to start the village and spending every minute feeling like the elders were going to stab him in the back for it, followed shortly by the even greater stresses of actually setting up a cohesive ninja village, and then all of a sudden there was Hashirama coming up behind him, darkness, confusion, kidnapping – and then Tobirama, beautiful earnest Tobirama who still didn’t know about the kidnapping portion of their first real encounter and never would as far as Madara was concerned, and, fuck, he can barely even think the man’s name without a frisson running up his spine, which he supposes is what happens after several weeks of, just, constant sex.

And Hashirama –

Madara very carefully does not think about how he feels about his lifelong best friend and former enemy right now. If he does, he might think about the curl of heat in his belly and shaking cold in his fingertips; think of how terribly he loves him – has always loved him – and how he’s afraid of him, too; think how somehow in his mind all of those battles that never went anywhere meant that he categorized Hashirama as something safe and now even with proof that he’s incredibly not he still can’t quite break that habit; and think, too, of that overwhelming feeling of debt, of course, always debt and gratitude for saving Madara’s heart and mind from turning to ash and all Hashirama ever asked in return was to make all Madara’s dreams come true –

That’s why Izuna can’t find him.

There is no way Madara is explaining what’s going on between him and the Senju brothers to Izuna.

Izuna, who Tobirama so very nearly killed –

Izuna, who Hashirama saved.

The curse of the Sharingan: Madara remembers the exact moment when he heard the shout and saw Izuna fall, stricken, Tobirama finally coming out the victor of what he had always privately and irrationally thought would be an eternal stalemate.

He remembers abandoning everything – the mission, the battlefield, even whatever members of his clan that could not keep up – to get Izuna back home and into the care of the medics.

He remembers how sick he felt when the medics told him there was nothing they could do to save Izuna from Tobirama’s well-aimed strike and how Izuna’s attempt to dodge had earned him nothing more than a slower death.

He remembers the black rage that consumed him when the sentry ran in, shouting that the Senju had taken the almost unimaginable step of attacking the Uchiha compound itself.

He remembers the way that rage had turned him almost rabid, feral as a wild dog, when he’d run outside and seen Tobirama standing there – distant, cold, merciless as he always is on the battlefield – with what appeared to be a masked army at his back, saying that he’d heard that the job he’d done was incomplete and that he’d come to finish it.

A lie, of course.

A good lie, though; it’d done the job: Madara, maddened, had bellowed in his rage, ordering every able-bodied Uchiha to attack, all at once. And Tobirama was so incredibly fast that it’d taken a good ten minutes before their strikes actually started landing and they’re realized that the whole army, Tobirama and the masked men all, were nothing more than those damnable shadow clones because apparently he’d figured out a new twist to the technique that let him make incredibly large numbers of them.

They’d rushed back to the compound the second they’d realized that the ‘attack’ was a feint, but by then Hashirama and Tobirama (the real one) had infiltrated to Izuna’s sickbed, Hashirama healing him and Tobirama keeping watch, and Madara had barely burst into the room when Tobirama had used his hiraishin to spirit the two of them away to safety, leaving behind a healed Izuna and a single kunai piercing their wall, holding up a scroll reading “We trust we’ve made our point” and listing a date and time for peace talks.

Madara really should have realized that Hashirama must be insane back then.

(Before, he’d imagined that Hashirama reacted to Tobirama’s near-kill with anger and grief, shouting that Tobirama robbed him of his best hope of peace with Madara, killing once and for all that dream born by the riverbank, and demanded that Tobirama accompany him to the Uchiha compound to help fix what he had wrought. Now that he knows Hashirama a little better, he thinks it went differently: Hashirama pulling his brother into his arms, whispering praise, and saying, “I’m glad you didn’t kill him immediately. I know just how we’re going to use this.”

And if, sometimes, Madara wonders whether Tobirama’s deadly strike landed true on his brother’s orders…well, Izuna still lives, even if his lungs are a little weaker than they once were, and now they have peace, so surely the ends justify the means and it would be wrong of him to question how it was all achieved. Right?)

In short, there is no fucking way he’s telling Izuna about the exact nature of his current relationship with the Senju brothers, no matter how many times Izuna bothers him about how “altered” his behavior has been since that week he went on that so-called mission with the two of them.

Besides, multiple other people in the clan have told Madara that the entire clan finds him infinitely more tolerable now that he's happier and more relaxed, and if they'd realized that getting laid by a Senju on a regular basis was what it took they would have kidnapped one ages ago.

So Izuna can’t really be concerned. He’s probably just fishing for details to help him win that damnable betting pool regarding which Senju, exactly, Madara is banging, and in what configuration.

Not that anyone in the betting pool has actually guessed right.

Madara doesn’t blame them. He and Hashirama mutually thought of each other as best friends throughout all these long years of war, and they met on a regular basis on the battlefield – if he hadn’t been able to figure out that Hashirama, in addition to being the extremely cheerful, emotional, childish, optimistic, and endlessly hopeful man that he is, is also a sadistic psychopath with a matchless ruthless streak, well, what hope did everyone else have?

Even Izuna thinks of Hashirama as “the nice one”, and he’s in line to be named co-head of the village’s new merged T&I division alongside the head of the Yamanaka clan once the negotiations of their assimilation in to the village is complete.

(To be perfectly honest, Madara’s own greatest contribution to village unity may very well have been recommending that Hashirama take Izuna instead of Tobirama as his aide for some of the peace talks with clans they’d determined would be necessary to be part of the village. Izuna’s most staunch protests against the creation of Konoha has always concerned leaving the defense of the Uchiha clan in the hands of people he didn’t consider adequate, and while Madara’s not actually sure what happened during those peace talks, Izuna did come back with a slight green tinge to his face and significantly fewer concerns about Hashirama’s willingness to do what must be done if necessary.

And with even Izuna now firmly on the side of integration, the remaining dissenting voices were quickly silenced – thought whether Izuna's good faith in the village will survive finding out the exact details of what his beloved older brother has gotten himself into...

Well, probably best not to test it.)

On the other hand, there’s missing Hashirama’s well-hidden madness, which Madara can’t blame anyone for, and then there’s just being stupid. Madara’s heard what ridiculous rumors are going around about him and Hashirama – all gooey romance and hand-holding, childhood romance divided by family strife and reunited at last through Hashirama’s perseverance and hope – and he knows it’s not his public demeanor that invites such speculation.  How shinobi who have been on the same battlefield as the Senju, sometimes in opposition to them, forget that their precious God of Shinobi is in fact a shinobi, Madara’s not sure, but they definitely have.

Still, it's better than what they say about Tobirama.

(cold, harsh, soulless, disdainful and jealous of his brother’s affection for Madara, untrusting of the Uchiha, full of bitterness and hatred, intent on poisoning their precious peace from within)

Tobirama: beautiful, earnest, well-meaning, broken Tobirama, whose mind Hashirama has so thoroughly molded to his own purposes that Madara despairs of ever being able to explain even something so simple as how unusual (wrong) their relationship with Hashirama is.

Tobirama, who tries so hard and does so much that no one sees, who is more or less single-handly building the foundation for Madara and Hashirama's dream village, who can perfectly read a person's body for the purposes of battle but fails to even start to understand their minds for the purposes of peace. Whose inability to speak in anything but the sternest tones makes people overlook him as heartless and cruel, when in truth he is anything but.

(Tobirama loves as deeply as any Uchiha, with all the pain that comes with it, but whom everyone treats as if he is too strong to feel such things – Madara, whose clan should really know better than to misjudge him but still does it, understands being in that position better than anyone.)

Sure, Madara has only had his own eyes opened about Tobirama recently – he’d been as vile as the rest of them before, blaming Tobirama for what Hashirama did, for what he didn’t do, for everything, making him the village scapegoat just because he didn’t smile – but now that he’s aware, he's determined to put a stop to it. He never could stand people who failed to appreciate what they had by holding them to impossible standards; he’d put a stop to any comparisons between himself and Izuna at once, harshly, and to see Tobirama retreating further and further into himself, languishing in Hashirama’s shadow, causes him an almost physical pain.

Now that he sees it, and now that he does he sees it everywhere, he's decided that he will burn anyone who dares think of Tobirama as the lesser just because he's not Hashirama, even when - especially when - Tobirama would never think to question it.

...Hashirama probably factored that into his plans, too.

Damn strategists. People in the village joke about Tobirama being part Nara, all quiet reserve and brilliant mind and concern for the troublesome, but it took discovering that Hashirama also has that clan’s notorious ability to see all the steps necessary to reach their goals, as famous if not more so than their shadows, to convince Madara that there might be some truth to the rumor.

After all, look at where they are now.

Everything Hashirama wants, he has: a village of peace, a ban on military action by children, power enough to protect his last living brother –

Even Madara.

(Madara's hardly the only Uchiha to be attracted to the Senju brothers - there's been an active black market in suggestive pictures made of convincing henges more or less ever since the day they came of age - but his position as Hashirama's (former) best friend had given him particular reason to daydream. But none of his much-exercised fantasies had prepared him for the reality that Hashirama would not just want him, which he'd barely dare hope, but would want to own him, a greedy and possessive and all-encompassing love that Madara really, truly shouldn't find nearly as hot as he does.)

Almost as if summoned by his thoughts, Madara feels the tightening around his throat that means that Hashirama wants him to come home.

He reaches up and tugs at his neck, scowling.

Damn collar.

Damn Hashirama, too, for using a promise made in a moment of weakness to convince Madara to put the collar on without clarifying that it then wouldn't come off.

Woven with the most precise use of the Mokuton Madara has ever seen Hashirama use, the collar is a gorgeous swirl of brown roots and branches, green vines, red and yellow leaves, so fine and delicate that it looks like embroidery.

Madara knows it does, because after two of the village's leading shinobi simultaneously began wearing them, disguised as adornment sewn into their outfits (and the fact that Tobirama was similarly collared was not as comforting as Hashirama might think, given that Madara knows perfectly well that Tobirama would do anything Hashirama wanted no matter how foolish), the whole damn village picked up the trend.

The Konoha collar, they're calling it. Ridiculous.

Hashirama probably planned that, too, or maybe it’s just the universe loving him so much that it gives him unlooked-for gifts in the form of good luck. Now his entire village has unknowingly adopted the symbol of Hashirama's dominion, and all because they think it’s fashionable

As Madara said: ridiculous.

And given how ridiculous it is, Madara really shouldn’t find the memory of Hashirama, eyes dark with lust and possessiveness and no small amount of madness, murmuring as he fixed the collar into place that it would help him make sure that nothing would ever part them again as damnably hot as he does. It’s a wound that’s lingered in Madara’s heart, too, ever since that day by the river, and knowing that Hashirama feels as strongly as he does, however he expresses it, soothes something in him that he didn’t even know needed soothing.

(He’s still not sure about how he feels about the idea of being owned, though somehow it’s only taken Hashirama a month of repeated positive reinforcement to convince Madara’s cock that the idea’s not half bad and definitely not worth objecting to. Not that Madara would let himself be ruled by his sexual desires, of course, but given the near-celibate state that his high rank and the respect of his clan has boxed him into for years on end, they are rather persuasive…)

Maybe he would object more if Tobirama hadn’t been collared at the same time – collared like an animal by his own damn brother, on his knees with the ecstasy of the converted in his eyes like a painting that Madara has seared forever into his brain with his Sharingan, and no matter how much he knows better, Madara still somehow expects every time he sees Tobirama wearing the collar that Tobirama will suddenly realize that this is all twisted and wrong, that no matter how beautiful the two Senju look together there is a power imbalance between them that will never be fixed. But that will never happen: the depth of the brainwashing involved here will take years to fix, if fixing it is even possible.

(If Madara could only think about the collaring logically, he might be able to convince himself that it’s unacceptable, but thinking about the collar makes him think of Hashirama and Tobirama and things that mean that he’s basically ended up jerking off at least once a day to those thoughts for the last month and clearly thinking logically just isn’t going to happen until he gets this whole thing out of his system and his libido under control again. He’s sure that’ll happen. At some point. Surely…)

The only good thing that had come out of the stupid collars, in Madara’s opinion, was how the fashionable popularity of the collars in Konoha ended up sparking the idea for one of Tobirama’s most brilliant ideas to date, and given that Tobirama and brilliance are practically synonymous, that was really saying something.

Using Hashirama’s usual inattention to detail as cover, Tobirama snuck through a law allowing certain Hokage-approved products to be sold without any tax burden on either seller or buyer, thus significantly reducing the price and increasing the profit, and worked with the village merchants to encourage the sale of Konoha ‘souvenirs’ to civilians from across the land. Once the Council – Tobirama had insisted on their having one, represented by elders from each clan that joined, and while Madara had originally doubted that democracy was really applicable to shinobi, the existence of the Council had turned out to be a major selling point in convincing more clans to join the village now that they knew their opinions would be heard – found out about it, mostly when their budget for new works had decreased due to receiving less tax, they protested it as foolish and self-indulgent waste.

Well, they’d protested right up until Tobirama explained that each necklace or keychain or pacifier or whatever had been stamped, among other decorative features, with one of his Hiraishin marks, thereby giving him - and whatever listening devices or bombs he carried with him – immediate access to villages and clan compounds across the land that he would never have been able to access otherwise.

(Madara is so very, very glad that they’re no longer at war with the Senju, especially since by the time Tobirama got around to explaining his plan several dozen of the stupid things had already gotten lost somewhere inside the new Uchiha compound. Izuna had been incredibly pissed off at the unfathomable breach in security.)

The collar gives another squeeze, harder this time, and that cuts off Madara’s daydreaming.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Madara grumbles – and given what a summons by collar like this usually means, he has reason to expect that he will very soon be coming in a different sort of way – and peeks around the side of the stall to confirm that he’s lost Izuna.

With that confirmed, he nods at the highly amused stall owner – a civilian, though one who managed to keep such a straight face that Madara thinks he might be a spy – and dashes up the side of the nearest building to make a beeline towards Hashirama's house.

Their house, he supposes, given that he shares it with the two Senju brothers with the official reason being that it’s more convenient for them to be near the village’s administrative center, but really, it’s Hashirama’s house.

Everything in that house belongs to Hashirama, but most especially its other two residents.

(Madara wishes he wasn’t the sort of person who was turned on by the methods Hashirama considered appropriate in disciplining his younger brother, particularly after that research spree of his, but, unfortunately, he really, really is. If only Tobirama wasn't so beautiful and so broken, so lovely in his obedience, in his need, in his pleas for mercy, then maybe Madara wouldn't want him so badly that he'd agree to anything if only to get more of him –)

The second Madara passes the threshold, his collar tightens pointedly in a way that he’s learned means that no one else is home that Hashirama's got something planned.

Which means wearing clothing is not allowed.

Madara licks his suddenly dry lips - why does he like this? - and gets himself undressed, leaving only the collar in place.

He heads first to the bedroom, his cock already hard in anticipation, but oddly enough, Hashirama’s not there.

He’s in the office. Actually working, no less.

“Tobirama, there’s no need to wear a henge when we’re at home,” Madara drawls, even those his sensor abilities make it clear that it is, in fact, Hashirama sitting there – even if the fact that he’s sitting at the ridiculous ‘walking’ desk no one else can use wasn’t enough to give him away.

Hashirama looks up at him with a blinding smile, waving the desk away so he can rise to his feet.

“Good, you’re here,” he says, coming over. “I got you a present.”

Madara has exactly one second to feel a distinct sense of foreboding – even without the Sharingan, one learns to get a feel for these sorts of things – and then Hashirama plops something on top of his head.

“…are those cat ears?!”

“They are! I saw them in the marketplace today and thought of you,” Hashirama says, apparently oblivious to Madara’s growing incredulousness. “Just like that prickly stray that hangs around the fish shop –”

“Hashirama. I am not a cat.”

“Of course you are,” Hashirama says, settling his hands on Madara’s shoulders. He’s still smiling. “You’re anything I say you are.”

And then something burns on the back of Madara’s neck, snapping his chakra shut so quickly that he can’t breathe for a moment and the pressure of Hashirama’s hands grows and he falls to his knees –

Right onto a pillow.

“See?” Hashirama says, sounding smug. “My good little kitty.”

“Since when,” Madara wheezes, ignoring how nice it feels when Hashirama’s fingers gently knead his shoulders and ignoring even harder how hard his cock still is, “can you attach chakra suppression seals to the Mokuton?”

“Tobirama –”

“Say no more.” Madara’s not even surprised. Hashirama probably hadn’t even needed to ask, he could have just smiled faintly at the thought of surprising Madara like this and Tobirama would have set to work immediately. Hashirama has Tobirama remarkably well –

Madara swallows.

Trained.

That's different, though, he argues to himself. Tobirama doesn’t know what freedom is, while Madara has not only been free but clan head, commander of dozens of soldiers, for years; he’s agreeing to Hashirama’s nonsense because it apparently appeals to some sort of bizarre sexual urges that he was previously unaware of. He might be submitting, but he’s still in control.

He can walk away any time.

“Oh, Madara, look! I also found this.”

Madara stares.

Right before his eyes, Hashirama is dangling what appears to be a small plush mouse.

“No,” Madara says flatly.

“You should play with it. It’s a present.”

Madara sees red. What the hell is Hashirama up to? Humiliation games are what he plays with Tobirama, not with Madara; those games have certainly been enjoyable to watch (and experience) but Madara definitely isn’t into that sort of thing –

Hashirama’s hand moves to his hair and pulls, yanking Madara’s head backwards to look up at him.

Madara’s cock gives a traitorous twitch. None of his other lovers have ever been brave enough to play with his hair, even though it’s right there and somewhat unavoidable; thus far all of his exploration in that direction has happened, by necessity, on his own.

This is different from those little games he designed for himself: more unpredictable, more dangerous. Hashirama’s strong, physically as well as in terms of pure power, and there’s a certain thrill in knowing that the fingers tangled through his hair could probably pick him up and throw him if they so wished. A thrill in being helpless, on his knees, and yet knowing that his life is in no real danger – Hashirama loves him, madly and desperately, and he’s not going to kill him, though he might be willing to hurt him, as evidenced by the further little tug on Madara’s hair.

…it's much better than doing it to himself.

“You’re being ungrateful, kitty,” Hashirama murmurs. “And here I go to all this trouble to get you a nice present, and you won’t even try it out? That’s not very nice.”

Madara shouldn’t find this hot. He’s not a child, he’s not Tobirama; he’s never enjoyed being disciplined. If anything, it always drove him mad when his father or the elders meted it out; he hated it with an unruly passion that he never failed to express. He should jump to his feet right now and storm out of the room in an angry huff, that’s what he should do.

And then –

And then Hashirama might never do this again.

Might never look at him with those eyes gone dark, that little hint of a smile hiding behind his best attempt at a stern expression (it’s not very convincing); might never put his hands in Madara’s hair and pull just the way Madara’s always secretly hoped that someone would –

…Madara maintains that this is a very stupid game that Hashirama’s playing, but maybe it’s worth giving it a shot.

But on his own terms, to remind Hashirama that Madara’s here of his own free will and not by coercion, that no matter what they play at when it comes to games of ownership, at the end of the day they’re still best friends and equals.

Madara looks up at Hashirama from his position on his knees and smirks, ignoring how dry his lips are. “And what’re you going to do about that?”

Hashirama’s face breaks out in a giant grins in response.

Next thing Madara knows – what is with these Senju, do they ever stop training their speed? – Hashirama’s sitting on the floor and Madara’s lying over his lap.

Madara has that second of foreboding again, except this time he knows exactly what’s going to happen and he’s not okay with it. Hashirama couldn’t seriously expect him to agree to be –

Hashirama’s hand comes down right on Madara’s ass.

“What the fuck, Hashirama –”

Hashirama hits him again, and Madara yelps in surprise. This isn’t the piddling little impact play he’s managed to talk at least one particularly brave lover into, where every strike is half-hearted at best – Hashirama’s really putting his back into it. And given that Hashirama is built like the trees he can summon with a thought, with thighs and arms as massive as oaks, with all the power that suggests behind his blows even before he adds chakra, that’s really saying something.

It makes Madara think of the battlefield: the way his blood is on fire, adrenaline pumping through his heart when he sees Hashirama across a field, knowing that in only a moment they would clash with an impact so powerful it would rattle his teeth, matching that terrible strength with his own. The way they would be abandoned by their clans, all wise enough to know to get out of the way when titans walked the earth and gods met in the fury of war; the way it sometimes felt, through the fog of smoke and fog, as if they were alone together, caught in an endless battle that went on forever.

Makes him think, guiltily, of those secret dreams he sometimes had that twisted the Sharingan-clear memories of those battles into something else, something darker. Some where he finally took advantage of Hashirama’s hesitancy to gain the upper hand, forcing his friend to his knees – and of other dreams, even more secret, where it was Hashirama who won, unleashed at last, and forced him down in turn, right there in the battlefield with all of his clan around, their Sharingan-red eyes glowing through the fog, watching, searing the sight of their defeated leader into their memories forever –

Madara whimpers and thrashes without actually trying to escape, his cock rutting against Hashirama’s thick thigh as the other man strikes again, setting up an unpredictable rhythm that is occasionally broken up by reaching out to give Madara’s hair another purposeful tug.

It’s so good.

No one else would ever dare do anything like this. No one would even dare think of it – to put the fearsome leader of the Uchiha over their knee and spank him like he’s a disobedient child? It’s unthinkable.

“You really should be more open-minded,” Hashirama says. His tone is as mild and unaffected as if he were remarking on a new restaurant opening in the village, albeit one that he’s looking forward to trying out, like Madara isn’t rutting against his lap and can’t feel how hard Hashirama is. “I’m your Hokage, now. You should trust me to make good decisions for you.”

“Hashirama –”

“Shh. Good kitties don’t talk, not if they’re going to say mean things. They’re only allowed to say good things. You can be a good kitty for me, right?”

Hashirama’s free hand settles in Madara’s hair, right next to those ridiculous ears, and starts very purposefully stroking, sometimes with a fierce tug interspersed.

At no point does his other hand stop coming down, even though Madara’s ass has got to be bright red by now.

Madara groans and grinds down, seeking more pressure. This position isn’t good enough.

“Well? Are you?”

Madara grinds down some more.

Hashirama stops moving.

Someone makes an absolutely pathetic, wretched whining sound, full of denied need.

Madara has the sinking feeling that it was him.

“Well, Madara? Tell me you’re a good little kitty for me and I’ll give you a reward.”

No way. Absolutely no way. Hashirama might be very good at figuring out Madara’s most secret desires, but there is absolutely no way that Madara would ever –

Hashirama’s fingers trace, very lightly, over Madara’s ass.

Madara shivers.

The fingers dip lower, still gentle, still delicate, not enough pressure to actually do anything other than tease, and there’s the slightest little pressure against Madara’s hole, but then they’re pulling away and Hashirama is sighing and unfolding his legs like he’s actually thinking of getting up and going back to work and –

“I can be a good kitty,” Madara blurts out, and he feels his face go scarlet. He didn’t actually just say that. He didn’t. It’s some sort of genjutsu, clearly, to make him think he’s said that, meant to torture him.

“What’s that?” Hashirama says, the kindness in his voice only a mask for his cruelty. “A good little kitty, you say? For who?”

“For – for you,” Madara manages to spit out, twisting to hide his face in Hashirama’s belly because he can’t bear himself right now, horribly shamed but perversely grateful that Hashirama isn’t making him say that again. “Hashirama, please –”

Hashirama’s fingers come back, this time pressing in confidently, slicked up and stretching him and Madara starts wiggling again, hoping that this time he’ll get enough stimulation to actually come –

Something presses into him, and it’s not fingers.

Hashirama laughs, a little chuckle that Madara only ever hears from him in the bedroom – satisfied and pleased and more than a little turned on.

Madara twists to look and then he can feel his face go red again.

It’s a tail.

Well, on the outside, anyway; the inside is wood carved into a familiar shape (very familiar, actually – Tobirama? Seriously? If Hashirama wasn’t able to create his own sex toys by waving his hands, Madara wouldn’t be able to go anywhere near the woodcarvers ever again lest he die of embarrassment), pressing into him in all the best ways, but the outside is long and soft, silk threads meant to mimic fur wrapped around a thin wooden core so that Hashirama can make the tail move through the air before wrapping around Madara’s thigh and giving a little squeeze.

“What a good kitty I have,” Hashirama coos. “What a sight you make. Look at yourself, Madara.”

He pulls Madara’s hair again, purposefully this time, dragging Madara out of his lap and back to a kneeling position on that cushion from earlier and crap, there’s a mirror there, since when is there a mirror there?

A mirror showing Madara in all his shame, no less: naked but for the cat ears and matching tail, the collar around his neck, and the hard cock that shows anyone looking how much he’s enjoying his own degradation.

“If only the rest of your clan could see you now,” Hashirama says, and Madara shudders, shutting his eyes but unable to blot out the sight of himself. “Their Madara-sama, fearsome and mighty, able to match anyone in the battlefield – what would they think of you now, on your knees for me? A good little kitty for me?”

Madara would like to say he recoils from the thought, humiliating to the extreme, but he doesn’t; he just wants to come. He could, too: Hashirama hasn’t bound his cock in any way, for once, and that means he could just reach over and –

Hashirama catches his hands and wraps something around them, winding it around his fingers and up to his forearms. Something thin and weak, nothing that would actually keep Madara back if he wasn’t willing – another way to show him that this is happening with his compliance, no matter how much he wishes he could blame coercion for his participation in this – and Madara doesn’t look but he has the distinct suspicion that it’s yarn.

“Now, kitty, you’re going to be good for me,” Hashirama says, and he really does stand up, pulling Madara’s head in until his face is pressed up against Hashirama’s still-clothed cock, rubbing against it like he really is some sort of obscene parody of a cat. “You’re going to be very good.”

Madara hates how much he likes it when Hashirama compliments him. No one ever did, not like this; he had to fight and sweat and bleed for any praise he ever managed to get from his clan elders or, worse, his father, and Hashirama hands it out like it’s nothing, sweet loving words falling from his lips at the slightest sign of obedience.

(Sometimes Madara thinks he can see why Tobirama bends so quickly to Hashirama’s will. It’s terribly seductive, that praise, the warmth of approval in Hashirama’s eyes.)

That’s probably what makes him agree without words, letting Hashirama settle in one of those stupid chairs he’s always making (the one he was using when Madara first came in is right there) and opening his mouth to take Hashirama’s cock, letting it sit heavy on his tongue, a now-familiar taste of heat and flesh.

He thinks he knows what Hashirama wants – imagines himself licking at Hashirama’s cock and mewling like a kitten, and feels the flush rise in his cheeks – but when he starts to suck Hashirama weaves a hand into his hair and gives him a little tug, making him stop.

“That’s very nice of you to offer, Madara,” Hashirama says. “But I really need to get some work done, or Tobirama will kill me. Just hold on a little and I’ll get right back to you.”

And somehow that’s even more humiliating: he’s just sitting there, kneeling on a cushion with his still-stinging ass on his ankles, tail curled up around him and pressing inside of him, with his mouth around Hashirama’s cock and not even doing anything.

Hashirama’s stupid walking desk comes over and stops right over his head, like Hashirama really is planning on doing paperwork while using Madara as – as some sort of cock warmer, a toy for his pleasure, and the very thought makes Madara burn.

Not, as much as he would like, in a bad way.

“Shh,” Hashirama says, and the hand in Madara’s hair starts carding through it. “I’ll be right with you. Just a little patience. You can be patient, can’t you?”

That hits right in an old, sore spot: Madara’s never been patient, never, and the elders of his clan are always lecturing him about it. Too brash, too impulsive, not thoughtful enough – they don’t believe him when he tells them that he knows how to lie in wait, how to hold his strike until the right moment, and no matter how many infiltration or assassination missions he takes, they never change in that belief.

He knows he’s playing right into Hashirama’s hands by not fighting him, not demanding that they do more right now, but this position feels strangely good – hand in his hair, cock warm in mouth and cool in his ass, the comedown from the adrenaline of a strike – and anyway, there’s no way Hashirama can possibly make him wait that long.

So he sits there, waiting, and things start to – drift, almost.

His mind goes quiet, almost peaceful, and it’s almost like the feeling of waiting for an assassination target to get into place, anticipation but somehow muted. There’s nothing for him to think about right now: no clan business to attend to, no irritating questions about his stability from the Council, no missions to plan or shinobi to worry about, no politics…nothing.

Nothing but the warmth between his lips and the hand in his hair.

“I knew you’d make a good kitty, Madara,” Hashirama is saying somewhere very far away. “Isn’t it nice? Cats don’t worry about anything. You don’t need to worry about anything. It’s all being taken care of. Everything’s in good hands: your village, your clan, your family. Everything’s fine. Everything’s good. You don’t need to think about it. You can just be. Just lie in the sun, warm and happy and mine. Isn’t that good?”

Madara lazily hums in agreement, barely aware that he’s doing it.

He’s not sure how much time passes and he finds he doesn’t really care. He’s always thought he wasn’t made for peace, no matter how much he longed for it; always suspected, in the dark hours of the night before the dawn, that even if he one day built the village of his dreams that it would never be enough for him. That he’d always be restless, unsatisfied; that a man built to the specifications of endless war would never be able to learn what it means to be at peace, not really, not in his heart – that he’d end up a relic, a warmonger among those too tired for war, paranoid and alone and watching everyone around him settle into peace in a way he could never hope to match.

But those fears are gone, now: he’s as peaceful as the heart of a banked fire, his overactive mind finally at ease. No worries, no fears, nothing to do but be – knowing in his heart that everything is fine, that even if anything happens Hashirama will deal with it, and able to just rest. At last.

He can finally release the burdens that have rested on his shoulders since that terrible day by the riverside when the weight of his duty crashed down upon him, since even before then, since the day he first understood what it meant that he was the heir. To be an older brother, in a clan at war.

(He wonders for a moment if Hashirama has trapped him in some sort of genjutsu, since he can’t use his chakra right now to dispel or even check, but surely no one would use one for such a pointless little game as this.)

“You’re doing so well,” Hashirama tells him, even as he keeps working, the soft sound of brush on paper on the table above Madara’s head just barely audible, lulling Madara further into the hazy doze he’s in. “So good. I knew you’d be good, but you’re doing even better than I dreamed you would. Such a good kitty. Good little kitty –”

He says more in that vein, lots more, and Madara just lets it drift over him, the words soothing and his mind blank, ignoring the minor physical discomforts of the position – his ass still sore, the collar pressing around his throat, his jaw going stiff even as he drools all over Hashirama’s cock, unable to wipe it away, his own cock heavy and hard between his legs – in favor of that wonderful feeling of floating.

It’s so very hard to disagree with Hashirama when he feels this good. Feels this free.

It’s really not that bad, being a cat.

Being Hashirama’s cat.

Not if that means he can let go of all his troubles and sit here, listening to whispers of praise, and know that for once in his life he’s fulfilling and even exceeding every expectation of him.

“Very good,” Hashirama says. “You did such a good job, Madara; I’m all done with the paperwork now. You can have your reward now.”

When Madara doesn’t respond, still distant as though everything is happening through a pane of glass, Hashirama puts his hands in Madara’s hair and starts to move his head for him, fucking his mouth in little gentle gestures that slowly, ever so slowly, bring Madara back down to earth.

He comes, eventually, and Madara swallows it all down, obediently using his tongue to clean Hashirama’s cock after, licking him up just like a good kitty should. When Hashirama gives him his foot and leg to use to get off, not even bothering to use his hands or his mouth or even his Mokuton to get Madara off but just leaving Madara to rut against him like an animal, Madara is appropriately grateful.

“You’re so good,” Hashirama tells him, again and again, his fingers still warm in Madara’s hair. “Being so good, all for me. This is what you get when you let me take care of you. Isn’t it better like this? Such a good kitty.”

Madara comes, awash in sensation and pleasure, and doesn’t even think to complain when Hashirama’s next orders are for him to take a nap in the bed in the corner, the one that’s right under the high window that’s only small enough to let in light and not visitors, that lets him soak up the warm afternoon light as Hashirama takes care of all the necessary business, cleaning him up with a nice warm cloth before settling back in at the desk to continue the important work of caring for the village they’ve made together.

It doesn’t even occur to Madara to remove the ears or the tail.

He’s a good kitty.

(He wakes up four hours later, realizes he’s late for dinner with Izuna and the Uchiha elders and trips over himself three times while getting ready even as Hashirama laughs at him, but something of that peace remains with him even later that night, lets him smile at Izuna and laugh at his leading questions and tell him without explaining anything that everything is just fine, Izuna, don’t worry so much, nothing has changed.

Everything is just fine.)