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Chapter Text

It's the fifth hour into working when Madara starts to get twitchy; readjusting his hair, shifting in his chair, flipping his pen in his fingers, blinking more than usual. Tobirama makes note of those tics in the back of his mind as he reads through forms, scanning every line with his usual pinpoint precision. And, a meter or two away from him, Madara twitches.

His heat is coming up this week, Tobirama is aware. A year ago when they were constantly at war, Madara fought through his heat and preheat and was even more vicious for it; his entire clan was, determined to protect their leader during one of his most vulnerable times. Only when the heat became unbearable did Izuna and Hikaku take over in his stead, fighting with the fury of demons. 

Now, in more peaceful times, Madara can't simply scorch a few hundred people to ash. Or, well, he could but it would be generally considered unacceptable. Missions and spars are not the same as fighting entire armies and no one wants to have a crater where Madara and Hashirama went all-out in a spar, so the edge must be taken off a different way.

He'll never ask for it. Tobirama is used to being the one who handles Madara in preheat, as Madara refuses to go to Hashirama until he's desperate. If not, he tries to stick it out on his own, even as his scent starts to drift from honey-smoke to honey-forest-fire. He fails - something about his genetics, it was apparently rather typical for Uchiha omegas to have much stronger heats and preheats than the norm - of course, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Every single time.

It's an interesting game. Will Madara ever admit that he needs the help, that he needs someone there to hold him and touch him? Or will he just stew in his own discomfort? 

Tobirama allows it for another hour until Madara's knee starts bouncing. Then, with a sigh, he sets down his pen and slides his papers into a neat stack, setting them aside.

"Madara."

"What, Senju?" Madara snips, eyes flashing towards him. He is rather good looking, with the messy spikes of his bangs framing his regal features - contorted into a glare, but still quite striking - and his heart-lips twisted into a half-snarl. Tobirama simply raises a brow.

"Sit on the desk."

The effect is immediate. Madara goes red, a splotchy blush staining the high points of his cheekbones all the way to the tips of his ears, and huffs. Sparks flicker between his teeth. "I don't need it right now," he snaps. "Someone helped me already this morning."

Hm. That would explain why it's later than usual. In the back of his head, Tobirama runs through a list of potential candidates and crosses off names; he's curious, as to who Madara would let assist him with something as intimate as this. "Once a morning is hardly enough," he says. "Sit."

"I'm fine!"

"You're a distraction - Madara."

The Sharingan is alive, now, three tomoe whirling in a furious circle. Madara has leapt to his feet, the ribbon holding his hair back - a wise choice, surprisingly enough - loosening, a streak of white in the inky-dark tresses. Tobirama meets those red eyes without fear, knowing Madara wouldn't genjutsu Hashirama's younger brother, and says, "Sit. Let's get this over with."

It takes a little more meaningless back-and-forth before Madara gets on the desk, cheeks flaming all the while as he kicks off his pants and underwear, scowling all the while. Tobirama sits down and unceremoniously pushes his thighs apart, ignoring Madara's insulted hiss, and raises a brow. "You weren't lying."

He's stretched, already, slick and yielding to his touch. Madara glares, chakra boiling warmer in insult.

"I wouldn't lie," he says. 

"I suppose," Tobirama agrees. Not Hashirama, for sure; Madara hates sleeping with alphas on principle and does it only when he's so heat-drunk he needs a knot or something as big to properly function. He can discount most of the Senju clan, as well, just because none of them would ever think to do something like this (except Tobirama himself, he supposes) and Madara would never ask, either. An Uchiha? Likely not; while Madara respects and cares for his clanmates, it would sting his pride as clan head. Except maybe for a few, who stand close to his level; Hikaku, his main guard (not that Madara needs one) and one of his advisors. And Izuna. "Who?"

"What - " a choked-off groan as Tobirama pushes one finger in, sinking straight to the knuckle - "why would I - fuck, stop doing that while I'm talking!"

"Why?" Tobirama says, having pushed in another finger. 

"Did your father not teach you any manners, Senju?" Madara hisses, but he's squirming on top of the desk, periodically spasming around Tobirama's fingers, so he doesn't consider it much of a threat or insult. Madara is much wittier outside of heat, Tobirama finds. "It's - ah - fuck - "

"Language," Tobirama reprimands, just to see Madara splutter like a wet cat - and to cut it off by scissoring his fingers, scraping the calloused pads of them against Madara's walls. "Who was it? Hikaku?"

"I'm not telling you," Madara spits. The flush has reached down to his neck and possibly further; sadly, because his torso is covered up, it's difficult to tell. In any case, his thighs are pink and the skin is burning to the touch. Madara has always run warm, like a miniature sun; no wonder Hashirama is obsessed with him. But the shift of his chakra is good enough indication; Madara wears his emotions on his sleeve and there's no flinch, nothing except the growing burn of embarrassment. So... 

"Izuna?" he asks and has the pleasure of watching Madara go bright Sharingan red, his chakra flaring in reddening panic and slight shame. It's amusing, if Tobirama's being honest, and perhaps just a bit too satisfying; to watch Uchiha Madara have to debase himself like this, torn down entirely by his very own pride. First Tobirama, now his very own brother. Unless... "How long, Madara?"

"It's none of your business!" 

"Considering that I'm currently fingering you open on my desk, it is my business," Tobirama says archly and fucks another finger in, setting up a strong rhythm. His own arousal strains at the front of his pants but he compartmentalizes it to another part of his mind. "You had Izuna this entire time and you still wanted Hashirama and I?"

"What are - "

The rest of his sentence dissolves. Tobirama raises a brow and pauses his movements, graciously allowing Madara a moment to gather himself. 

"What are you implying, Senju?" Madara finally gasps out, glaring. "That I'm - "

"Not quite," Tobirama says and hooks his fingers into a come-hither motion. If he was nice he would actually touch Madara; worked up as the other is already, smokey sweetness filling the air, it wouldn't take long to make him come. But Tobirama doesn't quite care about being nice. "Izuna couldn't provide?"

"Don't you dare say that about him," Madara snarls. It is a little intimidating, but Tobirama will hardly admit that right now. "Izuna is leagues - leagues - "

"Better?" Tobirama mocks. "Should I stop, then? Let Izuna come here and deal with it?"

"No - "

"So you are admitting that I'm better."

"I didn't - " Madara shakes his head, scent turning desperate, sweeter and sweeter by the moment. Tobirama could drown in it, in this very moment; not just the sight but the sounds, of Madara's little choked-off gasps and the wet noises from between his thighs, the slight creaking of wood as he ruts back onto Tobirama's fingers. "Just - touch me, Senju - "

"No," Tobirama says. "You're free to come at any moment, but you come the way I want you to."

Madara snarls but it tapers off into a pleading whine as his movements become more and more frantic. Tobirama could just stop moving and Madara would try to fuck himself right into completion, the muscles of his thighs flexing beneath flushed pink skin, abdomen rippling. He envies Izuna, a little; the other must have thousands of memories stored up, just of Madara in this state, if they had been doing it for as long as Tobirama expected. Tobirama knows he would have, should he have had a Sharingan. 

"You're horrible," Madara spits - or, rather, tries to, but he's panting between every word. The ribbon has slipped out and his hair is a riot of tangled waves, falling into his eyes, sticking to his neck. Tobirama can't tear his eyes away from the expression on his face, just clinging to this side of composure, eyes glazing over. "Terrible. I swear - "

"Am I? I think I'm quite generous, actually," Tobirama says and stands up, the chair clattering back over the wooden floor. He bullies his way further between Madara's legs, angling his fingers and meeting the jerks of Madara's hips with steady, level thrusts. "I'm letting and even helping you rut yourself to completion, on my desk - while, I might remind you, we're supposed to be working. Now hurry up and come, Madara."

It takes only a few more thrusts and then Madara jerks, every muscle pulling taut, thighs clamping about Tobirama's hips in a way that will possibly bruise as he spasms around a wail, slick dripping nectar-sweet over his fingers, his knuckles, his hand. Tobirama uses his free hand to drown Madara in a biting kiss, swallowing up the rest of his sounds, ignoring the throbbing in his pants in favour of scraping his nails over Madara's now-swollen walls until Madara shrieks a little, from oversensitivity, twitching.

For a moment all they do is breathe, leaning into one another's space. The smell of smoke and honey has lessened considerably, though it's now tinted with something more sugary instead. Madara looks relaxed, the lines of his face smoothening out, eyelids half-closed. He looks like a person out of a fairytale.

Tobirama lets him catch his breath before working his fingers out, inch by tantalizing inch, and Madara squirms the entire way but doesn't complain. His hand is drenched and he frowns. Madara's heat is clearly stronger than he'd thought, before; he'd have to call Hashirama up, soon, but he'll let Madara stew for a few hours longer. It's simply more fun that way.

For now, though...

"Clean these off," he says, holding his hand to Madara's lips, and Madara scowls, mulish, but obeys.

Chapter Text

Hashirama is tending to his garden (the newest batch of berry trees were growing quite nicely, and he gently encourages them with soft brushes of chakra) when Tobirama strides in, brushing past several rose bushes and smelling of smoke. It clings to him, distinctive and sharp, just like the person it must belong to.

"Still gardening?" Tobirama sighs. "You have work to do."

But - Hashirama hates work. He tries for his best puppy eyes, only for them to fail miserably as Tobirama delivers him a flat, red-eyed stare. 

"You also," Tobirama says, tilting his head to check the position of the sun for a brief moment, "should have been at the Hokage Tower about... five minutes ago? Madara's probably getting desperate."

That wakes him up quickly. "Why didn't you come earlier?" he shrieks, in a sudden panic. Oh, Madara will probably kill him. "Tobi!!"

"Oh, calm down," Tobirama says, rolling his eyes. "If you're so panicked, then get moving."

Right, right. Madara. Hashirama waves goodbye to his trees and makes a dash for the Hokage Tower, weaving through the bustling streets. "Sorry, sorry!" he calls to a Hatake woman he nearly trips over. He hopes he didn't bother her too much as he flies through the doors and up the stairs, nearly crashing over his own two feet in his haste to get inside.

The first thing that hits him is the smell. Like a bakery, almost, warm and overwhelmingly sweet - and, well, a little on fire but that's just Madara. That's a part of why he's so endearing, really. He's passionate and bold and he's glaring at Hashirama, flushed from the tip of his ears (cherry-red, it's adorable) and all the way down to his thighs, blotchy with -

Hashirama chokes. Madara's thighs are glistening and he's done this before, it's hardly the first time, but it never stops hitting him like a fist to the solar plexus. 

"Close the damn door," Madara hisses, even as his thighs press together and the image is just - wow. Woah. It's a little hot in here, isn't it? "Hashirama. Door!"

Oh no, that's Madara's I-will-char-you-now voice and Hashirama has been conditioned into listening immediately whenever Madara decides to pull out that particular tone. Quickly, he kicks the door closed and locks it.

"You still have energy to snark?" Tobirama wonders, dry, and Madara bristles at him. Were he a porcupine - and with that hair, Hashirama thinks (not says, for fear of Madara's retribution), he could be - then he would be raising his spines. 

"Why is Hashirama here?" he snaps.

"Hey!" Hashirama protests. Madara turns his glare onto Hashirama and normally it would be terrifying - especially because Madara can make his eyes red and spinny for additional fear factor and that's just not fair to the rest of them normal-eyed people - but as it is right now, he smells good enough to eat, he's trembling a little and he's staining the sheets and when Hashirama inhales he goes a little dizzy.

That's never changed, at the very least. Lucky Tobirama; he isn't nearly as affected, though his pupils are blown rather wide. But even way back then, when Madara dealt with his heats by trying to distance Hashirama's skull from his shoulders, the look of him was - was tantalizing.

(It had become a rule of thumb, of sorts; when the smell of smoke becomes sweet, best that you retreat. Until now - and hadn't that talk been something.)

("This is just how we do it!" Madara had snapped, bright vermillion, as he glowered at Hashirama and Tobirama both. At the same time, too! It was impressive. "You're saying I can't go out and fight an army?"

"We're trying to keep peace!" Hashirama had said - squeaked, a little, as Madara advanced, giving him remarkable memories of fire and red eyes and the whistling shriek of a gunbai - shrinking back in his chair. 

"Well then you fight me!" 

"Anija, if you fight Madara at full strength then the two of you will make a crater," Tobirama had interfered then, even as Hashirama was considering the idea. He tries for a pleading look and gets an unimpressed stare in return. "No."

"Then what do I do?" Madara had said, pacing back and forth, hair swishing in his wake. "I need to deal with this somehow and if I'm not allowed to fight anything challenging I'll be stuck somewhere pleading for someone to fuck me or trying to do it myself for the next four days!"

It is. Perhaps worth noting that Hashirama had nearly evaporated on the spot. Especially when in response Tobirama had said, sounding utterly bored, "Then find someone to fuck you, Madara.")

(And now, they were here.)

"He's here, because you need a knot in you," Tobirama says. Madara sneers, but his hands are fisted into the sheets and his skin glistens with sweat and Hashirama has the sudden, perhaps slightly gross, urge to just lick it off - 

"And because you want to get off."

"Is that a problem?"

Madara splutters and he looks like a wet cat, really; in his normal state he'd look like a wet lion and that would be much scarier but right now he's like a wet kitten and before Hashirama knows it he's crossing the room to climb onto the bed next to Madara, who shoots him a disgruntled look that is so cute Hashirama wants to scream or squeal or both. 

"Can I kiss you?"

"Just do it," Tobirama drawls, sounding bored as he sits down, gaze pinning Madara down. "He'll be begging you to do much more in a few minutes, anyway."

"Tobi!" Hashirama shrieks. Madara snarls and Hashirama makes the mistake of inhaling -

Oh. Oh, that's a lot. It's. It really is.

He takes another breath - another error, whoops - and then leans forwards and Madara just rolls his eyes and grabs Hashirama by the shoulders and yanks him into a fiery, biting kiss that has them tipping over, Hashirama ending up with only his elbows keeping him from crashing straight into Madara's face.

(It had been like that the first time, too, a little awkward a little new, because here was the strongest person Hashirama knew practically begging and Hashirama's little brother there, too - he'd panicked, a little, so sue him.)

Madara gasps into his mouth, the taste of him heady, intoxicating and Hashirama fumbles blindly to try and remove Madara's shirt, any second of their bare skin not touching being a second too much. He manages after a few moments of hurried pulling and then parts to tug his own clothes off, hissing softly at the sudden shock of cool air over his skin. Madara is sprawled out, bared and waiting and his eyes are blown wide, pupils blending into the dark brown irises, and his blush really does go down to his chest over his pectorals his muscled abdomen and -

And Madara's attractive, they all know this; tall, broad in the shoulders though his build is (to Hashirama's shameful satisfaction) narrower than Hashirama's own, trim waist and strong legs and defined arms; his jawline comes to a point and his lips are full and while Izuna looks more graceful, more pretty, Madara is statuesque and stately like a carving etched from marble. And it never gets old, he never gets less, well, less.

He's stretched already. Hashirama discovers this when he reaches down and feels slick over his fingers; then they slide in, easy, Madara opening up so lovely. The sight of it sends a burst of heat to his gut (it must have been Tobirama who did this, who else?) and he fists his cock, groaning at the burst of pleasure that comes with the friction. 

Madara's not quite prepared enough for him, though Tobirama had done a pretty thorough job already, so Hashirama pushes in a fourth, watching how the rim of his hole just yields, taut and pink-pale around his knuckles, practically sucking him in and fuck, Hashirama needs to have been inside Madara yesterday.

He pulls his fingers out - soothing Madara with a kiss to his thigh, tasting honey-sweet from the scent gland located there - and strokes himself, once, twice. Then he tugs Madara's legs up to his hips and braces himself with a hand on the bed and pushes in.

(The first time had been a blur of sensation once he'd actually gotten his dick inside, and he'd come to with his teeth buried inside Madara's shoulder, bruising the skin there, hips jerking mindlessly. He'd managed to clear his head enough to fuck Madara properly after that, but it - it had been something, alright.)

In the background, he can hear the wet sounds of Tobirama jerking himself off but most of Hashirama's mind is a little occupied right now. Madara is - he's wet, tight, hot enough that Hashirama thinks he'll burn right up, an inferno licking right over his skin, and it's everything that Hashirama has to make sure Madara is feeling good, isn't in pain -

but Madara is whining, a single unbroken stream of sound, pitchy and broken and he's trying to fuck himself back onto Hashirama he's so desperate for it and -

He wants it, some dark voice in his head whispers. Look at him, he's heat-drunk already. What a -

And woah there, Hashirama needs to calm that part of his brain real quick. He does, he tells himself even as he pulls out until the head barely rests in and pauses, hands like iron bands on Madara's hips just to hear him hiccup out an unintelligible plea, then fucks back in so that Madara wails, some combination of a cry of pleasure and a garbled shriek of Hashirama's name, hair like tangled ivy over the pillow, some of it sticking to the arch of his neck and before he knows it Hashirama is leaning in, nosing into Madara's scent glands there because he wants more, more -

He wants everything Madara can give, every scream and wail and gasp as Hashirama drags him up, maneuvering his body like it's a ragdoll, so he can brace himself with his knees and leverage the full strength of his legs to fuck into Madara with rough, punishing thrusts. And Madara takes it, fingers slipping over the sheets even as they try to cling on, he can only take it drunken on his own heat and cock, Hashirama's cock, as he is and it tickles some part of his brain that follows the slight sway of Madara's hips when he walks, the part that always comes out in moments like these.

Being mean is Tobirama's job but it's so tempting, especially when he has Madara like this, unable to even speak properly, reduced down to mindless babble, all that fire and power rendered so perfectly useless -

Hashirama shouldn't. Madara's half out of his mind right now, he'd probably cry if Hashirama didn't play nice (and oh that thought is much more appealing than it should be), but maybe later, when Madara's more lucid. Maybe.

For now, Madara needs to get knotted in order for his body to stop pumping the hormone version of an aphrodisiac, so Hashirama presses his face into Madara's throat - licking over the scent gland there to get a taste, sweet and smokey and it gets him dizzy, has him unconsciously thrusting in faster, rougher - and grins, feeling a little giddy, when Madara lets out a hoarse wail that cracks midway through as the fire is stoked further, burning higher and higher in the pit of Hashirama's gut and Madara just fuels it, always has.

His hips stutter, rut in as Madara clamps down with a cry and Hashirama loses himself to blinding pressure and pleasure, knot swelling to hold him in place. Madara comes as soon as he does, a soundless hoarse cry, pulsing in waves of heat around him and Hashirama closes his eyes and rides the high, tasting honey the entire time.

By the time he comes to, Madara looks slightly more lucid. Hashirama's grip has loosened a bit, though the skin is bruising where he'd squeezed - oops - and he feels loose-limbed, a little tired but it's satisfying instead of wearing him down. Tobirama looks content, having clearly come as well, and there's a certain glint in the way he looks at Madara that has Hashirama a little worried for Madara's near future.

"You're sticky," is the first thing Madara says and it's so Madara that Hashirama bursts into laughter, carefully rolling them over so that they can rest on their sides. "Ah - be careful!"

"Sorry," Hashirama pouts. 

"Don't try to get out of this," Madara scowls. His hips are shifting, a little, though he doesn't seem to notice and Hashirama has to suppress the urge to grind in deeper, drink in the inevitable gasp of pleasure-pain-oversensitivity -

(His brain is clearly meaner than Hashirama thought. No. Down.)

"We should probably get some water and food," Tobirama muses after a moment of silence. He doesn't move, apparently happy to just sit there and watch. "Izuna might be willing."

Madara goes bright red. Hashirama wonders why. He supposes he'd be embarrassed, too, if Tobirama saw him in rut. 

"Senju, I swear - "

"Is he not aware?"

"He is," Madara grits out after a second, cheeks aflame. Is there something Hashirama is missing? He's not quite sure. "I'm not letting him see me like this, though."

Tobirama scoffs. "You and your pride," he says, forming a seal. A clone manifests, not a shadow clone but a regular water one, presumably to go fetch the necessary additional supplies, and leaves. "Is your heat acting up, Madara?"

"Not really - "

"Fuck him again, anija," Tobirama says without regard to Madara's protest. There's something hungry in the way he's watching them that makes Hashirama feel sorry for Madara, just a little bit. 

"You're so mean, Tobi."

Madara lets out a little bitten-off shriek when Hashirama traps his hands, tangling them in his own, and grinds in with slow, circular movements of his hips. "You - "

The rest is cut off as Hashirama cages him into a kiss.  

(And, you can't really blame Tobirama or I, the darker part of his brain whispers, he just looks too good like this.)

Chapter Text

When Izuna is twelve, his brother tells him through a wide grin that his first word wasn't the usual call for a mother or father but for him, instead. Nii-chan, that was his first word, stubby little arms reaching for Madara and Madara had, after some heckling, admitted to having cried a little.

His mother, Madara tells him, died during Eiichiro's birth. Father remarried, but Izuna's step-mother died of a lung infection a few months after Yasuhiko was born. Izuna doesn't remember much of those days - he was about three or four, at the time - but Madara had been the oldest son who already bore his own responsibilities and having two mothers die in a row can't have been fun. Father had sequestered himself away, after that, and it had fallen on Madara to play caretaker; before then, even, when apparently Izuna's mother had been too sick and father too busy trying to win them a war.

All things considered, Izuna grew up relatively well-adjusted. No one wanted anything from him, unlike Madara who faced not only the pressure of being the heir but also taking care of his younger siblings and, as he grew older, to marry and eventually produce offspring himself. The latter stopped happening after Madara hissed out that he was "too busy trying to lead our damn clan to have babies, Izuna's the heir and if you have a problem then I welcome you to have a chat with me." Still, there was the knowledge that after Madara's body fully matured and his heats worsened from simply cramps to something Izuna preferred not to think about because Madara was his big brother and clan leader no get it out of your head, he would have to have a child and marry.

Yeah, Izuna is fairly happy he didn't live with that. He's immeasurably grateful to Madara, who was always his protector, even if it was sometimes to excess. Who never failed to let Izuna know how much he was loved and cared for. Who loved Izuna so dearly that, even though Izuna hadn't died at Tobirama's hand, he had gained the Mangekyo anyway, a circle of three tomoe-shaped beads, cut through by three lines after the two of them had swapped eyes. 

You can't really blame him for loving his brother. Madara has done everything to ensure Izuna's happiness, Izuna's safety. It's. Not really Izuna's fault.

Not Madara's, either. He fights off the heat like he does everything else - with fire, destruction, incitement of absolute terror into every person within a twenty-kilometer radius (except the Uchiha themselves, they're well aware of their leader's tendencies and very proud) - but one's body is something one cannot beat and one thing leads to another and. It, uh. It happened.

Izuna has a mini crisis while Madara is asleep, looking oddly sweet and peaceful in his slumber, still fucking sitting on Izuna's dick because he'd nearly cried when Izuna had tried to get him off and that was more terrifying than any gunbai-boosted fire jutsu he could do. He fucked his brother. No - his brother had stumbled in smelling of honey and nearly pleaded and Izuna had, well. 

Done his best to be gentle, because Madara practically raised him and he was Madara and it would be so wrong, to the person who had given everything. Been careful and patient and tried not to feel guilty, that he was doing this to Madara. Madara who trusted Izuna with his life, who cared more for Izuna than his life, who Izuna had then taken while he was half-delirious.

Who is sleeping, now, one arm wrapped protectively over Izuna's midriff, hair a riot of lush dark waves. Madara had inherited their father's looks, the sharp features and naturally downturned lips, the tall build and broad shoulders and long legs. His eyes, though, were rounder than Izuna's; his hair was different, thick and messy and taking on a deep brown shade under sunlight. 

(Izuna, Madara always said, looked more like mother; softer, almost delicate in a way, with hair that looked blue under the right lighting. Except when you frown, he'd laughed. You're all father then.

What about you? Izuna had asked, a child greedy for these pieces, for these memories that rest in his mind like blurred photos, and Madara's smile had gone a little distant, a little sad.

I'm told it's like mother. She had a glare which could freeze over flame, or so they say.

It's not surprising. Madara is not as intimidating to them, since he is clan and there is no point in fearing one's own, but when he glares and his lips twist in clear displeasure the best course of action is to start groveling.)

But Madara forgives him after the ordeal is over, rubs Izuna's back and assures him that it's fine, admits quietly that he doesn't want anyone but Izuna to do it. Not even Hikaku, their closest advisor and guard. Only Izuna is trusted with this. 

It satisfies some part of him that looked at his brother, latched on, and never let go. For Madara to give himself wholly is - it's different, alright. It's special. It's different from Madara's devotion, it's intimate and okay fine it's also most certainly very very sexual but it's fine it's fine.

(Him? Red? Absolutely not.)

(Ah, the pains of being an Uchiha; any embarrassment is frustratingly obvious, no matter how hard they try.)

(So maybe it's enjoyable for Izuna too but that's - that's unimportant. Madara is the important piece here, the king on this board and Izuna will be his loyal general even if it kills him.)

A lot of things happen, in early adulthood. A peace treaty, for one. A village, for two.

Madara finds new people, for three. This should not be the most important part, but somehow for Izuna it just is. He clearly does not have his priorities right.

He'd found out after Madara hadn't come to him as was usual during heats and, well, Izuna knows his brother. Madara would only take it from a very small group of people; not their clan, not the people he leads, out of stubborn pride. Not Hikaku. Not any of the civilians, nor anyone from the other clans, nor any Senju except for Tobirama or Hashirama and Madara, looking exhausted and a little guilty, admitted that it was both.

Why does Izuna feel this way? Madara - Madara was never Izuna's. Oh, he's their clan's, alright, but that's just because they're family and family comes first. But how could someone like Izuna have his older brother? Have Uchiha Madara; prodigal, deadly, the leader of their clan. It's. Impossible.

(But he wishes it wasn't. Madara was Izuna's before he was anyone else's and Tobirama and Hashirama don't get to have him. He hates it when he sees a flash of a bruise that wasn't caused by a fight, clearly by reaching hands trying to claim. Hates more that he can't make it go away, that he can't and shouldn't replace them with his own because Madara doesn't deserve that kind of thing, not the person who was always so loving and sweet towards Izuna.)

He thinks about it, sometimes, when Madara noses into Izuna's neck, scenting him in a way that is most certainly protective. 

(It has to be. It can't be anything else, or Izuna will burst immediately into a gazillion pieces and his brother would probably cry at that. Or burn something down - probably both. Izuna is quite aware of Madara's overprotective tendencies and he can't deny that he likes it, a little (a lot). Honey and smoke, that's what Madara smells like, a dichotomy of sweet and dangerous that is perfect for his brother; smoke like an omen, of the power that his brother carries, fire like a tsunami or a solar flare; sweet because Madara is gentle and caring and his smile is star-bright and yep, Izuna's waxing poetic but it's Madara and it's fine.)

Does he do this to Hashirama or Tobirama, when caught in a heat? Does Hashirama or Tobirama do this to him? Izuna has smelled them, faint but still present, on his brother when he comes back; like a forest, like petrichor, like a whirlpool, like ice. Is he so intimate with them? The thought is almost unbearable. 

(Are they intimate with him? Do they treat Izuna's precious gem of a brother like he deserves? Or are they harsher, rougher?)

Madara has always been devoted to Izuna but not always open. He gets it, a little; growing up in Madara's position can't have been easy. Having an entire clan of people to look after while several others to watch out for can't have been easy, either. Even during the deaths of their brothers, Madara threw himself into training and looking after whoever remained, only letting himself mourn when he thought there was no one around to watch. Heats are the only time that Madara willingly lets himself be vulnerable and Izuna had treasured this fact for years on end.

But now there's Hashirama and Tobirama and Madara had fought them for years, Izuna had fought them for years, so why was Madara happy to be open to them when Izuna had been his loyal brother since birth?

(He wants his brother. Of course he does. He wants every part of his brother - obviously. That's how sibling bonds work. It's normal. Totally.)

At least he's still Madara's brother, Madara's closest confidant. And it's not like Madara doesn't let Izuna help, either, though he's always so embarrassed about it Izuna can't decide whether to be endeared or irritated. Mostly endeared. 

(Madara never tells him why. Madara never says anything and Izuna doesn't want to push too hard, but the question itches, stings like a senbon lodged into his side. Jealousy isn't a good look on anyone but - why them?)

(But it's always been that way. Madara loves him and Madara keeps secrets. He keeps his emotions a secret, he kept Hashirama a secret, and Izuna just thinks he wants more.)

Everything Madara does is endearing, in a way - even when he's sweeping through armies with tides of flame, skin coppery under the light of his fire, almost glowing compared to the maroon plates of his armour, hair either flying wild or in a thick twine down his back. There's no point in being afraid of his own brother. Madara would never do a thing to hurt Izuna.

It's this thought that he keeps in mind as he cards his fingers through Madara's hair, gently (always gentle, this is his brother) undoing the tangles and knots. Madara is curled up like a cat next to him, head resting on Izuna's lap, eyes half-closed. His breaths are deep and relaxed. His scent is warm, betraying his contentment, still sweet from the last dregs of his heat - but beneath it there's something else, an underlying forestry growth, hail and rain. It's foreign. 

It's Hashirama.

He doesn't realize his hands have clenched into fists until Madara hisses, one eye cracking open, slitted displeasure. Izuna freezes and lets go, horrified. "Sorry!"

And with anyone else Madara would huff and be annoyed but with Izuna he softens immediately, reaching up to pat Izuna's hand. "It's fine."

That should be the end of it.

"You smell like them," Izuna blurts out, like an idiot, and Madara closes off near-immediately, retreating into his shell. 

"It happens," he evades, not meeting Izuna's eyes. It's stupid. Madara is brave, is strong, is matched by no one except Hashirama. "Heat."

And other things, Izuna is sure. His own scent is so similar to Madara's - embers carried by a breeze, turning ashen when displeased and warming when happy - that it can be hard to detect but Hashirama's and Tobirama's are different enough to be easily noticeable and some part of Izuna that wishes he could wrap himself around Madara and never let go abruptly bursts aflame. 

"He just scents you?"

"Probably," Madara says. Dark eyes peer up at him, cautious, waiting for the first sign to drop everything and run, and hide. "You can too if you want, 'zuna. You know I don't mind, right?"

"If you don't want me just say it," he snaps, too worked up to slow down, to think about what's coming out of his mouth. He inherited mother's temper, just like Madara did. 

"What?" Madara says and sits up, reaching out for Izuna. "Izuna, what happened? Did I do something?"

And that's the crux of it, isn't it. Because Madara has done everything and not enough at the same time. Because he's Madara's brother, Madara's closest confidant, and still Izuna knows nothing.

"You never talk to me," he says, blurts out, the dam breaking. "You never tell me anything, even when we were children. Don't you trust me? Do you trust them more than me?"

"What - you're my brother, Izuna!" Madara says. "I've always trusted you! What do you mean?"

Their Sharingan are active. He can feel the slow trickle of blood down one cheek; his Mangekyo has turned on, and in response so has Madara's. Three tomoe, forming a circle, cut through with three lines; Izuna's is an inversion of his brother's, three lines with Madara's Mangekyo pattern in the center, spinning spinning spinning.

"Didn't I give you my eyes?" he says. "And you gave me yours. You still don't trust me enough to be open around me. Why?"

".. is this about my heats?" Madara demands. "Izuna, it's not that I don't trust you - "

"Then what is it - aniki, please!"

He's gripping onto Madara's wrist, nearly squeezing. For his part, Madara looks ashamed, red creeping up his ears, though his gaze still bores into Izuna's. 

(Is he crying? Izuna has always been a bit of an angry crier. Or maybe it's blood, that's leaking out of his eyes. Or maybe it's both.)

The silence is heavy, almost crushing. Madara doesn't pull away or twist out of Izuna's grip like he could, like the tension radiating off of every cell of his body seems to beg him to do, but instead he remains immobile, staring at Izuna with something like fear. Supplication, maybe.

I would never hurt you, Izuna tries to say, through his eyes, through his gaze. I would never do anything with the intention of hurting you, you who has devoted your life to our clan and to myself. Don't you believe me?

" I'm your older brother," Madara breathes finally and -

"I know," Izuna says, starts to say but Madara cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head.

"I'm your older brother, Izuna, and I'm the head of our clan. It's my duty to protect you and it always has been. And it was... it was easier, okay, with them. Because... "

"Because you weren't always putting yourself on the line for them," Izuna fills in, the realization sinking his heart. His Sharingan fades away with his anger. "That's why you could never stand to be - to be weak around me."

Madara looks away. A lock of hair, strands loose and fluffy from where Izuna had combed through them, tumbles over his eye, shadowing his cheek. His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing in the particular way where it means he's shoving down every emotion he perceives to be negative in an effort to not expose a soft underbelly. He doesn't speak and Izuna knows that he's hit the nail on the head.

It's not satisfying. It's just frustrating. 

Izuna takes a deep breath to try and steady himself, and - "Aniki, you're an idiot."

"I am not," Madara rebuts with a huff, eyes snapping back towards Izuna's (gone dark, now, too) and Izuna takes another breath, tries to center himself. It's not working.

He doesn't let himself think about it much when he surges forwards and practically crashes his brother into a kiss. Madara's hiss is startled, as is the automatic full-body twitch that he lets out, all refined power and sheer brutality compressed into one, strong frame; but he doesn't shove Izuna away, doesn't break his ribs with a knee to the torso, he's always been soft with Izuna and only Izuna.

(Maybe it's because his brother spoiled him, maybe it's because Izuna's just selfish, but he hates the idea of having to share and especially the idea of sharing with Hashirama and Tobirama.)

By the time they pull apart, Madara's red and Izuna probably is as well; the heat in his ears is a strong indication of his inevitable blush. Madara's scent is turning sweeter; he'd just come out of the worst of his heat yesterday, and it's apparent by how quickly he becomes aroused, just by a few touches.

(It's terrifying, always, to have this much power. Thrilling, too.)

"Izuna," Madara starts and then cuts himself off, starting to pull away. Starting to try and calm down, to retreat - 

"Let me, please," Izuna pleads, reaching. To do what, he doesn't know. "Aniki, you don't need to protect me. Please."

Maybe it's something in how Izuna looks at him, maybe it's what Izuna said. Either way, Madara hesitates, the pulse of his heart hummingbird-quick beneath the skin of his wrist, and then he relents.

Thank you, Izuna mouths into the arch of Madara's neck, the skin of his torso, his muscular abdomen, tongue darting out to soothe over the bruises scattered like wildflowers there. He breathes in the scent of honeyed smoke, familiar and warm, and when he looks up Madara is watching him with wide, almost glossy eyes.

"Why?" Madara whispers. "Why're you always so gentle, Izuna? What did - do I - "

Somehow, Izuna knows exactly what he wants to say.

"You're my brother," he says. "You were never anything less than amazing, aniki. I would love you even if you weren't the strongest in our clan. Even if you weren't our head."

And it's enough.

Chapter Text

Madara, most of the time, likes being an omega. The Uchiha have never exactly cared about whether you can bear children or not, so long as you also have the capacity to kick ass and many can attest to Madara's prowess in that particular area of life. Because he was his father's oldest son and happened to be his father's strongest son, too, Madara unquestionably became head after his father's death.

So, it's simple. Other than some articles of clothing and occasionally glaring some annoyance into submission because some people aren't quite used to someone like Madara calling shots, it doesn't affect his life too much. He'll have to bear an heir at some point, naturally - and most assume it will be with Hikaku but there is a small sect which believe Madara and Hashirama will have a child to unify their clans fully, the prospect of which is one Madara won't think about - but Izuna exists and so does Hikaku and it's not a pressing issue, for now.

Except for one, absolutely bullshit thing.

It's. It's just so stupid. Madara hadn't even believed it would be a problem. His preheats were irritating, of course, and so were his actual heats, but while they were still at war with the Senju clan and whoever else decided it was a good idea to fight the local gang of dojutsu wielders living by the river he'd dealt with his heats in the most optimal way: by punching enough people for the adrenaline to work its way beneath his skin and burn through most of the arousal; any remaining twitchiness is easily disposed of by punching yet more people. A good amount of Uchiha omegas did the same, though a chunk did prefer to stay home and work through it the more traditional way. And he'd thought he could just do the same; heat coming up? Fight a few armies, have actual sex for a day and a half, fight another army as it winds down, and then it's over. Simple enough.

Cue Hashirama telling him that no Madara please don't go fighting an army. Fucker.

"Well then let me fight you instead!" Madara had snapped, ready to break someone's neck. Why were they staring? Why was Hashirama's younger brother glaring? Madara should punch him. Or sit on his dick, a part of his brain whispers, because apparently his shitty hindbrain just doesn't know the difference between sexual things and punching-people things anymore.

Hashirama had seemed tempted and Madara had thought that he'd finally get to release some of the nervous energy pent-up in his bones - and then Tobirama, curse that he is, had interfered by saying, "Anija, if you fight Madara at full strength then the two of you will create a crater. No."

And convincing him was hopeless, after that.

"Then what do I do?" Madara had demanded, pacing back and forth. "I need to deal with this somehow and if I'm not allowed to fight anything challenging I'll be stuck somewhere pleading for someone to fuck me or trying to do it myself for the next four days!"

It would be grossly unpleasant, too. The Uchiha are a family before a clan and a clan before an army; Madara needs the touch of another person, preferably their scent as well, in order to soothe himself during his heat. Why his body evolved like this? He has no idea.

Hashirama had gone a fascinating shade of red and his chakra had squirmed in an impressive display of panic. Tobirama, curse him, had piped up then; "Don't omegas generally require intercourse to deal with a heat?" (Hashirama went even redder, and Madara had wanted to slap him). "Just do that instead."

As much as he hates it, it's a mostly rational solution. Even if Madara was previously able to cope with his heats in a less-than-traditional way, he did still need some form of sexual pleasure in order to properly get through it. That usually came from, well...

To his continual shame, Izuna. Who was always too gentle with Madara, too willing and too soft in ways Madara simply didn't deserve from his sweet younger brother. Who would always comfort him with kisses to his forehead and touches to his hair, gentle fingers untangling the thick riot of waves. 

It's embarrassing, needing his little brother - someone Madara has to protect, to keep safe - to help him handle this. But it would be even more embarrassing to go to any other Uchiha, considering that he leads his clan through battles and leads his clan, period, so Izuna it is.

(Because that's just how Madara grew up, living as his father's son, as his brothers' protector. Before he's Madara he's Uchiha Madara and before he's Uchiha Madara he's the clan heir, then later the clan head; he's the one to honour his ancestors before him, to lead the clan into a better and more prosperous era; he's the person who can always be relied on, by brother or by cousin. There's simply no other option.)

(He wonders, sometimes, where Madara was buried beneath all his titles. What it was, even, that unearthed Madara from the rest. From the katon jutsu, from the gunbai, from the Susanoo and Mangekyo and stories of the Uchiha demon, with its wild hair and bloody tears. What is he, beneath the bluster?)

With no army to fight, though, his usual solution is gone. And he doesn't want to have to face Izuna in this state and admit that he needs it (because Izuna will never do anything unless Madara says so explicitly, overwhelmingly gentle as his little brother is) when he's not even that desperate. Neither does he want to ask Hashirama, because there's just something so wrong about facing his childhood friend (and still one of his closest friends today) and asking, "Hey, can you stick something inside me for a bit until I orgasm so I can focus?"

(Because Hashirama has already seen Madara in some incredibly vulnerable moments, and has caused some of those moments, and he's also so stupidly tiptoe-y around the subject that he would probably take a lifetime to do anything, what an idiot.)

So, sitting through it until it becomes unbearable it is.

That's what he thinks, at least. Turns out, when not distracted by a battlefield and the metric ton of shinobi trying to fight him, heats are. Not fun.

It's an itch, that's the only way Madara can really describe it. An itch that worms its way beneath his skin and pulls at his composure, snipping at the threads until they fray, dangling him over a fire. There's simply no point in pretending that he won't snap and fall; the only question is how long it will take and that itself is another question of how long Madara can go without giving into temptation, how long he can bear it.

The answer is. Well. Not long at all. Not long enough to avoid Tobirama slamming his pen down, irritated by Madara's twitching, and somehow convincing (read: shouting) Madara into getting into his lap. The moment Tobirama's fingers snake beneath his pants, well. It's hopeless, after that, as most rational thought flies out the metaphorical window.

And it's good, that's the infuriating part. Tobirama's hardly gentle, clearly looking to get it over with as fast as possible; he's not nice, either, biting in a way that feels condescending. It's embarrassing, how quickly Madara comes, thighs clamping tight around Tobirama's hand as his mind goes blissfully blank.

It's easier. Not like Madara hates being the leading party in a sexual encounter (though he hasn't had too many outside of heats, he's generally too busy and who would he ask, anyway) but with Tobirama he doesn't have to think. Can't, really. Even during the times where he starts out fairly lucid, Tobirama is quick to drag that right out, movements deliberate and voice a thick rasp in Madara's ear, until all he can process is the heavy pleasure coursing through him, sweat beading over his skin. And with Hashirama - well. It's not like Madara is very lucid then, either.

The aftermath is easier, too, than with Izuna. There's none of the previous shame, no vicious little voice in his head that tells him he's weak for needing his younger brother - someone Madara has always sought to protect, especially after the deaths of Eiichiro and Yasuhiko and Mitsuyuki - just the slightly less vicious voice in his head that says, You don't need their help, you're fine on your own. If you're not, then how are you ever supposed to protect others?

To which Madara says, Biological imperative motherfucker, leave me be.

(It's always been like that, for as long as he can remember. Madara devotes himself to Izuna, keeps his little brother safe and as happy as any child can be growing up in the middle of a war. He's the party people rely on, not the other way around. That's especially true for his clan and especially especially true for Izuna.)

Madara tells Izuna, though, when Izuna asks. He figures Izuna will be happier, not having to deal with Madara while he's lust-drunk and hopped up on hormones. Madara wouldn't want to deal with himself when he's in that state. It's a bit of a miracle Tobirama and Hashirama are willing to, though that might be because Tobirama is a jerk who likes making Madara get him off half the time (as if Tobirama is the one trying to not explode from the concoction of hormones being pumped through his body, the fucker) and because Hashirama...

Well, Madara's never really been sure. Maybe it's some best friend obligation he doesn't know about. Hashirama fervently assured him several times that he was happy to help and it's not like Madara is complaining. Much.

(It's embarrassing, with them, too, but - )

( - well.)

And Izuna doesn't really react, much, but Madara can tell that he's not... happy, exactly, though he assures Madara that it's alright and honestly Madara doesn't want to overstep, because there's a line between protective and overreaching so he dithers before ultimately... not asking.

(Wow, look at him, the great Uchiha Madara, can't handle asking a question. What kind of shinobi is he?)

(What kind of person is he? It blurs, sometimes. Madara was his father's son before he was himself and he's never quite managed to separate the two; they tangle together, in hopeless knots that he'd only be able to undo with a sword. Is Madara enough to fill in the mould of father's son? Is father's son anything more than an empty shell?)

So he just lives with it and bites his tongue and doesn't speak, at least until Izuna does. 

(He'd felt content, close to asleep, with Izuna petting his hair, his heat having finally simmered down to something bearable. Madara was perfectly ready to just sleep the rest of it off and let his body sweat it out. And then there was a sharp pain in his head and he'd snapped right back into unwelcome wakefulness and Izuna had immediately apologized and Madara had forgiven him, but there was a certain set to his jaw that was... different. Odd.)

"You smell like them," Izuna says and. Right, the thing with Hashirama having some obsession with Madara's scent glands. 

"It happens," he says. It's just embarrassing, to have to think about this in front of his brother. To know that his brother has seen him in that messy state. Dark eyes bore into the side of his face and Madara curls away. "Heat."

"He just scents you?" Izuna asks and something in his voice is odd, is different from his usual and Madara's mind runs through possibilities, trying to sort out what's going on. 

"Probably," he says, looking back up at his brother, trying to decipher something from his expression. If Izuna doesn't like Tobirama's and Hashirama's scents being on Madara's skin, or feels left out - "You can too if you want, 'zuna. You know I don't mind, right?"

"If you don't want me just say it," Izuna hisses, blazing, and it throws everything off.

"What?" Madara asks. Not want Izuna? Fuck - what did Madara mess up this time? "Izuna, what happened? Did I do something?"

If he made his brother feel unloved - if Madara somehow managed to screw even that up -

Izuna comes first. Always. 

"You never talk to me," Izuna barrels on. "You never tell me anything, even when we were children. Don't you trust me? Do you trust them more than me?"

"What - you're my brother, Izuna!" Madara says, frantically running through everything he's done in the past few days. "I've always trusted you! What do you mean?"

Izuna's Sharingan has flared up, flared up already while he was speaking, and without his own permission Madara's has emerged at the same time. Blood wells up, drops catching on his lower lashes, and then spill down over his cheeks in thin ruby trails. The dull ache of the Mangekyo is one that barely affects him by now.

"Didn't I give you my eyes?" Izuna says after a long moment. "And you gave me yours. You still don't trust me enough to be open around me. Why?"

Something clicks, all of a sudden. The timing, the sudden anger over Madara having been scented by Hashirama and Tobirama - 

"Is this about my heats?" Madara asks. "Izuna, it's not that I don't trust you - "

And he wants to run, all of a sudden, or lash out and snap something into the opposite wall but Madara certainly can't do the latter - 

"Then what is it - "

And what does Madara do, what is he supposed to say - 

" - aniki, please!"

Izuna's grabbed onto his wrist, tugging him back, eyes wide and glossy. His fury-based flush reaches up to the tips of his ears. He's sitting up, half kneeling over Madara, trying to keep him there. He looks angry and desperate at the same time and suddenly Madara can't bring himself to escape anymore.

(I love you, he wants to say, you're the most important person in my life. I should tell it to you every single day but I don't know how. I don't know who I am without you. I don't know if I'm enough without you, without keeping you safe.)

(And that's the crux of it, because there's a hollow space in Madara's heart where something should be and what is he, at the end of the day? There is a place for Madara's strength and there is a place for his power, there is a place for Madara's love and there is a place for Madara's protection, but where is the place for his grief and weakness? Can it even fit in, past the plates of armour?)

(Strip away all the layers, what remains - is it enough?)

He's always been soft for his brother, always given into his brother's requests - or, at the very least, tried not to do anything his brother wouldn't want. It doesn't change now. 

" I'm your older brother," Madara manages to say, finally, because there's just no good way to put it.

"I know," Izuna cuts in, before Madara can finish, and Madara quickly shakes his head so he can continue.

"I'm your older brother, Izuna, and I'm the head of our clan," he stresses. "It's my duty to protect you and it always has been. And it was... it was easier, okay, with them. Because... "

"Because you weren't always putting yourself on the line for them," Izuna finishes and the Sharingan spins back into three tomoe form, and then gone. "That's why you could never stand to be - to be weak around me."

What is Madara supposed to say? It's not like it's false. 

(He feels uncomfortably exposed, but putting on armour won't exactly help him here and what can save him, from the ordeal of being understood.)

Visibly, Izuna inhales to try and calm himself, and on the exhale - "Aniki, you're an idiot."

"I am not," Madara retorts on autopilot. Izuna takes another breath and doesn't speak for a good minute and Madara waits, still caught in the moment - 

The sudden kiss comes by surprise. Izuna nearly shoves him into the armrest and Madara has to dig his heels in before he gets knocked into something the not-so-fun way, the muscles of his abdomen flexing to steady himself, and then there is a mouth on his and Madara goes dizzy so fast he'd be embarrassed if he wasn't so distracted.

Izuna is. Gentle, he always has been, and even now he isn't rough; demanding, maybe, but not - not wild like Hashirama, not merciless like Tobirama. He nips instead of bites, soft scrapes of his teeth over Madara's upper lip that send helpless shivers down his spine, and Madara just doesn't understand it, sometimes.  

(His little brother is so gentle, even after Madara has hurt him, and why - )

Calm down, he tells himself, trying to steady his whirling mind, his racing heart. "Izuna - " he starts and then trails off, unknowing where to go but knowing it must be somewhere - 

"Let me, please," Izuna says in return, one hand reaching, hovering uncertainly over Madara's sternum. "Aniki, you don't need to protect me. Please."

Something gives, then, some exhausting weight lessening. In a moment borne out of pure impulse he relents, lets the tense lines of his shoulders relax, and Izuna takes it for the agreement it is by finally touching him, smoothing over his skin, lips pressing in a butterfly kiss to the side of his throat, above his pulse where Madara's life flows, where Madara's life could be torn apart. He's worshipful, caring, and Madara never had the chance to truly take it in while heat-drunk but -

But it's good, lulls him in a way Madara never knew he needed, and when Izuna looks up at him with soft dark eyes Madara can't help but ask - 

"Why? Why're you always so gentle, Izuna? What did I - do to deserve it - "do I - " deserve this? Deserve you?

Izuna's touch is adoring. It always has been. "You're my brother," he says, nimble fingers carefully undoing the tie of Madara's obi. His yukata shirt slips open, fully. The skin of his torso is scarred; a sparring mishap there, an unfortunate encounter with the wrong end of a kunai as a child there, his life painted on his body. "You were never anything less than amazing, aniki. I would love you even if you weren't the strongest in our clan. Even if you weren't our head."

(You're enough, he says in so many words, and Madara's eyes burn in a way that isn't from the Sharingan.)

"Izuna - " he starts, reaches, doesn't know what it is he's trying to say except some sort of plea, maybe, wanting, And usually Izuna responds, knowing Madara by heart, but he doesn't this time.

"Ask for it," he says, instead, fingers tripping trails of sparks up Madara's torso, idly dancing over the bruises left there, making him temporarily lose his train of thought. His eyes don't match his voice; they're wanting, pleading. "I want - want to hear you ask."

It's a slow, sweet burn, the struggle to force the words to his mouth. He can detect the own sweetness overtaking his scent, thick notes of honey mingling with smoke, a clear indicator of his own growing arousal, wet between his thighs. Izuna watches the entire time, eyes wide, drinking everything in as Madara tries to shape the necessary sentence.

"Izuna," he says - again - and then, "I - " His ears are warm. He has to fight down the urge to squirm. "Fuck me. I want - "

Izuna kisses him, soft, and he's too nice because he's working Madara's pants off just moments later, palms grazing over his thighs, teasing over his inner thighs, brushing close to the apex and his next words are swallowed up but he gasps them out anyway; "Want you to fuck me, plea - "

"I will," Izuna mumbles, "You're - you're so amazing, aniki, you're the best person I know, you're so pretty - "

"Izuna - " Madara gasps and he's not sure if it's the praise, if it's Izuna's fingers pressing past his slick rim, maybe it's both - 

"You are," Izuna insists, fervent, his eyes are glossy and Madara reaches up to wipe the drying blood off his cheeks but Izuna catches his hand before he can, kisses the knuckles that broke bones and the fingers that wielded a deadly weapon and the calloused skin of his palm. "I don't care what anyone thinks, you are - "

"Please - " Madara whispers, and the last bit of it fades off into a long, soundless whine as Izuna encourages him to lift his hips up and then he's sliding in in one, smooth movement, the drag luxurious and at the same time not enough, he needs more.

Tobirama is almost cruel when he deigns to actually fuck Madara, never letting him adjust, keeping him stuck in the teetering precipice between too much and not enough, sometimes working in an additional finger just to watch him squirm. It always leaves him mindless and incoherent, pulled about like a puppet on strings. Hashirama is forceful and unrelenting, guaranteed to have Madara screaming his throat hoarse, a sharp contrast to his gentle disposition; he's not exactly nice, either, none of them are, though Hashirama at least has some plausible deniability. 

But Izuna - Izuna forces Madara to stay in the present, to process everything throughout, to feel the drag of his cock against his walls, arousal dripping slowly through his veins like syrup, heady and lavish and almost luxurious. It's impossible to avoid any sensation, to avoid feeling the heat of Izuna's hands running over his skin; the sensitive skin of his thighs, the curve of his hips and the dip of his waist, the muscles of his abdomen and pectorals, thumbing over a dusky nipple and igniting a shower of sparks in his gut. Impossible to avoid feeling full no matter what, stealing the air right from his lungs. Impossible to avoid knowing the sear of Izuna's stare, wide and almost awed, watching Madara as though he's the best thing in the world. No shame, no disgust; just love and abruptly Madara feels tears well up in his eyes.

"Aniki!" Izuna gasps, panic clear in the way he reaches for Madara, pulls him up so he's sitting more on Izuna's lap, thighs braced about Izuna's hips. "What's - what's wrong, did I - "

"Thank you," Madara blurts. "For always loving me. For always being at my side - "

"You - " Izuna shakes his head, a tearful laugh bubbling from his throat. "I should be thanking you. You were always the one making sacrifices for me. I'll never be able to repay you."

"You'd never have to."

"Neither do you."

Madara closes his eyes, so that no tears come out - wouldn't it be embarrassing, to start bawling like this, like a baby? Like he isn't one of the strongest people in the world. But a finger thumbs, feather-light, over his lower eyelid, encouraging it open.

Izuna's crying, a little, but he smiles up at Madara anyway. His hands are steady on Madara's hips, grounding but not caging, and he's so impossibly tender that Madara thinks he'll burst from it. "Can I see?" he asks, shy, but something bursts aflame in his gut at the seemingly benign request and when he blinks they spill down, clinging to his eyelashes like dewdrops, coalescing over his cheeks in rain-rivulets.

"Let me - " he starts and then breaks himself off, wondering if it's an embarrassing request, but Izuna watches him with rapt attention and Madara finds, somehow, the courage to finish it. "Let me ride you?"

Izuna's pupils blow wide. "Yeah," he agrees, a little too fast, and Madara presses down a laugh. "Hey, don't laugh at me!"

Madara laughs, free, and experimentally swivels his hips, shuddering at the thick friction. He's done this before (Tobirama is a bastard, sometimes), but rarely while so lucid. The sheer strength of his body allows him to dig his heels in, resting his hands on Izuna's shoulders for balance, and leverage the muscles of his legs to bounce up and down, finally letting himself revel in the sensation. Gravity drags him back down each time, the slide delicious, pleasure working its way through his muscles to leave him speechless in the best way. 

He wants to make Izuna come first and carefully Madara shifts the angle of his movements so he can move faster, heated indulgence burning through his inhibitions - but Izuna gets to him first, wrapping an arm over his lower back and reaching in between his thighs, fingers dancing over the sensitive flesh there. The first touch has him losing his rhythm, hips stuttering, and before he can orient himself properly Izuna is dragging him back down to kiss him as he presses down and rubs and swallows up Madara's cry after.  

His head spins as Izuna works him closer to the edge, clever hands seemingly knowing every way to overwhelm him with rapture, eyes squeezing shut as if that would save him - and when Madara has the strength to break away and drag his eyes open again it's to Izuna watching him with the Sharingan on, knees dug into the cushions so that he can grind up in deliberate rolls of his hips that sear through him almost achingly slowly - 

"Ask for it," Izuna breathes, smile turning just a bit mean in a way that punches Madara's stomach out through his lungs, and he barely gets out a gurgled please - let me - before Izuna is reaching up and pulling him down, moaning as Madara flutters helplessly about his cock, and breathing into the space between his lips; "Thank you."

Madara's cry shakes through his entire body and that's how he comes, crumbling apart in a scorching wave of pleasure, vision popping with sparks as his own Sharingan burns to life, and Izuna holds him throughout it all. 

Chapter Text

The first time Tobirama met Uchiha Madara was beside a river. 

He met Uchiha Izuna first, who was at the time a whirlwind of dark hair and red Sharingan eyes and stubborn-set determination. Looking back, Izuna as a child was very non-threatening and could by most standards be called cute.

(As an adult... well, less so.)

But, Madara. His hair had been shorter, then, and he was all lean muscle and fire. No one would think of calling him unthreatening or innocuous. Anyone who did might find themselves on the wrong end of a Katon, so it was generally in best interests to... well, not.

Generally, Tobirama is very good at analysis. The Uchiha prove to be an irritating exception to this rule and it's even more apparent with Izuna and Madara. The former is irritatingly tricky and can somehow intuit Tobirama's strategies a few steps in, running off of that frustrating beast known as instinct and some sort of ungodly premonition that he's half-convinced is a secondary kekkei genkai. The latter, for all his roots in and skill with fire, flows through battle just like water; he has the unpredictability of a dancing flame but the fluidity of a rushing river, able to not just react but anticipate. Even worse is that there seems to be no rhyme nor reason; all Uchiha, it seems, operate on some sort of alternate plane guided solely by murderous or protective intent. And none of that can be predicted, can be mapped out in steps or charts or tables or numbers, so Tobirama resigns himself to not trying.

The good thing about having peace with the Uchiha clan is that not every interaction he has with Izuna and Madara comes out with him sporting injuries. The bad thing is that Tobirama finds himself with an unfortunate... 

Well. Call it curiosity, perhaps. He's not very sure and curiosity, as of now, is his best estimate for what he feels.

Science demands experiments and data and case studies. Tobirama is not quite sure how he would approach this sort of 'experiment', but he will do his best, if only to sort out his own emotions. 

And if he learns more about Izuna and Madara... well, Tobirama supposes that could be called a bonus of sorts.

Case 1: Uchiha Izuna

Izuna is, hm. He's a lot to consider. Second-in-command of the Uchiha clan, brother to its head and heir in the case that Madara produced none; primary weapon a chakra-conducive katana, skilled in fire ninjutsu like his brother but in particular wielding quite the nasty expertise in genjutsu, which Tobirama has been on the wrong end of quite a few times (and no, he finds that it never gets less disorienting; Izuna's habit of using the ringing beat of their swords to lock him into layered dizzying genjutsu especially tends to have him leaving the fight feeling as though he's been spun about in a whirlpool and thrown down a waterfall a good hundred times or so). Tobirama's first impression of him was that he was the atypical Uchiha; haughty, temperamental, a bit of a brat.

Well, he's not entirely wrong. Izuna takes pride in being one of the strongest members of his clan and pride in being an Uchiha, in general. He and Madara certainly share a temper, though Madara is - believe it or not - much less prone to hold grudges. Izuna, on the other hand, is quite capable of brewing in resentment - which he demonstrates by using Tobirama's own invented jutsu and catching him with the sound of rushing water just as he least expects it, sending his water dragon flying into a good number of trees and him stumbling backwards into a stream.

"That's what you get for drenching me four months ago," Izuna says, smug, sword pointed at Tobirama's neck. 

"I don't regret it," Tobirama says and Izuna's scowl looks as though it should have been accompanied by a matching, catlike hiss. 

(He certainly does not.)

And Izuna can be, well, petulant. His attachment to his older brother is very very notable, to the point that he pout-glares at Hashirama the first few times Tobirama's own brother tries to visit his friend, until he finally accustoms himself to their newfound presence in the Uchiha brother dynamic and stops looking so disgruntled about it each time. 

"Were you spoiled as a child?" Tobirama taunts one time during a spar. 

"Shut up," Izuna snaps right back, their swords clashing, and that itself is enough of an answer. 

But, though childish at times, Izuna is hardly immature. He's intelligent; perhaps not quite as capable in the realm of science, but intuitive. He knows his way around people and the only reason he irritates some is, Tobirama finds, because he's doing it on purpose. He is able to think through things rationally and make well-informed decisions; not only that, but he has the charisma to effectively communicate and convince people of those decisions. Tobirama can see the logic in choosing Izuna as the second-in-command over another Uchiha. 

Though proud, Izuna is rarely condescending. Though temperamental, he has the startling - and perhaps dangerous - foresight to conceal it away, fold it deep in on itself until he sees fit to use that anger and unleashes it in deathly fashion. And though very emotional surrounding his brother, their bond is...

Well, it's quite something. Tobirama can't quite believe he didn't guess that they were so close as to engage in intercourse beforehand. Madara would probably indulge Izuna in anything, including his own body.

He spars with Izuna, quite a bit. To keep up with his training, and to analyze Izuna in a fight that isn't quite as high-stakes. Izuna's fighting style is difficult to decipher, some unholy combination of Uchiha flightiness and classic samurai-style swordplay and whatever other schemes he can come up with in that mind of his. The results are... fascinating. 

It's almost impossible to predict. Tobirama finds himself enjoying it somehow; enjoying the moments where he wins even more. Holding Izuna down must have the same thrill as holding a flame in one's hands; wild force and untameable energy caught at last, not at all gentle but Tobirama has never cared much for gentle, has he.

Case 2: Uchiha Madara

Madara is... many things. As a child, he was like a monster under the bed; a boogeyman of sorts, the harbinger of the Uchiha. Where he went, fires rose and fall. When his eyes met yours, your doom was incoming. As a warrior, he was no less of an omen, just in flesh and blood instead of in story; wild hair sometimes left to tumble down his back or drawn up high by a fluttering white ribbon, gloved hands wielding a gunbai that made the earth shudder and the winds tremble, infernos blazing to life in tune with his sun-hot chakra. The sweet smell of smoke served as a warning instead of an invitation.

And now, as an adult, he's... 

Not quite the monster, anymore. Still just as capable of hollowing out a valley if he desired, but not so unapproachable. Still the most proficient in the village and possibly the world at using fire release, but without the danger of getting incinerated Tobirama can admit it's impressive - especially the level of control Madara demonstrates, using the heat to quickly dry off his hair without singeing a strand or shaping flames into little flowers with the flick of a finger. 

(And of course when his scent turns sweet, it's no longer an impending sign of ashen doom; rather, something much more, ah, pleasurable.)

Some of their elders and even some of their men enjoyed putting Madara down, for the fact that he was an omega who dared commit the crime of doing as he desired and entering the battlefield during a pre-heat; they would laugh at the idea that he could face them and then come back thoroughly humiliated. And then the sneering turned on its head and Madara became some monstrous, alpha-like figure, who utterly lacked compassion and kindness and whatever other tribute that none would dare associate with Uchiha Madara. 

It's hardly true, Tobirama finds. Madara is proud, and cleverly hides behind a shield of bluster stronger than any armour, and impulsive and aggressive. But he's often the first to reach to aid others, whether by worrying over a child who tripped or listening to a stressed young woman's woes or graciously introducing his fist to some asshole's face. He doesn't lack empathy. He, like most do, just finds it a little difficult to express empathy in the middle of a fight.

The way he fights is very much Uchiha and very much not so, at the same time. When you would expect him to hold firm he would twist instead, moving with surprising flexibility and grace, for someone with a build that broad. When you would expect him to dodge or deflect he would counter, generally with a fist to the face or throat. His usage of fire has a dizzying number of variations; massive pillars of flame boosted and carried through the winds summoned from his gunbai, a hail of embers and sparks that made it difficult to see and do anything really, the characteristic sear of fire chakra directly beneath his skin that indicated trying to touch him was a very bad idea lest you had an immunity to being boiled. 

He's intelligent, Tobirama learns. He's the main strategist of the Uchiha clan, aided by Izuna and his other lieutenants. He is rarely straightforwards but his capacity for lateral thinking and creativity is impressive. And, just like Izuna, he is frustratingly unpredictable; try to anticipate and you'll fall over yourself, do it correctly and the next move will have you tripping as Madara smoothly adapts to whatever new challenge is thrown at him and reacts faster than you can blink. Sparring with Izuna is an exercise in mental skill, a game of shogi where they are the pieces; sparring with Madara is thrilling and more often than not by the end of it Tobirama wants to reach for Madara, tangle his fingers in those long tresses of hair, pull out the ribbon that keeps it in its ponytail and drag him down, burn through the adrenaline and excitement and who better than someone like Madara, who is a solar flare in human form?

Case 3: Comparison

If Izuna is a flare of sparks, snapping up and beautiful in a way that can't be anticipated only watched, then Madara is the fire that flares up afterwards, constant and bright. If Madara is a storm then Izuna is the lightning strike that comes crashing down and the rolling peal of thunder afterwards. They are so closely intertwined that it's impossible to think of one without thinking of the other. 

What a pair.

He looks - solely for the purposes of knowledge, of course. Izuna falls more on the androgynous scale of beauty, with a blend of classically feminine and masculine features; delicate in some ways (rounded forehead, Tobirama notes; a dimple in one cheek when he smiles, double eyelids), more angular in other ways (sharp nose and sharp eyes, lower cheekbones). It's quite the dashing contrast. He can't be called bulky but he isn't slender, either; the best Tobirama can give is lean, or willowy, muscular but not burly. His smile comes out gentle and perhaps pretty; his frown comes out distinctly flat and irritated.  

By contrast, Madara is not. Few would call him beautiful or pretty, not in the way of Izuna. His cheekbones are high and give him a regal air; he's much more angular, as though having been chiseled from marble instead of moulded from clay, with a sharp jawline and defined shoulders and a build that matches Hashirama's. He's not as tall as Tobirama, but the difference is minimal and he's most certainly much broader. However, Tobirama has seen Madara close and center (usually in very, ah, intimate contexts) enough times to note the softer features; thick eyelashes, round eyes when he's not frowning, heart-shaped lips. It works, somehow. Is he handsome, pretty, attractive? Who knows. Who cares. Certainly not Madara himself.

Izuna's physical strength isn't quite on par as that of Madara's - fans are surprisingly heavy and brawling with Hashirama is, well, a chore itself - but he makes full use of the strength he does have, leveraging gravity's momentum and the power of his sword in tandem. Madara does not hesitate to use his actual strength in combat; he's amenable to punches and grapples, but also to pointed strikes and - very notably - kicks.

Tobirama can't be blamed for assuming Madara's strongest muscles were located in his arms and torso. That was where Izuna was strongest, which made sense considering he wielded a sword as his primary weapon; Madara, who used a massive fan taller than he himself was, had to have similar if not matching proportions. But Madara's legs are, strong. Very strong.

It shouldn't make him short-circuit, but Madara is quite good at using his body to its fullest. He uses elbows and knees, the hard part of his shin or the bone of his heel, the muscles of his back in order to wrestle an opponent down into a grapple. He kicks Tobirama in the chest, hard enough that he can feel the impact of it rattle through his ribcage and skull. His body moves with perfect grace and power; one heel grounds itself, balancing his full weight, while his hips pivot and his torso and arms follow through, his right leg comes up in a swift and fluid motion and knocks his breath out of his lungs. 

Izuna is swift and lithe, like smoke in the wind or a firefly or a dancing spark. Madara is more conservative with his movements but it's smooth, steady. Individually they are attractive; together they are eye-catching, jaw-dropping. Combat is not meant to be beautiful but when it's with Madara's hands, when it's with Izuna's blade, it is.

Conclusions

Was this, Tobirama wonders, a waste of an experiment? 

Maybe not. Watching them with each other is - he supposes it's quite something. Hashirama is rough with Madara, holds him as though he's trying to claim Madara through sheer force alone, as though wishing to break him down. Izuna is sweet, and Madara surrenders with ease. Flushed, eyes glittering, Izuna's slim hands running through Madara's thick hair, over his muscular back and flexing thighs: Madara's strength rippling through him as he seeks his pleasure, reaches up for Tobirama even as his body works in fluid waves.

 His hands are calloused. His palms are roughened from years of combat. His fingers look good wrapping around Tobirama's flushed cock, and the friction is, delicious.

What can Tobirama say. Madara is hardly unattractive. He catches gazes, despite his unconventional looks. His strength is lovely in combat and just as lovely in rapture, in how he loses it to his own pleasure and yet -

Tobirama can't quite say what it is. Maybe he just likes watching that strength fold to him. Maybe it's something unique to Madara. Perhaps he has a thing for control. Who knows? He can find out later.

He twists his hands into Madara's hair, softer than it looks, and tugs enough for Madara to hiss and for tears to spring up in the corners of his eyes. "Madara," he says, savouring the feeling of having both Madara and Izuna's eyes on him, a storm bowing to his will. All it takes is a raise of his brows and a pointed glance and Madara is blushing red but arching back to take it, stretched between the two of them, Tobirama's cock disappearing between his plump lips - spit-slicked, they have a glossy shine from the sunlight - and down his throat, Izuna's hips stuttering as he stares, visibly unable to look away.

No, this experiment wasn't a waste. Not at all.

Chapter Text

"Chieko and Naori want to get married," Madara says casually one day as he's returning from a mission, tossing a scroll onto Hashirama's desk with one hand, kusarigama dangling from the other. "We're going to need your permission to host the wedding."

"I - huh?" Hashirama asks, befuddled. "I mean, it's you guys' wedding, right? Why do you need my permission to host a wedding?"

Madara sits down on the corner of his desk, legs crossed as he seals away his kusarigama and starts to redo his hair. "Well, Uchiha weddings are very... what's the best way to put it? Exuberant? Flamboyant?"

"Is it like a festival?" Hashirama asks.

"No, not really. More of... well, there's a wedding procession."

"... uh."

"A wedding procession which will no doubt go through the entire village," Madara emphasizes, pointing aggressively at the window. "And be loud. And with singing. And dancing. And a bit of fire, too, though we promise that we won't burn anything down."

"Wow," Hashirama says, impressed. "The entire village?"

"Mmhm. Our clan was nomadic, before, and when people did get married it was tradition for them to dance the entire day, until night fell."

"The entire day!" Of straight dancing? To be fair, Senju weddings lasted several days and could very well have been considered their own class of festival, but dancing until the night fell? Nonstop? "Are you guys going to dance the entire day?"

"No," Madara scoffs. "I mean, some couples do entertain the idea, but the tradition has loosened over the years. It'll probably just be for a few hours. Maybe five or six?"

"That... does make more sense," Hashirama muses. "Wait, so what did you need my permission for?"

"Haven't you been listening? We need your permission to dance through the streets of the literal village!" Madara scowls. "It'll be a very very public event and I don't want to cause too much chaos, especially because of how many people live here now, so we're going to have to plan things out."

"Wait, wait wait," Hashirama hurries to say, scooting back. "I'm not a wedding planner!"

"Too bad," Madara says. "You're involved in this now, Hashirama. I'm not giving you any other options."

And the look in his eyes, Madara's (reputation well deserved) Sharingan-of-fire-and-doom spinning to life, is scarier than anything Hashirama has ever seen on a battlefield.

The wedding, they've determined, will take place on the last day of spring. Anyone is welcome to join in if they wish during the procession, though the ceremony will be reserved for the Uchiha clan only. It will last for four hours, from six until ten, and Madara has promised that they will try to limit the amount of bells (bells?), flutes, and/or drums - though he refuses to give any ground on the swords. How swords can be used as instruments, Hashirama has no idea. The prospect is interesting, but. Terrifying, too. 

And so Hashirama waits, a little nervous, at the edge of the main road. Civilians and shinobi alike have gathered, curious to see what would be taking place, exactly. Tobirama is there, too, having deigned to come up from his lab in order to watch. 

At first, he can't hear anything but something that sounds like a distant... clinking? Clanking? Of what? Drums? What sort of drums made that sound? Tobirama, too, looks unbearably curious, eyes narrowed in a way which meant he was concentrating. What was going on, in the distance? 

A lone pair starts to appear, from over the horizon. Hashirama can't make them out; they both have their hair tied up, twisted at the backs of their heads, with what he thinks might be some sort of comb or pin holding it together. They're moving at a fast pace, starting off slow and then speeding up, and... spinning?

"That's Madara," Tobirama murmurs, under his breath. "Izuna, too."

Oh, that did make sense! They were the head and second-in-command, respectively, so it made sense that they were leading the ceremony. And it seemed that the clanging noise was coming from them? What were they doing?

As they get closer, it becomes clear - 

"They're swordfighting!" Hashirama realizes. Madara and Izuna are engaged in an elaborate dance, spinning around each other, their swords clashing in a nexus of silver. It doesn't have the uneven beat of a fight; it has a steady rhythm to it, a pulse that indicates it's clearly not real combat but instead music.

Gradually, more and more pairs dance down the road, every step very clearly practiced and well-known. Their movements are light, like a bird's, and match the rhythm of the clanging blades. As couples engage and then disengage, separating one by one, the newlyweds appear, the both of them clad in pure white, a sharp contrast from everyone else who is in black or navy blue. They're fighting, too, an elaborate polyphony, not just making use of their swords but of their bodies as well. Children follow behind, most shrieking with glee, clinging to each other's hands as they sprint around the dancing couple. 

As soon as Chieko and Naori get to the very end of the line Madara and Izuna come together behind them, swords sheathed as they take one another's hands and begin to dance, Izuna leading his brother into a series of flashy spins, movements catlike and steps blurring as the clan begins to dance to the beat of the swords. Kagami sprints up to Tobirama, cheeks flushed with delight, and tugs at Tobirama's hand.

"C'mon, sensei!" he says. "Join in!"

"Are we allowed to?" Tobirama asks, raising a brow. "It seems very... intimate."

It does. Izuna dips Madara and the latter slides, back arching as one foot remains planted and the other unfolds into a high kick, the lines of their bodies smooth and low to the ground. Hashirama is caught in the stretch of Madara's leg up to the air, toes pointed in - is he wearing heels? But then, before he can tell, as one all the dancers separate, Madara pulling Izuna close into one last twirl before they too split and make their way into the crowd.

"Hashirama!" Madara calls, grinning. Half of his hair is twisted up into a braided updo, a silver bird pin woven from wire with red beads making up the wings and tail crowning his head; the other half swishes behind him, long tresses messy as usual. Hashirama abruptly feels very very warm as Madara whirls through the crowd to reach for him, gloved hand outstretched. He is wearing heels, about a thumb's height off the ground, and they set off the full length of his legs, the dip of his waist and the width of his hips. Hashirama is going to combust. Most of the Uchiha are wearing heeled shoes, in fact, and they tap over the pavement. "Dance with me, hm?"

"Um!" Hashirama squeaks in a way that is not at all dignified but Madara's right there and his smile is wild, a spirit sent to either bless him or lure him into temptation - possibly both - and it's hard to breathe, Madara's just so much. "I - "

Madara grabs his hand - when had he lifted it? - and pulls him into the crowd of Uchiha. "Don't worry," he says, taking Hashirama's other hand, spinning them around. "Just move like we're sparring."

Then he's moving and it's all Hashirama can do to keep up, trying not to step on anyone's feet as Madara leads him into a swinging, dramatic rhythm, smile toothy and devilish as he lets go of one of Hashirama's hands and Hashirama, remembering what Izuna had done, quickly moves it to support Madara's waist as Madara arches back, kicking through the air in a wide arc, the point of his shoe whistling with how fast the movement is. He's flexible, Hashirama realizes, and the bow of his back should not be sultry but it is, supported by nothing but Hashirama's hand and Madara's own heeled foot planted on the ground.

With a click, Madara brings his other foot to the ground and snags Hashirama's hand to pull him through the crowd, his back against Hashirama's chest, the strong line of Hashirama's arm blatant over his waist, steps swift and angled. It is like they're fighting as Madara leans his head back to look at him, holding his gaze captive as he moves, Hashirama matching his steps and even able to spin Madara about, so that they're face-to-face.

"Fun, isn't it?" Madara laughs.

"How do you do this for four hours straight?" Hashirama wonders. 

Madara pulls him close, dipping into a backbend and forcing Hashirama to follow, then swings them around and starts moving again, steps matching with the beat of the swords. Click-click-click they go, against the pavement. Madara's smile is teasing, a beat of eyelashes fluttering with his blink, confident, sensual. "The better question is, I think - "

And he's leaning closer, so they're flush with one another and he can feel the beat of Madara's heart, the warmth of his skin through his loose clothing, he can make out the thick line of Madara's eyelashes - 

" - can you keep up?"

Then Madara spins them around and reaches back to take Izuna's hand, the two exchanging a smirk before Izuna dips them both and they switch partners and suddenly Hashirama has a handful of Uchiha Izuna who openly laughs at his no doubt dumbfounded expression.

"Can't handle us, Senju?" he mocks and whirls them through the street, swift and lithe, movements not smooth like Madara's but instead deliberately staccato and suitably dramatic, exaggerating every swing of their arms, adding little twirls to his steps. "My brother is quite the dancer, hm?"

Hashirama can only nod, stunned. 

Izuna laughs again. "I know that expression." He kicks his leg up, resembling a sideways arabesque, and then crosses it over his other foot to pivot them around. "Come now, Lord Hokage, let's find your brother. I want a turn with him."

Tobirama is with an Uchiha woman Hashirama doesn't recognize, actually able to keep up with her steps and even leading. Kagami is cheering him on, bouncing up and down in place, waving to Izuna and Izuna waves back with a delighted laugh. "Tobirama!" he crows, taking back Hashirama's hand and spinning, shoes clicking on the pavement. "Care for a dance?"

"What new schemes are you cooking up this time?" Tobirama says archly, accepting Izuna's hand. His former partner pulls a Hatake woman in from the side and they vanish into the fray. Hashirama takes the chance and quickly ducks into the side, taking a deep breath, content to watch and calm his beating heart.

No sooner has he had a few minutes of respite is Madara appearing. His hair is a little messy, one strand having slipped out from his updo, and Hashirama wants to tuck it back. He almost seems to prowl, catlike, compact and fluid and Hashirama is caught like a fly in a spider's web, unable to tear his gaze away from the swish of his hair, the flow of his (long!) legs, the slight sway of his hips. "What are you doing, just standing there?" he questions. "Come on. You're the Hokage, you need to participate."

"Whyy?" Hashirama whines.

"The more people we have dancing, the more secure the union will be, obviously," Madara huffs and drags him up. "Don't tell me you're tired already?"

There's a challenging glint in his eye that sparks something to life, deep in Hashirama's gut. "I'm not!"

"Then come on!" Madara says before his voice dips, mocking, a slight rasp to it that raises goosebumps over Hashirama's arms. "Oh - and see if you can actually lead, this time."

The world rushes by as Madara pulls them about, one hand on Hashirama's shoulder and the other holding to Hashirama's own. He's very very aware that his right hand is resting on Madara's hip but the other doesn't seem to mind and everyone else is doing it so, hesitantly, he shifts his hand to cup Madara's lower back.

"There we go," Madara says. "Finally gotten some guts, haven't you?"

He's beautiful. The sunlight plays off of the crystal-cut edges of his smile, the strong arch of his cheekbones, the chiseled line of his jaw. He could be carved in stone and generations later when no one remembered their names, people would look up and worship. He's eye-catching in the way of a lightning strike, an inferno, and Hashirama never wants to look away.

"Lead us, then," Madara dares and who is he to deny the request?

He guides Madara in a random path through the dancing pairs, dipping him into a wide spin and Madara takes it as cue to do some complicated kick with his right leg, smooth yet quick, before angling his body so that their left sides are brushing. The contact almost searing as Hashirama steers them through the crowd, legs moving in parallel, steps wide. Tobirama is with Izuna and they are doing a complex series of turns that is dizzying to even imagine trying and Madara whistles.

"Damn, he's better than I thought he'd be," he comments. "Did you like dancing with my brother, Hashirama?"

"He's so fast!"

"He is!" Madara agrees, proud. "He loved learning our traditional dances. There's actually not a lot of planned steps to this one; it's mostly improvisational."

"But you guys were so synchronized in the procession!"

"We follow each other, obviously," Madara snorts. "Izuna and I improvise, Hikaku and Kahoru follow what we do, and the pair behind them follow their movements, and so on so forth. Only the swords are rehearsed and practiced. It's a very important part of all wedding processions."

"Is the swords-dance why you always refer to spars as dancing?"

Madara's grin tells him everything as Hashirama dips him. He doesn't come up, this time; instead, he kicks one leg up and wraps the other around Hashirama's waist in a feat of sheer flexibility and strength, the point of his heel knocking lightly against his back. "Spin me," he breathes in an undertone, still holding himself in an obscene arch, the pale line of his throat exposed. One hand rests against Hashirama's shoulder and the other is thrown back, fingers nearly kissing the ground. It's all too easy to imagine a different reason he would be bent back like this and Hashirama has to swallow down the sudden urge to bite down, bruise the skin there blue and violet, push Madara into the closest surface woah there shut off that train of thought it is not the time!

Instead whirls Madara around as Madara's legs come back down and he's moving in a series of complicated low kicks that Hashirama has to avoid and match, shins occasionally bumping into one another. "You're getting the hang of this! Not bad. Feel like you can keep up with my brother?"

"I don't know about that," Hashirama laughs, nervous. Madara's smirk is predatory as he leans closer, all sensual lascivious movement, muscles rolling smoothly beneath his skin.

"Too bad."

Then he's letting go of one of Hashirama's hands to reach for Izuna, the two of them briefly engaging in a lift that has Madara's legs swinging in an eye-catching arc before Tobirama is taking Madara's hand as he descends and Izuna is grasping ahold of Hashirama's.

"Eyes on me, not my brother," he mocks, smirk kunai-sharp and pointed like a senbon needle. He has a bird like Madara's in his hair, the wings and tail purple instead of red. His heels brush over the ground as they dance, light like a butterfly's wings and as swift, fast enough that it's hard to match Izuna's movements without falling over. "Come now, Lord Hokage, can't keep up with sweet ol' me?"

"You're not sweet," Hashirama pouts. "You could probably impale me with that pin in your hair."

"You've impaled my brother - in more ways than one - " Hashirama chokes on his own breath, as Izuna continues without mercy - "so I consider it even." His smile turns deadly as he leans in close, under the pretense of simply dancing, and Hashirama thinks he'll combust. Most forgot about Izuna in comparison to his older brother, but there was a reason he was Madara's second-in-command. "And, Hokage-sama? My brother isn't yours. Do remember that."

His smile is saccharine sweet as they join Madara and Tobirama, the latter dipping Madara and the former using the momentum to slide into a wide spin, one leg bent back in an arabesque in a show of flexibility and balance, the other leg angled to the floor as he twirls and is caught by Tobirama. They're a good pair. With the heels, their heights are fairly level - yet Tobirama is obviously the leader, holding Madara by the waist, pivoting them around.

"Izuna!" Madara laughs, golden, warm like the dawn. "Having fun!"

"Plenty!" Izuna says, smile breaking into something genuine. "Feel like leading the procession again, aniki?"

"Oh, absolutely," Madara says and the two join back together, carving out a path between the dancers as the Uchiha take the cue and separate from their partners, joining into their previous pairs again, falling smoothly into a line behind Izuna and Madara. Hashirama slips back to the side, finding Tobirama and making his way to his brother's side.

"It's really something, isn't it?" he says. "I didn't know Uchiha weddings were so big!"

"It is interesting," Tobirama agrees. "Madara explained a few traditions to me. Now that Izuna and Madara are leading again, it should be the start of the fire portion."

"The what portion?"

Columns of flame erupt between each pair of Uchiha, joining and shaping into a magnificent snake, rearing its head to the sky, fiery hood brushing the clouds. It coils up into a tight spiral and then surges up, bursting into hundreds - no, thousands - of individual sparks that cover the sky, showers of gold and red.

"One of their oldest ballads is about how the first Uchiha came to be," Tobirama says. "The union of the couple was between a noble omega and a warrior. The gods, sadly, disapproved - all but two, the goddess of the sun and the god of the moon. In order to be wed, the pair held their ceremony at the beginning of sunrise when only the goddess of the sun was watching and then, through the day, fought through the village streets. They attracted a crowd so big that it was impossible to see the newlyweds, only the people watching and the clashing of their blades. Only when night fell did they stop and finally complete the ceremony through the consummation of their marriage. The fire was added later, to honour their patron goddess, Amaterasu-Omikami. Apparently, the second - more private - ceremony will be held at night, to honour their other patron god, Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto."

"Wow," Hashirama says. "That's a cool story! I didn't know!"

As the sparks fall and dissipate, Chieko and Naori - having drawn their swords again - are back to fighting. The Uchiha form a ring around them, children closest to the center and just jumping about, adults twirling with each other. Bit by bit people are pulled in from the sidelines, finding a partner or a group, and Hashirama finds himself dragged in by Hikaku first, who spins him in a wide arc before handing him off to Izuna, who spins him into Madara who has pulled Tobirama in and then Hashirama is being pulled about from Uchiha to Uchiha, all of whom seem to know exactly what they're doing as they spin people along. 

It's dizzying. It's thrilling, to move so fast, to have no fear, just the rhythm of the blades and the synchronized steps of the Uchiha clacking against the road. Hashirama laughs, delighted, catching Tobirama's eye as he's twirled and waving. 

And then in some invisible signal, the ring splits open and Chieko and Naori start to lead again, their clan members pulling people back into the dance along to the beat of the swords and Hashirama finds himself leading Hikaku through the steps as some break off to stand near the side - but it's different, this time, because there are Uchiha leaving the group as well and all of the children have gathered in two rows, clapping along.

"Go join Madara-sama," Hikaku says and on their next spin Madara is taking ahold of him, grinning like a trickster spirit, and Hashirama feels as though he's under a spell as he follows Madara to the front.

"Ready?" he says and leans forwards, pressing up against his front, enough that Hashirama can feel the swell of his pectorals and the rise and fall as he breathes. He's going to die. Madara is right there, all regal beauty and sensual grace, sensuous passion. "Better not trip!"

And then the children break into chorus, clapping in time with the beats of Chieko's and Naori's swords, and Madara leads Hashirama into a swinging rhythm as song rises up into the air from dozens of high-pitched little voices. Izuna is with Tobirama behind them, and Hikaku with an Aburame woman, as the procession continues. 

The sun is beginning to set, and the flaming colours light up Madara's hair and skin in an array of dazzling golds. As twilight starts to descend, the procession grows faster, winding through the streets and gradually leading back up to where they started. There is no changing of pairs, now, as everyone follows the sound of song and a flute joins in, merry music leading the way.

"Your hair is coming undone," Hashirama manages to say. Madara's smile up at him brims with mischief as he dips so low Hashirama has to kneel in order to not be pulled down. Like this it feels much more intimate than it should, both of Madara's hands clutching to him, Hashirama's arm around his waist so he doesn't fall. Maybe the flutter of his eyelashes - half over his eyes - is on purpose, maybe it's just because of the angle they're at, but either way it's undeniably sultry.

"I'll redo it later," he murmurs and Hashirama can only pray he's not beetroot red because was that a purr - 

but then Madara is moving like he wants to get back up and Hashirama hurries to follow with him, lifting him until they're flush with one another and every other step has their thighs brushing, just slightly. It feels like they glide, step by step, barely touching the ground in between, legs crossing but never touching. Madara is much more graceful, using the point of his heels to twirl arcs and figure-eights through the air as they pivot, while Hashirama can only try to adapt to his movements and follow the push and pull of the beat, the swinging rhythm of the music. It burns through him, the steady flush of something he can only call excitement or arousal, as they dance, and he prays it doesn't show too much. At least Madara seems relaxed enough to not notice.

"We're almost done," Madara breathes and pulls back to balance on an angle, the tight grasp of Hashirama's hand around his own and the support of his hand over Madara's waist all that is keeping him from falling. Then he's swinging back in and around, teasingly nudging Hashirama's ankle in the process. The touch tingles. "Let's make it a show, hm?"

Something must show on his face because Madara grins. "Don't you worry. All you have to do is keep me from falling flat into the dirt."

And then between one movement and the next he's moving into a series of graceful steps, crossing in and around Hashirama's legs in a way that nearly has him tripping over himself until finally Hashirama manages to pull him around and Madara seamlessly untangles himself, flowing into a jump that kicks both his feet up into the air, one leg outstretched in a perfect line the other curved, before he lands. Step by step they go, swinging back and forth into a dizzying trio of spins and finally another jump, Hashirama holding to Madara's shoulder and hand as Madara kicks himself high up into the air, as though flying, hands curled over Hashirama's shoulders. His hair tumbles over his shoulders, brushing over Hashirama's knuckles, and he leans close enough that Hashirama thinks he might lean even closer and -

- and instead as the music swells to a crescendo and the swords clang, ringing out into one last beat Madara lands, takes two more steps and spins them into a full stop, their left legs parallel and angled to the ground, Madara's right leg hooked over Hashirama's hip, leaning into him. They're frozen still, pressed together, the plush weight of Madara's thigh rests over Hashirama's hip and his lower leg is curled slightly around Hashirama's right thigh, heel brushing against his knee. Enough of his bangs have come undone that they frame his face, tangling, nearly brushing his eye and were they not in the middle of hundreds of people, were his hands free, he would tuck it out of Madara's face and kiss him, swallow him up.

He's so, so close. Hashirama's teeth itch itch itch.

"My nee-san is married!" a young girl screams and that breaks the stillness as everyone breaks apart, laughter filling the air. Madara lowers his leg but he hasn't yet let go of Hashirama's hand.

"I'd better go wish them a good union," he says. 

"Yeah," Hashirama says, breathless. He hasn't taken his arm away from Madara's waist yet. Madara bites at his lip and involuntarily Hashirama's gaze catches on the point where a pale tooth sinks into the plush pink. He kind of wants to work Madara's lower lip out from beneath his canine, replace it with Hashirama's own instead.

Madara's hand falls from Hashirama's own.

"Any reason you haven't let go of my brother yet, Lord Hokage?" Izuna says from behind them and Hashirama starts, nearly throwing Madara into the dirt. Luckily he doesn't, as Madara easily catches himself with a scowl, shaking his hair away from his eyes.

"None!!"

"Izuna, stop bullying my brother," Tobirama drawls.

"He can handle it," Izuna snorts and links his elbow into Madara's. "C'mon, let's go, aniki."

And Madara softens, the effect visible and near-immediate. "Alright, 'zuna."

Hashirama can only stand there, heart beating fast like a hummingbird's wings, still feeling the ghost of Madara's presence over his skin. 

He is. Probably never going to forget this night. 

The bird in Madara's hair glitters, the light of the lanterns casting over the wires, over the beads strung within, and Hashirama finds it impossible to tear his eyes away from the figure of his best friend within the crowd.

("So, did you enjoy dancing with Madara?" Tobirama says later when the wedding is over, red eyes knowing.

Hashirama curls himself into as small a ball as he can manage and screams into his hands.)

Chapter Text

Everyone knows the Uchiha for three things. One; the Sharingan. Two; fire. Three; genjutsu.

Or, well, maybe four things, with Uchiha Madara conveniently tacked on at the end. But, mostly three. Madara is aware that he's naturally associated with the first and second, anyway, and it's a reputation which is probably well deserved. He is, after all, a specialist in katon ninjutsu and it's not a problem with his clan, so why should he care about what anyone else thinks?

Really, the Uchiha aren't fazed by most rumours. Not the rumour that they're secretly a ton of demons in disguise (okay, just because their eyes were red and could spin didn't make them demons, and plenty of clans used fire as well), nor the rumour that Madara is secretly engaged to Hashirama or that Izuna is secretly engaged to Tobirama (well, that one does actually bother some, but it's very blatantly false so - most are able to brush it off). A tiny rumour about Madara being some sort of akuma is disregarded as well (his head is not flaming and he uses plenty of weapons but not a sword, that's Izuna's thing - the part about bringing misfortune is maybe more believable but that depended who you were talking to), though Izuna never fails to get huffy whenever he hears it. 

(Though Madara, who had essentially helped raise his brother, can't help but think of it as rather adorable.)

The part which is confusing is, ironically enough, the villagers' confusion. Really, is it that strange that they're all very very in-tune with fire? Yes, all Uchiha have some proficiency for katon, to the point of having invented a shit-ton of jutsu for it. Yes, all Uchiha live in wooden housing despite being a clan of fire users - no, they do not burn things down, if they were constantly lighting their own stuff ablaze they wouldn't be using wood would they. Yes, one of them did just huff out sparks, what about it? You should see what Madara-sama did the other day, it was hilarious. What do you mean, scary? It's not frightening, it's just sparks, they can't even hurt you.

They're not even the only ones who get this sort of questioning. The Hatake, with their particular affinity for raiton, also get a few side-eyes. Tsunamis are fine, earthquakes and tornadoes are perfectly suitable, but a forest fire or a lightning strike and suddenly people are scared. Madara supposes it's because water, earth, and wind seem pretty normal; you could find any of them walking around on the street. You could touch them without being afraid. You could not touch a dancing flame or a lightning bolt without receiving some serious harm to your extremities - so okay, maybe it makes sense, but really. Tobirama can drown someone and Izuna can incinerate someone; the unlucky victim is dying either way, what's the difference?

Madara, though, finds himself on the wrong end of this sort of hesitancy more often than most. 

To be entirely fair, he himself has not helped to dispel those rumours. The fact that he wields a giant fan which can specifically create bursts of fuuton that amplify his flames, the fact that his signature move is something called Great Fire Annihilation (not very subtle, but are they ever?), the fact that his kama and kusarigama (both very menacing looking weapons) also let him throw about flames in sweeping waves - all of this doesn't really help him look welcoming and comfortable to be around. And okay, maybe he's temperamental too, but Madara doesn't really get mad at people and especially not for long periods of time.

But. People liked Hashirama, who wasn't exactly less dangerous than Madara. People were okay with him and his mokuton - which was perfectly capable of causing as much carnage as Madara's flames could stir up - and his sage mode and whatever else they could throw at each other. So you'll excuse him for being confused as to what's the issue. No, just because Madara coughs out embers one time doesn't mean he'll light Konoha on fire. His clan literally lives there, it wasn't on purpose, he just had something in his throat okay? 

The issue is this, Madara thinks. People think their clan's - and Madara's in particular - penchant for fire and fire-related destruction is scary, or strange, or outright freaky. But to them, it's always been simple, no demons or spirits involved.

Long, long ago, their clan was nomadic. Their roots were from the land of Lightning, not the land of Fire - which was why there was the rare lightning affinity to pop up within their clan - but their ancestors had been forced to flee. And for years and years, all the Uchiha did was flee. They never had the chance to really set down and let themselves be known to anyone; they were just the group of dojutsu wielders who came through occasionally, with the scary eyes and the fire and the ability to throw people into perfect illusions, who mostly stuck to each other and while never rude to any curious stranger, always seemed a little wary. 

Fire, Madara learned early on, was the reason they could survive. They were nomadic; they went through isolated and harsh terrain all the time, not just nice villages. In those days, the ability to produce flame at will was how they could cook and keep warm during winters. So of course they'd be attuned to fire. Of course they'd be comfortable around fire, around sparks and embers and smoke. A fish was comfortable around water, wasn't it? Why would they be different?

It never really left them. Madara's armour is lightweight and allows for plenty of mobility, prioritizing that over real protection like Hashirama's did - in those days, frivolous things such as armour were better off left behind or sold; you couldn't move as fast with a back covered in metal as without said metal, could you? They keep all their supplies with them, on hand as though ready to run at any moment. Stories are told through oral form instead of written down; scrolls and books are an unnecessary burden, and ballads are easy to sing while on the move. Their clan has always liked to be free; even though they had a semi-permanent residence while at war with the Senju clan, they would move around from time to time, whenever that urge came. And fire has always been a part of it. How could it not have been?

When Madara had proved to be a talented combatant and gifted with an incredibly strong inclination for fire, even for the Uchiha, there was general joy. The future head to the clan was going to deliver salvation and keep them safe. How could he not?

All things considered, Madara likes to think he's held up to those expectations fairly well. He's led them safely through war and into peacetime. They're flourishing, now that they don't have to worry about constantly looking over their backs. He hasn't brought about misfortune for his clan. Yet, anyway.

The Uzumaki delegation arrives and goes with little fanfare. Madara decides he may as well dress up for the occasion; it has been a while since he's worn something pretty, and there is a bit of self-indulgence to the way he puts himself together. 

"One of the fancier ones, I see," Izuna comments, resting his head on Madara's shoulder. Madara elbows him lightly as he pushes the end of the pin into his updo, allowing the clay flowers strung up on beaded wires at the end to hang free. They swing with every movement, white and blue clinking against each other. "It looks nice!"

"I haven't gotten to wear this one in a long, long while," Madara says. "Probably not since I took position as the head."

He was young, then. Father died when Madara was a teenager.

It's almost nostalgic, as he brushes over the little clay pendants. Their clan tended to produce good smiths, although most metal went to weaponry - it was, after all, more important than pretty hair sticks - and as such, clay or wood or wire would be used for jewelry. Madara had personally made a few pieces, moulding clay and then baking it with his very own hands. He wouldn't ever wear them, seeing as they weren't very nice-looking, but Izuna never let him throw them out so he'd begrudgingly kept them around.

"This was mother's," he says and he sees the way Izuna straightens at the word, wanting for more. He never knew their mothers, not like Madara had. The first died too early, the second fell ill too often. It was unfortunate. "Our birth mother's. I believe that it was originally a wedding gift from her mother's husband."

Madara had seen his birth mother die. It remained a painful moment in his life. Old stories said that the first lovers were forbidden and the alpha had to stay away from her omega so that the gods wouldn't strike them down - as such, it was clan tradition for omegas and female betas only to be with the person giving birth, because it was meant to bring luck and keep the person giving birth safe from harm. Hadn't worked with him, apparently.

"Let's hurry," he says, shaking away those thoughts, "or we'll be late."

"Yeah, good idea," Izuna agrees.

He doesn't have much in the way of fancy kimonos or the like (or, at all), but Madara does have two nice yukata. One of them is solely for weddings - which Madara won't be doing for a few years, if luck has it - and so he picks out the other one. White cranes are sewn into the dark blue fabric and their crest is on the back, proudly displayed. As much as Madara generally doesn't care much for looking good, he does like feeling pretty now and then. He's not always scary; sometimes, the only thing he has on his person which can stab people is the pin in his hair and the pouch of kunai strapped to his thigh.

"Ready?" he says to Hikaku and Izuna, who - following his example - are also dressed up, looking regal in their attire. 

"Ready, aniki."

"Ready, Madara-sama."

"Good," Madara says. The flowers in his hair clink softly. "Alright. Let's go."

They turn heads as they step out and make their way into their place to welcome the Uzumaki clan. Most stares are awed, or admiring, or outright confused. Madara can't help the tiny smirk which flickers onto his face and Izuna doesn't even bother trying to hide it, outright grinning.

"Damn," Touka whistles. "You clean up well."

"Naturally," Izuna sniffs. "We're good at everything."

It goes smoothly. Hashirama does most of the talking, as their Hokage; Madara has never been very keen on conversation, but he's the Uchiha clan head so he does have to speak, a little bit. He greets Mito, the heiress and soon-to-be head of the Uzumaki clan, with a polite hello and a shallow bow; she reciprocates in kind, and compliments the pin in his hair. Then, once the pleasantries are over, Tobirama and Touka are leading the delegation to their temporary residence and Madara is flicking a stray spark off his finger. It bounces into the water and vanishes.

The sparking off, he finds, tends to freak out some people. It's really nothing more than a nervous tic, one he developed when he was seven or so. Hashirama grows little flowers on his fingers, Tobirama taps his foot, Izuna starts messing with his hair, and Madara flicks sparks over his fingers, tastes them between his teeth, something ice-cold and lightning-hot and rusty at the same time. 

His childhood was not one you might call a 'fun time'. None of theirs were, actually. The Uchiha clan weren't quite as numerous as the Senju, nor did they have as many allies, so the tension was at a constant high. Madara, at six and seven, was constantly working on improving his fire ninjutsu; he'd gotten into the habit of playing with fire chakra at all times, whether it be using it to cook or dry his hair or keep himself warm or even just make sparks for his brothers to look at - at the time, Izuna only - until, before he knew it, Madara was emitting little sparks regularly. Small bursts, nothing severe; one on his pinky, maybe, snapping a few between his index and thumb. His clan was used to it. Others, clearly, weren't quite as accustomed to Madara's habits.

"We should go after Tobirama, maybe," Izuna says. "Just to make sure that he hasn't been annoyed to death."

Madara snorts. "Alright," he decides. Izuna loves to annoy Tobirama more than anything and Madara is feeling in an indulgent mood at this hour. "Hikaku, is it okay if you return to the compound for the moment? We'll be back as soon as we can."

"Of course, Madara-sama," Hikaku says and they head in opposite directions.

His childhood isn't one he thinks on often. Back when he and Hashirama met up at the cliffside, the latter would vent to Madara often and Madara would listen, but it didn't really go the other way around. Their clan was always a bit of a private one - which, no, did not mean they were hiding secrets it just meant that they'd experienced quite a bit of nasty eyeball-thefts in the past and the old wounds hadn't yet solidified into scar tissue. Talking to some person, no matter how dear he was to Madara, about his life struggles was not a possibility which occurred to him.

What Madara remembers is this. Stress, from being both the clan heir and the caretaker of four, smaller children when he was a child. A lot of stress. And then grief, as one by one they died. Yasuhiko was killed by a squad of Senju child-killers, Mitsuyuki died from blood loss after he'd stabbed his eyes out and torn open his throat rather than let traffickers take them, and Eiichiro died on the battlefield before any of their clan could get to him in time. 

He thinks he'd gone half-catatonic after Izuna had been stabbed. He distinctly remembers blood on his cheeks and a massive wave of flames, likely conjured by him, as he'd cradled Izuna tight and tried to stem the bloodflow. He also remembers hearing something about Hashirama wanting a peace treaty - and being absolutely furious, that someone he'd considered a friend would try to make peace with him while Izuna was dying in Madara's arms, while his brother had nearly killed Madara's most beloved, while it was very clear that they were not on level ground. It tasted like surrender and not like peace.

(Hashirama told him later that he'd gotten a nasty scar from Madara's kama, searing with flames as he'd swung it in his blind rage. It drew a jagged white line down his torso; the burn had been worse than the laceration.)

In a burst of desperation, Madara had cauterized Izuna's wound to attempt to stem the bleeding. The healers were trying to do it in the standard way, but there was so much blood and Izuna was shaking like a leaf, paler and paler by the minute, sweat beading over his temples and Madara had said, "I'll cauterize it. My control is good enough that I won't hurt him. I'll cauterize the damn thing."

And it had worked. His hands and chakra had been steady enough for him to temporarily stem the bloodflow and they'd pulled through, under almost impossible odds. Blood had been in Madara's eyes the entire time and blood dripped from Izuna's own as he clung to Madara's gaze, the fear tangible. Both of them awoke the Mangekyo that day, and swapped eyes a week later.

Fire saved their clan's lives, when they were nomadic. Fire saved Madara's life and fire saved Izuna's life. Of course they're comfortable with it, of course every Uchiha knows how to use fire in one way or another. It's a piece of their history and a piece of their life; there's nothing more to it.

A running joke between Touka and Tobirama, it seems, is that anything a regular person can do an Uchiha can do a hundred times more amplified. This is not true - they're intense in some ways, of course, but that's just a part of their culture and, really, they're regular people at the end of the day. But Madara will concede to one thing and that is that anything related to hormonal cycles is particularly... 

What's the good way to put it? Severe? Extreme? Extreme it is. 

Most clans don't have omegas in the midst of going through heat cycles heading out to the battlefield to incinerate people - because most omegas, it turns out, aren't hopped up on adrenaline as well as estrogen and oxytocin like Madara and Nagisa and all his fellow Uchiha omegas are, keeping them either in a state of arousal or fight-or-flight. Fight-or-flight is, of course, much more useful - and so to arms it is, because nothing better than aggressive combat to ward away your body trying to convince you into producing children. Most people don't get exponentially more vicious during cycles in general - and one person's certainly doesn't trigger everyone else into being extra vicious, as well. If Madara goes into heat it's almost guaranteed that his entire clan will be extra twitchy during that week - saying nothing about how Madara himself is, because while he's trying alternative methods of dealing with it there's still that old instinct to destroy, to cause mayhem, to keep his people safe in the only way he knows to: fire. The same applies to any alpha. 

None of this helps with their reputation as hot-blooded temperamental fire demon creatures or whatever it is. They're still able to control themselves; there's just also a shit ton of hormones messing with them, so you'll excuse Madara for breathing sparks sometimes to cool off. It's better than breathing out fire, isn't it? 

The most plausible theory for why their cycles are so powerful is, so far, survival. You can't be incapacitated the entire time during a heat or rut while trekking through potentially dangerous terrain; you'd better be able to protect yourself, and your family too - and when you are inevitably dragged back into hell by your own accursed biology, your family needs to be able to defend you. Better needless aggression than not enough aggression; one gets other things killed, one gets you killed. Guess which one evolution picked.

Tobirama and Izuna are probably the best at handling Madara's unfortunate tics. The latter is used to it by now, the former can just drench Madara and while it's very irritating and guarantees that Madara will have to spend a few minutes drying himself off, it's also very effective. Hashirama is always a little worried when Madara spits out a spark, but eventually gets over the fact - and usually they're both focused on something else, so it doesn't crop up much. 

He won't say he likes heat sex. It's desperate and the thing in his gut aches the entire time and he isn't lucid for a bit, even, so it's not the most pleasant ordeal. Gets the job done, though, so Madara isn't against it - and he supposes it can be made enjoyable, or that he likes it in the moment. The moment passes quickly, though.

(It had been very funny, looking back, when Hashirama had dropped the fact that he was close to hitting his rut and Madara had nearly thrown himself halfway across a room.

"What the fuck, Hashirama?" he'd hissed, hackles up. "Why'd you come here if you knew you were that far gone? Get back to your damn clan and take your brother with you!"

"Huh - what do you mean?" Hashirama had wondered. "Madara? Oh no, did I do something wrong?!"

Tobirama had had to explain, after coming across Madara shoving a very perplexed Hashirama through the doors, that most people were perfectly fine during their cycles and not on the verge of blowing something up if not engaged in intercourse - and that Hashirama needed a day off at most to get it out of his system, not two to three. Yes, it was not something to be worried about. Yes, that was coming up and yes, Madara should leave in an hour or so - unless he wanted Hashirama to fuck him? To which Madara had nearly lit him on fire. Fun memories.)

Intercourse outside of cycles, for Madara, isn't very common. He's done it, of course, maybe once or twice, and he has touched himself before - but he can't say that it's a regular occurrence. Who would he even go to? Or, rather, who would Madara be able to ask without immediately setting something on fire out of embarrassment?

Anyway. It can't be that different, can it? Sure, maybe it'll be slower without the helpful bonus of his body's homemade aphrodisiac to hurry things along, but that's unimportant. 

He doesn't really think he'll ever have the chance to find out until he's sparring Tobirama and as Madara is about to wrestle him into a chokehold (a triangle, classic, makes good use of all of Madara's leg strength) Tobirama reaches up and tangles his fingers into Madara's thick hair and drags him down into a harsh kiss.

It startles him badly enough that Madara nearly knees Tobirama in the solar plexus and only very strong control over his body stops him. One hand finds its way into the ribbon that holds Madara's hair up and undoes it; he feels his hair tumble free, over his back and down his shoulders, as Tobirama licks his way into Madara's mouth.

He keeps Madara there for at least three minutes until Madara manages to gather himself and pull away, feeling remarkably out-of-breath and flushed. "What the fuck, Tobirama?"

"What the fuck, Tobirama?" Izuna echoes, from the tree line where he'd found them.

And it just spirals from there. Somehow - probably through some sort of convoluted genjutsu which their clan didn't know about - Tobirama manages to convince both Madara and Izuna into his bed. He says it's an experiment. Madara does not believe him but he hates losing any sort of challenge and Tobirama, unfortunately, knows this. 

It's not. That different, Madara finds. He's trying to approach it in a clinical view because he can handle this goddammit but it's a little difficult. He hasn't done this in maybe a month or so and it's surprisingly easy to get worked up, to fall into that space where he's half-hazy with the feeling of his fingers, pressing in between his thighs, trying to keep his breaths level. 

Okay, it is different. He has an audience, which he generally does not have and it's very foreign, to know that every movement is being watched, to know that there are eyes on him, knowing him in his barest moments. Madara rolls his thumb in steady circles, digging his toes into the mattress so that the shake of his legs doesn't show, and tries not to look at himself. It's slower, the steady crawl of heat down his spine into his stomach. His torso must be flushed by now; no doubt his face already is. Thighs, too. His skin doesn't do much to hide a blush.

Fantasizing isn't really something Madara does, if he ever does touch himself. It's mostly when the urge becomes strong enough that it's impossible to ignore and then he'll make it as fast as possible, get it over with so he can go to sleep right after. But reality is right in front of him, reality is sitting next to him gently carding through his hair and reality is sitting between his splayed legs watching the movements of his hand and well it's impossible to ignore, then, isn't it.

Go slow, Tobirama told him, and it's - it's strange. The buildup is heady, sits on his tongue and in his sternum, a steady tingle that radiates from his core out. The noise is embarrassing, wet and clearly messy and it's obvious that he's aroused, that he's biting his tongue so that he doesn't accidentally do something like groan or - gods forbid - whine. Unwillingly, his eyes squeeze shut as he presses down on somewhere sensitive and his left knee twitches, his heel knocks back, his thigh tenses and he feels the ripple of it like an electric shock straight through his gut.

"Put a finger in," Tobirama tells him, voice a low rasp that pushes him deeper, makes Madara want to listen instead of snap back. He's moving before he knows it, rubbing the tip of his index against his rim, gathering wetness there before slowly, agonizingly, starting to slide it in.

Oh. That feels - 

It's slow, slower than this normally goes. So Madara gets to feel the bumps of his knuckles, the callouses over his skin, as he sinks it in until there's no room. He has to take a minute to just breathe around the weight of it, eyes squeezing shut. Izuna's exhale is audible in the quiet and Madara opens an eye to check on him.

"I'm good," Izuna tells him, as red as Madara himself must be. "Can - can you keep going?"

Somewhere, Tobirama scoffs. Madara opens the other eye just to glare at him as he works his finger out, letting himself get accustomed to the sensation. He feels good, something thick and syrupy working through his veins, slowly melting him from the inside out. 

"Remind me," he says, to distract himself as he stretches himself open, "why we're doing this again?"

"Like I told you, to test something," Tobirama says flatly. He looks perfectly fine, the asshole. Madara can't help the hiss of sparks over his nude torso, covering his skin, protective. "Put those out before you light something ablaze."

"My brother has better control than that," Izuna snaps, bristling. 

"He won't soon. Keep going."

Madara hadn't realized he'd stopped moving. As much as he hates to admit it, he will probably fuck up somehow - pain is very different from pleasure, and reacting accordingly is just as different - so with a breath he lets them puff out into wisps of smoke and braces his heel against the mattress so he can get a better angle with his hand, hips lifting an inch or so. The next thrust is smoother, bumping up against something electric and Madara, against his will, lets out a shocked gasp.

His head knocks back, into a pillow. Sparks hiss off of Madara's flushed cheeks and Izuna gently brushes them away, unflinching. He feels - hot. All too warm. Heavy pleasure pulses in his gut as he presses the tip of his finger into that spot and one of his legs gives way, hips falling back down. It's like his muscles are moving on their own, his knees splaying without his permission, a breath shuddering out from his lungs. 

"Add another," Tobirama says and in his haze Madara obeys, forcibly relaxing his muscles so he can nudge the tip of his middle finger up next to his index and, eyes pressing shut, pushes them both in. He thinks he can feel the burn of their stares, over his body. Over his bare skin, beneath which he's completely vulnerable. Carotid arteries, subclavian arteries, aorta. Thump-thump-thump of his heart, pumping blood, most of which feels like it's in his face and somewhere between his thighs. Madara was never set to be a healer but he knows the weakest parts of the human body by heart and all of them are on display. 

Both his index and middle finger slide down to the knuckle and Madara lets out a hiss he didn't realize he was holding, eyes blinking harshly and throat working around a swallow. Okay. He's not that unused to this, he's done it before. Admittedly he doesn't remember much about it, but it's certainly happened. 

He's not shy because he's drawing his legs a little closer to himself. He's not.

Or maybe he is, a little, but Madara has never been good at acknowledging those parts of himself. He's Uchiha fucking Madara, the most dangerous person this side of the continent save for Hashirama alone. When his flames rise, it's always the prologue to destruction. Madara is stubborn, impulsive, temperamental, and every such quality you can name.

Being an Uchiha makes it worse, Madara knows. Were he an alpha, they'd call him a danger and a risk, like he's an animal. Because he's an omega instead, that turns him into an odd mix of sex object and demon, and the line is always one which Madara trips over. 

The awareness alone, Madara reflects, makes everything much more embarrassing. Izuna is careful, steadies Madara with a hand on his hip, and his look of both awe and adoration makes things worth it a little, as Madara rocks down and exhales around the weight of it, firmly aware of Tobirama watching their juxtaposition against one another. Broad against lean, darker skin against fairer, Izuna's pretty features contrasting with Madara's stronger ones. Having a clear head does make sex different and it's mostly because he knows he's doing this willingly, without a fog clouding his mind, a brief hiss of sparks flaring up over his shoulders which Izuna runs his fingers through, unafraid. 

Tobirama's not particularly scared either, with how he brushes his hands over Madara's firework-cheeks, leaving behind smears like tear tracks. Neither of them are and maybe it says something about how well they know him, in ways that is as much nerve wracking as it is a relief. 

It burns, as he's split open on the both of them, flaring up at his senses. It rocks through him like an earthquake with every bounce of his hips - shakier by the minute - and sucks away most of his ability to think, until all he has is the steady anchor of Izuna beneath him and the unforgiving weight of Tobirama above, forcing open his throat until he gags from it, tears automatically flaring in his eyes and those ripple with sunset gold, bouncing off of his skin. He thinks he might combust, but this time he can feel the heat licking through his body, blissful almost, and Madara has never been afraid of fire. 

Izuna kisses the bare hollow of his throat; is this love? Whether Izuna knows it or not, he holds the fragile glass that is Madara's heart in his hands and he could make or break him, in every way. He could tear open the skin of his neck and drink up the life that pours out and Madara would die without being angry, not for a moment. Is that love? Or is love this tenderness which Izuna showers on him, without cease?

Maybe that's not what matters. Maybe what matters is that they're not afraid of him, whether Madara is the creature of nightmares they proclaim him as or not. Fire is in his lifeblood and that's never going to change.

Chapter Text

Izuna's having a nice dream. He's curled up somewhere warm, probably under sunlight or something, and somewhere soft too. He just feels really, really comfortable. Comfortable enough that he thinks he doesn't want to move, at all.

"Wake up," a hoarse voice murmurs, gentle. 

"Hmmmm... no," Izuna whines. "'m comfy."

A laugh. "We do have to get up at some point, 'zuna."

There's only one person who calls him that and Izuna, with much effort, pries his eyes open and blinks away the spots in his vision. He's curled up with his head resting in Madara's chest and his legs tangled with his brother's, under a patch of sunlight like they're cats. Madara laughs at his expression, stretching with a ripple of fabric and muscle and a few sparks flashing over his fingers.

"Warm?"

"Very," Izuna sighs. "Can we just stay here for a few more minutes?"

He puts on his best pleading eyes, and Madara gives in with a long sigh. "Alright, fine."

Yes!

Izuna wastes no time in burying himself deeper into Madara's arms and with a huffed laugh, Madara lets him, nosing into Izuna's hair. He smells contented, warm and sweet and happy as he should be. Some eons-old instinct in Izuna's body melts, delighted just from Madara feeling the same.

Hikaku finds them a minute later and pauses, visibly curious. "Madara-sama?"

"Join us," Izuna says, muffled into Madara's chest. His brother is nearly all muscle but Izuna refuses to believe it's anything but cozy. 

For Madara's part, he extends an arm, languid. Hikaku hesitates for a moment, but quickly gives in and tucks himself into Madara's other side. Kagami bounces in only a few minutes later and, without any pause whatsoever, buries himself into the tiniest gap between Izuna and Madara with a delighted sound that is vaguely like a purr.

"I shouldn't be falling asleep here," Madara sighs after five or so minutes of them just sunbathing. "I do have things to do. All of us have things to do, in fact - even you, Kagami-kun."

"But I don't want to move," Kagami complains. "You're so warm, Madara-sama."

"I'm also busy."

"You are," Hikaku agrees. He, too, smells at ease and tranquil. 

"Yes. Exactly. Which is why I should get up."

"You should," Izuna agrees and snickers when he feels Madara glaring down at him. "Alright, fine, we'll let you go, aniki. Just know we're dragging everyone into a pile by the end of the day."

"Gods save me," Madara groans, untangling himself from their limbs, arching into a long stretch. It immediately feels emptier without his presence. "Alright. I'm off. Izuna, are you coming?"

"Nope," Izuna says. Kagami settles into his arms with a satisfied hum and Hikaku obligingly lets them curl into his front. 

Madara ruffles his hair, affectionate, and then Kagami's and then Hikaku's. It's rare that he's so open about it and Izuna leans into the touch with more than a little delight. "Have a good rest, then, you three."

Intimacy, as most of their clan knows, isn't really Madara's thing. That isn't to say that he's not a good leader, or that he doesn't care about them. He's just not good at being open about his feelings, or open with his affection - which Izuna thinks is a shame, because his brother gives the best hugs. So when he does allow people to touch him, they all shamelessly take advantage of it. Like said, Madara gives the best hugs.

It's funny, in some ways. All of them would collectively die for each other but discuss? Their emotions? Absolutely not, get out of their sight. Even the happier ones, like Naori, are shit at it. Only Kagami and the rest of their children can actually express their feelings properly and aren't afraid to do it, either - because Madara was insistent on making sure they didn't turn out like the rest of their clan, which was fair enough. 

Really, every adult Izuna knows is really bad at intimacy in general. Even their exuberant Hokage, who acts so open and free, is equally as shit at expressing himself as the rest of them. Hashirama somehow managed to shove himself so deep in denial that he's not even conscious of his own denial. Izuna would be impressed if he wasn't so tired of all of it. At least Tobirama has some goddamn self-awareness, as much as Izuna hates giving him credit for anything.

So it's interesting, isn't it, when he gets to witness or experience the people he knows attempting to act like normal-ass humans for once. Maybe it's Madara trying to offer a hug (always accepted, no matter what). Or Tobirama pretending to be a real boy and not made of ice, which is always fascinating. Or Hashirama perchance noticing a bit of his own denial before sliding straight back into obliviousness. Izuna has the tendency to people-watch and they're interesting subjects, okay, don't question him.

1. Hashirama

Izuna's impression of his brother's best friend is not a positive one. Hashirama is many things, but first and foremost - he loves to overstep. He seems to be, subconsciously or not, under the impression that Madara is in some way beholden to him and Izuna very slightly despises this fact. 

While he's plenty aware that Hashirama is on a level Izuna is certainly not, that hardly means Izuna is incompetent. He's not arm candy, he's not Madara's second-in-command just for his (gorgeous, thank you very much) looks. People like to make up those stories about him, that Izuna is narrower so he must be the real omega among the prodigious Uchiha brothers, that just because Madara is broad and muscular and terrifying he can't be gentle or sweet or soft. Bullshit. Neither of them are gentle in any way, but Madara is the real 'soft' one between them and Izuna - well.

He's strong enough to have Madara's back, no matter what. That alone is a goddamn achievement. And while Izuna has nearly killed Tobirama before (more than once, at least), enough that only Hashirama's stupid healing was able to save him, it was only one time that Tobirama could bring Izuna to that same brink and even without Hashirama there (even with only his brother and their clan's healers, even with Madara's hands carved from violence and flame) Izuna had pulled through. He just thinks Hashirama should remember that.

Honestly. Izuna can't get too mad at Hashirama - the guy doesn't even know how he feels, and isn't aware that he's denying it either. Dumbass. What Madara saw in him, Izuna doesn't know. 

Still, it gets irritating. Izuna's not an idiot. He learned the bees and the birds like any other shinobi child (through his brother's very awkward attempt at an explanation before running to find Hikaku to do it for him). He's aware of what Hashirama's 'innocent' little quirks regarding his brother mean. It gets annoying.

Izuna may be the diplomat between him and Madara, but he chooses to abandon those skills at the door to Hashirama's office and just barges in, still smelling of smoke and blood. "You do realize you can't actually court and marry my brother, right?"

Predictably, Hashirama slides about ten meters down into panicked denial.

"What? Izuna - huh? No! I mean - yes! Yes I know of course I know it's not important I wouldn't want to - "

"Hokage. Sama," Izuna says, deliberately dragging out the pause before the honorific, "who the fuck do you think you're fooling."

To his credit, Hashirama does straighten and steel himself. "I'm not really sure what you're getting at, Izuna." It adds one drop of respect to the dry well. 

"What I'm getting at is that you exhibit romantic and definitely sexual feelings towards my brother," Izuna says, pointing a finger in accusation. "And you're not going to be able to follow through on them. Do you know how horrified all of us would be if you showed any intention to court or - the gods forbid - marry my brother and clan head?"

"Marry - Izuna," Hashirama shrieks, a little, dropping his 'strong Hokage' persona. "I - wait, huh? But isn't it just, like, marriage? People do it all the time."

"Think," Izuna says. "We are a clan with a highly valued dojutsu that many have attempted to procure through bloodline theft all too often in our history. Our people have literally been stolen before, under pretense of friendship or alliance, and chose to rip out their own eyes instead of let them be taken. Now, exactly how do you think my clan would react?"

"... oh. Oh," Hashirama says. "Oh!"

"You finally get it," Izuna mutters. "Yes, oh. And, Hokage-sama? Don't try to deny the idea that you'd want to - to tie my brother to you in some way. It's clear as the sun in the fucking sky on a summer's day."

"I don't!" Hashirama tries vehemently to say, waving his arms in desperation, a few vines popping up in his hair. "That's not how I feel - "

Izuna doesn't even need to cut him off to say it definitely is. Hashirama does it himself, stopping short mid-sentence as abrupt horror crosses his visage. 

"Yeah," Izuna says into the silence. He feels satisfied. No regrets on his end, that's for sure. "That's what I thought, Hokage-sama. Here's my completed mission. Good day."

2. Tobirama

"Alright, what exactly did you do to my brother?" Tobirama says, coming in accusatory off the bat. Fair enough. "He's having a mini-crisis in my lab and it became bothersome after the first thirty minutes."

"You lasted that long?"

"Believe me. I, too, am surprised."

Izuna snorts. He'll never admit to Tobirama growing on him. When they're not trying to remove each other's guts from where those guts should be located, it turns out that they work well together. What a surprise. "I just kindly informed him of his feelings regarding my brother. Nothing harmful."

"... I can't even be irritated at that. He deserves it," Tobirama sighs. The wind ruffles his snow-white hair. The downturn of his lips is naturally harsh; his features are more delicate, though the red tattoos on his face turn every expression into something colder, ice-sharp. Smells like it, too, a strong contrast with Uchiha embers-and-smoke, but not necessarily in a bad way. "Hopefully he won't do anything stupid, or we'll have to be damage control."

"We? Since when was I included?" Izuna says. "I'm siding with my brother, obviously."

"Oh? You'll start another war?"

"What, you don't think we can? Try us, Senju."

"Mediocre," Tobirama says. "More salt is necessary."

It takes Izuna a second to realize Tobirama made a joke, as visibly awkward as he was telling it. And then he bursts into laughter, throwing his head back onto the grass. "I never thought you'd go this far. You made a joke. Not only that - you used wordplay. Delightful."

"Do shut up," Tobirama says and Izuna snickers but lets himself lapse into silence, broken only by the leaves rustling and the birds in the tree branches.

"It's a little weird, isn't it?" he asks. "His whole thing with my brother."

Tobirama, unexpectedly, snorts. "I would think you of all people could understand, Izuna," he says. "Don't you feel similarly?"

"He's my brother," Izuna says, affronted. "And I'm not that bad. Your brother - I wouldn't be surprised if he fantasizes about fucking breeding mine." What a horrifying thought. Izuna doesn't ever want to think about what Hashirama gets off to, not in this or any other lifetime.

"Still, you should be able to see why my brother might feel that way about Madara," Tobirama rebuts. "It's just something about him, isn't it? Strength coupled with tenderness. Brash and impulsive and proud but gentle at the same time. Inexplicably caring, especially in times of weakness. Call it codependency, call it childhood trauma, call it grief - whatever reason it may be, you two have some desire to possess Madara in some way, more than you do already. On different scales, of course, but still the same root desire and the same root cause."

His eyes are red, red, red. They have no pattern to them and Izuna feels like he's being seen straight through, nonetheless, which he is quickly discovering he does not like very much no sir. "What was it, I wonder? Some big loss, and Madara was all you could depend on? Some heavy conflict or inner turmoil and he was your only rock, your only form of solace? Exactly when did you latch onto him and when did you decide, subconsciously or not, that you'd never let go?"

Tobirama has to duck away mid-sentence to avoid a kunai. Rolling to his feet, he smirks down at Izuna, who is halfway between sitting and prone in the grass, feeling as though his heart has somehow reached his ears. 

"I will put this through your skull," Izuna threatens and Tobirama laughs, the first Izuna has seen him doing so, unflinching in the face of danger and almost sadistically joyous at seeing Izuna's composure snap, at being able to probe so deep.

"I invite you to try, Izuna."

It'z funny. Tobirama is the last person Izuna would expect to be able to analyze a person's emotions properly. He's clinical, strictly formal, professional. Izuna would argue that it's a coping mechanism, designed to help a child going through wartime cope with his losses and stress, but he's not going to psychoanalyze his rival's trauma while said rival is balls-deep inside him because Izuna isn't a complete asshole.

Also, the part about them having sex. That's a thing.

Tobirama likes to make people lose control. With Madara, Izuna has noted, it's always in the context of taking control. With Izuna, who knows. Maybe it's the same. Maybe it's different because Izuna slams his hips down with an almost spiteful glare, digging his thumb into the meat of Tobirama's shoulder.

"You are - such a jerk," Izuna snarls, and Tobirama snarls right back, snagging Izuna's lower lip and biting into it. It's not a kiss - they're not nice enough for that. It's rough and pulls and leaves a smear of blood when Izuna gets free, burying his nail in as revenge. "I could psychoanalyze your trauma in the middle of a casual conversation, too. How would you feel then, huh? Fucking dick."

"You forget that I know you and Madara are kinder than Hashirama and I," Tobirama retorts. One hand falls to Izuna's thigh, bruising. The other fists itself into Izuna's bangs and drags him down and Izuna bites straight into Tobirama's jawline, vicious in his intent to wound. "Have I ever cared much about playing fair?"

"Clearly not," Izuna hisses, twisting his hips to elicit a stifled groan. He clamps down, bracing himself with his knees digging into the mattress. "What is your thing with my brother, anyway? Got some thing for control we're not aware of?"

"Maybe," Tobirama breathes, expression growing ragged as Izuna rides him, the muscles in his thighs and abdomen burning but he's determined to force Tobirama to lose it instead of the other way around. "Maybe it's - because - it's fascinating. To watch his strength become essentially worthless."

"Is it?" Izuna says, and shoves down on Tobirama's hips to force him still, teeth bared. "That's what you like? Having people lose their control, whatever that may be? Well done. You've certainly pissed me off."

Tobirama laughs, again, strangled.  "And you played into it," he says, throwing his head back on a groan. "Fuck - "

"I did," Izuna agrees. His lower half burns, aches with his exertion, but it's one that tastes delicious and leaves his skin flushed with pleasure. "I sure fucking did, you - absolute - jerk." 

Tobirama's gasp as Izuna bounces up and then down, thrice in quick succession, is pure music. "Izuna - "

"And I've got plenty of time to make you regret it," Izuna sneers. "Hope this is what you wanted, Tobirama."

One red eye cracks open and Tobirama's grin is loose, unfiltered from his normal icy calm. "Not quite," he rasps out. He has left scratch marks down Izuna's thighs, red and pink over the purpling skin. As much as Izuna is bad at intimacy, at least he's not so bad that he uses violence and sheer assholery to obtain it. Honestly, he's kind of impressed; Tobirama has a gift for fucking with people. "But I'm not complaining."

They've left bruises on one another. Bite marks, scrapes and tears in the skin, thin trails of blood. Maybe violence is a part of it; Izuna is an Uchiha and dedications of vengeance or murder aren't exactly uncommon. Love is as vicious as it is nurturing, as harsh as it is gentle. The lines blur, often. 

Either way, Izuna supposes that Tobirama is right, regrettably.

"You say that some traumatic event caused your brother's - "

"And yours - "

" - fine, and mine, feelings towards my brother," Izuna says. He feels vaguely sore, but satisfied nonetheless. "Then what was it which caused your thing for control, Tobirama? I wonder."

Tobirama closes his eyes. "Who knows," he sighs. "Perhaps I felt I didn't have enough when I was younger and that carried over. What is it which causes your violence? I wonder."

"Who knows," Izuna echoes. He's too tired to get annoyed, at this point. "We grew up in a fucking war, Tobirama. What do you think?"

One red eye opens. Tobirama huffs out a laugh, or what could be reasonably interpreted as one. "Fair enough."

3. Madara

The thing about Izuna's brother is that it's always circled back to him, in the end. 

People say Izuna is the beautiful one, but they mean that he's beautiful in the way of a firework or a peony or a sunset over the ocean: bright, eye-catching, aesthetically appealing. Izuna would personally fight anyone who tells him his brother is ugly (though only after Madara himself got to punch them), because it's both a dick thing to say and also wrong.

Madara is beautiful. He's beautiful in the way of a lightning strike, or a forest fire; he's beautiful in that it's difficult to look away, in that his beauty doesn't come from outward looks but from the ruin inherent to a disaster. Some people think that that's scary instead. Good for them, but Izuna is just different.

What Izuna knows is this; he learned violence from the battlefield and destruction from his brother. In every way, his brother is fervent in his love and devotion; he cares for Hashirama and even Tobirama in some way, Izuna knows, but Izuna also knows that Madara would be willing to fight Hashirama if he believed that the Uchiha or - gods help them - Izuna was being hurt by the village they'd created. He'd up roots and leave if it was for their clan.

Hashirama would never let him, Izuna knows. Hashirama would never be willing to let his brother go, not without Madara forcibly burning his hands off - and even then he'd never stop. Fucking possessive bastard.

It's screwed up. All of them are screwed up. Izuna thinks back to what Tobirama had said - Some big loss, and Madara was all you could depend on? What happened, for Hashirama to become so attached to his brother?

Yeah. Izuna doesn't like it very much. Hashirama isn't a nice, gentle soul. People think that he's the kinder one, the one who brings life - and that Madara is Hashirama's natural foil, the one who takes and destroys. Their opinions are stupid. Renewal and destruction are two sides of the same coin and neither would exist without the other. 

(Of course, in Izuna's eyes Madara is much better, but he's got enough self-awareness to know that his opinion is slightly biased.)

"I know I don't own him," Hashirama confesses to Izuna at some point, looking guilty. "But I - "

He cuts himself off. Good thing he did, because Izuna feels slightly stabby at the moment. 

"Let me guess," Izuna sighs. "He held you through some of your lowest moments and you just got attached? And you were a child without much stability stuck in the middle of a war which didn't look like it would end at any point, so you clung on without even knowing it and forgot how to let go? And now that you're an adult, you'll never grow out of it?"

"Holy shit, you got it in one," Hashirama whispers. "Oh gods, Madara will probably kill me if I tell him this."

Izuna snorts. "He wouldn't kill you over a few thoughts," he says. "He'd kill you if you did anything to me or his clan, for sure, but to him? My brother's not like that."

"That's not a good mindset," Hashirama points out, then looks horrified. "Oh gods. We all have bad mindsets."

"You just caught on? Obviously, Hokage-sama," Izuna says. "We all got through the war differently. You grabbed on to my brother and refused to let go. Tobirama became the little shit he is. My brother would burn down the world with himself in it if I or any of our clan died. This is just our life now."

"And what about you?" Hashirama asks. His eyes are piercing, dark brown hair framing his face. Izuna comes up to about his chin and he's not very happy about it - the height difference just annoys him, mostly because he can't get a very good glare going without standing on tiptoe. "What did you do, Izuna?" A pause, as he catalogs something about his expression Izuna isn't yet aware of. "You did the same thing as me, didn't you. Madara was your brother and you two are joined at he hip - you'd probably do anything for him, as much as he wouldn't want that."

"Yeah," Izuna says and the admission burns as it goes down his throat. "I did. And I would. I gave him my eyes, Hokage-sama. I gained my Mangekyo just from seeing his sheer distress, from him saving me when I was close to bleeding out on our floor. Believe me - if you think you know just how destructive love can be, you don't. You don't know how far either of us would go for each other."

"Don't I? He nearly razed through the earth when Tobirama stabbed you through the stomach," Hashirama says. "Madara came the closest to killing me that day. He went straight through my armour and ripped open my chest - right here." A jagged scar stands out proudly over Hashirama's torso. "And I don't doubt that if you'd died, he'd have disemboweled Tobirama as revenge. You are what he cares about the most. What is it about you, I wonder? Izuna."

Is that jealousy Izuna hears from the perfect Shodaime Hokage? The cicadas trill a cheerful tune beneath the night sky. An owl coos, mournful. Koi swim in the pond beside them, streaks of mottled gold under the moonlight. And Hashirama stares at him like he wishes he could dissect Izuna's face, pry open all the pieces to know.

"What are you two doing out here so late at night?"

Izuna nearly leaps out of his own skin. 

"Madara!" Hashirama shrieks, shocked. "Nothing!"

"Oh? Are you sure?" Madara says, and his voice dips down to a deadly snarl. His hair is loose, hanging over his shoulders, over his eyes which are a haunting scarlet. "Are you sure, Hashirama."

"Yep! Sure!"

"Aniki, it's fine," Izuna intervenes. As much as he wouldn't mind Madara going for Hashirama's throat, he doesn't want to force their clan to leave - or for Madara to end up burning down the entire village on their way out. "He didn't do anything. We were just talking."

Madara's eyes narrow into crimson slits, but he relents eventually and the glow of his Sharingan fades. "Alright," he sighs. "It's late. Hashirama, will you be returning to your residence or will you be staying the night?"

"Oh, I'd love to stay!" Hashirama perks up. "If you'll have me."

"You can take my room," Madara says. "I'll stay with Izuna."

"Are you sure? I don't want to inconvenience you," Hashirama says, but Izuna catches the slight side-glance flashed towards him. Liar, liar. "I can stay on a futon in your room or something - "

"We're literal brothers, we've cuddled plenty of times," Madara snorts. "It's fine, just don't get your scent over everything I own."

He probably will, Izuna thinks mulishly. Ugh. At least he gets to experience Madara's (frankly amazing) hugs for a night. 

But really. Izuna wonders, sometimes, if it would be the same had they grown up as civilian children. If they hadn't experienced so much tragedy at a young age. If Madara didn't grow up so fast.

He doesn't really resent Tajima much, in the end - okay, maybe Izuna does a little bit, but Tajima was also their father and kind of trying to lead them through wartime while they were children, so Izuna gets it a little bit. It wasn't his fault; Madara, Izuna, and all their siblings were just the unlucky ones who received the backlash.

The thing is that it didn't come out of nowhere. They didn't start out like this. But they ended up like this anyway, because that's what happens when you survive. It has its consequences, you know. 

Izuna just doesn't think they'll be able to turn into something different, at this point. Oh, maybe if they had a good few decades and a lot of tea or whatever. Sure, maybe Izuna and Madara can learn intimacy in a way that is kinder than what they are at the moment, but they'll never actually lose that part of themselves. Sure, maybe Hashirama can partially let go of his weird possessiveness thing for Madara, but never fully. And Izuna is pretty sure Tobirama is perfectly okay with whatever he is, at this point, so. It's all fucking baked in at this point. They might try to (and probably can, even) become healthier mentally, but...

Well, trauma is forever, especially if you have a Sharingan. Is it any surprise that Madara built himself away from everyone, armoured himself as though he'll be attacked at any moment? Is it any surprise that Izuna clung to the person who was his support system his entire life? Is it, really?

He thinks Madara is afraid, in the end, to love in any way which is kind. It's depressing as all fuck. Izuna tries to shower him in gentleness for that very reason, but he's long since accepted that Madara will still burn down the world for their clan but especially Izuna, and the part of him which stuck to Madara like a leech since day one is very happy about that.

Who knows. It's complicated. It's a whole thing Izuna doesn't know how to handle. Throw in Hashirama and Tobirama and it just gets messier, in the end. 

Hashirama clings, that's what Izuna finds. He grabs. He bruises, and it's on purpose - and Madara responds in kind, nails digging in, teeth set in a snarl. It isn't to hurt, it's just to hold but the lines blur, they always have. 

"Are you alright?" he whispers, and Madara blinks at him with hazy crimson eyes. Some of his hair sticks to the side of face but most of it tumbles over his back, black on tan and varnished copper below the light. He'd be an art piece, if he wasn't so alive Izuna knows he could reach out and feel warm skin, feel a heartbeat. 

"'m okay," Madara whispers back, words slurring. Hashirama pulls Madara's attention away with a forceful thrust that jostles him, eyes sliipping shut, cheek pressed down. His fingers are buried into the sheets, knuckles whitened from the force of his grip, sweat dripping over the strong line of his shoulders; Izuna gently untangles one hand and holds it, just holds it, lets Madara cling to him like an anchor as sparks bounce between their palms. Above them, Hashirama leans down and wraps himself over Madara, one hand pushing down on a shoulder and the other fisting itself into the mattress, covering Madara near-completely. 

He couldn't. Izuna's brother is free-running, wild as the fire he wields. Even now his hair spills out, his arms are mostly out in the open, he clutches to Izuna tight enough that prying him off would take more strength than any of them actually have. Hashirama meets his gaze and for a moment it seems that he knows this, too; knows that containing Madara would be an impossible feat, like trying to hold a storm in a teacup. 

How much, Izuna wonders, does he care? Would he try, anyway? Hashirama is aware enough to know that owning someone is not really how you should relationship, especially because Madara would fight against it tooth and nail. Is it enough?

"I wouldn't," Hashirama whispers, like he heard Izuna's thoughts. "I'm better than that, Izuna."

Izuna squeezes his brother's hand, tucks back a strand of hair. "We try to be," he says and leaves it at that. Don't they all? They're learning, aren't they? Maybe none of them really know how to be intimate and loving in the normal sense - but Izuna is doing his best, in the end, and what else is there but that?

"Izuna," Madara says, when they're tangled together in a mess of limbs. 

"Mm?" Izuna asks, muffled. He's very warm and very content to be warm, thank you very much. 

"Did I just let Hashirama fuck me outside of a heat?"

"I'm right here," Hashirama complains, into Madara's back. "You did."

"You did," Izuna agrees, kinder. "It's alright, aniki. We all do that sometimes."

"We what?"

"Go to sleep, Hashirama," Madara grumbles. "I'm too tired to think about this and I'm not ruining my own fucking post-coitus bliss until it's at least the morning." Somewhere, Hashirama coughs. 

"... Madara?" Hashirama asks, a few minutes later.

"What did I just say?"

"Yeah, go to sleep, Hokage-sama," Izuna mutters.

"Sorry! It's just - would any Uchiha ever be okay with marrying outside their own clan?"

Oh, this fucker.

"What?" Madara says. "It's not expressly forbidden - "

"Really?"

" - let me finish. It isn't forbidden, but it is heavily warned against, in our culture," Madara says. "Trade alliances are much more common, for our clan. Marriage? Courtship? Children? A lot of shitty things happened to us in the past because of our eyes, Hashirama. People have treated us like animals. I mean, have you ever seen a kekkei genkai clan do that shit except for very rarely?"

"... now that you mention it, no."

"Yeah," Madara huffs. "Exactly. Bad stuff happens when you let your guard down and tie yourself down with kids or marriage to other people. So no, we probably wouldn't save for once in a blue moon. Why do you ask?"

"No reason!"

"... are you sure - "

"Let's-go-to-sleep-please - "

"Ugh. Fine."

Izuna, for one, is glad to never have to revisit this conversation again.

He buries himself into Madara's arms and falls asleep in the next five minutes.

Chapter Text

For some reason, Tobirama didn't expect Madara's message of urgent matters, come quickly to involve, well, this.

'This' being Madara trapping Hashirama between his legs, feet braced against a wall and arms caging around Hashirama's own, looking very much irritated as Hashirama attempts to presumably maul him. He appears to be struggling, a little, because none of them can match up to Tobirama's brother in terms of sheer strength, but overall he's doing admirably well. 

Ah. Likely a surprise rut. Those did happen - some were lucky enough to have regular cycles, and some were not. 

"Fucking finally," Madara hisses, voice strained. "Get over here and help me move him."

"Yes my lord" Tobirama drawls, sarcastic, and takes a step towards the ball that is Madara and Hashirama. Unfortunately, the action makes Hashirama snarl and roots shoot up and Tobirama dodges that, then the onslaught of fire that is Madara twisting to incinerate the mokuton. He likely should have predicted that, in hindsight.

"Shit - calm down, you idiot," Madara snaps and there's a brief scuffle involving Madara shoving Hashirama further back into the wall, followed by Hashirama shoving Madara over and the two of them end up on the floor for a moment before Madara is able to momentarily push Hashirama down.

Abruptly, Tobirama recalls what Hashirama was doing prior to getting angry. "Let him scent you!" he says. "It might calm him."

"Izuna forgive me," Madara exhales in a rush and then yanks Hashirama's face bodily into his neck. Near-immediately Hashirama goes limp - or not, because he's still holding Madara like he's afraid the other will be stolen if he doesn't. "Okay. It worked. I'm guessing that he's not very fond of anyone coming close."

"Have you not clocked his possessiveness towards you?"

The look and the grimace tells him no. No, Madara has not. 

Tobirama sighs. He feels sorry for Izuna. And for Madara, who will no doubt come out of this ordeal rather sore, but only a little. "Alright. You're the one who has the best shot of convincing him to right himself and go somewhere that isn't this office. I won't go closer, in the interests of our collective safety."

"Good choice," Madara mutters. "Alright - maybe I can just... "

His Susanoo appears in a blink of the Mangekyo and bubbling armour slithers its way around them. Madara doesn't exactly stand; rather, the armour does it for him, lifting to its feet in an impressive feat of chakra control and starting to move. Hashirama doesn't even react.

"He's trying to get my pants off!" Madara calls through grit teeth.

"He's in a rut, what do you expect?"

"I don't do this in my fucking heat!"

"You get even worse," Tobirama tells him without hesitation. "I could drop you in the middle of a forest just before the peak of your heat and you'd immediately burn it to ash. My brother would, at least, wait a little."

"Fuck off - oh no you don't, I'm not having sex in my fucking Susanoo," Madara says. The armour shrinks down so they can awkwardly fit through the doorway and Madara throws them onto the bed, then releases the jutsu before something can get destroyed by a giant hand. Tobirama shuts the door and locks it. "Okay. Okay, what do we - shit - "

"I'm going to go spar Izuna," Tobirama says, without any shame (ignoring how Madara snarls out Tobirama you fucker don't leave me here) and then leaves. 

Being abandoned while Madara has an alpha in rut currently trying to get him naked is not what Madara planned for the day.

"Motherfucker," Madara swears, loudly and violently. He swears a little more just for the hell of it. "Okay. Okay, this is happening." Hashirama is barely lucid and he smells like Madara has just buried his nose into a fucking pine tree. It's thick and heady and he clamps down on the warring instincts on his body, one saying eliminate threat and the other saying get fucked right this moment. Neither is optimal, but one is a better choice than the other. First, though - 

He performs the necessary seals and a shadow clone manifests, eyeing them with clear reluctance. "How the fuck did we get into this situation?"

"No damn idea," Madara sighs. "One moment things were fine, the other moment he was on me."

"If you ask me to take care of this - "

"What? No - shit," Madara hisses. "Fine, fine, I'll take it off! Okay - fuck - "

Hashirama shoves him down into the mattress. Madara barely catches himself on his elbows and quickly shoves his pants down, ridding his lower half of any clothing. "Go handle things outside. And birth control. That too."

"Duly noted," his clone says and leaves with a swish of thick black hair. Madara obligingly strips himself fully and sighs as Hashirama latches onto his collarbone immediately, then noses into his bicep. At least it's occupying him for the moment.

"What do I do with you," he says to nobody. "Okay - if this is happening - "

It very clearly is. Hashirama is hard as a fucking brick wall against Madara's thigh. At least being an omega (who is clearly, to his friend at least, rather desirable) should make preparing himself faster. He's already beginning to react, or at least his body is, to the goddamn tidal wave of arousal Hashirama is putting out right now and if he's a little panicked then that's between him and the fucking gods.

... maybe he is happy that Tobirama isn't here right now.

"Just have your fun or whatever it is you're doing up there," Madara sighs and shoves his hand between his legs, skating right past his budding arousal and pushing in a finger without preamble. It burns but he fights past it, knowing it will hurt much more if Hashirama decides to fuck him and he's not well prepared enough. Like it or not, his friend is well fucking endowed - and, unfortunately, it just gets bigger, which means Madara had better be able to fit his entire fist in or something otherwise he's screwed.

Or he's screwed either way, but that's a shitty joke and he's not going to make it.

Heat makes this easier, Madara reflects. Arousal and adrenaline typically drown out any pain he feels, which makes it convenient whether he wants to punch someone or cope with it another way. Sadly, he's not in heat at the moment, meaning he'd just better do it the old fashioned way.

He's managed to get three fingers in and is working in a fourth by the time Hashirama has moved his way down Madara's body and is trying to get between Madara's thighs. "No," Madara tells him, futilely. "No, you nut. You'll probably rip me straight open if you - "

He's got scent glands in his thighs, Madara recalls. And something about his scent calms Hashirama down. It's a temporary measure - very temporary - but he quickly scoots down and uses the heel of his foot to shove Hashirama into his inner thigh. It does the trick - briefly. Then Hashirama decides that now he feels like fucking Madara and oh isn't that just fun.

"How did I end up here," Madara mutters to himself. Screw it. He scissors his fingers apart as wide as they can without actually tearing himself and bites down a startled moan as the movement seems to ripple up into his stomach. "Alright. Okay. I'd better be ready or I'm - "

He's not going to say the pun. He won't.

Hashirama fucks into him without any finesse, just a sharp thrust in and then out again, rough enough that it jostles Madara up the mattress and he digs his heels in, gritting his teeth past the blur of sensations that rock up through his body. The weight of it aches, edging on too much, rattling straight into his ribcage. For a moment, he spares sympathy for whoever is Hashirama's usual rut partner. They must be tougher than steel, to be able to handle this.

Then Hashirama digs his hands into Madara's thighs and bodily hauls him down and Madara can't help the bitten-off shriek punched straight out of his mouth as Hashirama fucks in. His heel kicks into Hashirama's back and it does absolutely nothing to dissuade him whatsoever - sparks pop in his vision, some real some not, as he's just made to take it like a doll.

Too soon Hashirama comes, jerking deep inside him with an animalistic snarl, teeth burying themselves into the swell of one of his pectorals, hips flush with the cradle of Madara's thighs. The stretch of his knot is one Madara knows will happen but doesn't have the chance to prepare for before before it occurs, pushing his thoughts out of his head and replacing them with white-hot fuzzy sparks, a shrill whine making it out of his choked-up throat. He doesn't know if he can breathe around the weight of it, doesn't know if he can acutely process the feeling; all he gets is the sensation of full before his mind blanks out and convulses, body spasming.

"Holy fuck," Madara whispers to himself once he's managed to come back online. Hashirama looks temporarily calmed, curled up on top of Madara like a human blanket. He doesn't dare to move at this point. Every tiny shift sends frissons of electricity down his nerve ends and even the sound is - it's a lot, okay. 

The door opens. Madara's clone pokes its head in and coughs. "Goddamn."

"Please tell me you're here with - "

"Yes, just take the damn thing. It's like I shoved my fucking nose into a pine tree for twenty minutes."

"I know," Madara grimaces and downs the medicine in a single gulp. Ah, the wonders of birth control. Thank the gods, or he'd be a parent much earlier than he'd like to be. "Out, out."

"You don't have to tell me twice."

Hashirama seems mostly content for the moment, though not exactly lucid. Madara shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he may have bitten off more than he can chew. 

He barely gets more than a minute of calm before he fucking feels the twitch of Hashirama's goddamn dick inside him - and isn't that something, Madara thinks - and then he hefts Madara's left leg up so that his knee is hooked over Hashirama's muscled side and slides out with a messy squelch that has Madara's ears burning and then fucks back in and he feels utterly surrounded, on all ends. Caged in, stuck in a way that Madara rarely ever is. It's slightly terrifying. It snatches his breath straight out of his gut in the form of sharp, stuttered gasps that his mind can only vaguely float as embarrassing before that thought drifts back off into whatever void it came from.

Tobirama comes in at some point and nods, apparently to himself, when he spots Madara with his eyes tightly shut and muscles limp on the sheets. "Having fun?"

Madara drags up some dregs of his energy to flip Tobirama off. He gets a snort for his trouble and the weight of Hashirama on his chest shifts, starts to stir.

"No," Madara says. To who, he doesn't know. "No." That's to Hashirama, definitely. "Hashirama - no - "

He finds strength, from god knows where, to flip them over and forcibly shove Hashirama down. "That's your brother," Madara says, emphasizing his point with a shake of Hashirama's shoulders. His legs feel weak but he braces his knees, shaky though they might be, and glares down at his dumbass of a friend. "No mauling."

Hashirama hisses up at him, all teeth and rage. Madara snarls right back until Hashirama relents with a reluctant huff, eyes slipping shut. 

"Have you even been able to orgasm yet?"

"If you came here just to mess with me," Madara starts and swears when Tobirama's hand finds its with between his thighs anyway. "Ngh - "

He doesn't mean for that to slip out. It does anyway. Probably because he actually has not been able to come yet, no. What does Tobirama expect, fucking miracles? Madara's not one of those magical people who can get off just from something inside them. 

"I'm guessing no," Tobirama comments like the jerk he is. Madara has biceps strong enough to snap his neck like it's a goddamn twig and he's tempted to use said biceps right now. He loses his train of thought as Tobirama presses down and rubs and -

It catches him off guard, the sudden whiplash of pleasure that tears through him. A hand claps over his mouth and muffles his wail as Madara thrashes, losing control of his limbs, caught up in sheer bliss. He buckles over, curling into Hashirama's front, teeth grit hard enough that his jaw aches, the aftershocks seizing through him in wave after wave of desperate pleasure until it finally recedes, leaving Madara tired and limp and feeling vaguely sticky, energy sapped out of him and replaced by contentment. 

Job apparently done, Tobirama pats his head and Madara hears him leave. Asshole.

He doesn't realize that Hashirama is awake until he's being jostled. Surprised, Madara snaps back to wakefulness, struggling slightly in whatever's holding him - that turns out to be Hashirama's hands grasping at his hips, shoving him down once again. The motion rubs Hashirama's cock up against his walls and pleasure-pain arcs up into his gut, teetering on the edge of either. 

"Shit," Madara hisses under his breath and then Hashirama buries himself in deep enough that Madara sees stars. A ragged shriek tears itself out of his throat - whether it's from pain or bliss, he doesn't know. He feels hot, like he'll burn straight out of his skin; he feels completely unbalanced, stuck in a haze of sensations that rip through his thoughts. The crumpled sheets at his back, the dulled pain of his thighs and hips, and of course the star of the show himself - Hashirama, surrounding Madara entirely. Arms caging in his torso, front pressing down over Madara's own, teeth pressed into his shoulder. Filling him to the brim, an intoxicating sort of ache that wrings him out and leaves him nothing but bare.

He can almost feel the last drops of actual thought leave him, burnt away bit by bit. Madara's been told that he gets loud, when he doesn't have the control to bite down on those sounds, and he most certainly does not have anything of the sort right now. A half-choked whine slips out and then Hashirama plows in like he's determined to break the goddamn bed and the electrifying drag of it rips out a mortifying squeal, come splattering onto Madara's thighs, probably onto the sheets as well, messy and wet and -

If I'm awake by the end of this, Madara swears to himself dizzily, I'm making him clean everything up.

He considers it a goddamn achievement that he only passes out after the sixth hour.

"I really hate your brother sometimes," is what Madara comes back to. 

He feels... drowsy. The aftershocks of bliss are still running through his veins, sluggish. Madara forces his eyes open when someone says, "At least it's over in a few hours and not days." 

"Shut up," Izuna says. "You know he can't control that."

"I really hate Hashirama too, sometimes," Madara agrees, hoarse, and all of them jump in surprise. Except Hashirama, who stirs for the barest moment before snuggling back into the crook of Madara's neck.

"Aniki!" Izuna says. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"He fucked Madara for six hours straight, what do you think?"

"I hate to say that Tobirama's right," Madara sighs. "I'm fucking sore."

"Can you even walk?"

"Yes I can walk," Madara hisses, flaring in offense. Is he still - no, he's not. Madara wraps his arms against Hashirama's back and digs his heels in and manages to flip them over. Hashirama is uncooperative, of course, but Madara quite frankly doesn't care and drags himself off, wincing.

"Oh," Izuna says faintly in the background. "That's. A lot."

Tobirama snorts. "What did you expect?"

"It's different to see it, okay!" Izuna says. Madara is more concerned with getting off the bed and onto the stupid floor - preferably without staining everything. 

"Here," Tobirama says, throwing him a rounded object. Madara eyes it with mild confusion. It's rubbery and shaped in an odd way. He could probably knock someone out if he threw it hard enough, but the texture indicates it would be likely to burst on impact and that's no good. "Push it up your - "

Oh.

"Okay, I get it," Madara says and works the stupid thing into himself. It settles with a vulgar squelch that has every party wincing. "I feel sorry for the poor soul who has to deal with this."

"Usually there is no poor soul," Tobirama says. 

"What?"

"What."

"We aren't codependent on each other, that's why," Tobirama says, asshole that he is. "I do doubt he would have agreed to stop latching onto you, though, Madara. If he's grabbed onto someone, then that someone will just have to handle things and pray to the gods."

"I will never do this again," Madara swears, pushing himself off. He feels wobbly, but it's not something he can't handle. Izuna steadies him with a touch to the hip, then just puts a hand to his lower back, and then inhales at something. "Izuna?"

"You've got - "

"Oh, that is a lot," Tobirama agrees. Madara twists and - there are bruises painted over most of his lower torso, as well as what feels like over his shoulder blades. 

Fucking hell. "Hashirama!"

"Ah! Ugh, I feel tired."

Madara takes a deep, deep breath and reminds himself that incinerating the Shodaime is bad form, especially since they are friends. "When I'm not literally dripping with your fucking come," he says through grit teeth and Hashirama immediately winces at the terminology, all the while staring at Madara's white-streaked thighs (it's probably not an accident, Madara thinks irritably, the stare and the liberal bruising), "you're healing this."

He strides into the bathroom before Hashirama can say anything. The door slams closed with a resounding thunk.

("I'm really sorry," Hashirama apologizes for the nth time. He doesn't look very sorry, but to be fair - cycles fuck everyone over, so Madara can't be too mad at him. "It just happened and you were right there and - "

"Hashirama?"

"... yeah?"

"Shut up and heal my damn shoulder. It looks like I got mauled.

"You - mean.")

Chapter Text

The sky is dove-feather grey when Hashirama wakes up to an empty bed, the side where his wife sleeps still having some lingering warmth. 

The first few times it happened, Hashirama had panicked. He'd thought his spouse had left, or had decided that peace was no longer worth it in favour of torching the Senju grounds instead. In his fear, he'd burst out of his bedroom still half-undressed - and then spotted Madara returning, hair fluffed up from the wind, cheeks bitten slightly pink by the morning chill, decidedly not on fire or gone.

"What?" Madara had scowled the first time, lips twisting downwards in displeasure, eyeing Hashirama the way he always did - like he couldn't decide whether to punch him or set him ablaze. "I was outside, if you were wondering. Figured you wouldn't want me setting a wall on fire."

Now, he doesn't panic, not anymore. He considers for a moment curling deeper into the sheets, and then decides that it's not worth it and gets out instead, dressing himself (properly, this time). Madara is a stoic figure in the kitchen, hip resting against a counter, watching the passing of the birds outside. Half his face is obscured behind a teacup, fingers wrapping delicately about the handle and upper lip curled slightly over the rim. His hair - sticking every which way in sharp spikes, carrying with it the scent of ash and embers which indicated either time spent training or with his clanmates or (quite likely) both - is a sharp contrast to the elegance of his posture. Hashirama stifles a small laugh at the sight.

"What's got you so cheerful?" Madara drawls. A single charcoal-dark eye meets his own and Hashirama smiles slightly at his spouse. It becomes easier and easier per day, this new arrangement. 

"Nothing."

"I'm sure," Madara mutters but seems content to let the matter rest, turning back to the window. 

"Spar me later?"

A pause. Madara turns fully towards him, both eyes boring into Hashirama's. He lowers his tea, raises a fine brow. His hair spills over his shoulders. "Oh? That's new. Thought you didn't want to stir up tensions in your clan, Hashirama."

"You are technically a part of my clan, now," Hashirama reminds him.

Madara snorts. "You're technically a part of my clan, too." Nevertheless he's amused, eyes glinting like onyx beads. "Alright. Why the hell not."

They settled into the agreement after Izuna, Madara's younger brother, nearly died. The rage on Madara's face had been palpable, as well as the fear and the horror as honey-smoke billowed out like stormclouds over the battlefield and fires raged in the wake of the Uchiha's retreat. It was the first time Hashirama had seen any emotion other than determination and stone-cold fury on Madara's face - and he'd remembered his own losses then, the desperation and the vicious grief that followed after, the lingering terror that it would keep on happening until nobody was left.

So when they'd been about to clash the next time, Hashirama had taken a gambit and lowered his sword. And he'd said, before Madara could smite him, "I want a truce."

"A truce," Madara had said with narrowed eyes, regarding him with one hand still on the handle of his gunbai, eyes a whorl of black beads on red. "You want a truce."

It was said with disbelief - and met with the same, from both ends. But, three days later, Madara (with his brother, still alive against all odds, and Uchiha Hikaku too) met him to negotiate the terms of their ceasefire. And then a truce. And then an actual alliance, declaring the partnership between both parties.

They'd gotten married for that very reason. The Uchiha had been furious at the prospect, accusing Hashirama of attempting bloodline theft and of trying to take away one of their clan. The Senju had been outraged in return, at the defamation of their head's intentions; they would never do such a dishonourable thing. 

"Honour is for weasels who claim they are wolves," Uchiha Naori spat, then, eyes blazing. "The truth speaks louder than empty words. Had you any real honour, you would never have to defend it."

It was rather ridiculous, in hindsight. The Senju were stubborn; the Uchiha, even more so. Madara had finally agreed, shutting down all protests, and Hashirama had been relieved - and then he'd looked them squarely in the eye and said, coldly, "I have my own terms, if we should continue with this 'wedding'."

The first was that it would be Madara who would marry himself off, instead of giving away a lesser from the Uchiha clan. The second was that Madara would not take the Senju name, nor would Hashirama take his; even if they were wed, they would remain a part of their original clans and keep the two separate. The third was that Madara would have free reign to go between clan grounds, in order to properly lead his clan instead of being shut away in Hashirama's home like a docile wife. And the fourth was that there would be no children from their union.

"But - "

"No."

He'd said it with such finality that it had immediately sealed the deal. And thus, they were wed - twice, by both Uchiha and Senju customs. 

And then Hashirama found himself preparing to be married to someone who had nearly killed him and vice versa. What a life.

They've settled, Hashirama finds, Madara and him. Though they're married for the sake of the alliance alone, they've found some sort of common ground and that is the mutual interest of not restarting a war. As such, they do all the typical married things like live together (sometimes) and sleep in the same bed (sometimes) and act reasonably polite to one another. 

He'd been worried, at first, that he'd have to drag Madara back if the other refused to even pretend they were semi-civil with each other. But Hashirama found that that wasn't much of a concern. Madara played into the part - with reluctance, but he did do it. 

Though there was obviously no way he'd ever fit into the role of docile loving wife, which is what their elders had expected at first from a marriage between their clans (before Madara had appointed himself as the one getting wed), they could at least have the appearance of friendship, or polite respect. So even in the first few days, when they trod around eggshells with each other, Madara was begrudgingly calm and Hashirama forced himself into being the same, instead of restarting a bloody conflict by having something as mundane as an argument.

It worked - eventually. Tensions settled. Madara broke off the Uchiha's odd ceasefire-truce agreement with the Kaguya in favour of politely ('politely') reminding them why he was so well-known on both ends of their country - and why, if the patriarch didn't want Madara to break open his ribcage and crush his heart while it was still beating, he would leave both the Uchiha and the Senju alone from here on forth. Hashirama didn't let them escape unscathed, either, prying out bones from many of the Kaguya warriors as a pointed warning. They'd make for good jewelry.

("Your wife is rubbing off on you," Tobirama had told him when Hashirama returned, bearing his trophies and accompanied by a cheerful-looking Madara.

"My husband," Madara said with all the smugness of a cat who'd just caught a particularly plump bird, "was always like that.")

It's even pleasant, sometimes, the companionship. Madara has a sharp wit which he is wholly unafraid to us and a surprising amount of compassion for someone normally devoted to destroying all enemies in his way. They get along better than Hashirama expected. Waking up with a warm presence at his side, even if it's not all the time, is better than constantly waking up alone. 

For a clan such as theirs, Hashirama was always considered unusually tactile. Tobirama's and Touka's cool composure were the norm, instead of Hashirama's instinct to bump against shoulders and latch onto hands. But Madara accepts it without more than a passing glance - his clanmates aren't afraid to touch him, whether it's a child running up to hang off his calf or any one of his lieutenants nudging his shoulder or brushing a finger over his hand in silent signal for attention. He must have grown up like that, Hashirama thinks, never more than a few inches away from a person. 

In many ways it's comforting, that Madara simply pays his curious attempts at initiating contact no mind. Very little can make him flinch, now that they're more comfortable around one another; not even a touch to the waist or hip or thigh, all of which elicited raised eyebrows from Tobirama and Touka and... a slight glance from Madara, followed by him seamlessly returning to what he was doing previously. 

They're perhaps not your usual married couple, but they're learning to coexist - and Hashirama is happy with that, even if it started out a little tense.

Sitting in silence opposite someone who Hashirama had been trying to kill just months ago, on a bed draped in silk, with Madara wiping makeup off his face like he personally held a grudge against it, was not what Hashirama ever anticipated for his wedding night.

He'd thought... well, it'd be with someone he knew better. And of course they'd be a little more comfortable around each other. And it wouldn't be someone who Hashirama nearly strangled to death, once, or someone who had fractured Hashirama's skull before. That was a big part of it.

They'd be expected to... well. What couples generally do on wedding nights. Make love. Fuck. Conceive children. Have hot, nasty sex, according to Touka. Perhaps literally hot, Tobirama had commented with a glance towards Madara. And here they were, doing none of the above - with Madara incinerating the tissues he'd used to clean his face off in a fist, wisps smoke rising to the ceiling and then dissipating.

"So," Hashirama led off with. "We're married."

It didn't even feel real, to say it out loud.

"Sure are," Madara said. 

"We're expected to... "

He gestured, vaguely, at Madara's crotch area - something that, in hindsight, was a bad idea. Madara shut his eyes and exhaled for ten long seconds that never seemed to end, then opened them back up. 

"Look," he said, voice carefully calm. "How important is consummation of the union to your clan?"

Hashirama shrugged. "It's just what's expected."

"Then, with no insult to your sex skill or your clan's wedding customs, let's not," Madara said. "You look liable to run away if we start stripping in front of each other and I have no interest in finding out what a knot feels like - " Hashirama coughed in slight surprise - "from you, of all people. Now help me undo all this, unless you want me to set it ablaze. I'll sleep on the spare futon."

His second wedding night was decidedly easier. The dancing was tiring, but after it was all over Madara dragged him into... a temple, to pray for the gods to bless their union. Not being an Uchiha, Hashirama had asked if he was allowed to stay.

"You're my husband," was the response. "Pretty sure if you leave it's heresy. You can sleep if you want, since you're not an Uchiha, but stay within temple grounds and don't break anything."

And then they were officially married, by both clans' standards. It felt... surreal.

Heats are an issue, they always are. Madara ignores it for as long as he possibly can. He spends time around his clan, soothing himself with their presence; he spends time fighting, sometimes returning with the scent of rust mingling with smoke and honey and wiping blood off his weapons; he spends time training, seemingly with no limit to his energy, and Hashirama will find him by the river with the air around him saturated with sugar. Often he spars Hashirama - not all out, in the interests of not forming a new valley, to Madara's displeasure - and they come back tired but satisfied, in that bone-deep way.

He refuses to get help from anyone but Hashirama. Were they unwed, Madara wouldn't hesitate (his words, not Hashirama's), but because they are married then cheating would be in bad form according to his clan's customs - on both ends, so they'll just have to live out cycles with each other.

Or, well, Madara does. Hashirama typically spends the hours of his rut on his own and he's perfectly fine with continuing that trend. It's not a possibility for someone like Madara, who is an Uchiha in every aspect.

The first heat was... nightmarish. Madara had thought him an enemy instead of his literal husband and they'd both come out of it exhausted, with Madara dragging himself across the river to his own clan's grounds as soon as he could to seek comfort from his family. The second and third ones went better, though Madara went back as soon as he could as well. And now the fourth one is approaching and Hashirama is best believed a little worried.

"Look," Madara tells him, a day into his preheat. "I'm not going to beat around the bush here. Heat with someone who isn't clan either means I want to kill them or I'm fucking putty and to be honest it's going to start veering towards the latter. So you'll probably have to actually dick me down this time - "

"Madara - " Hashirama says. He'll never quite get used to that. As usual, Madara rolls his eyes and plows on.

" - but there's also a good chance you'll have to restrain me at some point while doing it."

See, Hashirama has never had sex with Madara before. This does not stop him from immediately conjuring up vivid ideas of how his spouse would look. 

"I will never be comfortable with any sort of chakra seal," Madara continues, "so you're not locking me down like I'm a prisoner. But I do give you permission to use your Mokuton to restrain my hands - and only my hands. Anything else and something is getting torched to the ground. Got it?"

The fantasies twist, warp themselves around. Hashirama bats them away as well as he can for the sake of responding and says, thinking that the stir in his stomach might just be anticipation, "Understood."

The first day that Madara slept in the same bed as him was a terse one.

Hashirama was distinctly aware of the fact that the both of them were half-nude, from the torso up. Madara wasn't facing him, thick black hair spilling out over the pillow, over the space between them, spikes curling over his neck and shoulders and trailing down his muscled back. 

There really was no proper etiquette for a situation like this. And Hashirama had always been shit at etiquette, anyway, so after a moment of wondering if he should say something, he just followed Madara's example and turned so that they weren't looking at one another. Sleep came uneasy, half of him thinking that Madara would pull a kunai on him and the other half of him contemplating the idea of whether or not he should do it first. 

He'd fallen asleep, eventually, to the near-unnoticeable sound of Madara's breaths. When he'd woken up, the sun was partly risen already and Hashirama found himself having flipped over at some point in the night, so he was facing Madara's back, which smoothly rose and fell. At least they weren't making contact; that would have been immensely awkward.

To his surprise, Madara slept in a tightly curled ball, limbs tucked up into his torso like a puppy. It was adorable - as adorable as five-foot-nine of muscle and rage could get, anyway. He hadn't looked up but commented, instead, in a voice hoarse from sleep, "Finally awake?"

"How long have you been up?"

One eye peeked out at him from behind a curtain of dark bangs. "Half an hour, give or take."

Well, they'd both managed to survive the night, at least. Hashirama stretched himself awake, the blankets slipping off of his nude torso. Next to him, Madara uncoiled himself, one limb after another, and then sprawled back in a long arch that would make any cat envious. He met Hashirama's eyes for a second as he was doing so and then sat back on his heels, the two of them facing each other. 

"So," Madara led off with, and then trailed off.

"So," Hashirama echoed, feeling a little like he was in the strangest of dreams. "We're married."

Madara plucked at a stray thread. His nails were clipped short and Hashirama didn't know why this detail stood out to him. "We're married," he agreed, and then - with a little more dread - "Fuck. I have a husband."

"I have a wife," Hashirama realized, belatedly. It was perhaps too late for them both to still be absorbing this, but he'd never thought he'd be married this early and to Uchiha Madara, so cut him some slack. In front of him, Madara appeared to be having similar thoughts. 

"... morning is here and we're wasting sunlight," is what Madara said at long last, sliding out of bed in a fluid motion. "I'm getting up."

Hashirama followed suit. A question occurred to him all of a sudden - "Why did you marry yourself off, instead of one of your clan?"

Madara, sliding on his yukata, shot him a look. Not particularly annoyed, just flat. "First of all, I wouldn't justshove a member of my clan into an unwanted marriage. I'm the one who made the agreement and I'll be the one to reap those consequences," he said. "Second of all, if this was some ploy to get an Uchiha, I would have the best chance of escaping or destroying my eyes in the process." Nimble hands tied the obi and then ran through his hair, exposing for a moment the crest emblazoned proudly on his back. "That's why."

He left, then, and Hashirama after a moment followed with all too many thoughts in his head.

Madara is objectively good-looking. There is nothing wrong with Hashirama thinking this. They're married. Madara could call him handsome and it would be appropriate; likewise, Hashirama could admit to being attracted to him and that would be fine. He's literally Madara's husband. Madara is literally his wife. They're married and last he checked it is not a crime to consider the physical appearance of one's spouse appealing.

It doesn't stop him from feeling slightly confused every time, though. Sometimes, it's just the small, mundane things; thoughts that pop into his head and then drift away, thoughts like oh his eyelashes are nice or I like the way his eyes look under sunlight. More often now, though, it's become if I buried my hands into his hair and pulled, would he hiss or gasp? If I pushed him down, would he take it or would I have to force him to? Maybe it's because they'd just come out of  he whole affair that is Madara's heat, but suddenly Hashirama's thoughts have just spiraled into full-on degeneracy and he really doesn't know how to feel about this.

 There is nothing wrong with them, as a married couple, having sex. There would be nothing wrong with them having sex even if they weren't married, but since they are it's, like, more less wrong. It's even expected. All the necessary steps were followed prior. Madara had been going into heat - Hashirama has a duty to take care of him, and to stop him from wreaking havoc in the process. 

Their marriage was never supposed to be anything intimate, that's the issue. Hashirama thought that he would handle his ruts himself and Madara would handle his heats the same way he had always been doing before they were wedded. He didn't think they would get along past pretend-acting for the sake of appearances. He didn't think he'd consider Madara - someone who he fought all his life, someone whose name was once a harbinger in itself for his clan - attractive or even sexually attractive, in any sense. 

"Fuck's got you so down?"

"Nothing," Hashirama says on reflex. Madara side-eyes him, then scoffs and flicks blood off of a fingernail. Now that it's not directed towards him, it's so very clear; Madara is beautiful even in his destruction, in the power he wields with enviable versatility. 

"Like shit," he says. "You're thinking about something." He starts wiping blood off of the wickedly spiked weight of his kusarigama, sunlight shimmering off of its rust-stained barbs. Beauty found in brutality: that's what Madara is, an amalgam of opposites. 

"Let's say I am," Hashirama agrees, playing along as they leave behind the remnants of their brief skirmish; just providing some help to the Senju's Hatake allies, nothing very major. He has blood on his knuckles, on his palms, but it's not his own. "What do you think has me so down, then?"

Madara hums, falling into this new game. "Nothing's been troubling our clans, as of late - at least, not that I'm aware of. Personal matters?"

"No, my immediate family and I are doing just fine," Hashirama says. "Yours?"

His spouse's lips twist. They're slightly chapped; Hashirama knows this because he'd touched them, previously, only a few days ago. "Izuna seems a little more moody than usual, but he's not saying why. I hope things are alright on his end. Most of my clan is fine, though. Worried about our marriage as usual, but feeling better now that I have not been kidnapped or forced to conceive a child. Not personal matters, then?"

"Nope."

Madara frowns. "Something like this certainly wouldn't be bothering you," he says. He's not wrong, either. Hashirama had left multiple people injured in rather lovely ways; vines wrapping around joints with flowers ripping through flesh and skin and blossoming at the curled ends, a reminder of the power he held, power even in how he chose to withhold it. Madara had caused his fair share of injuries as well, but not in such a pointed manner. "I can't think of any recent major event except... "

He trails off. And then gives him an incredulous look. "Really? My heat?"

"Look, we've just never had sex before and you weren't lucid the entire time," Hashirama says, spinning up a half-truth on the spot. "It was a little weird, okay? One minute I was - you know - and the other, I was trying to keep you from setting the room on fire. I always thought my first time with a person I married would be when we're both, well, of clear mind."

For a moment, Madara is quiet. Then he says, "I.. thought you were fine with it. You always touched me a lot."

"That - I just wanted to see how you'd react!" Hashirama splutters. "It's not sexual - "

"Yeah, I get that, but most people don't casually put their hand on my thigh - "

"You didn't even flinch at it - "

"Well if you started squeezing it or something I would have clawed your eyes out but it was just, like, your palm, why would I give a shit?" Madara says. "Damn. I should have asked."

"No, it's not that I wasn't okay with helping you," Hashirama clarifies. "I just wasn't expecting this to be how it turned out, is all. I mean. I didn't think we'd ever be close, or do anything vaguely sexual or intimate."

"Sex isn't that intimate," Madara huffs. "It's just two people going at it. One and done."

"I guess, but there is always some element of giving and taking control, right? So it's not completely a casual thing," Hashirama says. "You wouldn't do it with a complete stranger you found on the street without at least a conversation or two first."

"... fair enough?" Madara says. "I guess my heats are sort of like that, in a way. I do have to trust the person I'm with, at least a little, in order to not immediately raze my surroundings to the ground."

"Yeah," Hashirama agrees but his brain is caught on a part of what Madara said. What he'd just revealed, likely unknowingly, perhaps without even realizing the implications of it. "Hey, Madara?"

"Hm?"

"Have you ever had sex - "

"The fuck do you think just happened four days ago, idiot - "

" - let me finish. Have you ever had intercourse while not in a heat?"

A pause, as Madara absorbs the question fully. Then - 

"What the fuck?" Madara says. "Hashirama, what kind of fucking question is that? Do you normally ask people you know this shit?"

It's not an answer. "No, then?"

"Fuck you," Madara grumbles. "I'm not a virgin, Hashirama. I mean, I do need to deal with my heats in some way that isn't violence, and I know how sex works. Does it even matter?"

"You haven't?"

Madara shoves him, lightly, and Hashirama lets himself sway with the motion instead of holding against it. "Fine! No, I have not. Like I said, does it even matter? What even got you thinking about this, anyway?"

"Does it even matter?" Hashirama mimics and laughs when Madara shoves him again, the two of them bumping each other back and forth. "Don't you want to know what it feels like, though? When you're fully in your right mind." He catches one of Madara's wrists, slips his thumb beneath the edge of the glove, feels the thu-thump of the pulse beneath smooth skin. He's just tall enough that Madara is forced to tilt his head slightly in order for their eyes to meet, especially when he tugs gently so that they're only a breath apart. "It'll be different, trust me."

Sparks whistle between stunned lips. Madara is bold, brash, like paint splattered over a white canvas; he stares, incredulous, a storm of conflicting emotions visible in his expression. "Are you... seriously offering to fuck me?"

"I mean, we're married," Hashirama points out. Maybe it'll help him sort through things, if he tramples over their previous assumption of mutual neutrality. If he indulges, a little, in those more vicious thoughts that cross through his mind. "It's not that unusual, is it?" 

The drumbeat of Madara's pulse ticks up, skin warming beneath Hashirama's grasp. He's tense, like he's warring between ripping himself free or allowing it to happen. He treats it like a fight, Hashirama realizes; he treats so much like it's a battle, like there's only winners and losers - and of course, a loss is unacceptable. 

"This had better be worth it," Madara threatens, concedes. 

"Bad day?"

Startled, Hashirama jerked up. Madara was there, watching him, solemn. He smelled smokey-soft, almost subdued, bangs curling over the line of his jaw, of his cheekbone.

"You could say that."

Madara huffed out a small, wry noise and strode in a few steps, then sat down, hands resting lightly over his knees. He didn't meet Hashirama's eyes but instead stared down at the low table. "What happened?"

"You first," Hashirama said. It was his home and Madara was the person intruding; it was only fair that he be the one who divulged, not the other way around. Coal-dark eyes meet his, narrowed slightly, and then go lax again.

"My birth mother died," he said, casual. "Watched it happen."

"How?"

"Labour," Madara said. His voice turned terse, tight with some unknown emotion. "Never loved her - didn't have time to learn to. But she gifted me life, and I saw hers leave her."

He looked at Hashirama, expectant. 

"... brother," Hashirama admitted. "Itama. Our youngest." Sweet Itama, with his black-blond hair, cut through the middle like Kawarama's. Too gentle for a battlefield. Too kind to have ever deserved his death. A part of his heart had fallen away when he'd buried the cold, partly ashen corpse of his youngest brother. "He died on the battlefield. Father called it a noble death."

There was nothing noble to the fear in Itama's eyes, permanently preserved with a dull sheen. There was everything heart-wrenching about it.

Understanding shone in Madara's eyes. "Eiichiro - my brother. Died on the field like your Itama." His face twisted for a moment. "Nothing noble to it. He didn't have to die."

"Kawarama," Hashirama said. "Child killers got him." He'd put up a good fight, that was clear, but he was a child. He couldn't have won. Who would have expected him to? Only someone heartless, that was clear. "Uchiha child killers. We found him with half his face burnt and unrecognizable." He threw the words like it was a stone, and his spouse closed his eyes for a moment.

"You had them too," he said, meeting Hashirama's stare. "Yasuhiko. One of his legs was cut off. Your symbol was carved into his bone. And I got rid of ours once I took the position of clan head - after yours killed my father, of course."

Just as bitter as Hashirama is, cold eyes narrowed into challenging slits. Madara took Butsuma's life when Hashirama was seventeen; he'd been head for a few years, then, a whiplash of dark hair and red eyes and brutality. 

"And I, ours," Hashirama said. "I suppose we're even, then. Eye for an eye."

He wasn't imagining the slight sheen of crimson, fleeting before it vanished. "We've lost many more eyes," Madara said, voice lowering, the echoes of danger present in his icy tone. "For you, Kawarama and Itama died. For me? Yasuhiko, Eiichiro, and Mitsuyuki." He said it like a prayer. His nails dug into the fabric over his knees. "He mutilated his eyes completely before traffickers could carve them from his skull - just like father taught him to. Just like all of us were taught to, when we were children."

Like that, the fight deflated straight out of him, as though he was a shrinking balloon. Madara had always been a bad omen, a vengeful spirit - but here he was, flesh and blood, bearing the memories of all his losses: like Hashirama, like Tobirama, like the entirety of the Senju clan. He looked bitterly, painfully human.

"War's just not worth it, in the end," Hashirama said. His voice sounded hollow to his ears. "It made corpses out of my siblings, out of my father, out of my clanmates. It carved open the people left."

Madara laughed, acrid and exhausted. "And it made ashes and nightmares out of my people. I never want to see it happen again."

"Me neither," Hashirama said, honest, and met tired charcoal-eyes and saw the glimmers of a kindred spirit, the very same which had led him to offer a truce in the first place.

Madara runs warm, that's a fact. He's guaranteed to feel like a muted fire on most days; when he wants to, he can turn it up into a muted sun, and then into a condensed version of summer, skin searing. He's just as warm, now, a blotchy flush working its way down his torso and towards his thighs.

"You'll have to relax," Hashirama informs him. "It'll hurt otherwise."

"I know that," Madara huffs, red creeping up his ears. "I can barely even see what you're doing down there."

"What I promised I would," Hashirama says, stroking the pad of his thumb in featherlight circles over the soft furl of skin, his other hand resting over Madara's hip. "You can feel it, right?"

"Barely," Madara snorts. He doesn't move to lie back, though, still propped up on his elbows. 

Hashirama stifles a laugh and reaches over to push lightly at him, hand splaying over Madara's sternum. "Well, you'll have to relax if you want me to go further, Madara. I don't feel keen on tearing you open."

It takes a bit of encouragement but eventually Madara melts back, curling his arms behind his head, thick locks of hair falling over his clasped hands. Hashirama rewards him with the press of his index in, watching the way Madara's body reluctantly accepts him, slick and soft to the touch. He watches the shift of Madara's shoulders over the sheets, a small breath escaping his lips. A scar catches his eye; a jagged line that runs over the plane of his stomach, skin moving with the muscles beneath.

"What's that from?"

"Skirmish when I was eight," Madara says. "Got it from an Inuzuka."

"Ah," Hashirama nods in understanding. "Did you win?"

"Of course," Madara says, pride flickering over his expression. His abdomen is sturdy beneath Hashirama's palm, rising and falling slightly with the cadence of his breaths. Madara is broader than most Uchiha - probably from having to swing around that massive gunbai, Hashirama thinks with some amusement. It would be nice to hold him down, to feel the desperate flex of strong arms or wrists against his own hands. "I was eight, not defenseless."

"No," Hashirama agrees and rubs the knuckle of his middle finger against the wet rim, encouraging it open until he can slip in a second finger, sinking them down to the knuckle. Madara's eyes flutter, an uneven beat. He's warm, inside and out, heels slip-sliding down the mattress. Hashirama catches one of his ankles to hold it in place. "C'mon, stay still."

"Well you stay still, then," Madara grumbles. "I can't exactly help it."

"Can't you?" Hashirama wonders. "You've got pretty good control over your body, normally." He squeezes Madara's calf, digging his fingertips into the muscle there. Enough for it to ache, though there's no reaction. "I mean, this can't be much compared to fighting an army, right?"

Scarlet, peeking over the tips of his ears. Over his cheeks, a fiery blush. Madara's glare is venomous. His shivering sigh, followed by a wavering gasp as Hashirama pushes in a third, is golden. "Fuck no."

"Then you can stay still," Hashirama reasons and leans over to press a kiss that is more teeth than mouth or tongue to Madara's stomach, dragging out reddened lines. Blue or purple would suit him. His wife has always been partial to darker colours, hasn't he? "Right, Madara?"

"I know," Madara breathes, inferno-hot. Sweat beats over his skin, honey-sweet. "I know, Hashirama."

"I'm glad you do," Hashirama encourages and lets go of Madara's ankle to press his fingers into the most sensitive part of Madara's body, at the apex of his thighs, where he's wet and practically begging for it. "Does it feel good?"

His only answer is a ragged groan, eyes slipping shut. Hashirama gives a particularly harsh tug of his fingers at that, snapping Madara back up, fingers clenching in surprise. "Does it feel good, Madara?"

"Dumbass, what do you - oh," Madara gasps. He twists, slightly, trying to rock back a little. Hashirama bullies his way further up between his legs in order to trap him, between the wall and his body. "Don't, don't stop - "

"Be nice," Hashirama chides. "Yes or no? Does it feel good?"

"Shit - yes," Madara hisses. "Yes, it does, keep going - "

Good enough. Hashirama turns his head a little and bites down into Madara's thigh, tongue flicking out to taste the saturated carmel-sugar of his skin, breathing it in like an aphrodisiac. He doesn't let go until he knows that it's bruised, until he knows it will be there come morning. "Alright."

Indulgent, he lets Madara fall further, tumbling straight into a heady climax that has him leaking over Hashirama's knuckles, dripping down over his perineum onto the sheets. Every muscle locks up, thighs clamping down - or trying to, anyway, bumping into the hard line of Hashirama's torso instead - and hands fisting themselves into the sheets, knuckles pulling taut. Madara cries out, a blissful sound that soon dies out into soft gasps, spilling out of his mouth like nectar. Slowly, his body starts to go lax, relaxing.

And Hashirama works in a fourth finger, scissoring them apart. He doesn't bother with stopping.

Madara's eyes fly open, red starting to bleed into the iris. "Hashirama - "

"Yes, dear?" Hashirama drawls out, nipping at the side of his knee. 

"Hashirama - agh!" Madara cries out, only it's more pained than pleasured. His hips twist but can't get away; he's well and truly stuck, hanging off of Hashirama's fingers, the movements of his body jerky like he's being pulled about by strings. "That - it - "

"Hurts? I know," Hashirama says, cheerful as ever. "I did tell you not to move."

"You - "

"And I did say I would fuck you," Hashirama reminds him, steamrolling over whatever it was Madara was going to say. Probably useless, anyway. His words are slurred, slightly, tumbling out through wet gasps and moans; they'll likely be completely unintelligible soon. "But you wanted to come, so I let you. Nice of me, right?" His thumb presses down, working over the sensitive nerves barely shielded by skin, and Madara's broken shriek is a thing of beauty. "Right, Madara?"

"You're an asshole," Madara chokes out. Hashirama tsks and scrapes the tips of his nails against swollen walls in reprimand. 

"That's not very nice of you, Madara." He squeezes, deliberate, and Madara's wail comes out through bitten lips. It's a delicious kind of paradox, the kind of pleasure that dangles off the edge of pain, so much so that it must hurt. Hashirama pushes him a little further and then abruptly pauses, leaving Madara hanging. "I thought you wanted me to fuck you. Don't you?"

The only response he gets is an attempted jerk of Madara's hips, seeking touch even though he knows it will ache. He gets none, of course, and Hashirama leans forwards to pull lightly on Madara's lower lip, hooking a finger in and tugging. "You can take it, right?" he murmurs, poisonous-sweet, and he knows they both see through the glaze-thin veneer of kindness but that Madara will say yes anyway. 

A jerky nod. A gurgle, though the word is muddled - Hashirama assumes it's an agreement anyway and smiles, tugging a little wider against the resistance of the muscles of Madara's jaw, just enough that it becomes uncomfortable before letting Madara close his mouth again. "Good."

He undoes the sash that holds up his pants, pulls them down and strokes himself once, humming in pleasure at the friction. Hashirama lets Madara have a moment, enough for him to inhale a ragged breath, and then thrusts in on what would have been the exhale, punching out an uneven shriek instead. He's so warm inside, snug and clutching to him almost desperately; Hashirama throws his head back on a sigh, relishing this for a moment. 

"Does it feel good, Madara?" he asks, pleasant, reaching down to brush a stray lock of hair aside so he can see both eyes. They're open, rolled back slightly, staring at the ceiling. 

"... 's a lot," Madara slurs out eventually, blinking to look at him, eyelashes fluttering over rose red, the black beads of his Sharingan spinning slowly counterclockwise; he must have activated it by accident. 

Well, that's flattering. Hashirama laughs and tugs on Madara's ankles, dragging them up so that his knees hook over his shoulders, heels bumping against his back. There's a small noise as Madara registers what he's doing and shifts, trying to move his legs. 

"Still, remember?" Hashirama chides him, running his hands down the length of both muscled thighs, then squeezing. "I'll fuck you, don't worry."

The glow of embarrassment dawns over Madara's skin, dusting rouge over his cheeks and down to his neck. "S'not wha' I - "

He cuts himself off with a whine as Hashirama grinds in, small rolls of his hips that have Madara twitching, muscles jumping under his palm. It probably is a lot, for someone who has never been fucked outside of a heat before. He finds that he likes it, watching the play of naked emotion over Madara's face, thick tresses of hair melting over the sheets and clinging to his skin like someone upended a bottle of ink. Hands clutching at the bed for some purchase, skin taut and whitened over his knuckles, the occasional spark flickering in and out over his pastel-rose flushed body. 

Mm. It is rather lovely. 

Madara moans softly when Hashirama draws out and then slides back in, letting Madara feel every inch of it. He keeps up the slow, patient rhythm, dragging it out, waiting. Waiting for the other to be the first one to snap, to demand more - probably in a petulant tone at first, commanding even while he's at his most vulnerable, though Hashirama will amend that. In the meantime, he fucks Madara at his own leisure, takes his sweet time to relish in the feeling. 

"You're so slow," Madara complains, eventually, one spinning red eye latching onto him and narrowing in a weak glare. "Can't - can't you - "

"Hm?" Hashirama says, playing dumb. He presses a biting kiss to the juncture of Madara's shoulder and neck, then moves to tease at the hollow of his throat. He can feel the hitch of Madara's breath beneath his skin, the way his pulse rattles up for a brief moment at the instinctual thought of danger before slowing back down. "You're going to have to be clearer."

He gets a crimson glare for that. Hashirama smiles up at Madara, scraping his teeth lightly over one collarbone. "Now what's that for?"

"You know," Madara grits out, red-pink all over, sparks hissing out between his teeth. One tumbles down and bumps Hashirama's chin. It barely even stings; it's a harmless show, though admittedly the warm glow is rather pretty. "You - you know - know what I want."

"Do I?" Hashirama teases. "I'm not a Yamanaka, Madara. I can't read your mind." He emphasizes his point with a fluid roll of his hips, deliberately sighing in pleasure to see the flustered reaction. "Does this feel good?"

"Shut up," is the shaky response. 

"Mean," Hashirama pouts. "What do you want, Madara? Ask for it nicely. I know you can do it."

He keeps his voice lilting, playful enough that there's no possible way to miss the threads of condescension beneath. Predictably, Madara goes scarlet. 

"More," he hisses out through clenched teeth, through bitten candy-red lips. 

"More what?"

"Need - need more," Madara says, voice slipping into a whine. "Hashirama - "

"Nicely," Hashirama reminds him. 

"'Nicely'," Madara mocks under his breath, and for that Hashirama slows to a stop, pressing in as deep as he can go and then not moving. Without the leverage of his legs, there's no hope of dislodging him, though Madara gives a valiant attempt anyway. 

"Continue like this and I will tie you up and leave you dry," Hashirama murmurs, low, tangling one hand into Madara's and letting vines curl around the calloused fingers; not pulling tight yet, for the moment, but simply resting there as a threat. He's not imagining the way those eyes spin faster, nor the way sparks crackle over Madara's cheeks and the hitch of breath it receives. "Be good, Madara. Ask for what you want. You know I'll give it to you."

A shaky exhale. For a moment it looks like Madara won't obey, as sparks flare and dance between his teeth, between his fingers, the light from them colouring his skin with an overtone of rose gold. Then he opens his mouth and, in the smallest of voices, whispers, "Fuck me harder. Please."

Hashirama's heart jackrabbits straight up into his throat.

Everything is rose-gold heat and crimson. Madara stares up at him like he's a god, like he's the only one who can promise deliverance, and Hashirama soaks it in. It's no salvation when he ravages Madara's lips in a kiss that is spit and teeth and tongue, savouring in the taste of conquest, but by the way his spouse cries out when Hashirama draws back and snaps his hips forwards (anchoring his knees into the bed so they don't slam into the wall) you would think he had been blessed.

"Perfect," Hashirama breathes, into the space between their lips, feels the sting of sparks on his tongue and swallows them with a smile. "Isn't it much better when you use your words, Madara?"

He gets a throaty shriek in response as Hashirama hammers into him, not sparing any room for reprieve. Still, it was a rhetorical question, so Hashirama doesn't reprimand him for the non-answer and focuses on fucking Madara hard enough that he'll feel it deep in his muscles and bones the next morning. He finds Madara's thighs and uses them as handles, digging his hands in with no care for how the skin reddens and then starts to colour, both thrusting forwards and dragging his wife backwards until Madara screams, the sound echoing off of the walls.

In his hands, the muscles of his thighs jump. The lines of his abdomen flex, instinctively pulling away; his heels dig into Hashirama's back. Madara clings to the sheets like he's trying to drag himself to the other side and that just won't do.

"What's wrong?" Hashirama asks, pointed under the veneer of kindness, wrapping his cruelty in a pleasant smile. "Is it too much?"

An aborted sound, a noise which amounts to mostly nothing. "Words, Madara," Hashirama tells him and gets something better, an attempt at the very least. "Yes?"

A frantic nod. The black beads in Madara's eyes have started shifting, melting and distorting around themselves. Hashirama lets him have a little give in order to pull him down, harsher than all the previous times, eliciting a strangled wail.

"You did ask for it," Hashirama reminds him. "So you can handle it, right, Madara?" He thumbs over the coiled muscle beneath scarred, flushed skin, smiles with all teeth and no kindness when he gets a reluctant jerk of the head which resembles a yes. "Good. Now lie back and take it."

He's beginning to approach his own climax, but he'll force Madara into the same first. Hashirama bears down, caging Madara beneath the weight of his own legs, and sinks his teeth straight into the skin around the scent gland in his pectoral. Swirling carmine eyes meet his, dewy with what looks like unshed tears - now that's a thought, isn't it? Saccharine-sweet bursts over his tongue, rich and smoky and intoxicating. 

"Are you going to come?" Hashirama asks when he feels Madara clenching sporadically, spasming about his cock. Poor thing tries and fails to speak, robbed of his usual wit and candor. It's arousing. It's appealing, it's satisfying; perhaps there's just something about stripping him down to bare skin and emotion, bereft of all defense. Perhaps Hashirama just likes seeing him fucked stupid, nothing more complicated to it. "I won't stop you, you know. Go ahead." To seal the deal, he reaches down, stroking his fingers over the sensitive glans there. Just that touch is enough to have Madara convulsing beneath him, the strength condensed in his body utterly useless. 

"Hurts," Madara chokes out, wet and strained, the first coherent thing he's said in a good while. 

Hashirama kisses him, scrapes his teeth over his lower lip to draw blood and licks it off after. "Oh, I know."

He doesn't relent, resting his thumb against the side of Madara's neck in order to feel the pulse ratchet up, splaying his palm over the front of Madara's throat. No pressure, just present, just there to hold. 

Madara climaxing takes him entirely by surprise. Bright red eyes fly open, the three tomoe dripping into a whorl of beads, black lines etching themselves into the crimson. His shriek is strangled, more air than sound as he practically sucks Hashirama in and it's wet, hot, so tight that the sensation overwhelms him and too soon he finds himself tipping over as well, teeth digging into the swell of a pectoral as he ruts desperately forwards into the lush warmth, vision whiting out for a blissful moment that seems to last forever.

When he comes to, he feels pleasantly drowsy. Hashirama licks briefly over the mark his teeth left on Madara's chest before pulling away, rearranging Madara's limbs to wrap around his torso so that they could rest comfortably on their sides. His spouse looks to be near-asleep, only the occasional flicker of black beneath mostly closed eyelids topped with long dark lashes being a sign that he isn't yet unconscious.

He really is pretty. Hashirama runs his hands through Madara's thick hair, untangling a few of the knots, resisting the urge to pull. 

"Did you like it?"

Madara's murmured response is mostly unintelligible. Hashirama laughs to himself and brushes a finger over the purpling fingerprints on Madara's thighs, the pale blue splotches on his ankles. 

"Go to sleep," he says, starting to drift off himself. "I'll be here when you wake up."