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The softly whispered profanity from the other branch has Madara's head snapping up, eyes narrowed.
"What is it, Senju?"
Tobirama, kneeling over some strange array of boiling glass tubes and powders he'd produced from one of his bafflingly nested seal arrays, makes an impatient sound and flicks his wrist, gathering up the bright green-gold liquid in the tube nearest him and dissipating it into the air.
"The cut from the Hagoromo," Tobirama says, and then pauses, as if somehow that's all he needs to say.
"The one on your finger?" Madara prompts. "The one so shallow it didn't even bleed?"
"Tch." Tobirama's gaze swings up from glaring at the crumpled Hagoromo corpses below to meet Madara's eyes, no fear in him at all. Arrogant, brilliant, infuriating - how can this man have no problem going toe to toe with Madara in the council chamber, fight beside him and keep up, and yet get compromised by a papercut? "It's poison."
He packs away his kit with efficient movements, preempting Madara's reaction by continuing,
"An adapted and updated version of their aphrodisiac, most likely; the chemical signature is closest to it."
"Updated?" Madara repeats. "How, exactly?" He's fallen prey to aphrodisiac poison before - every shinobi worth the name has experienced it once or twice - but the usual tactic is to hold the effects off with chakra, given enough warning, or handle it oneself. The Hagoromo haven't updated the recipe in years-
Until now, apparently.
"This version travels up both the chakra coils and the blood vessels." Tobirama says this with the same emotion he attaches to his council lectures on village water policy. "If it works the way I believe it does, it feeds on the victim's chakra to enhance its effects."
Hm. Madara, never as skilled a sensor as Tobirama, reaches out with his own chakra, feels as much as sees Tobirama shiver at the touch. The other shinobi's right, as he so often, irritatingly, is: the green-gold seeping up his chakra coils from the cut on his thumb dampens his chakra output as it goes, devouring it and replicating itself as it works deeper into Tobirama's body.
"Could you use the Hiraishin to get us back to Konoha?"
It's a mark of how desperate the situation is that Madara would ever allow himself to be taken along by the jutsu that nearly killed Izuna. Would have killed him, if not for Hashirama's quick intervention.
"No." Tobirama's lip curls into something near a snarl, the most expression Madara's ever seen on that icy face. He takes out a bedroll and spreads it across the bark, continuing, "I could do one leap, perhaps two, with a passenger, but even so, I don't trust my accuracy and chakra reserves at the moment. You are not an acceptable sacrifice."
Madara blinks. Has to take a second to reconfigure his view on Tobirama entirely. His voice is a slow, rising growl as he says,
"And you are?"
"More so than you," Tobirama says. He sits down, brow pinched, gaze thoughtful, and then, to Madara's confusion, pulls out four kunai and a spool of nin-wire, which he begins looping through the kunai handles and tying off. His hands are a steady blur in the late night darkness.
"What are you planning?" Madara does not mean - not truly- for the words to come out as suspicious as they do, and Tobirama's shoulders tense.
"I can't get us back to Konoha," Tobirama says, face downturned. He measures one loop of wire around his thin, bony wrist, and then cuts it off and ties it into a sliding knot. "The poison needs to be waited out until it no longer has chakra to feed off of, so I'll restrain myself until that happens. Judging by its current progress through the chakra points, it should burn itself out by dawn."
Six hours away, if that. Six hours of Tobirama binding himself to the broad branch of the tree, suffering with untended desire while Madara - what, sits and watches? Has to listen?
"And you'd trust me to defend your back while you have no chakra?"
Tobirama sinks the first kunai so deeply into the bark that only the ringed handle remains, then slips his foot through the looped wire and slides it shut. He's judged it well, the wire settling into place where his ankle wraps join to his trousers: the thickest-padded place over vulnerable skin. "Regardless of your personal feelings on me," Tobirama says, flat and superior, "you have as much a stake in Konoha as anyone else." The other foot and ankle, bound just far enough apart so as to have no hope of using his toes to slip either cuff. "And for all that we clash in council, you are no short-sighted fool; you know that I would be a strategic and tactical loss, were you to let me die."
"Wh-?" Madara shakes himself again, anger and confusion roiling hot over his skin and escaping in tiny sparks of chakra fire. "Is everything tactics to you?"
Tobirama says nothing for a moment. He slips off his vest, which he empties of an alarming amount of tools, pills, and other gear and seals them all away, then rolls up the vest and places it behind himself. His jaw works, and he opens his mouth and picks out a few tiny pills he must have stored in - what, false teeth? Under his tongue? Everything gets swept away and sealed, and then he stabs the other two kunai into the bark above his head and lies down on the bedroll, head pillowed on the vest. "Not everything," he says, and reaches up and cinches both wrists in the nin-wire. As tight as the bonds are, as spread as he is, he has little room to struggle and nearly no hope of freeing himself without assistance, and Madara can't help but fume at the freely offered trust he does not actually want - not in this situation, at this time.
"And if the Hagoromo we've been waiting for actually show up, I suppose I'll just handle it myself, then." That had been, after all, the actual point of the mission: to track down and cut off a Hagoromo supply line for aphrodisiac poisons infiltrating the capital.
"You are more than capable," Tobirama says, dry as any desert Madara has ever heard of. He looks bizarrely comfortable, staked out like a sacrifice, the long, lean lines of his body highlighted in sharp relief in his shinobi blacks. "You will not, of course, lord it over me if you accomplish it without getting poisoned yourself."
"Of course," Madara says, and does not at all roll his eyes.
-
Three hours after Tobirama’s exposure, and Madara is thrilled beyond all measure when the targeted Hagoromo couriers appear.
Is, perhaps, a little overenthusiastic when it comes to dispatching them; they barely manage to put up a fight, and he's left with hot blood running in his veins and dissatisfaction drying his mouth. He searches the bodies, finds the evidence they've been sent to collect - several vials of poison and a few notes written in code for Izuna's intelligence services to pore over - and slams a fist into the ground, using his barely-passable Earth jutsu to swallow up the bodies and remnants of their battle.
Well. How unexciting.
He turns, leaps back up into the tree cover, and is abruptly reminded of his other, more pressing, problem:
Tobirama.
Tobirama spent the first hour in meditation, his breathing slow and steady, his eyes shut and expression placid. He'd looked, for all the world, like a man at rest, even as the yellow-green contagion spread up into his head and down into his feet. Even hour two hadn't been too much out of the ordinary for a comrade afflicted with an aphrodisiac; he'd started to tense, then, hands and feet curling and uncurling, a faint pink flush spreading from his temples across his nose, and shifted from side to side, but maintained silence.
Madara's always known Senju Tobirama to be a creature of sheer commitment and will; has always respected it, even as he was frustrated by him: first, for what he might do to Izuna, and then for his stubborn refusal to bend on council issues, always showing up to meetings with what seemed like thousands of pages of scrolls to back up his own side and never an ounce of patience for anyone else's views.
Hence why Hashirama insisted he and Madara do this mission together to learn compromise, even though it was far beneath either of their skill levels.
Still, three hours into an aphrodisiac of this strength: almost any other shinobi Madara knows would be howling with emptiness by now, a slave to their most basic instincts.
In the darkness, Tobirama's pale hair stands out like a shock of lightning. He's tipped his head back against the makeshift pillow, exposing the long, sweat-damp hollow of his neck, pink now with need. His lower lip catches between his teeth, the skin raw and blood-flushed. His thighs, even hidden beneath his utilitarian shinobi trousers, tense and release in rhythm, then still, and then, after a moment of Tobirama shifting and breathing, move once more, as if his vaunted reserve is splintering beneath the weight of his hunger.
Madara swallows. His throat's parched. For all that he finds Tobirama infuriating, there's something heady in seeing him vulnerable, all that ice melted to reveal the warm, yearning man beneath.
Yearning may not be a strong enough word, for Tobirama strains and shudders, heels digging against the bedroll. His hips jerk. He gasps, a sharp, cut-off sound, hastily smothered by pressing his face to the inside of his arm, and Madara stares, disbelieving, as a dark stain spreads at the apex of Tobirama's thighs.
Not the only one, either, and at that Madara's rising lust gives way to concern. Normally aphrodisiacs lose strength once the victim's climaxed, but judging from Tobirama's condition, he's managed to bring himself off more than a few times just from...
Something predatory in Madara sits up, takes notice. Tobirama, being so sensitive to touch he can make himself come just from the friction of his cock on his trousers?
"Madara," Tobirama says, and Madara jolts out of his thoughts with a start.
"Yeah?" Tobirama probably just wants Madara to turn away or to release him to clean himself up; the other shinobi's so low on chakra he can’t even muster a handful of water to rinse himself.
Tobirama shifts, uses the nin-wire about his wrists to haul himself up. The fine silver hairs at his temples and nape are dark with sweat. Even his near-invisible lashes have become silver spikes, visible in the darkness against the deep red-black of his eyes as he opens them and stares into Madara's face. "I need your help."
"With what?" He's already moving, dropping into a crouch next to Tobirama and reaching for his canteen. "You, uh, seem to have found a way that works."
Tobirama, halfway to allowing Madara to tip some water into his mouth, the pliancy going right to Madara's heart, clicks his tongue. He takes the water Madara pours for him with ease, throat bobbing, pink tongue darting out to swipe over his lips, and then says, voice hoarse,
"Not enough, it seems. It isn't a matter of..."
He colors, gaze sliding away from Madara, and shifts his hips again, a thin noise breaking free of his control.
Gods; all too willing to talk in detail about Hagoromo aphrodisiac chemistry, flippant about tying himself up to just suffer through it, and yet-
Is Senju Tobirama shy?
"If it were only a matter of reaching completion enough times," Tobirama says, stiff, face turned into his own arm as if to hide the mere fact of his humanity from Madara's avaricious gaze, "then the aphrodisiac would have worn off." He shudders again, and his expression and low sound seem to dance more on the edge of pain than pleasure. "Even so, the- the sensitivity has stayed at a heightened level despite the fact that there is nothing left to-"
He cuts off, eyes falling shut, and trembles, and Madara aches in sympathy. Coming dry, again and again, and unable to either escalate to the level the drug demands or start relaxing and recovering - sensitized and aching and miserable with it -
"What do you need?" Good; that sounds gruff enough, the concern only of one comrade for another. He doesn't need Tobirama reading more into this than already exists.
Tobirama laughs, an arid, pained sound, and scrubs his damp forehead against the inside of his arm before rolling his face back to Madara. His eyes shine dark and glazed, his mouth marked with the imprints of his own teeth, and how will Madara be able to forget how this man looks, undone by his own desire?
"It aches," Tobirama breathes, blinking sweat from his eyes, "inside. Feels empty."
Madara's hands clench into fists on his thighs. He is not too good a man to admit that he's fantasized about Tobirama beneath him, the way so many Uchiha of his age have - amused himself in council by imagining how so cold a man would melt beneath the heat of an Uchiha's hands - and yet -
"I will not," he says, half to himself and half to Tobirama, who stares at him with fogged-over eyes, "take advantage of you."
"So noble," Tobirama manages. His eyes sharpen for a second. "It isn't taking advantage. I am asking, and I know that you are-" a hesitation, the flick of a tongue across his bitten-bloody lip, "-more than proficient."
Madara barely manages to prevent himself from squawking. "That was private! He swore he'd never tell!" During the war, he and an allied Hyuuga shinobi had both been felled by aphrodisiac, and turned to each other to slake their lusts. Even when the Hyuuga had joined Konoha, Madara and the Hyuuga branch member had steadfastly ignored each other, their shames - he'd thought - a mutually agreed secret. The fact that, if nothing else, the other man seems to have only good things to say about his performance is flattering, but still.
"There has to be someone else you'd rather..." Madara starts, only for Tobirama to glance about the empty forest and return his gaze to Madara in silent judgment.
"Even if there were," Tobirama says, the hazy overlay of desire in his voice burned away, his tone about as romantic as a fist to the face, "I would prefer to be relieved of my inexperience by you."
...inexperience?
The man has been practically designed to wake everything bestial in the Uchiha, and Madara both loathes and welcomes the swell of heated interest that washes over him. This close, the flush on Tobirama's cheeks blends into the intricately-painted network of seals on his chin and cheekbones, sweat glossing his lips, darkening the hair at his temples to an iron-gray, and Madara aches to taste him.
"You are the heir to the Senju," Madara notes, half-confused, half-teasing, "and yet you have no-?"
Tobirama's laugh rasps low, more mockery than humor. "You have eyes, Madara. You are more than aware of my faults, both physical and personal." His swallow clicks dry, and his hips rock, then still through force of effort. "There have been few offers, and none I would dare to saddle with my person. I know what I am meant for." He says this like immutable fact: water is wet, Mito is terrifying, and Tobirama is unworthy of life as anything but a weapon.
"I have eyes," Madara says after a long, befuddled moment where he watches Tobirama close his eyes and breathe, wrists fidgeting in their bonds, "and they happen to tell me that you're quite attractive, but I suppose insulting my taste is another one of your charming traits."
Tobirama squints at him. "Thank you?"
"Even so," Madara continues, shifting his weight as the damn tree bark digs into his shins, "taking advantage-"
Tobirama hisses like an angered cat, pupils blowing wide, and Madara's mouth clicks shut while Tobirama, rippling abdominal muscles going taut and trembling, levers himself up into as much of a sit-up as he is capable of and snarls,
"Would a detailed recounting of all the times I've fucked my fist to thoughts of you be enough to relieve you of this inconvenient morality?!"
He collapses back to the branch, huffing, and tosses his head with a growl. "Of course, if Lord Uchiha truly wishes to remove himself from the situation, the poison should have run its course in three hours. I will then need at least a day to replenish my chakra reserves before returning to Konoha, whereas handling the problem now would be more efficient." His words slur towards the end of his rant, and he turns his glowering, scarlet face back into his arm, shoulders falling from where they've climbed around his ears. "Either way, I will not beg further."
Pole-axed, Madara finally musters,
"You pleasure yourself to thoughts of me?"
Tobirama's hips jerk, but Madara's attention is fixed on where Tobirama mutters,
"You are the only one in council who dares to make me defend my positions."
True. Hashirama tries to avoid taking sides, the rest of the council is cowed by Tobirama's cold face, his intelligence, or the absurd amounts of research he brings to bear, and only Madara is fool enough to constantly attempt to poke holes in Tobirama's logic.
Madara turns and rips the first kunai out of the branch, gloved hands widening the nin-wire enough to slip Tobirama's ankle out of the snare. He leans forward, over those suddenly tense and trembling thighs, to get the next one and toss both the kunai away to the end of the branch.
"Madara?" Tobirama says, wariness and hope mixing in his voice. He bucks as Madara swings a leg over his thighs and sits down, a hoarse sound breaking through his clenched teeth.
"I," Madara says, reaching up to undo his vest and lay it aside, Tobirama's crimson eyes tracking his hands, "am not fucking you while you're bound." He reaches up, undoes Tobirama's wrists, and manages to not get thrown by the powerful flex of Tobirama's body as the other man immediately tears his own shirt off, lifts his hips, and begins undoing his pants while Madara strips his gloves off.
Even in the dimness of predawn, Tobirama shines: long and lean, sinewy muscles rippling beneath pale, scarred skin; near-hairless in comparison to Madara, with only a faint trail of silver hair arrowing downward from his navel, damp with sweat and - Madara swallows - his own spend. The heated flush of his face has spread to flirt with his shoulders and chest, his pale pink nipples drawn taut in the cool night air.
"Up," Tobirama says, sharp, and Madara rises up on his knees, planting a fist beside Tobirama's shoulders, and glances down to watch Tobirama, white-knuckled, shove his trousers and fundoshi off in one desperate motion and -
Roll over onto his front, a great shudder rippling down his taut shoulders and back and a whine breaking free of his teeth, and lean forward, getting his knees and hands beneath him, head and shoulders dropping low, animal in his need.
"Right to it, are we?" is all Madara can say, transfixed by Tobirama's open desperation, the wet-tipped, angry-red cock swinging, half-hard, between the muscled columns of Tobirama's thighs. It twitches beneath his gaze, tiny slit trembling with the urge to spill seed that no longer exists, and Madara winces at Tobirama’s pained breath.
"I would be happy," Tobirama grits out, reaching for his rolled up vest and fumbling out a bottle of oil, "to explore foreplay with you in the future, Madara, but in the meantime I'd rather you hold me down and fuck me like I know you can." The vulgarity flies from his mouth like an arrow, smashes into Madara's chest with the same force as the bottle, which he nearly fumbles. "Get on with it, please." This last, added with ill grace, near a sulk, and Madara can smirk as he uncorks the bottle.
"Hold yourself open for me, then."
Panting, Tobirama - for once - obeys, a shaking hand coming back to grip one side of his ass and tug it open, revealing himself: this implacable, distant man, rendered warm and alive and able to be touched, allowing Madara to touch him, and Madara uncorks the bottle and stares, ravenous and humbled.
Tobirama's entrance is a taut rose-pink furl of muscle, trembling beneath Madara's greedy gaze and the cool touch of air - so pale and tight that to open it seems an impossibility, for Madara knows well how tightly-wound Tobirama is, the cutting pride that keeps him upright. He flinches anew as Madara pours a thin stream of oil over it, then touches the pad of his thumb to the yielding center.
Tobirama's gasp is a wondrous, broken sound, and he cuts himself off with a groan, shoving his face into his forearm where he's curled it over his vest as if to hide.
"Ever touched yourself here?" Madara asks, swirling his thumb in slow, tightening circles over Tobirama's fluttering entrance. Even with as lightly as he's stroking, Tobirama trembles, rocks back into the pressure and sensation, body chasing the fleeting pleasure of Madara's touch. "Or have you denied yourself even that?"
"Madara," Tobirama growls. He ignores the question, rim rippling beneath Madara's thumb, and then moans, shattered and heartfelt, as Madara twists his thumb and drives it forward.
It is all Madara can do not to echo him, not to turn on his Sharingan to memorize the moment: Tobirama's pink rim paling and stretching taut over the width of Madara's knuckles, the silken wet heat of him against Madara's skin, all pretense of frigidity gone, how he shudders and gasps, open-mouthed, against his arm, silver lashes fallen low on pink cheeks.
"How is that?" Madara slides his thumb in, all the way up to where Tobirama's slick rim kisses his palm, and then tugs it back, curls his thumb and pulls Tobirama open, just a bit, and watches his hole flash pink, taut against the pressure. "Do you need more?"
"More," Tobirama echoes, voice lost, all the anger and sharp edges of him melting into raw need. "Yes, more, please." He takes a breath, deep and shaken, as Madara retreats, sets index and middle finger at the tensing edge of him, and drives in with one smooth thrust. Fuck, Tobirama is tight - hot and trembling silk crushing Madara's knuckles, a temptation and a tease to Madara's cock where it aches in his fundoshi.
His chest is a knot of lust and worry, of having to balance the need to work Tobirama open, his body wound taut and shuddering by the ache of the poison, and the need to fill him to end its effect, for Tobirama's sounds at every touch - low, breathless, hurt things - tear at him. Even his abortive attempt to stroke Tobirama's cock with his other hand to relax him had left Tobirama gasping and on the verge of tears, scrabbling at the bark to escape the overstimulation.
"Get on with it," Tobirama snarls, voice thick, when Madara slides in a third finger. "What are you waiting for?"
"I'm waiting for you to relax," Madara fires back. "It seems I have a good reputation to uphold, and even if I didn't, I don't want to hurt you."
"What, like you're-" Tobirama arches his spine harder, rocks his hips back, and silences as he feels the heated press of Madara's cock, still trapped in his trousers, against the back of one thigh.
"Yes," Madara says, both grim and gleeful: how many people have ever left the great Senju Tobirama speechless? "I am large, so I know how much I need-" he draws his fingers out until only the tips of him remain inside Tobirama's heat, then applies more oil and pushes, gaze fixed on where Tobirama's rim clutches hungrily at his knuckles, "-to prepare you. Gods, look at you," he marvels, watching Tobirama rock back into him, body loosening and accepting. "So needy, so pretty-"
"Either give me your cock or another finger before I throw you down and sit on you," Tobirama manages, words slurred. He gasps, a sharp, airless sound, when Madara nudges his fourth finger at his entrance and presses it home, oil welling between his knuckles and dripping down in thick, clear droplets over the backs of Tobirama's balls, the wet tip of his cock, and tosses his head.
Fuck, he's gorgeous: sharp red gaze gone hazy and wanton, thin, pale lips bitten to a glossy, heated curve, the pale canvas of his body hot and sweat-slick as he fucks himself back on Madara's fingers with single-minded intensity, broken little whines and gasps tearing from his throat.
"Now," Tobirama says at last, twisting to stare at Madara, expression half-mad with lust and longing and fury. "Now, in me, damn it-" There's tears shining on his sharp cheekbones.
"You're too sensitive," Madara protests, watching how Tobirama's cock twitches in helpless, empty release with each sway of his hips. The bedroll glistens with the heady proof of Tobirama's desire. "I'd hurt-"
"Please," Tobirama says, half a plea, half a sob, and that decides him.
"All right," Madara says, and pulls his hand away. He unbuckles his belt, drops his trousers and fundoshi with shaking hands, trying to ignore the fact that is Hashirama's little brother, the greatest water user of his generation, the most brilliant mind of Konoha, naked and wanton and begging Madara to fuck him.
He upends the bottle of oil over his cock, so ready it fills out his fist, fingers and thumb barely meeting as he strokes the oil on. Then he shifts, spreads his shins to either side of Tobirama's, and hooks the fronts of his ankles over the backs of Tobirama's as if to pin him, the possessive streak in him settling at Tobirama's acceptance of the hold. "I meant what I said," Madara continues in a soft voice, lowering himself to cover Tobirama's shaking, sweat-damp body with his own. He doesn't interlace their fingers, but he presses Tobirama's fingers to the bedroll with his palms in silent command. "I am big, and it can hurt, especially if you're wound tight as you are. Tell me if it hurts too much to endure."
Tobirama's harsh laugh shakes through his shoulders and into Madara's chest. His voice is a warm rumble against Madara's cheek where he's tucked his chin over Tobirama's shoulder. "I'd endure any pain just to be full, Madara." The words ring with horrible honesty. "Don't make me beg further."
Madara answers by reaching back, grasping himself, and guiding the tip to Tobirama's entrance. Fuck, it's so hot, yielding to the bare press of Madara's body with a hunger that makes Madara's mouth water, his cock ache with the need to be sheathed. How could he have ever thought Tobirama cold, when the man beneath him gasps and pushes back, vicious, deadly body softening and opening, a low gasp of fulfillment cleaving the air.
"Easy." Madara slides a hand down Tobirama's flank, curls his fingers about the knife-sharp crest of his hipbone, and stills him, heart aching at Tobirama's wounded sound, the aching plea as he twists beneath Madara, the frantic pounding of his heart beneath Madara's other arm where he wraps it about Tobirama's chest, fingers curling over his shoulder to hold him. "Easy, Tobirama, you're going to hurt yourself - let me-"
He rocks back until only the tip of him remains buried in Tobirama, Tobirama tightening and fluttering about him, milking him, and then sinks forward and down.
"Yes," Tobirama manages, his arms trembling. His head drops, baring the back of his neck to Madara, the delicate line of his spine, and Gods, Madara wants to bite, wants to mouth at his throat, take his flushed earlobe between his teeth. "More." His breathing shatters apart into staccato panting, as uncontrolled as Madara has ever seen him, and it takes all of Madara's own dwindling control to not shove him flat and fuck him the way he's begged for.
Instead he works him open around his cock. Gentle, testing thrusts, every inch conquered followed by a swift retreat, a moment's patient wait for Tobirama to yield and soften before rolling his hips back in, teeth clenched to hold back his own moans.
When he finds Tobirama's prostate, it nearly cuts him in two. Tobirama doesn't press back into him, or gasp, or moan the way so many other lovers have, held wide on the weight and width of Madara's cock and unable to escape the stimulation; instead he shudders around a cry, locked arms collapsing beneath him as he presses his face to the bedroll, expression twisted in something far too close to pain for Madara's liking.
Shit, of course he's sore; he's been wrung dry by the poison, and Madara shifts, bites back a groan as he gets ready to pull out.
"Don't even think about it," Tobirama says, ruined voice near a whisper. He flings an arm back and up to sink his hand into Madara's hair, yanks him down until they near-breathe the same air, and tightens around Madara. "Deeper. Harder." Before Madara can say a word, one red eye, pupil blown to encompass it in black, framed in silver, cracks open, pins Madara in place. "I'm sure."
Madara bares his teeth. Shakes Tobirama's hand from his neck, rises up until he's knelt down. Drags his hand down Tobirama's side until he has the taunting narrowness of his waist encompassed in his grip, and glances down to find that a good portion of him is still outside, burning to be held in Tobirama. "All right, then. You asked for it."
He firms his grip, widens his stance, and fucks into Tobirama in one sharp motion, ending with a filthy, slow grind of his hips as if to rut even deeper, the sound of his thighs meeting Tobirama's rear ringing loud in the night air. Sweat drips down his nose, slicks his back, and he releases Tobirama with one hand to rake his hair out from his face with a growl.
Tobirama's response is a gift: sheer responsiveness and vulnerability, a raw, wondering cry of "Madara!" tearing from him as he clenches his fists in the bedroll and shoves himself back, channel rippling like a silken glove around Madara. He's a conflagration, all ice and distance stripped away, alive and wanton and desperate, every square inch of skin seeming to hunger for Madara's touch, pressing into his hands, his chest, the cradle of his hips, with painful need.
Fuck, how will Madara survive this? How will he look at Tobirama droning on about water easement rights with his stupid fucking flowcharts and not remember this moment, not hunger for Tobirama spread wide across the council table, trembling and gasping and arching against Madara like he'll die without Madara's touch?
He makes the mistake of looking down, where Tobirama takes him so beautifully, rim taut and straining, white against the blood-hot shaft of Madara's cock, shining with oil and precum, and bites his tongue and fucks him harder. Harder, still, rutting into him with all the weight and force he can muster, until Tobirama's biceps swell with the effort to keep Madara from shoving him right off the bedroll and Madara's teeth ache to bite him.
The air fills with their sounds: Tobirama's sobbing gasps for breath, Madara's rasped inhales, the drumbeat of their bodies. Madara's blind with the pleasure of it, the tension drawing tight and tingling in his hands, his feet, pouring molten under his skin-
He drops down to cover Tobirama's body with his own and buries his face into the join of Tobirama's shoulder and neck, panting, teeth far too close to Tobirama's skin, his arms winding tight about Tobirama's chest to hold him still to be plundered. With a deep, heartfelt groan, he comes, hips hitching into Tobirama in sharp, restless thrusts, the animal part of him desperate to get deeper, harder, mark Tobirama up and fill him so full no one else will ever match it, and Tobirama takes it, takes him, tightening in slow, rippling waves as if to milk Madara of everything he has.
Tobirama moans with each hot pulse of spend, voice shredded and thick with satiety and desperate relief.
For a moment, Madara hangs suspended, all his senses full of Tobirama: his wild, raw scent, the damp heat of his skin, the taste of his sweat, his heartbeat slowing beneath Madara's lips. His own completion rolls through him, heavy and drugging, and it's all he can do to open his eyes and mumble,
"You all right?"
It seems to take Tobirama a moment to gather his faculties, but at last he lifts his head and blinks, owlish.
Madara lets the hot wash of possessive satisfaction show on his face, for there's no mistaking that Senju Tobirama has been fucked, and fucked well. His hair is a riot of sweat-damp spikes, his lips are swollen and pink, and his eyes are hazed with pleasure, his expression softer than Madara has ever seen it. He trembles beneath Madara like his body doesn't know what to do with itself, unused to pleasure, and the gaze he turns to Madara is both grateful and wondering.
"Yes," he says, voice raspy, and questing, cool chakra bubbling up to race across Madara's skin. "The aphrodisiac's gone." He blinks again, slow, and hisses as Madara shifts, dragging against the no-doubt-sensitive skin of his rim. "Ah!"
"Deep breath," Madara coaxes, and when Tobirama obeys, he sits up and pulls out, passing a comforting hand down Tobirama's spine to distract him from the sudden emptiness. Another mistake, for now he can see-
Tobirama's softened rim, pink and a little swollen, twitching as if to close about the shining vulnerable insides of him, oil and Madara's spend trailing in a tantalizing strand down his cleft to his balls. Madara's swallow clicks dry in his throat as he touches a thumb to his seed, the animal possessive part of him demanding he finger it back inside Tobirama, leave him even fuller and with no doubt who he belongs to-
"Later," Tobirama says, and falls to his side on the bedroll with a bizarre lack of grace, long limbs taking up far too much space.
Madara stares at him, hand still raised, cock now making a valiant effort to take a new interest in the proceedings. "Later, what?"
Tobirama opens one eye to pin him with an unimpressed glare. "Later, you can show me what all this foreplay is about, and you can fuck me again after I've had a chance to recover." He yawns, helpless, and Madara is hopeless - even that yawn is endearing. "Now get over here, I'm cold and I know how hot you run." He rolls over, presenting Madara with his back, and casts an expectant glance over his shoulder. "I have been informed that continued physical contact, particularly of this kind, is expected after sex."
"You make it sound so sensual," Madara replies drily, rummaging in his pack for two spare towels and tossing one in Tobirama's direction. "Not at all like something you could create a presentation on."
Tobirama's sharp eyes narrow with his secretive smile. "And the council just loves my presentations, don't they? Last time the clan representatives set a new record for number of yawns."
Madara freezes halfway through wiping himself down. "Are you making your presentations longer just to mess with us?!"
"Perhaps," Tobirama says, as if Madara can't see the foxlike mischief glittering in his gaze. How could he have ever thought this man cold? "And perhaps, if you get over here and warm me up like I asked, I will cut my next presentation on conservation of the Naka headwaters by twenty percent."
Madara is not too ashamed to admit that he scrambles to obey.