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Tobirama is perfectly aware that a flaw that’s followed him even since childhood is—as Hashirama would carefully put it—his pride.
“—You're egotistical,” Izuna snorts, not looking up from his two ryo scroll of trashy romance-poetry. He lists on his fingers, “Snobbish, vain, prudish—really, why are you bothering me again? So you can get your testicals torn from the sack?”
“I just need his signature,” Tobirama insists, irritably, shaking out the document at hand for emphasis. “He’s not going to—”
Izuna interrupts him. “Does your cock work?”
“Excuse me?” Tobirama splutters.
“He is,” Izuna affirms, smugly, as if Tobirama had returned a simple yes.
“I'm not scared of your brother,” Tobirama mutters, insistently, lying through his teeth.
“Your funeral,” is Izuna’s flippant reply.
His funeral, indeed. Tobirama clenches his fists to whites as he stalks his way to the Uchiha estate, while his mind irritably replays Izuna’s words like an over-enthused parrot, and valiantly convinces himself that he is being efficient. He is not overstating the importance of the plum-wine shipping request. He does not care about a few teasing words uttered by his cousin—younger cousin at that!
“It's unnatural,” Touka comments. The rim of her sake cup does nothing to conceal her shit-eating smirk.
It rankles. “Oh?” Tobirama returns, dry as tinder.
“Yeah, yeah! Seeing a third of the Tower cower when an omega starts getting testy—I mean, I'm as progressive as the next, you know? Still, it's meant to be the other way around. I mean, who’s the goddamn alpha here? Not him. And yet,” she crows, drunk, “they cower! You'd think he's carrying an infectious disease. Well, Hashirama doesn't care, but he's Hashirama—and well, us betas don't either, ah well, I guess we're not on the radar. Or maybe we have firmer constitutions. But then, even other omegas only give him a cursory amount of space…”
“I don't cower,” Tobirama grits.
Touka snorts blithely. “I sure as shit would. I mean,” and her voice takes on a sly tone, inflammatory, “It’s pathetic, don’t get me wrong, but he isn't exactly the homebody type, so.”
“Some would disagree,” Tobirama says, thinking of Madara’s ferocious care for Izuna, and Madara’s devotion to the Uchiha as a whole.
“Well—” Touka steamrolls on, with all the grace of a socially stunted baboon, “You could probably do without jumping a mile every time he enters a room. Hell, every time you catch his scent it looks like you're about to erupt into hives! Even the others aren't that bad. You're giving the Senju a bad name, Tobirama, I must say.”
“—Alright.” Tobirama stands abruptly, stool screeching against the tacky pub floor. His cheeks burn. “That's enough.”
“Make sure not to piss your fright onto Hashirama’s carpet if Madara sneezes! It’s new!” Touka calls cheerily after him. “Have a good night!”
Tobirama scowls fiercely at the memory. Paper crumples beneath his fingertips. He straightens it out, smooths his demeanor. This is just. Efficiency. The Hatake are getting restless without their…wine. It’s ceremonial. Very important. Yes.
The cloying scent of woodsmoke and honey and cloves escapes through the bottom of Madara’s front door in subtle whiffs that curl into the air tangibly; a poison mist, one might think, for how Tobirama’s entire body tenses from his olfactories to his extremities. Nothing for it, Tobirama affirms with a soft, pained snort, nose wrinkling against the pungent scent. Bloodless, whitened knuckles rap on the doorframe.
There is no reply. Tobirama cannot sense Madara within, for seals ward every panel of the estate, barring all sensing with chakra-waves that cancel out the frequency of a sensor’s. A gift from the Uzumaki, utilized to great effect in many aspects of the village’s structure. A nuisance, now.
Tobirama sniffs back welling mucus, rapping his knuckles more insistently now. Each breath suffuses heavily through his lungs, like incense smoke—Hashirama’s special incense, specifically. Tobirama feels dually faint and electrified, as potent heat pheromones find their way into his bloodstream, more and more the longer he stands here and still receives no answer—
A profound recklessness floods through him. Sighing a growl, Tobirama does something very uncharacteristic of himself—which is to say, he doesn't think, not at all, sliding open the door to Madara’s domain and stepping in without a moment’s hesitation.
The scent is eye-watering, although the main room is void. Tobirama’s hair stands on end, as he peers down the adjacent hall; it’s dark but for the gentle light filtering through the paper walls, and darkens to obscurity as the hall stretches on.
Movement contorts the dim. A mass of black swishes with predatory elegance at the very limit of Tobirama’s vision. Fear ripples over him, and he steps back without thought, eyes widened, muscles tense to run.
Then, from the depths of blackness at the end of the hall—which has become like a looming tunnel, yawning wide; and thereupon shrinking, as if all distance has been incinerated at once—crimson flashes, and he’s gone.
It’s a slow nothing, a deep molasses. The first thing to return to him is scent. It’s all that is. Smoke and honey and cloves. For long, that’s all that is. Time oozes.
The rest rushes back at once.
“Nnngh,” a loud groan rumbles in his ear—liquid spurts against his thigh, soaking cloth with intent—a shuddering warmth cages him, and legs like hot iron shake against his body—
Tobirama gasps, clarity surging through his mind like he’s been doused with ice-cold water. Madara—Madara, Madara is on him, and that realization alone has Tobirama’s spine lock ramrod straight, body freezing in place. Not that he could move, regardless; Tobirama’s wrists are bruising in Madara’s grip, locked above his head in only one of Madara’s hands, and the weight of him presses Tobirama into a rucked up nest of bedding, chest against chest and thighs—spasming, still—bracketing thighs.
And Tobirama can't see—it’s so dark—but he feels Madara’s free hand slip down against his hip, from where it had held higher, and smells the seconds-fresh evidence of Madara's release, and knows then, plainly, why the genjutsu broke.
Tobirama tastes the sweetness in his molars, like burnt sugar granules left to linger. Terror is woodsmoke in his lungs. A tremor racks up Tobirama’s spine, as his situation sinks fully in.
Shit.
“He’s not going to—”
“He is,” Izuna affirms, smugly.
Hubris is a funny thing, especially in hindsight. Although with a fertile, deadly predator holding him at mercy, Tobirama presently doesn't find it very funny at all.
Madara shifts. His fingers unclench one by one to leave Tobirama’s wrists tingling with returning circulation; his hand circles Tobirama’s neck instead, and Tobirama’s panicking most properly now; his hands move with a shinobi’s impetus, gripping Madara’s forearm, and—
Madara snarls, surging all his weight against Tobirama to flatten him heavily to the floor, hand gripping with deadly strength around Tobirama’s neck.
Helpless in surrender, Tobirama’s hands fall limply to his sides; for contrary to popular belief, he is not suicidal.
There is a long moment that continues to press harshly against Tobirama's throat. He just begins to think he’s made a lethal error, when Madara’s hand finally loosens. He shoves his nose into the crook of Tobirama's neck, as Tobirama coughs for air, and a low purr, nearly sub-audible and so, much more felt than heard, emits from deep within his chest.
Tobirama continues to gasp long past strict need. You're having a panic attack, his mind supplies helpfully, as he quite merrily hyperventilates. The scent of Madara needles into his nose and bloodstream and mind, but Tobirama is so taken with urgency that his body does not respond with an alpha’s wont—which would be to stoke arousal and release responsive, virile pheromones—instead with each gulp of air his terror grows, as his body recognises the danger of a vying power’s scent. Madara is one he knows, and has always known, in his very marrow, he cannot overcome. Run! his instincts scream, but he is frozen. There is no running with Madara’s teeth brushing his throat. There is no running with his palms on his breast.
He could tear out my heart, Tobirama thinks.
“He will,” he hears Izuna say. Of course that was not how the words were meant, but—but. They could have been.
I, Tobirama thinks, hysterically, am very stupid.
Madara continues to purr. Tobirama is frightened by the noise, rather than soothed. It is too loud and deep, not soft as it should be. It rings unnatural, nothing like an omega’s gentle croon.
It always seemed so implausible that Madara is an omega—and even here! Even here, with the proof singing his nostrils and vibrating in his ears, Tobirama feels—hunted.
I am the lamb. He, the lion. That is how it feels.
Yet—Madara is gentle, remains gentle, bar the choking stint. His fingerpads knead gently into the meat of Tobirama’s shoulders and chest. He noses against Tobirama’s scent gland, almost coaxingly. Definitely coaxingly, Tobirama amends, shivering as wet warmth engulfs it. Madara is a heavy, unyielding force against him, but his touch remains gentle, and benign. His weight brackets Tobirama’s hips, but does not lower to his groin, and neither of his hands venture.
He’s warm. And—scenting. Madara’s wrists rub occasionally against Tobirama’s chest and upper arms. They flick, really, small swipes. His tongue is a gentle prod against Tobirama’s neck, subsuming Tobirama’s scent directly.
But he does nothing else. For a while. And very slowly, Tobirama begins to calm. His shaking subsides, and his fists unclench, and his muscles relax minutely. He is still tense, but only the healthy amount. Panicked, he is no longer. Madara seems content only to lick and purr and coddle, like a panther with her kit.
With that a different problem arises—stiffly, between Tobirama’s legs. For as his fear recedes, his body finally accepts what it’s been struggling with for months: Madara is in fact an omega. And young, and fertile. And—attractive. And on top of him. Gently. Suckling on his neck, gently.
Shit, Tobirama thinks, for the second time, with context that is entirely new. Marvellous how robust the mind is, how the body overcomes. Who cares if he can kill me? Tobirama’s cock cries gleefully. He’s sexy!
Kami. Of course, Hashirama’s Dream™ (note: trademarks were invented by Tobirama shortly after he invented plumbing and was nearly swindled to bankruptcy by a noble from the Capital, who’d attempted to take credit for several of his ideas, such as electricity and the subsequent refrigerator, and pass them for his own son’s; Tobirama worked it out with the Daimyo shortly after installing a repair to his badly-constructed, enthusiastically flooding toilet. Hashirama’s Dream of Peace is not genuinely trademarked, because obviously the point of it is to spread unencumbered, but Tobirama likes privately referring to it as such anyway, if nothing than for comedy’s sake. Anyways—)
Hashirama’s Dream™ had always seemed ludicrous, outrageous, even, taking such creative liberty with their current reality that it was once almost completely incomprehensible. In the era when they were younger, only the most imaginative could truly fathom what Tobirama’s dear brother had been on about. But Tobirama was never a fool, and while not a dreamer, he’d go as far as to say he’s got quite the head on his shoulders. Invention necessitates creativity. So he’d tried, certainly, on empty afternoons, to imagine what could be.
All of that to say that funnily, no matter how many times Tobirama pictured peace, this was never quite what he'd had in mind.
“Ah,” Tobirama breathes—sensation accumulates in his scent gland, sparking straight to his cock. Madara doesn't seem aware of his effect, or he just doesn't care. The second seems more likely, Tobirama reflects. The scent of arousal is striking and unique. As is the scent of precum that soaks quite suddenly into his fundoshi.
Loosely and slowly, projecting no harm, Tobirama raises his hands. Madara allows this. His purr deepens, when the backs of Tobirama’s hands brush his hair away from his bare upper-arms. Madara’s skin burns from heat-fever. Tobirama gently takes his shoulders in hand—only steadying himself. Pleasure looms.
Tobirama's body and mind have fully corrected course, now, despite his best attempts and wishings. His head is fuzzy, for pheromones thick enough to cut through flood his lungs and then bloodstream with each shaky breath. He’s painfully hard, now, and Madara’s below-belt abstinence starts feeling less like a relief and more like a terrible loss. Tobirama’s thoughts thicken like honey, like the honey on the back of his tongue. He wants, mainly. Carnally, and intensely, he wants.
Madara’s been far from words for the duration of this ill-advised tryst; which makes it feel less incriminating, slightly lessens the humiliation, when Tobirama utters, hoarsely, “Please.”
Predictably, mere words prompt no response. Tobirama finds himself both disappointed and relieved. His shame remains his alone, then.
That prompts contemplation, of what happens tomorrow? Do we shake this off? but Tobirama, in his need, finds he can flick off any future worry like the switch of a (his, patented) lightbulb. It doesn't matter, his biology croons, and Tobirama in his haze is more than willing to drift into the lull of siren’s call. Nothing seems to matter at that moment, but Madara’s hot body on his, and all the places his hands fail to be.
With no further thought, Tobirama’s hands find Madara’s hips. Foolishly he expects them to be pliant, willing to concede ground—but of course they are not, and though Madara doesn't go to throttle him, he doesn't grind on him either, not so much as twitching at Tobirama’s behest. He only licks harder against Tobirama’s scent gland, making pleasure spool like livewire in his loins.
Tobirama grips his thighs, insistently now. Madara’s throat warms on a growl. Tobirama’s, then, on a whine. Desperation begins bubbling within him.
“Please,” tears again from his throat. His hips buck up into nothing. Madara’s thighs are like thick iron rods beneath his hands; his muscle is absolutely taut. There's no give to him at all.
Only Madara’s upper body shifts. His hand, calloused where leather would chafe it, finds Tobirama’s jaw—his fingers splay on Tobirama's cheek while his thumb hooks beneath his chin, and he forces Tobirama’s face aside, bearing his neck completely.
Tobirama gasps when teeth sink into his scent gland, unencumbered now by the previous angle. His cock twitches, properly twitches, the full length of it jerking in his fundoshi. The wet patch dampened by his precum rubs wet against his tip.
Madara laves his tongue over the bite—although it’s likely less in contrition and more for the taste of blood. Pheromones flood from Tobirama, giving Madara's potency a run for its money. Their scent mingles thickly in the air.
Tobirama aches. He tries to wrench his neck back, but Madara’s hold is absolute. He tries to press Madara’s hips down, and earns a sharper bite, and a warning squeeze to his trachea.
Desperation becomes Tobirama now. But he's trapped, can do nothing. So he whimpers. Desperately, hoarsely, over and over, he whimpers, as his hips hitch uselessly in the air. The noises tear out of him. Whiny, voiced exhales. It is beyond pathetic, but he is pathetic, has always been pathetic here, has he not? Please, Tobirama begs, and wholly gives into it.
Madara’s lips seal closed around his scent gland, sucking harshly against both the bite and the gland, and all at once it—
—snaps.
Tobirama sobs raggedly, as he spills completely untouched; soaking his fundoshi, making it sodden with seed.
Only now Madara moves. A little late, are we? Tobirama thinks hazily, as Madara tears him out of his clothes, rips off his fundoshi, and unceremoniously begins to rub down against him. Slick folds draw Tobirama’s pleasure out until it’s sickly sweet, and he finds himself squirming away, gripping Madara’s thighs bruisingly to try and still them. Madara remains undeterred, and the frotting continues whether Tobirama likes it or not; until, despite stinging overstimulation, his body just about manages, meeting Madara’s efforts to coax him once more to hardness.
Oh, Tobirama then thinks: Madara’s hands grip his shoulders, and so Tobirama rises to his elbows, and watches as Madara wordlessly steadies himself in place above his cock—and all Tobirama thinks is, oh.
“Fuck,” he hisses, as Madara sinks down. The stretch of him is as painful as it is satisfying; Tobirama’s chest purrs with rightness, yes, yes! Just like this. Nevermind that Madara clutches both sides of his neck and buries his face in his shoulder. Nevermind that Tobirama is debased and unallowed to participate, only half-lay back as Madara grips him. Nevermind that Madara uses him as a toy—to scent and touch and fuck.
Teeth remain a terrific threat at Tobirama’s jugular, while Madara begins to ride him. Tobirama whines messily from the overstimulation. He’s completely at mercy to Madara’s strength as Madara bears down on him, sliding down like a tight, slow fist—but better, with flesh that’s warm and gummy and slick. But for all it is soft, there is hardness too. The hardness of muscle, of constitution.
Tobirama bares his neck, appeasingly. He doesn't know why—it just seems like the right thing to do, when someone’s got teeth to your throat. Not just someone. Madara. As such Madara begins driving himself down on Tobirama’s cock with enthusiasm. His pace isn't as quick as it is harsh. His hips hitch in an abruptness that give the impression of thrusts, as if Madara reins alpha in this—in his—domain.
I am a witness, Tobirama realizes, deliriously. His eyes roll back in his head, which tilts back as well, stretching in full the column of his throat. He fucks me. He’s only using my cock to do it.
Madara grows steadily vocal as he takes of him, huffing rhythmic grunts that, while low in volume, are totally unabashed. He voices his pleasure as he likes, and it sounds like fighting, like his expletives during hand-to-hand combat. These as well stand in contrast to his constitution. Omegas should sound sweet, soft, inviting—not Madara. Never him.
More realization strikes—musings that had been stifled, sequestered away, now flow free in the heat of the moment: Tobirama had thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that seeing Madara in the full swing of heat, struggling through his biological functions to sign a basic dotted line, would get into Tobirama’s thick skull that Madara’s sex is the compliment to his, and so nothing to be frightened of. Perhaps, Tobirama had thought without thinking, seeing Madara be undoubtedly omega would nullify the mystique of terror he exuded.
Tobirama knows better now. Madara’s cunt squeezes him deliciously, stroking up and down with a perfect friction, and Tobirama—immobile, imbicillic, and drunk as a lolling draft-horse—knows with certainly that his cowering will remain a key feature of his instincts where Madara is concerned.
Madara huffs through his nose into the crook of Tobirama’s neck, sharp bursts of hot air heating Tobirama’s sensitive skin. Pleasure tightens in Tobirama’s loins, building up thickly to prepare knot inflation. It is, as it has been, too sensitive—Tobirama pants out these pathetic little whines, and stays put like a good alpha, although the bite of overpleasure only grows, and when his hips buck, Tobirama is urging to squirm away, rather than trying to meet Madara's thrusts.
“Shhhhh,” Madara warns, skin between his teeth. He works his teeth into the already-there bitemark and Tobirama can only moan helplessly as pain shoots down his spine in direct route to his cock. The vibration against Tobirama’s chest morphs from a continuous purr into more of a growl. It cows Tobirama instinctively, making him screw his eyes shut with a sudden rush of fear; the small hairs on his body stand on end at once, as adrenaline ripples through him.
Teeth hard in Tobirama’s neck, growl emanating a terrifying warning into Tobirama’s nervous system, Madara steadily works him over, rocking up and down at a slowness that while not necessarily Tobirama’s preference, is only more perfect for its unruly carelessness. Indeed Madara’s threat, the threat of Madara, only heightens Tobirama’s pleasure.
The line between safety and danger blurs just so and makes each touch a scalding brand, marks the weight and scent of Madara to be as much a boon as a peril. He could tear out my throat, Tobirama thinks, quaking in fear. He’s breeding me, he thinks, and shakes, awash with pleasure. At any rate it's too late to do a thing. Tobirama sealed his own fate the moment he stepped uninvited through that door.
Your funeral. Well, as far as caskets go, this one’s pretty plush.
Tobirama groans lewdly, when Madara abruptly speeds up, bobbing on his cock as his fist might. He doesn't last much longer after that. Madara’s hips snap mercilessly, drawing pleasure from Tobirama like blood from a wound, and with a helpless shout he peaks and spurts his release inside Madara, slamming up into him to bury his knot as it forms. Ropes of seed pump from him while it inflates, plugging Madara widely so that he too cries out, slumping against Tobirama and gripping him around the shoulders in an iron-tight embrace.
Tobirama’s whimpering remains long and continuous, even after he spills his final drop. Madara’s insides squeeze his knot like a vice, retaining near-orgasmic bliss that fogs Tobirama’s mind and turns his limbs fuzzy. Madara clenches greedily around him, sucking almost, feeding on his essence. His mouth too is hungry and insistent on Tobirama’s neck. Euphoria floods Tobirama’s nervous system as Madara licks and sucks his scent gland, prompting bonding pheromones to glide from him seamlessly. Mate, his instincts purr. Madara purrs, too, and it's not scary at all, now. Within the flood of hormones, Tobirama wonders, hazily, why it ever would be.
There is no thought, only sensation, for a time. Madara’s hips rock idly into his pelvis, pleasure-seeking, making Tobirama sob as his knot is tugged on again and again. Soon Madara cums, clenching so tightly that Tobirama thinks he might scream from the overstimulatio—and slips off soon after.
Tobirama stares shellshocked at the ceiling, while Madara frets around like the hulking shape of a nesting dragon, pulling bedding this way and that, chafing Tobirama’s swollen scent glands with how religiously he scents each and every item. Eventually, he falls asleep.
Tobirama exhales very slowly, barely daring to breathe with Madara curled so against him. Only when the moon rises to her zenith and there's been no stir nor even twitch from Madara does Tobirama, oh—so—carefully, extract himself from the omega’s clutches, and slink away with nothing but his yukata wrapped around his clammy skin.
Careful to dodge every creaking floorboard, Tobirama inches down the hallway, eyes wide to the freedom looming just up ahead, in the shape of that dastardly-easy-to-breach sliding door.
Upon reaching it, Tobirama chances a furtive glance backwards, just in case.
At the very edge of darkness, glowing, crimson eyes meet his own.
Tobirama runs.
———
The sun shines brightly through the office windows, illuminating with interest the fine grain of Tobirama’s desk. The words on the page before him blur, as his focus wanders—he hasn't slept. Bruises color his undereyes deeply; given a hell of a run for their money by the mottling purple that blooms along the side of his neck.
His high collar can only hide the bruise, not the haggard air about him. His office mates—Touka, Hatake Akari, Izuna—are kind enough not to mention it.
Midway through his third attempt to read and comprehend the same paragraph, the door to the office bursts open.
Uchiha Madara walzes in with a pep in his step, greeting, “Good morning, Izuna.”
Tobirama startles so badly that he breaks his pen. The contents of its inkwell soaks a deep black patch all along the cost approval documents for the Hatake’s precious plum wine.