Work Text:
“Be quiet!” he explodes.
Tobirama blinks at him. His food is still halfway to his mouth, head ducked down towards his hand like he has to meet every bite in the middle before it’s plucked away from him. The table is sparsely set, only one candle and two earthenware bowls laid out without trays or any refined finish. Tobirama is no housewife, and he’d rather chew the very coals than slave over some humble meal.
“Enough.” Madara pushes himself back from the low table, and shoves the rest of his bowl towards Tobirama for good measure. The broth slops up the side and spills over. “I know your game, Tobirama -”
“My game,” he repeats, dubiously.
“You’ll ask me for it, get what you want, and go crying to your brother that the Uchiha and the sharingan can’t be trusted. You’re conspiring against me as always -”
“Your paranoia is flaring up,” Tobirama informs him, with all the concern of a man commenting on a common rash.
His pulse throbs in his temple. “I have working eyes.”
Unperturbed and unoffended, Tobirama chews and picks up the next lump of rice. He doesn’t even have the grace to look at Madara as he manipulates him, cold and cruel heart that he has. “Have you considered that you would be able to make me silent? Consider the benefits-”
Madara growls, and gets up to stalk off to the small library. The house is colder beyond the kitchen and its heady coal-warmth; overcast day falling into cloudy night and casting long shadows where the lamplight doesn’t reach. No sun has soaked into the wood panelling today and the floor is left cool under his feet. Tobirama’s damned scrolls are left open on the desk and he takes a keen pleasure in swiping them aside - a dull clatter, some rolling away to the corner of the room - to put his feet up on it and blow out a harsh breath.
Irritating. Tobirama can always be trusted to find a way to dig at him until it feels like needles under his fingernails, pick at his loose edges until he shreds his decency, but this is beyond the pale. This time is just strange - never before has Tobirama come close to pestering him to come to bed. If this is even a sexual request.
You should use the sharingan on me, Tobirama had told him on a perfectly average mission, perched on the balls of his feet and staring at Madara through the dark like a keen snake. Hone your abilities. Bring down our last obstacles.
It was, he maintains, entirely Tobirama’s fault that he was distracted enough to give away their hiding place and that the mission ran overtime by two days. Since then, it’s been continuous - a hundred proposals, constant prodding, weeks of listening to Tobirama list every possible reason to trap him in a genjutsu and…compel him into sex. The most grating argument he keeps bringing up is the baseless, stupid idea that Madara is deficient in the full use of his own kekkei genkai -
He huffs again, arms folded. It was better when Tobirama hardly spoke to him. It was infinitely easier and rather more effective to storm away from an argument when they still had separate homes and bedchambers and Tobirama had fewer hooks dug into his skin.
His stomach growls faintly. Those few bites had been delicious. Tobirama’s probably scraping Madara’s portion into his own bowl at this very moment.
It’s not uncommon, between Uchiha lovers. Tobirama must have overheard passing gossip or sly talk between the shinobi in the Anbu or workers in the archives. It’s a thing of passion, to let sharingan meet sharingan eye. To witness someone in pleasure and have it forever kept in living memory. To share sweet genjutsu and craft pleasure with it, little tricks on the mind to aid the body. He remembers being younger, blushing hot to hear the men at the bathhouse speak of magnificent genjutsu they’d presented to their wives as gifts -
The door eases open, and the man in question enters. Red eyes flit over the messy pile of scrolls and the sight of feet on his writing table, lifting briefly to be cast to the heavens before he turns and lights the lantern with a low snap of katon. It flickers, warm through paper panels, and Tobirama’s face and hands are lit orange-gold.
Madara sniffs, and turns his face away.
A moment passes before Tobirama sighs. “Does it bother you so much that I’m intrigued by the sharingan?”
“It’s clear to me that you have an agenda,” he retorts. His legs are tensed where they cross each other, his body wanting room to fight and his pride refusing to show any restless movement under Tobirama’s watch.
Annoyance creases Tobirama’s face tight. “I’m not trying to study you.”
He scoffs.
“I’m not trying to pry your eyes out of your thick head,” Tobirama amends brusquely. “Yes, I have always been interested in unravelling how jutsu work, in how chakra manifests in a clan like yours, but don’t accuse me of plotting against you.”
Tobirama crosses the room, slowly enough that Madara doesn’t spring to his feet, and comes to stand close enough that he could reach out and touch his yukata’s sleeve - or shove him away, with a foot planted hard in his gut. Madara regards him silently, arms kept folded, and tries not to allow himself to become angry at the fact that his chakra doesn’t even prickle at the closeness. He cannot say when Tobirama wormed his way past his defenses; only that it now seems permanent. More of a knot in the wood than a stone in his boot.
Slower still, Tobirama eases himself down to sit at the edge of the desk. His yukata is old, short, and worn at the elbows with loose thread showing. Madara hates that it’s his favourite on Tobirama. The Uchiha are a noble clan whose concubines should bathe with lilies and dress in silk. Female, soft-breasted concubines. If Tobirama had never ensnared him, he would surely have learned one day to make his chest tighten and his cock rise for a woman’s…softness.
Tobirama mimics his posture and crosses his arms loosely, fixing his gaze somewhere over Madara’s head to his shelves of books and scrolls. He does that constantly. Imitating people. It’s simpler to look for the tell now that Madara knows the pattern; now that he’s spent time watching for it. Around them, the room is dark but for the lantern - wooden furniture polished to a dull gleam, edges of folded paper turned translucent. The rain beats down drum-like overhead. Short rolls of thunder boom out and fade away in the distance, too far from the lightning to see the flash.
“I -” Tobirama begins, “- am talented at dispelling most genjutsu. The sharingan lets you create elaborate, precise illusions that are harder to break, but the more compelling ability is the saimingan. The art of incepting actions or thoughts, which you almost never use -”
“Because it’s the slowest aspect of the sharingan. It has no place on the field.”
“True,” he allows, “and nobody trusts your clan to be interrogators now when we have the far more benign Yamanaka in the fold.”
“Don’t let them hear you say that,” Madara mutters.
“But it’s a unique skill. For you maybe it’s even more potent than we know, given the lack of Mangekyō holders to ask,” Tobirama says, a strange tone to his voice. “It could be magnificent.”
Madara lets his gaze touch on Tobirama’s face. He’s lost in his thoughts as usual, but he’s got his bottom lip trapped between his teeth to chew at it. His legs are parted just a little to wide, whole body slightly angled towards Madara, his fingers curling into the fold of his sleeves -
“You’re aroused by it,” he accuses him sharply.
Tobirama tilts his head. “Yes. I think I said as much.”
Madara blinks. His world shifts, just a fraction, just for a second.
“I didn’t believe you.”
“Well.” Tobirama’s shoulder lifts and drops. “That’s your own failing.”
“I didn’t take you for such a wh-”
Tobirama throws him a cutting look. “I am led to understand that many Uchiha practice simple genjutsu to aid their martial duties. Careful with your tongue, before you lash it at your own people.”
He’s so insolent.
Madara rises from the chair to stand into Tobirama’s space, bullying for space between his legs and planting his hands on either side of his hips. Tobirama tilts his head back to keep looking down at him, noses almost touching, rain beating on the roof. He smells of ink. Paper. Rain, rich and earth-softening, life-making.
“You’re too scared,” Madara mocks, suddenly needing to see whether Tobirama stands and faces him or runs. “You talk, like always, but you don’t have the nerve. There’s not a Senju alive that would look into my eyes.”
“Try me.” Tobirama’s mouth barely moves; his breath still feels warm against Madara’s cheek. His hands curl tighter around the edge of the desk and his pulse beats, warmer, faster, closer. “Right now.”
The sharingan spins and bleeds to life with the faintest tug on his chakra, and Madara grins as he pushes his brow against Tobirama’s. Daring him, almost laughing when Tobirama instinctively squeezes his eyes shut and quietly snarls at the frustration of his own body betraying him. He’s mouthing something to himself, breathing through his mouth, and Madara’s still bearing down on him when he forces open his piercing eyes.
Tobirama’s eyes flicker everywhere over his face before he finally looks, pupils gone wide like a deer staring down the arrow. Madara’s never gotten a good study of them with the sharingan before. A bright red pupil and iris with the faintest cobweb-white veining and the thickest white lashes -
His body slackens, and the weight of him presses into Madara’s arms.
He grunts, but holds steady. Tobirama’s a heavy man, all limbs and muscle over bone; nothing Madara can’t handle. He lowers him to the ground, hand drifting over his mouth to feel for his quiet breath. It’s there, sure as his pulse. His limbs splay out like a loose-jointed doll and his cheek presses to the floor.
After all the vicious thoughts he’s come up with of putting Tobirama in his place, all he can think of now is stopping him from falling.
“Senju,” he murmurs. His hand holds his jaw firmly, and Tobirama’s eyes flutter. When he uses the pad of his thumb to lift one eyelid, a faint reflected shadow of three tomoe swim in lazy circles below.
Madara hesitates, and hooks his hands under Tobirama’s arms to tug his head into his lap. He’s making no effort to break the genjutsu from inside, simple and plain as it is. Maybe it hadn’t all been bravado and an attempt to antagonise him. Maybe this is precisely where Tobirama wants to be.
Of the sharingan’s abilities, he’ll admit that he’s always relied on the more instinctual parts. The precision, the enhanced sight in combat, pattern recognition and memory - all a part of him that he can reach for like a blade. The finer arts were always Izuna’s skill. Genjutsu, elaborate traps, digging out information from the deepest corners of the mind. If he focuses, he can catch fleeting impressions from Tobirama - a hot, aching arousal, an old terror, anticipation and fear that circle around and build, and build on the other. No wonder his heart had been beating so rabbit-fast in the perfect new visual memory Madara has of his pale throat.
Underneath it, an idea. A wordless image that can only belong to fantasy and imagination held deep in the dark. Something Madara alone has the power to make real. All he needs to do is pull the words out of Tobirama’s imagination, the pictures from his fevered dreams, and wield them against him.
“Eyes open,” he tells him. Tobirama does it. Sluggish, dreamlike. Under the sheen on his eyes, Madara knows that he’s floating in an endless body of water, sightless and without sound. His conscious mind can’t respond to him, but his subconscious can still obey. “Be perfectly still. You can be still, can’t you?”
Tobirama doesn’t answer. His eyes move like a man dreaming, gradually trying to seek Madara out. His fingers twitch gently.
“You want to stay still,” he says, coaxing. His sharingan spins again, drawing chakra like a tributary branching out from a river. The reflection in Tobirama’s eyes follows suit and his breathing eases. “It’s so easy like this.”
He picks up his hand. Brings it up, fingers intertwined where Tobirama’s are cool and dry and his are burning hot. When he lets go, Tobirama’s hand stays raised. It’s rather elegant-looking. Like those balanced flower arrangements his mother’s mother used to construct for the shrine.
Madara smiles with nobody to see it. “That’s right. It’s better that way, isn’t it? It’s so hard to rest when you have to move. And you want to rest - so - badly.”
This time, Tobirama gives no sign of hearing him or agreeing. The lamplight flickers, and Madara clears a space on the floor with a wide sweep of his arm, pushing aside scrolls and stacks of paper.
He guides Tobirama up, one long limb at a time. Onto his fair hands and bare knees, and every unresisting finger he arranges stays exactly where it’s been placed, stiff as clay the moment he stops molding it. On all fours, Tobirama’s head rests tucked down - until Madara puts his fingers beneath his chin and tilts it back up high, baring the underside of his throat. Through it all, Tobirama’s chakra is as placid as a lake in summer, swelling and receding with his breath.
“Aren’t you obedient?” he mumbles. It feels odd not to have Tobirama biting back at him, and the silence compels him to speak in place of both of them. He sits back on his heels to look at Tobirama’s body - motionless, silent, calm under the weight of his influence. Under his layers, he feels his cock throb in a quiet kindling interest. Drawing closer, he brings his mouth up to Tobirama’s ear and speaks with great satisfaction. “How shameful. A Senju dreaming of being a slave to our gift.”
He gets up, and sits back down into the chair.
Down at his feet, Tobirama is perfectly immobile. The soles of his feet are bare and upturned - he must have stepped out of his sandals to enter more quietly - and his calves are smooth and bared by the hem of his yukata. Over his back, the cloth stretches wide at his shoulders and lays thin over his spine, bowed in the slightest curve at his lower back. Madara shifts in the chair. Under the fall of his clothes - Madara stretches his foot out and lifts up the closer side of his yukata with his toes to check - his cock hangs down full and heavy with excitement.
Madara raises his brows.
Studying Tobirama like this is an odd experience. His irritation is still present. His constant vigilance around the cold needle of Tobirama’s attention remains like a shroud on his shoulders, but he’s never been the type of man to inflict cruelty on someone who can’t fight back. Then again, all of Tobirama’s mental images he’d spied on…he doesn’t mind a little cruelty, does he?
Cautious, lest he break the careful balance Tobirama is held in, he puts one foot - and then the other - up on the very middle of Tobirama’s sturdy back.
Nothing. Just a sudden swell of chakra pooling up around him, breathless and warm like shallow water under sunlight.
“Good,” he breathes out, softer than he’s been in weeks. His left foot crosses over right, weight pressing down. Tobirama’s breath is a faint, palpable motion and his stance remains steady, an inanimate, obedient, perfect fucking thing. “It feels good when you stay still like this, doesn’t it? Answer me.”
Tobirama’s jaw flexes for a millisecond. Madara’s genjutsu sharpens, a snap of unpleasant electricity arcing down his straight back and stinging him - right as Madara gives his balls a light tap of his foot. Faster than breath, Tobirama’s mouth goes slack.
“Silly.” Madara clicks his tongue against his teeth. His cock is straining hard now, and it’s getting more difficult to restrain himself to rubbing his open palm over it, to stop himself from tugging his obi open and taking himself in hand. Instead, he lets more of his thoughts make it to his tongue. “Moving is bad. It makes you hurt. Your body doesn’t want to, but your mind is just so wicked. It’s still trying to tell you what to do, even when your body knows better.”
The thinnest, glimmering string of spit lengthens where it hangs from Tobirama’s bottom lip.
“You’re a thing,” he says, clearly and slowly. The rain is picking up louder, ensconcing them in the quiet, small cocoon of the library. “A - thing. I give your thoughts to you. I help you feel good. Things don’t have to think.”
Tobirama’s back is warm under his heels. His yukata is soft, so well-worn and thin with time, and his breath gives the faintest motion to his body. His face is still, expressionless, but there’s something so much sweeter in it than his usual stiff countenance. With his mouth soft and his lips parted, lashes low against the tops of his cheeks, he looks…erotic. Sensual in a way that Madara never sees him, not when their fucking is done in the dark and with his hand on the back of Tobirama’s head, smooth back pressed against his heaving chest, a rough hand gripping his thigh to pull him closer.
“You’re so clever. So talented at every little thing.” He works the ball of his foot against Tobirama’s spine. “But you don’t have to be any kind of genius for this. No plotting, no planning, no vying your way into being better. Just honest work on your hands and knees. I should leave you in this room as a footrest. Or a desk, if you were any good at keeping steady.”
He pushes his foot against Tobirama’s hip at the very moment he lets the genjutsu snap.
Tobirama wakes up with a gulp of air, dropping forward to catch himself on his elbow. It’s like watching life burst into motion - the lurch of his breath and the rapid change of his surprised face, hands moving and his back arching deep before he pushes himself up on his knees. His eyes are wild, panting as he searches for Madara and lunges towards him, gripping tight to his knees and hauling himself up between them in a sudden burst of movement.
He takes hold of Tobirama’s arms automatically, keeping him held close between his legs. Tobirama’s face is violently flushed, and his nails are a firm biting pressure into Madara’s thighs through his clothes.
“Again,” he gasps. “Again, Madara -”
He laughs in disbelief. It’s short and yet loud in the dark of the room, and his hand threads through Tobirama’s hair to give it a brief tug. “Again?”
Tobirama makes an urgent, desperate noise - this clever, biting man unable to produce simple words! Madara pulls at his short hair again and his head jerks, tipping back for Madara to lean forward and loom over him. He lets out an urgent, frustrated snarl in his face, and Madara shakes him roughly.
“Don’t upset yourself. I’ll still have you as a brainless whore.”
This time, Tobirama’s eyes meet the sharingan readily. He falls, dropping down into the same silent, cotton-wool genjutsu and melts against Madara’s thigh. His hands soften from the claws he’s dug into Madara’s skin and drift down slowly to his knees. His breathing slows again. Quietened like a cut throat.
“Stand up.”
Tobirama needs his hand to rise to his feet, dreamlike and light on his feet. Madara joins him and for a moment they stand, in the lamplight and in silence.
On any usual day, Tobirama stands a head taller than him. Back stiff, shoulders straight, chin lifted up in an arrogant tilt. His formal clothes build the shape of a broader man than he is, and his armour keeps him cold to the touch. Madara lets his hands circle Tobirama’s waist. His head is bowed now, his spine loose and his body slumped to lean into Madara’s arms. His hands are loose at his sides and his skin is warm through the gaps in his yukata, smooth over long limbs and prominent bones. Sharp hips, firm shoulderblades, sleek muscle down his arms from a life of holding a weapon. His hair is unkempt from Madara’s hands in it.
“Who are you?” he murmurs.
A faint furrow between the brows mars Tobirama’s face. A thing, or a man - how can he tell, when Madara’s put so much time into confusing him? “I…I’m-?”
“Tell me what you are,” he says, squeezing his hands around Tobirama’s narrow hips.
“Senju -”
Madara stings him again with the barb of his genjustu. His back arches with the rip of burning electricity, and he lets out a pained low grunt.
“I -”
“No.”
“A -” Tobirama starts uncertainly, trailing off. It’s so unlike him, Madara feels his cock ache.
“I shall have to educate you,” he announces magnanimously. Before he can think better of it, persuade himself out of foolishness, he puts his arm around Tobirama’s back and pushes him off balance to heft him up into his arms.
He’s far too tall and too large to be carried like some silly bride in a novel, but Madara does it all the same. The walk to the bedroom down the dark corridor is short, but Tobirama holds tight to him for every heavy step of it, hands around his neck and cheek pressed to his shoulder. His breath is warm against the side of his throat, and he almost misses it when he drops Tobirama down to the waiting futon, not yet turned down or warmed.
The thump of him falling is amusing - just a little - and he grins as he kneels down on the futon. Tobirama’s blinking slowly, sluggish and struggling to focus on Madara. His lower lip pouts, and Madara leans in quickly to nip at it and lick over the sting before Tobirama can react. The worn clothes he wears come away easily, one short tug at the obi and a steady pull of the yukata’s lapels to open it over his shoulders. His collarbones are like antlers spread wide, softening into well-developed shoulders marked with faint familiar scars.
“Let’s try again.” He takes hold of Tobirama’s jaw, fingers hooked underneath and thumb pressed against the sharp edge of his bottom teeth, invading his mouth and digging into his mind. “Tell me what you are.”
Cautious after his last mistake - so he can learn, even in a Sharingan-stunned daze - Tobirama keeps silent and just keeps on looking at Madara’s face. Like he’s waiting to hear the right answer, sitting there naked in the fallen drape of his own clothes over the cool linens.
“Come,” he croons. “You don’t know?”
After a moment, Tobirama shakes his head.
“Try.”
“Shinobi-”
“No.” Another shock. A sharp yelp, and Tobirama’s leg kicks out where he’s lying at Madara’s side, writhing as it passes through him. A shiver runs the length of his body before he recovers and pushes his chin back into Madara’s palm again. “You really do need to be taught.”
Tobirama nods at that, slow and clumsy and convinced. Pain is such a deft tool.
Madara eases closer, until Tobirama’s laid half in his lap, arms loose around his midriff and his face pressed into Madara’s stomach. His skin glows faintly in the reflected moonlight, shining down and pearling up in the raindrops on the glass. Only the Uchiha main house has genuine yukimi shoji built into the bedchambers and tearooms, at significant expense. Their clan still stand as one of the richest in Fire, and yet Tobirama asks him for nothing. No kimonos, no weapons, no fine scrolls. Nothing as evidence that he ever was Madara’s lover, lesser even than a well-kept mistress. And the obvious proof of an affair will never exist between them, never take root in Tobirama's belly.
His hand draws circles in the space between Tobirama’s shoulderblades. “Listen.”
Tobirama shifts, turns, and crimson eyes meet his own. His head rests on Madara’s lap and his face is upturned, open, waiting on the fall of Madara’s words to patter down on him like the rain.
“You,” Madara says, fingers combing back Tobirama’s hair “- want to rest.”
Tobirama nods slowly.
“That’s good,” he reassures. “That’s very good.”
Ah - how Tobirama softens at that, pupils dilating a fraction more. His mouth shapes the word good and holds onto it.
“Shinobi don’t rest.” Tobirama’s brows crease, the smallest frown before he nods. “The Senju heir doesn’t rest. They wouldn’t. He wouldn’t want to. But you do.”
Circles into circles. He keeps drawing them, keeps watching the reflection of his sharingan in Tobirama’s eyes as it lulls him and softens his edges and opens his mind up to a world where everything Madara says sounds so right. It’s more complex than making him still and silent - this time, he’s influencing him on both sides of the veil, within and outside of the genjutsu.
“You just want someone to think for you, and let you rest. You can’t rest if you have to think for yourself.”
His next nod is even fainter.
Madara nudges him. “Men don’t rest peacefully. They have to plan and think for themselves. Be strong and ready and never go soft. But you aren’t thinking for yourself, are you?”
Tobirama makes a soft noise in his throat. His nipples are pert and raised in hard little peaks on his chest.
Under the drumming of the rainfall, the sound of fabric moving against linen is just a whisper. His hand reaches down and rests on Tobirama’s knee, moving up over warm firm skin until he reaches velvet-soft heat, the hint of damp, and his hand wraps around Tobirama’s erection. The web of forefinger and thumb fits in a perfect half-circle where the head of Tobirama’s proud cock weeps precum over itself.
“When you say yes,” he tells him, “it feels like this.”
He draws his hand up over Tobirama’s cock and squeezes at the tender head. Tobirama’s whole body shudders, lifting up into his hand. He strokes back down and rubs his thumb along the seam. A panting, quiet little moan rewards his efforts, and he steadies his hand.
“When you repeat what I say, it feels just like this.” Again, he works Tobirama’s cock and he cries out faintly, eyes closed tight and mouth fallen open. “That feeling, every time you listen to me.”
“Yes,” Tobirama mumbles thickly - Madara rewards him, stroking more firmly, giving his balls a short tug and Tobirama’s eyes roll back as the genjutsu replays and repeats the feeling. He lifts his hand away, wiping his palm down the length of Tobirama’s shin.
“You want to rest. Say it.”
“Yes,” he pants, and gasps, and his heavy cock visibly twitches.
“Shinobi don’t rest, so you can’t be a shinobi.”
“Yes -”
“And men don’t let people think for them,” he continues, smoothing back Tobirama’s hair. “So you couldn’t be a man either.”
Tobirama’s hips buck as he gasps out a ye-es. Chasing it, leading along where Madara leads him in twists and turns. The part of him that would resist Madara is quietened and sleeping, and his innate defences are worn down by pleasure - pleasure that he can have so easily, just by agreeing and nodding and listening.
In the most soothing tones he can muster, he threads further leaps of logic. “It’s right to rest. You just want to rest, and put away all of those confusing thoughts that keep you from doing the right thing. That’s why I’m helping you. It feels good when I think for you, doesn’t it? Because all the things I tell you are right, and they’re true. Otherwise it wouldn’t feel good, would it?”
Tobirama’s breathing heavily, panting against Madara’s thigh with his head tipped back and his throat bared. His cock is wet, still hard and left wanting even as he’s constantly stimulated within the genjutsu.
“What I tell you must be true,” he says slowly. “Because it feels good. You remember how badly it stung when you answered wrong. But when you repeat what I say, you feel…”
No answer. No attempt at it, just pure, perfect silence as Tobirama waits for him to tell him what to think.
“Good. Repeat it. Every time you say yes, it goes deeper into your mind.”
“What you say must be - ah-h - true. Because it feels - mh -!”
Tobirama’s voice is deep, and flat, and abrupt. He never lilts or lightens his words; but Madara can suddenly think of no sweeter moans than Tobirama trying to offer his words back to him, writhing and half-orgasmic across his lap.
“Yes!” Tobirama cries out. His cock twitches and beads up more clear fluid, heavy enough to bow down towards his tensed stomach.
“Then listen. You’re not a man. You’re not a Senju, or a shinobi.” He leans in. Pulls Tobirama closer, inhales the scent of him, puts his mouth to the shell of his ear. “You’re my whore. Say yes.”
He barely gets the syllable out before he comes, spilling over his own stomach and gasping out a rough breath as his cock jerks. The idea sinks down and anchors into the silt.
“Yes,” Tobirama slurs, mumbling and running his vowels through each other. “Yes, yes yes -”
“Things don’t have names. There is no I, no me in your mind,” he presses. “Say yes.”
“Y-yes, nh-!”
“Good slut.” Madara squeezes the back of his neck, desperately aware of how hard he is himself. How his heart beats, fast as it does in a fight, and his chest feels burning hot from the simple act of looking at Tobirama coming unravelled in his bed. “Good.”
He can’t say why it is that Tobirama compels him. He’s known plenty of women and men with intelligence and cunning. He’s met men more handsome, more boyishly pretty, more girlish and coy and charming. Nor can he say why they’ve found themselves linked together, caught into orbit and unable to pull away no matter how they bite and push at each other. It might have been his intention, a year ago, to have him once and never think on it again - but that night ruined him and focused all of his desire onto one unlikely man.
“Whores clean their messes,” he tells him. Under the pale light, Tobirama’s spend shines wet on his stomach, trickling in the shallow between his ribs.
Automatically, Tobirama’s fingers wipe over his own soiled skin and rise to his mouth, licking and returning to collect more. His tongue slides over the pads of his fingers and he sucks it down, licks them clean.
Madara blows out an unsteady, giddy breath. “You are a whore, hm?”
Tobirama’s eyelids flutter as the suggestion reinforces itself and his poor spent cock twitches again. He acts like a whore, therefore he is. He feels good when he’s right, and he feels good when Madara instructs him, so everything Madara says must be right.
His pale fingers are wet. Madara wipes them clean in the sleeve of Tobirama’s discarded yukata, and tosses it away to the end of the futon. His own haori feels too hot to tolerate against his skin, and he shoulders it off carelessly, pulling Tobirama up against his bare chest. The feeling of skin against his own makes him…flush, somehow, fingers tightening around Tobirama’s upper arm and pressing harder into the skin. Tobirama’s hair brushes against his shoulder, downy-soft, and Madara lets his jaw rub over the crown of it, buries his nose into the soap-and-salt smell for a brief, weak moment. But what does it matter, when nobody is here to see it? He allows his mouth to pass over Tobirama’s temple, the softest of his own skin against fine hair.
Their legs tangle together. Tobirama slumps into his side, one hand lying curled limply on the futon. It’s astounding, how vulgar he is like this - under thrall and robbed of his inhibitions and identity, so happy in his daze. It makes Madara’s stomach squirm and his cock throb so much it hurts not to touch, barely relieved by the pressure of Tobirama’s hip against his groin.
“Tobirama,” he calls softly.
Against the crook of his arm, Tobirama’s ribs move slowly in and out. His legs stretch out long and lithe like some sea creature half-netted and pulled to shore.
“Whore.”
A whine. Tobirama’s eyes try to focus on him. Madara feels his mouth stretch to a smile, unwitting and immediate. He works his jaw to try and shake it off with little success, cheeks and neck growing warm as he thinks about what he’s done, how thoroughly he’s taken control of such a proud man-
He rubs Tobirama’s bare thigh like the flank of a horse, patting him roughly. Then - with hardly a conscious thought - he lifts his hand and slaps Tobirama’s cheek, firm and quick. It cracks the quiet. Another soft, rough moan, not a sign of a flinch from Tobirama.
“Ah,” he breathes. “Ah, perfect little -”
Madara slaps his flushed cheek again. Tobirama doesn't react beyond a blink, all foggy eyes and soft sweet mouth. Madara fumbles desperately to press down on his own cock and stop himself from spilling inside the clothes he still wears, biting back a sharp curse. A whore. His whore to use. How has he not used him so before?
Tobirama has never taken his cock in his mouth. He snarls, shows his teeth when Madara tries to push his head down in a display that’s less of a warning and more a very obvious display of consequences. He’ll use his hands, his thighs, let Madara lift his legs and thrust into him like he’s got a cunt and not a hastily-oiled hole; but never has he offered up his mouth for fucking.
But even a whore can act without enthusiasm, Madara thinks. Better to solve that problem now.
“Aren’t you thirsty?” he murmurs, running his thumb over Tobirama’s mouth. He opens obediently, and Madara presses down on his wet tongue. “Poor thing.”
It’s Tobirama that makes him irrational. Tobirama who takes away his control over himself. If not for him, he would never look at or touch another body in such prying, ungainly ways - biting at his fingertips and earlobes, licking over his pulse and his thin eyelids. Inhaling with his nose in the hair at his nape and under his arm, stretching Tobirama’s arm up and his flank wide open as he fucks him while they lay tight together on their sides. Gods. It’s all Tobirama, this indignity.
He leans in, and blows air through parted lips over Tobirama’s pink tongue, held pinched between his thumb and forefinger. The more Tobirama pants, the drier his open mouth looks. Madara just helps it along.
“You’re thirsty,” he repeats, pinning it to Tobirama’s unconscious mind. Genjutsu really doesn’t require him to speak aloud, but it feels right. It feels more deliberate and measured than using the sharingan as a weapon. “So thirsty. And so terribly warm.”
He lets go. Tobirama nuzzles into his chest and keeps panting, reaching for the missing neck of his yukata to fan air over his throat and failing, hand dropping back limp. Madara grips him by the nape of the neck and he makes a groaning noise - fevered in his imagination, while his body doesn’t break a sweat. Madara’s chakra simmers over them and heats Tobirama’s where they overlap, glacier water into sunlight steam.
When his hand settles over Tobirama’s throat, it spasms just beneath palm. “You just want to wet your throat. All you want is to take a long, good drink and stop feeling so hot. You know how good it would feel, don’t you? Even a mindless whore can tell that without me having to teach you.”
Tobirama moans, cheek burning hot and squished against Madara’s bare chest.
“Water -” Madara pauses, running his thumb up and down the side of Tobirama’s throat, “- would be no good, is it? But you’re not supposed to think, so I’m sure that’s all your useless empty brain can come up with for you. You need me to help you, don’t you?”
He uses his grip to make Tobirama nod clumsily. The action must still trigger the embedded cue, because his abused, gorgeous cock twitches and slowly begins to fill again.
“You need something thick,” he purrs, laying his voice down over Tobirama’s head like a stifling mantle. “Your body knows it, knows how to suckle and root for what you need. You’re so parched, you need to drink it all down. Rich and soothing on your throat.”
Madara brings Tobirama’s slack hand down, and presses it over his cock. Rubs it there, holding his wrist.
“Your throat hurts so much. You’ve been so desperate to get it wet and make it better. Can you do that for yourself, get your mouth wet with something good and thick -?”
Sluggishly, but surely, Tobirama starts pulling at the last ties of his clothes and sliding down against Madara’s body, nuzzling the covered shape of his cock as he pants and pants and keeps his mouth open wide. He fumbles and he fails and Madara bites down on the inside of his cheek as Tobirama struggles to pull his cock out of his loose underclothes.
“There you go,” he groans, palm down and fingers stretched out over the soft crown of Tobirama’s head.
Air touches him. He shudders, and then there’s a quiet desperate gasp - and Tobirama drops his head, wraps his lips around the tip desperately and moans as he sucks, shoulders melting and his eyelids drooping down like the first trace of salt on his tongue is a relief. He suckles at it, mouth fitted just around the head and his head barely held up; under threat of slipping down and choking himself. Spit runs heavily down the shaft of Madara’s cock and he groans, hunched over half-dressed in his bed with Tobirama sucking at his cock in the quiet stillness of the house at night.
He’s loud. Sloppy and whorish and unreserved in the affection he lavishes on Madara’s cock, no shame in his mind or any hesitation left. He licks up the spit he’s drooled down the underside of Madara’s cock, coughing when he breathes wrong and pressing on anyways, trying to fit more of Madara’s erection in his mouth and coax a bitter tang from it. His eyes water every time he coughs and Madara bites on his bottom lip until he tastes iron, gaze fixed on Tobirama’s lips stretching around him. Navy fabric swathes his lap where it’s pulled away from his body, Tobirama’s white hair and red-tipped ears framed in it. The bulk of his body shadows Tobirama’s face and his hands from the moonlight.
No prostitute’s ever sucked him so eagerly. Not for money, not for favours. Nobody is so selfless as to relish the act, he’s sure, not even soppy lovers smothering each other in adoring whispers and caresses.
Madara pants, head tipping back, fingers tightening in Tobirama’s hair.
Tobirama gags and keeps going, swallowing again and again until Madara fills his mouth. His throat is a faint, delicious tight pressure at the very tip of his cock, and he groans out loud as he waits for Tobirama to push his new limit and sink down further.
“Your throat -” he gets out, breathing hard, “- mh, fuck -”
Even without him leading and directing Tobirama along, the suggestions have sunken in deeply enough that he just keeps sucking and licking around Madara’s cock like he can’t live without it. His subconscious is a cotton-soft, dark, lovely void with only those suggestions to orient himself around. He’s a thing, not a man. Saying yes feels so very wonderful, and being bad, thinking for himself stings and aches. Easy rules to live by. It’s how every shinobi survived their war - simple, hard, unbending rules. Tobirama’s primed for it.
Shifting up onto one knee, he pushes Tobirama down with a hand on his forehead. He makes a wrenching, heartbroken noise to lose the cock in his mouth, but lets himself be pushed down onto his back as Madara moves and kneels up over him, cock in his hand and glistening. His body is so long, stretched out bare like this. Madara just…looks at him for a moment, eyes lingering on the rise and fall of his flush-mottled chest and unmarked stomach. Strange, and fey, and with his head resting on the haori, looking up at him -
There is some kind of beauty to him. Frosty and muddied over like he’s tried to blot it out in armour and a scowl and scars. Perhaps it’s not all a turn of fate, strange circumstance, and Tobirama’s manipulation that’s brought him to Madara’s bed. Maybe, he thinks, it’s his own keen eye finding the glimmer in the silt and dirt.
Tobirama whimpers. His eyes are fixed on Madara’s hand and the underside of his cock.
“Shh,” he tells him. His hand tightens at the base, fingers slick with Tobirama’s spit. “Not yet. You’ve almost earned it.”
For once, his face is expressive. His mouth downturns so prettily. “Mhn -”
“Open.”
He does.
“Wider.”
Tobirama’s head tips back, tongue out.
"Look at my cock and think yes. And every time this messy, eager clit of yours twitches, you'll think yes, and yes -"
There's nowhere else he can look. Nothing to do but stare up open-mouthed and wide-eyed as Madara looms over him, knees pressed in under his armpits and his cock hanging over his face, pinning him down under the weight of his body and his sharingan.
"Breathe in. Be good."
Madara’s cock presses into his mouth so fast he chokes and spasms on the bed under him, throat fluttering, so brainless that he lies there and takes it like his due and keeps his mouth open.
“Ngh -!”
Madara groans, fingers digging into the futon and his other hand clasped at the nape of Tobirama’s neck, holding him, fucking his face and feeling Tobirama’s spit against his balls. Still sucking and waiting for his medicine, so cock-hungry that he can’t even just lie there and wait for it as Madara abuses his pretty face and thrusts into his throat.
Yes, he can hear himself panting, squeezing the back of Tobirama’s neck and ripping his nails into the wet linen beneath them. Yes, that’s right, mine, my cockwhore, where you belong -
His climax drags a strained sound out of his chest - breath stopping, neck tensing, his body locking into a moment between pleasure and agony when he finally lets himself break. He spills, heavily, for longer than he’s done before and Tobirama swallows it with noisy, eager gulps between Madara’s thighs. The sucking where he’s raw and tender makes him gasp and pull back, leaving a trail of dripping spend down Tobirama’s lips and chin and throat.
Madara flops down onto the futon beside him.
His skin is covered in a faint sweat, still throbbing faintly at his temples and between his legs. The futon is a lost cause, stained and ripped by his gripping it too roughly. Tobirama’s clothes, ironically, are the cleanest left in the room and their synchronised, heavy breathing is all he can hear. The rain’s quieted down, and the thunder has moved further over the skies. The ceiling is black in the dark, although he knows it to be polished dark cedar.
Tilting his head, he looks down at Tobirama. Limp like a doll, curled with his face pressed to the soft space of his side where Madara’s ribs end and before his hip juts up firm. His breath whistles through his nose. But he seems peaceful in his trance, sated with a mouthful of semen and a palm resting on his nape, content to be an object without pride or identity or shame.
Madara sighs.
Tobirama - as he really is, not in a hypnotised, gentled state - would have some dry, witty thing to tell him by now. He’d light the lantern, stand and stretch and dress himself again with a single knot in his yukata and bring his scroll to bed, to lull Madara with the quiet scratching of his brush.
Why would Tobirama want to be made less himself?
His fingers circle the last prominent nub of Tobirama’s spine, where the collar of his clothes covers him over. Tobirama doesn’t often smile. Yet his face seems light, somehow - smoothed out, softened in sleep, space between his lips that Madara could pass his finger along if he had a mind to. Rainwater drips down from the roof tiles, collecting and falling in a light drumming rush.
It’s not as though he’ll remember this, anyways.
Madara lifts himself up onto his elbow, easing down the bed to bring his face close to Tobirama’s and lay facing him. His eyelids are delicate, blue-veined like his wrists and the inside of his biceps. His face is…well, filthy, but he supposes that’s his own doing. His lips are narrow. His teeth aren’t even, when Madara looks. Milk-white, never blackened like a wife. His mouth is soft, when Madara kisses him lightly. He fits against him well. Tongue moving, tracing against his in a way that makes his stomach feel like it’s been kneaded from the inside instead of disgusting him like he thought it might. It’s…warm.
His chakra drains like sand from his eyes, leaving them aching and seeing spots of darkening - cells dying, afterimages burning in blue and red and purple when he blinks. As though he’s gazed at the sun and not the moon.
Tobirama’s mouth moves slowly against his. The genjutsu is gone, the trance broken, but neither of them open their eyes or stop brushing their mouths together. Back and forth, never hastening, unchanging as a tide rushing in and in and onwards to shore. He’d touch him. He’d hold his face, if they were -
He gasps. Sharp teeth dig into his lip and break skin - nothing more. Just that painful pressure, holding there. His eyes stay closed, and Tobirama slowly lets go of his flesh and licks over his own bloodied teeth. He hears it instead, feels it - the movement of his tongue and the swallow of his throat.
Laying there curled on his side, he hears the rustle of Tobirama shifting to the edge of the futon and standing up on unsteady legs.
“Bastard,” Tobirama mutters, and slides the shoji open to let air in and himself out. There’s no bite. He’s left all of that behind on Madara’s lips.