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cinnamonest · 3 months

Note

Lena thank you for the spanking bit, has to be one of fav kinks ever because it just... fits every single yan regardless of who they are??? Kinda like a "universal" thing, just top notch. Do you think we could ever get headcanons for it?

Thank you for this anon, you're absolutely correct it is a top-tier kink

Also I've been wanting to write more about god-era Morax so thank you for the opportunity to do so, I rambled way more about him than the others here sorry lol

As for those who fit the kink best imo I’m going with Childe, Diluc, Ayato and Morax

//major spanking kink material (obviously) but gets kinda bad in severity/intensity, also mentions of hair-pulling, biting, throat fucking, anal, two cocks for Morax again (as always 👌)

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Childe is probably the best one here to end up at the mercy of here for once, for the sake of your poor ass at least.

Not that it isn't still awful and painful — he’s a sadist at heart and just adores making you squeal and cry. What at least makes it comparatively at least bearable is that he tends to use his hand — although that does make it more personable, more humiliating.

He tells you, though, exactly what he intends to do. You're being such a little brat today… come over here…

He doesn't even seem angry, but rather excited. He's all smiley and cooing in a way that feels so utterly humiliating and degrading.

Oh, but please do run. Please, please make it so much more fun for him, run away and try to hide. There's virtually nothing in the world that turns him on as much as either a game of chasing you or hunting you down wherever you're hiding. The fact that you're that scared of getting your ass beaten is kind of cute, actually. Are you that sensitive to pain, or is it more protecting your pride that gives you so much resistance? Not that he's complaining or anything.

He'll even give you a very wide opportunity to run, make sure you have plenty of avenues to do so. His heart rate begins to go up seeing the look of realization in your eyes when you spot an opening to run off, and he'll give you a minute or two of a head start. It doesn't take him long to find you nonetheless, hauling you up over his shoulders and carrying you back to your room with obvious excitement, like a predator dragging squealing, still-living prey back to its den for its inevitable fate.

That being said, doing that will make it worse for you — at that point you probably do deserve a belt at least, you know? Regardless of the instrument of choice though, he keeps you bent over his knee — he can feel your squirming more that way, and he can grind his hard-on into your stomach as you thrash around and squeal. Each strike still lands on bare skin, but rather than having your lower half naked, he likes to sometimes move the hold on your back and grasp at the waistband of your panties instead, jerking them up to wedge between your cheeks, effectively holding you in place and baring your skin at the same time.

He's so mean about it, taunts you that same voice you hate so much—

Aw, are you actually crying? Maybe I'll stop if you beg for something else…

There's no set number or standard of how much you'll be punished for any particular offense, which can be more torturous than anything. At least if you were given a number, you'd know how much more you had to endure. Instead, you just lurch and squeal each time his hand or the leather comes down... you kick your legs and thrash about, to no avail. In fact, you're pretty sure it just makes him hornier, you feel his cock twitch and his breathing grow more ragged the louder you cry out, and his hand on your back forces you down harder.

He’s actually totally shameless about getting off to it, too, so you can’t use that against him.

God, you're so cute when you cry like that... squeal louder for me...

The only real upside is that it's usually abruptly cut off at some point once he's too aroused by it to continue, and needs to just bury himself into your holes. You get slid off his lap onto the couch or bed, barely getting any time to recover — still sniffling and whimpering— before being contorted to whatever position he wants and rammed into without warning… thus for once, him being perpetually horny and having virtually no self-control actually becomes a positive. It still doesn't help, though, that the sex makes his hips smack against your sore ass with each thrust, but crying out about that only makes him go harder.

You know it could be much much worse — he makes sure to remind you that he could easily keep going until you completely break down, but he's so nice and you should be grateful for that — but you're still sore, and it leaves a pinkish-reddish tint under your natural flesh tone — something he likes to point out to you later, groping at your ass and laughing when you jolt at the sting. Your nose wrinkled with your expression of disgust as you jerk your head away from him, and you mutter under your breath.

Bastard...

And then, you squeal and lurch forward as one more harsh smack lands on your backside. You try to ignore the chuckling that follows as your eyes well up with embarrassed tears, and you bury your face beneath the covers of the bed.

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Diluc’s punishments are awful in terms of pain, but thankfully they're over fairly quickly because it's largely an act of momentary fury and irritation, and once he gets that anger out of his system, the punishment will be over, too.

He's still very intimidating about it, and it doesn't help that it's always a sort of spontaneous thing he decides on in the heat of the moment — thus you see the exact moment you know you've crossed a line, but also know (or at least, quickly learn) that there's nothing you can say or do at that point that will get you out of being punished. His eyes narrow and his voice lowers and he tells you to get over here in a voice that makes you feel like your heart just stopped, and your stomach feels as if it twists into a knot when you see the confirmation of your dread when he takes his belt off.

Running is not advisable — it's not like you'll succeed, and you'll just make him more mad. He's rough with how he handles you, dragging you by your clothes and hair over to bed, counter, or the back of a couch, forcing your head down.

How bad any one particular spanking is varies a lot depending on how mad you've succeeded in making him. He's not merciful at all, so he hits with force based on the level of his frustration. Thus, your attitude is important — you can technically commit a lesser offense, but if you keep backtalking and being bratty and fighting it, you'll likely get a worse punishment than you would for a worse offense for which you were apologetic and submitted to punishment easily.

What does change with the severity of your offense is that if what you didn't isn't so bad, you can keep your clothes on, but for particularly egregious transgressions, even in spite of the heat of the moment, unfortunately, he doesn't forget to pull your clothes up or down and off to make sure you're bared first.

He virtually always uses a belt, much to your dismay, and prefers to bend you over various surfaces since he can strike harder that way. It’s painful, you always end up in tears quickly, begging and pleading and spilling apologies for whatever you did, but he never has any mercy on you.

Much like you can’t get out of it to begin with, there’s also nothing you can do that will make it end any sooner than he feels like it. Over and over, grumbling with each strike about how you’re such a brat, how you can’t just behave, how it’s your own fault, until your flesh is reddened and burning badly enough that even when it’s over, all you can do is slump forward and cry.

If he went really hard on you, he might feel a little bad afterwards, getting you a wet cloth to soothe the burn… but he’ll still remind you that you wouldn’t be lying there all shivering and sobbing if you just learned to behave yourself properly.

For him, it’s more of an actual punishment first and foremost and not really an intentionally erotic thing, at first he’s too mad to think much about the eroticism of it… but seeing you lying there sniffling with your butt so heavily marked and welting, admittedly he does quickly get hard… and he’ll get incredibly flustered and embarrassed if you accuse him of getting off to it.

But be careful — push him too much on that matter, and such antagonism might be grounds for a round two on your already-stinging ass.

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Ayato’s punishments are particularly unpleasant, but the thing is that if you're in that situation, you deliberately chose it. Because he's gracious enough that you get a lot of warnings before reaching that point.

If you're being bratty, temperamental, rude, or whatever other behavior he doesn't like, you get a certain look first. The standard half-lidded eyes, unpleased expression, the universal ‘stop that right now’ glare. Maybe a passive aggressive comment if he can slide one into conversation.

If that fails — in other words, if you keep being a brat regardless, deliberately ignoring his warnings — you then get a verbal warning. He'll address you directly if it's just the two of you, but gods forbid you’re digging your own grave by misbehaving in front of others, he waits for a moment where everyone else's attention is on something else before pulling you close in a faux gesture of affection (with a grip harsh enough to ensure you get the message but not enough to alert anyone else in the room to his quiet fury), lowering his voice, whispering directly into your ear.

We’re going to have a talk about your behavior when this is over. Do you understand?

You know by now what a "talk" actually means, and hearing the words makes you stiffen and swallow. Granted, by the time it reaches the point that you've been that bad, you won't escape without at least a few swats, but if you persist, you'll just make it much worse. All you can do is nod your head and wait in dreadful anticipation.

As soon as the company you had leaves, you try to slowly back away, looking for an opening to run, but he has you grabbed by your clothes or hair and is dragging you off before you can even try. The total silence on his end as he drags you over to your room only serves to amplify your dread, and thereby your little whimpering protests.

The primary thing that will make it that much worse is what he uses to punish you, because from the day he brought you home, he anticipated a need for discipline at some point, and thus had a whipping cane custom-made just for you. One of those thin wooden canes designed for no other purpose than infliction of pain and punishment, which he leaves sitting out in your bedroom at all times, making sure it's always within sight as a subtle threat, a reminder of his power over you and that your behaviors have consequences.

He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t get heated, yet somehow that makes it so much worse. He’s perfectly calm as he holds you down on his lap, a hand wrapped into and grasping your clothes on your back to ensure you’re not going anywhere with each sharp pain on your bare skin. He’s very disciplinarian about it, ensuring to emphasize the reason and intention of the punishment itself—

Remember that you had every option of avoiding this. This is only the consequence you deserve. Do you realize that?

You nod and whimper and try to apologize, but it doesn’t make each swat any lighter. He’s rather harsh about the severity too, the degree of pain, duration, number of swats and outright humiliation often feel disproportionate to what is in your opinion a mild offense, although you know better than to voice that thought.

You beg, sure, you cry and whimper and say you'll take any other punishment, but it goes in one ear and out the other, your words have no effect, and while his voice has that characteristic gentleness to it, he's still cold and firm in his reply, if he even gives you one.

You're not getting out of this. Hold still.

He does take care of you afterwards, so lovingly and gently it makes you angry. He reminds you again that it wouldn't have to happen if you behaved, that you have no one but yourself to blame, all while kissing your crying face, holding you close and gently massaging the newly formed welts.

He also likes to make you gauge how many lashes you deserve beforehand, often making the total number a certain multiple of how many times you mouthed off or did something against your rules. And of course, whenever there's a fixed number, he makes you count.

Listening to your voice grow more and more shaky and begin to crack, your speech becoming slurred with sobs and oh, how precious is the sudden panic in your voice when you realize you've lost count. The way you tense and start begging and whimpering when he replies—

I suppose we'll have to start over...

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Morax’s punishments are always by far the worst.

That's largely because there's a maddening element of psychological torment involved. It's slow, drawn out, the dread and anticipation are almost worse than the punishment itself. He actually employs a variety of corporeal punishments, each of which make your stomach churn just to think about, but unfortunately, putting you over his knee and beating your ass until there's a deep red hue to your skin is a personal favorite of his.

What makes his style of discipline so unbearable is that you’ll be punished for literally anything. There is no possible offense, no rule to be broken, that won’t earn corporeal punishment of some kind, most usually on your poor ass. You get a very clear set of rules, rules you’re expected to know and obey from day one. Countless little rules, so many of them meticulous and pointless. Things you must do, things you must not do, and rigid standards for your attitudes and behaviors.

Each and every violation is its own offense — not to mention, things like lying when asked about what you did, objecting to punishments, even talking back or trying to defend yourself when accused count as individual offenses too. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’ve broken a rule until he tells you you’re going to be punished for it, and any protest or whining counts as another offense.

Really, you’re lucky if you can go a few days in a row fully able to sit without any stinging pain, and it’s not uncommon for you to earn back-to-back punishments one day after another. You know for a fact that your record of days in a row without ending up laying in bed, whimpering and crying and clutching your backside in pain is a single digit number.

Sometimes, if it’s severe enough, you’ll get put over his knee right then and there, but he’ll also tally up the small offenses and, at the end of the day, punish you cumulatively for every small offense you’ve made, because he can’t allow even the slightest offense to go unpunished.

It’s not limited to things you do in his presence either, because he has ways of finding out everything you do.

Every day that you can't accompany him, he has an established routine for when he returns. Firstly, of course, you're supposed to greet him when he comes in (any attempts to be petulant by giving him silent treatment or hiding away will result in further punishments), but then, as he sits you down, holds you close, he asks you the same question.

Have you done anything you should not have today?

It's a torturous question.

On one hand, you could have very well been very well-behaved, in which case you can answer honestly with at least some confidence (although even then, part of you hesitates thinking maybe you committed some offense unintentionally).

But when you haven't been well-behaved and you know it — that's what's torturous.

It's a gamble. He asks every single day, so him asking itself is not a dead giveaway that he knows what you did. If he doesn't know — well, you might be able to lie and get away with it. Inversely, how unfortunate would it be if you told him, and it turned out he didn't know, and then you had to suffer when you could have gotten away with it?

On the flip side, if he does know — well, you'll soon be squealing like a stuck pig regardless, but things are much, much worse if you try to lie. You would know — you've taken that gamble a few times now and lost.

He seems to have ways of finding out everything — you only lied when you were absolutely confident, thinking there was no way anyone saw the thing you did, only for your stomach to lurch when you feel the soft stroking against your thigh stop, and are met with a low voice—

…Is that so?

And the tone, the way he says it, you immediately know you've messed up.

Of course, you could hypothetically keep denying it, but entrenching yourself further in a lie is, by that point, the worst decision you could make — you would know, you tried that once and you couldn't sit down normally for over a week. The best thing to do now is to confess… you won’t get any mercy or a lighter punishment, but you’ll avoid the additional punishment you’d get for doing anything else.

But even then, he can’t even give you the decency of forcing your body to bend and getting it over with. It has to be drawn out, torturing you to the greatest degree possible — sometimes, he does this by delaying it, telling you he has something else to do first, leaving you to sit around and wait in anticipation for an hour or more. If an offense is bad enough, one session might not even be enough, and you're told that you'll get another one tomorrow, adding to your dread.

But most of the time, the torment comes from forcing your own participation. He keeps you firmly in his lap, reaching down to grope at the flesh where your butt meets your thighs.

What do you think you deserve to have happen to you?

Another test, a question for which you’ll only receive something worse in addition to whatever will happen already if answered incorrectly. There’s only one right answer—

…Y-you should... punish me...

On the bright side, he’s genuinely pleased once you start learning well enough to know what the right answer is.

You’re stood up, guided over to the drawers, hands firmly on your shoulders to ensure you don’t get any ideas about running. You hate that one drawer, it makes your stomach churn just to look at. He has a damn collection for you— leather straps, whipping canes, paddles with holes in them just to hurt that much more. He tells you to pick one.

That, too, is a test— you know which ones hurt more. You're supposed to gauge what you deserve based on the severity of your offense, and he'll be that much more displeased if you go too lightly on yourself, and will consequently be more forceful, which you do not want. Eventually, you manage to make your choice, biting your lip, pointing with a shaky hand, tensing as his hand runs motions that would be soothing in any other context up and down your thigh, pausing to grasp at the fleshy part of your backside.

Then you're led back— sometimes to face the wall or bend over a counter, but most often he prefers to keep you over his lap. Not that you'll be forced down either— not unless you make that necessary, which of course, you do not want. Unless you want it to be that much worse, you follow the commands— pull your robes up, the waistband of any underwear down, bare your skin (always, no matter how mild the offense), lay down on your stomach, put your hands behind your back so he can grasp your wrists.

And even then, even then you have to be tormented further.

Now, what did you do to deserve this?

You recall to the best of your ability, hoping you didn't forget anything, lest you be accused of trying to be deceitful in hopes of escaping consequences, which will add another tally to the list.

It’s painful. It always is. You've reached a point where your resolve to not cry and squeal is defeated pretty early. You used to try your best not to for the sake of your pride, but you know by now that it will go on long enough that your tears and crying out are inevitable.

He manages to somehow be so stoic and calm and yet somehow so, so cruel about it.

Does it hurt?

Your shoulders quiver with little sobs, you go tense as he gropes and kneads at the raw flesh.

Y-yes, it hurts, it hurts so bad, please no more, please—

You cut off with a high-pitched cry as the stinging pain strikes again. And again. And again. It's always so much, so unfair compared to the weight of whatever you did. That slight pinkish undertone isn't quite satisfying enough either, he never stops until there's a deep, deep red tone to your flesh.

If you've been especially bad, you may have to count… but he actually tends to prefer not giving you a set number. You're more fearful that way, uncertain of how much more you have to endure.

You're certain he gets off on the pain for one thing, the sound of your cries and the way you jolt and squirm, but the humiliation is worse than the pain itself, for you. He knows that, revels in it. He's told you before—

You're such a prideful little thing… that will certainly need to be fixed.

Repetitive subjection to something so inherently humiliating and vulnerable, and being made to break down, any semblance of toughness and dignity being torn away at his hands, is a way of slowly breaking down your pride. You know that, it makes you so angry, but you can't help but let that vulnerability be exposed every time, to act in such a way that ensures he knows how badly it humiliates you.

Your go limp with exhaustion when it finally stops.

What have you learned?

You can barely speak, voice hoarse from the strain of your cries and speech muffled by sniffles and sobs.

I'm sorry… I won't do it again…

And then, he has the audacity to be so, so sweet to you. Looking down at your tear-streaked face, smiling— no, smirking, a belittling, amused expression— leaning down to kiss your forehead.

Poor thing.

Kneading at the sore flesh in spite of how the touch makes you wince. As if it isn't his fault, as if he had any mercy on you the whole time you were begging for it to stop.

It only makes you angrier. More than once now, you've earned a second round for how you reacted to his undeserved kindness. So ungrateful.

It's never a solitary punishment either, always coupled with something else, always something equally humiliating and discomforting, if not painful. You know he gets off to it, because the second punishment is almost always a direct sex act of some kind.

You'll take his cocks down your throat, grabbing your skull and fucking your face without any restraint, forcing you to swallow every last drop of seed, even forcing your head down to lick up whatever you spill off the floor. Your saliva just provides the lube to force you to bed and fuck you until you can't even stand, and all the while his hips bounce off your poor ass, each movement stinging against the sensitive flesh. He'll bite your flesh, unnaturally sharp teeth even piercing you skin, leaving you covered in marks. If he's feeling really, really mean, you don't even get the semblance of pleasure of it ramming into your poor sore, raw pussy— you'll take both cocks into your tight little ass instead, a stretch that makes you squeal and thrash and cry. Your legs kick and you lurch forward, desperate to pull yourself off, but you're jerked back with a growl as he slams into you, completely bottoming out. Eventually, you give in as the stretching pain ebbs away and trying to take whatever pleasure you can from the faint stimulation to spots of pleasure through the walls of flesh. But the act is utterly humiliating nonetheless, your hole left twitching and gaping for hours as cum leaks out and onto your skin. You can't even sit for days, both your poor asshole and backside sore and tender.

Your embarrassment and resentment builds. You loathe him for it, feel so humiliated and angry at yourself and how deeply you dread the punishments that it makes you nauseous.

And thus, in one particular incident, fed up and filled with spite, you made the greatest mistake of your entire time trapped with him— you decided to run, seeing that for once you had an opening to do so.

A stupid choice, really. You don't get far. Not even a full ten steps.

You know immediately that you have severely, sincerely fucked up. The sheer harshness with which you're grabbed, the back of your clothes grasped and twisted with unprecedented force, the draconic growl to his voice that makes your blood run cold.

Oh, dearest, you have no idea how badly you've just stepped out of line.

His other hand latches onto your throat.

You're going to be sleeping on your stomach for quite some time, won't you?

The statement alone makes tears well in your eyes, any bitter pride quickly crushed. You shake your head profusely, start begging for forgiveness, but you know in your heart that it's far too late for that… it still doesn't stop you from whimpering and apologizing as you're dragged back down the hall, no doubt to one of the worst punishments you've endured yet.

#man this was unholy levels of degen even by my content's standards #from what little i know i feel like the two new guys would also fit this so maybe ill add them later

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n3on-graveston3s-calling · 11 months

Text

Burn For You

[ A Madara Uchiha / Fem! Tobirama Senju fanfiction ]

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 5,854

Characters: Uchiha Madara, Senju Tobirama

Summary:

“If you keep looking at me like that, I might just think you actually fancy me, Uchiha,” Tobirama had taunted, a smirk curling wine colored lips as she glanced over. However, unlike their normal banter, he hadn’t responded. “... That was a joke. You’re supposed to laugh now. Ha-ha.” She mumbled, lips turning down into a pout as she turned her gaze back to the papers. “Senju.” His voice was soft, low- nearly resembling a growl as he stepped closer. Instinctually, her legs spread, the cloth of her kimono parting with the movement, feet barely meeting the ground. Prepared to run, to bolt, Madara noticed. Or perhaps to fight, with how her hands gripped the edge of the table. “You’re a nuisance, you realize that, yes?”

Author's Notes:

This was inspired by Burn For You by Abigail Barlow! It suits Tobirama and Madara really well, imo. Also, this is just fourteen pages of smut. I hope you all enjoy this! This is an old repost, you've probably seen it before; I've had it on my ao3 for about two years. Figured I should share it here, too. <3

It all started with a confession.

“I burn for you.”

The admission had taken her off guard. She’d agreed to stay behind after a meeting, going over the development plans for the Nara clan to settle in the North Eastern part of the village outside of the gates so that their deer would have plenty of space to roam and not fear the wrath of hunters. Madara had additional ideas that needed to be looked at by a different pair of eyes- constructive criticism before presenting it officially to the council. The night had grown long, the candles burned so long that they were more melted wax than actual candles. She’d ended up sitting atop the table, her legs crossed as she read over Madara’s ideas, comparing them with her brother’s. Truth be told, Hashirama seemed to be distracted- his plans were barely finished, whereas Madara’s were completely finalized. It was nice to see work actually getting done.

“Senju.” His voice was soft, low- nearly resembling a growl as he stepped closer. Instinctually, her legs spread, the cloth of her kimono parting with the movement, feet barely meeting the ground. Prepared to run, to bolt, Madara noticed. Or perhaps to fight, with how her hands gripped the edge of the table. “You’re a nuisance, you realize that, yes?”

“A nuisance?!” She exclaimed, eyes widening in surprise. “You've some nerve, calling me- what are you doing?” All heat vanished as he settled between her spread thighs, his hands braced upon the wood of the table on either side of her hips. “Madara, are you ill? Is something the matter?” A hand reached up to touch her wrist to his forehead to see if he’d come down with a fever, only for his hand to capture it-

And press a searing kiss to her wrist.

“I burn for you,” he murmured against the pale skin, lips brushing so gently, delicately- as if afraid that the mere movement would cause her pain. “I burn for you, day in and day out.”

“Madara-” her voice was barely above a whisper, chest rising and falling quickly as her heart began to race. When he looked up at her, her breath halted all together: three black tomoe stood out against ruby irises, yet she could not look away. Heat gathered in her cheeks- and lower, much lower, to her own embarrassment. “This is- inappropriate.” Even so, she did not pull her hand away.

She leaned closer.

That is, until the sound of footsteps approaching had Madara backing away, Tobirama cradling her wrist delicately as the door opened, revealing Mito. “Pardon the intrusion,” she murmured, giving a small bow. “My husband forgot his files, and instead of coming back himself, he sent me.” A sharp roll of the eyes showed her annoyance, even if her smile was soft.

“You could have told him to fuck off,” Tobirama stated simply, shoulders rising in a shrug.

Mito let out a bark of laughter at her sister-in-law. “I think that would have given him a heart attack!” Shaking her head, she flashed the pair a smile before turning on her heel. “Don’t work too late, you two.”

“We won’t,” Madara called after her, though his gaze was trained on Tobirama. The only way she could describe what she saw in his gaze was hunger. Pure hunger.

A fire had been started- and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to douse the flames, or fan them.

“We should… Head home for the night, yes?” Tobirama asked, scooting off of the top of the table to settle her feet on the floor once more, gathering her scrolls. She could sense Madara lingering behind her, yet he did not touch. His gaze was akin to their famed fireball jutsu, scorching the back of her neck. “Do get some rest, Madara.”

“You as well,” Madara murmured, though he made no move to follow her out of the door. Her footsteps were calm at first, until she was outside of the Hokage’s office. Only then did she sprint, pressing chakra into her legs to make her move faster, to get back to the Senju compound quicker. Alone, she needed to be alone to process what just occurred.

That had been a fortnight ago. Ever since, she’d been busy overseeing the building of the Nara compound while Madara saw to his own clan, making sure they were comfortable as the Uchiha compound began to expand. And every night since, her thoughts had been consumed with the feeling of his lips against her skin, his gaze boring into her own, the feeling of his hips settled between her thighs-

A sharp shake of the head causes wild snowy locks to sway with the movement. Not now, not while she’s reading reports. Even so, her foot tapped on the floor, a movement that spoke volumes of her unease, her need to get up, to demand to know why he’d done it. His office was across from her own. All she’d need to do is rise from her desk, walk across the hall, and demand an answer.

Burn for you.

The words held weight, especially for an Uchiha- known for their innate ability to control fire. To burn for someone is to be completely overwhelmed by the flames of passion, of lust. To think only of them.

Her thighs pressed together beneath her desk.

“Fuck,” she groaned, leaning back in her chair, head flopping back as her eyes closed. This was annoying, she decided. A nuisance. Yet, the Uchiha had kept her thoughts entertained. The night prior had been spent with her face pressed to her pillow, her hand between her thighs, working herself over and wishing it had been something much thicker.

The current bane of her existence knocked on the door before opening it, his gaze settled upon the paper he held. “Did you know that Hashirama put in for an expansion of the Senju compound?” He asked, annoyance clear in his voice as Tobirama forced herself to focus.

“I had no idea,” she replied dryly, her brow furrowing. “We don’t need more space. We’ve got plenty already.” Her gaze drifted, studying Madara for a moment. He wore no armor- they never did when in office. The summer yukata did little to hide what lay beneath.

Perhaps that was why her underlings were so distracted.

“Hm,” a sigh escaped his lips as he set the paper down onto her desk, only to pause for a moment. “Can we speak?”

“We’re speaking now.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be a bit clearer.”

“About what I said.” Madara caved, shaking his head at the Senju. “It was uncalled for, and I was out of pocket-”

“Tonight,” Tobirama cut in, raising a hand, causing Madara to pause. “Meet me in my quarters tonight, and we will talk about what you said. Not now- I’m busy.”

“Busy.” He repeated, gaze trailing over the stack of papers to be signed. “Right. Tonight, then.”

“Tonight,” Tobirama agreed, her gaze never lifting from her paper. “You’re dismissed.”

“Dismissed?! I-”

“Out of my office, Uchiha.” She snapped, feeling a touch smug as Madara turned on his heel and marched out, all but slamming the door on his way out. A snort escaped her as she leaned back. Tonight, they would speak. Tonight, the truth would come out- one way or another.

The day had passed quickly, leaving her spinning in the aftermath. Tobirama drug a hand through her hair, down from it’s normal high ponytail, the wild, curling tresses free for once. Her footsteps carried her across the room in a quick pace, her heart a staccato beat within her chest. Any moment now, she’d be able to feel the familiar flicker of Madara’s chakra entering the compound. To the East, Mito sat with Hashirama- no doubt the pair beginning to bed down for the night.

There, at the southern edge- the flicker of warmth, of red-tinged chakra that felt like standing too close to a bonfire. Her breath skipped a beat as she turned, studying her reflection in the mirror across from her bed. The sleeping yukata did little to give modesty. In a last moment effort to try to compose herself, she snags a robe and quickly ties it around her waist.

The sound of footsteps had her turning, studying the door the moment before it opened, revealing Madara. “Right on time,” she commented idly as she reached back, pulling her hair out from beneath the robe, inadvertently causing the fabric of both robe and sleeping yukata to rise.

“I hope it’s not too late?” Madara asks, head tilting, gaze drifting to the pale skin that was revealed. The barest hint of red on those thighs- did the tattoos stretch that far down? “I’m afraid I was caught up in clan business.”

“Not too late at all,” Tobirama replies with a shake of her head. “Please, come in- close the door, too?” She adds as an afterthought, moving to where she’d set up sakazuki. Her room was nice- it got the morning sun, and the afternoon shade, causing it to be cooler compared to the other sections of the compound’s main house.

Madara walked over to the low table, settling down into an improper sitting position, crossing his legs. Tobirama settles across from him, easing herself into a polite seiza, though the yukata and robe part to reveal how her thighs press together. Such pale skin… “I’m surprised you would even want to meet to discuss what was said,” he commented idly, head tilting as his gaze tracked her movements; sake was poured first for him, and then for herself. “I’d figured you’d want to ignore it.”

“Why ignore it,” she asked as she raised her sakazuki to her lips, careful not to spill a single drop, “when it’s the truth for myself as well?”

Madara nearly choked on the sake- and not from the taste. “Pardon?” He asked, blinking rapidly. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“How did you phrase it?” Tobirama’s head tilts, her gaze narrowing, ruby hues settling upon Madara’s face- flushed, eyes wide, caught off guard. “I burn for you.”

“You burn for me?”

“I burn.”

“You… Burn,” he murmured, gaze growing heavy- hungry. “For me.”

“I burn, day in and day out,” she nodded, sipping her sake once more. “I would be lying if I said I hadn’t envisioned you in my quarters.”

A moment of silence passed before Madara was reaching across the table, taking hold of the collar of her yukata to tug her over, their lips meeting in a kiss that was equally teeth and lips. Biting, hungry, her hands reached up to tangle in wild dark locks, tugging none-too-gently. A groan spilled free from Madara as he pulled back, her lip caught between his teeth in a gentle bite before he released her.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve pictured this moment,” his words were barely above a growl as Tobirama rose to her feet, the robe discarded, the collar of her yukata disheveled, baring a pale collarbone and shoulder. “How many times I’ve thought of you in my own quarters.”

“I think mine are more comfortable,” she teases as she settles atop his lap, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her nails gently scraping at the back of his neck. “After all, my bed is made to fit… Multiple.”

Multiple. Oh. Madara’s gaze grows distant as he envisions just what she insinuated for a moment, lips parting slightly. “Multiple.”

“Come now- you didn’t take me for a prude, did you?” She murmured, leaning in to kiss along his jaw, lips trailing up to his left ear. “After all, you just admitted that you’ve thought of me. Tell me, Madara- what have you thought of? What positions?” The shell of his ear is nipped before he reaches up, gripping her jaw to tug her head back.

“Do you truly want to know?” He asks, leaning back as if surveying her. His other hand reached up to brush her hair back from her face before his fingers began to drift, tracing the collar of her yukata slowly, gently nudging the fabric to cause it to fall back, baring more pale skin and red ink.

Such flimsy things, yukata.

“Senju Tobirama wants to hear how I’ve thought of her at night?” His fingers leave her jaw to brush knuckles gently against her cheek. “How I’ve thought of her on her knees beneath my desk, her lips around my cock? Or how I’ve pictured her laying on her back, pleasuring herself in front of me?” His lips quirked into a smirk as Tobirama whined softly at that, her eyes fluttering shut. “Or how I’ve spent so many nights picturing you laying beneath me, begging for my cock, begging for me to fuck you harder, faster?”

“Please,” she whispered, eyes opening into slits, her cheeks flushed. “My fingers could never be enough.”

Fingers. Her fingers? Oh- oh, a groan spilled free as he leaned in, stealing a kiss that had Tobirama’s head swimming. His hands smoothed down her back, pulling her closer, causing her to rise onto her knees. No words were exchanged as his hands slipped to grip her thighs, holding her up as he rose to his knees, then his feet.

Huh. Tobirama pulled back from the kiss to glance down at the floor for a moment. “... One day, take me against the wall.” She spoke quietly, as if to herself, though it got a chuckle out of Madara as he carried her to her bed.

It was large, he noted- larger than his own. “Anywhere you want,” he murmured as he settled her down, not bothering to part as his lips began to kiss and bite a scorching trail down her neck. “Your office, mine- my compound- wherever you want, just say the word.” A soft moan filled the air as his hand came up to settle atop her left breast, gently massaging through the fabric of the yukata. Her hands tangle in his hair as she keens, her eyes closed, head tilted back against the pillows. He pulled back long enough to make quick work of the tie that held the yukata together before parting the thin fabric, baring Tobirama to the chill of the room. She doesn’t cover herself.

No, her legs settle down against the silken sheets. Nothing beneath. Oh, she’d been prepared for this! The realization draws a chuckle from him as his hands smooth across her thighs, marveling at the way the red ink settles into her skin. Her chest- oh, how it encircles both breasts, ending in a circle in the center of chest. The bands around her biceps, encircling her shoulders, how they encircle her throat. That’s why she preferred the high mandarin collars. The ink stretches further down, encircling both thighs. His fingers trace their paths, drawing forth gentle shudders that dance across her skin.

“Beautiful,” Madara whispers, leaning down to press a kiss in the center of the circle that laid upon her chest. “Every inch.”

“Who knew you’d be a sap?” Tobirama teased, though the flush in her cheeks gave away how affected she was by his ministrations- and the slickness between her thighs.

She receives no verbal response; instead, he continues to kiss a trail lower, feeling her stomach tense beneath his lips. A smile curls them as he glances up, meeting her gaze the same moment his tongue lolls out, dragging a slow trail back up towards her chest. His lips enclose around her right nipple as his fingers begin to toy with the left, pinching gently the same time his teeth graze against the other.

“I always- oh- knew you had a thing for breasts,” Tobirama snickers before flinching at the swat he gave to her thigh. Huh. “What with how much you try to- watch your damned teeth-” another swat, though he pulls back from her breast, “-try to peek down my clothes.”

“What can I say?” Madara muses, a cheeky grin curling his lips as he leans in to steal a kiss, his hand soothing the area he’d swatted mere moments before. “I’m a simple man with simple likes.”

“Gross.”

“Fuck off.”

“Take your yukata off and I will,” Tobirama mutters, reaching out to drag her nails down the portion of his chest that was revealed. “I’ve always wondered if you’ve got the dick to back up how cocky you are.”

“You little shit,” he hissed, falling for her words as he made quick work of his yukata, leaving him in his undergarments- which hid nothing, Tobirama noted, her eyes widening in surprise. “Ha! See? I can actually back my shit- oh,” whatever he’d intended to say died on his tongue as Tobirama had reached out, palming at him through his underwear, her eyes wide in curiosity.

Wordlessly, she sat up, gaze intense as she leaned in to lick a slow line down the center of his abdominals- a mirror of what he’d done to her, he realized belatedly. “Lay down,” she murmured against the sensitive skin of his stomach. He obeyed, settling back against the large bed, hair spreading out beneath him like a dark halo. She went to crawl between his legs, only for Madara to grunt.

“No.”

A blink. “Why not?”

“Come here.”

“Wh- oh.” Realization struck, and her cheeks burned as she swallowed roughly. “Right,” carefully, as if afraid she’d somehow crush him, she crawled up and turned. It was an intimate position, one that she didn’t often find herself in with her previous partners, yet Madara didn’t complain. This way, it left them both open- vulnerable, but gave her the perfect angle to reach out and tug his underwear down far enough to free his cock. “... Are all the Uchiha built like this?” She asked, half joking as she gazed down at it.

She couldn’t lie- it wasn’t a bad dick. Not at all- no, it was veiny, but not outwardly awful to look at. Thick; the stretch would hurt, she had no doubt about that. But a part of her thrilled at the idea of the pain. A jolt danced through her, drawing forth a startled gasp at the feeling of his tongue licking a slow stripe up her slit. “No, we aren’t,” he finally answered as his hands raised, settling on her most intimate part and spreading her wide. “I’m just fuckin’ lucky.”

Her eyes rolled, but any retort she had died the moment his tongue pressed against her clit. Gaze closing, she enjoyed the feeling for a moment longer, hips grinding back against his mouth, moans spilling free. Damn him- he was talented. Perhaps the rumors she’d heard were true. Reaching out, she cupped his cock, giving a light stroke before leaning forward, tongue lolling out to give sweet kitten licks at the head, enjoying the way his thighs tensed at the feeling. Two could play at this game, she decided as she opened her mouth wider, taking the head in to suckle on.

Madara groaned against her, lips closed around her clit before he pulled back for a moment, letting his thumb circle her clit in quick, tight circles. “What, is it too big for you?” He teased, only to eat his words a moment later as wet heat encircled over half of his length-

And she swallowed around him. His head fell back against the pillows, a groan filling the room as she began to bob her head in earnest. His fingers didn’t pause, tormenting her clit. Neither would last like this, not with how pent up they were. And as tempting as it was to let her finish him off like this, or to have her finish against his mouth-

That could come another time.

“To-Tobirama, stop, stop,” he murmured, tapping her thigh gently to get her attention. One last slow lick is given before she lifts her head.

“What?” Was she not good? She hadn’t gotten any sort of complaints before, but there was certainly a first time for everything. Her answer was given the next moment as he rolled her off of him.

“As much as I’d love to continue this,” he mused, pushing himself up, his gaze drifting over her form, “I’d much rather have you coming around my fingers than my tongue. This time, at least.”

A shiver danced across her skin at the implication that there would be more than just this. That this wouldn’t be a simple one-night stand. A smile curled her lips as she adjusted herself, settling back against the pillows. Reaching out, she snagged his wrist and tugged him closer, pulling him in for a slow kiss, much more sensual than their initial- the heat still there, certainly, but no longer a fight of dominance. Her hand slipped beneath her pillows, retrieving the small glass vial of oil. “I’m sure you know what to do with this,” she murmured into the kiss, giving his bottom lip a nip.

A chuckle rumbled free from his chest as he plucked the vial from her grasp, settling back on his knees between her thighs. “I think I have an idea,” he agreed, uncorking the bottle with his teeth before letting the oil drizzle out over his fingers, coating two and letting a small stream drip onto her already-soaked cunt. With his clean hand, he replaced the cork before carefully setting the vial aside.

Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her left thigh while his right hand continued to work, thumb rubbing clockwise circles against her clit as a second finger eased in beside the first, stretching her out. She was relaxed, sure- but not enough, not to his standards. “Tobi,” he murmured, watching as her gaze fluttered open, brows draw inwards, lips parted to allow soft moans and whispers of “Yes,” and “right there,” to spill free. “Eyes on me,” the command had her tightening around his fingers, a pulse of arousal. He felt the shift when his Sharingan activated, the strain on the veins around his eyes and within as everything swam into a sharper view.

It might be needed again later.

His clean hand settled atop her thigh, massaging it as he eased a finger in, drawing a pleased gasp from Tobirama’s lips. Her eyes fluttered shut, cheeks a rosy hue as he crooked his finger, slowly drawing it back out before pushing back in- a slow pace. She was soaked- realistically, he didn’t believe she needed much prep, but he’d dreamed of this moment for too long to even consider speeding through this.

He wanted to remember this.

“The great Tobirama Senju, getting fucked by none of than Uchiha Madara- her sworn enemy,” he taunted, crooking his fingers up, pressing against the most sensitive part of her. A whine- loud, long- escaped, her thighs tensing on either side of him as his hand sped up suddenly. Wet, so very wet. “How lewd,” he crooned, giving her thigh a nip, enjoying the way the muscle jumped beneath his touch. “So fucking wet for me already- listen, Tobirama.”

“Sh-shut up,” Tobirama gasped, her hands gripping at her chest. Good, so good- she was drawing close. “Stop- ‘Dara, stop, too close,” she warned, but his fingers didn’t slow down. “Madara- oh, Madara, there, there, don’t-” her words cut off as her orgasm swept over her. Her head fell back against the pillows, snowy tresses spread about the dark sheets like a halo as she pulsed around his fingers, coating them and his hand.

A pleased hum rumbled free as Madara leaned down, pressing a kiss to her over-sensitive clit. “Good girl,” he murmured, giving it a lick, succeeding in drawing out a broken whine as his fingers withdrew. Sitting back, he reached out to grasp the vial once more to open it, using the remaining oil to slick his cock up. He gave it a few slow strokes, thumb drifting over the sensitive slit in the head to gather the bit of precum that had gathered.

“Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass,” Tobirama murmured, reaching out to take hold of one of Madara’s hands. “I’m anything but glass.”

“I’m aware,” he replied, scooting forward to settle his hips against hers. A groan fell from both at the sensation of his cock rutting against her cunt. “You’ve never been glass. Iron is a much better word to describe you,” murmuring, he took a moment to enjoy the sensation of being so close to her. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze as his other guided his cock to her entrance. A slow push of his hips had the head slipping in, a gasp breaking free from Tobirama’s lips, her eyes squeezing shut at the intrusion.

Not made of glass, but still very much human.

The stretch was wonderful- the slight sting of pain eased by his thumb on her clit, by his hips slowly moving forward and not deciding to seat himself in her all at once. So much- almost too much, but she’d be the last to admit that. His hips settled against her own, his hand leaving hers to grip at her hips instead, thumbs rubbing small circles into the soft, unscarred skin. “Good,” she whispered, gaze opening to reveal hazy ruby hues. A moment passed as they both grew used to the sensation- her to how filled she felt, him to the wet heat that encased his cock. Curiously, she shifted her hips, a low moan leaving at the feeling of him moving within.

Madara took that as his sign, hips drawing back before shifting forward slowly, testing the waters. Tobirama’s breath hitched, her brow drawing inward, hands slowly gripping at the sheets beneath her. “Please,” she whispered, tongue slipping out to wet her lips. “Fuck me.”

“Gladly,” he grinned, shifting his knees before he began to thrust harder, faster, causing Tobirama to moan- a much louder sound than anything she’d given him before. Wordless little sounds, but gaining in pitch as his hips met hers, as he pulled her back onto his cock. “If I didn’t know any better,” he panted, gaze trained on her face, “I’d almost mistake you for a common oiran.” The way she tightened around him at the slight degradation had his hips slowing for a moment, much to her annoyance. “Oh, yes, I could see it so easily,” he continued, hips grinding, barely pulling out before pushing back in, rubbing against that spot that had her breath catching in her throat. “You in one of those little Tea Houses that have settled here, wearing a pretty little kimono, your lips stained red- laying on your back just like this, letting men use you like the whore you really are,” his voice dipped into a growl as he leaned forward, resting his weight on his forearms while the position shifted, her hips rising with his.

Bordering so closely to the mating press, he noted in the back of his mind. But that didn’t matter, not with Tobirama gasping out his name. “Madara,” she whined, a hand rising to cover her mouth- as if it would hide what they were doing. “Don’t stop, sweet Gods do not stop, ah-right there!” Her thighs tensed around his hips, her cunt pulsing around his cock. Oh, she wouldn’t last long- but that was fine.

He would.

His fingers dug into her hips as he pressed close, hips grinding against hers. A moment to catch his breath- and to have her last just a touch longer. Being so close, he could just… Tongue lolling out, he licked a slow stripe up the valley of her breasts, drawing a surprised gasp from her lips, a breathless smile rising to settle across her features. “I could stay like this for ages,” he murmured against her skin, pressing lingering kisses to the smattering of scars across her chest- small, given by shrapnel during their darker days, “just like this, fucking you until you cried, until you can’t remember your name.”

Tobirama shifted her hips, brow furrowed as Madara spoke. She could hear him, certainly- could understand him, but the words didn’t register, not with how close she was to her own end. “Then do it,” she whispered, reaching down to cup his cheeks, drawing his face up- and for once, didn’t flinch away from the triad of tomoe within his ruby gaze. “Make me forget my name. Make me only remember yours.”

Something seemed to switch, then- as Madara studied her flushed features, the way her hair spread out beneath her head like a silver halo and wings. Leaning in, he captured her lips in a slow, sensual kiss that ended in him nipping at her lower lip as he shifted, his hands smoothing up her sides before settling atop the blankets, holding his weight up. This position was far more intimate than their previous positions, yet he found that it didn’t bother him. No, rather, he preferred this- to see her face so clearly, to hear her whispers of his name as he began to thrust once more. Her legs shifted, coming to settle around his hips, her ankles crossing at the small of his back.

Closer, stirring the embers of the flame that had been waiting to come to life for some time, now. What had been a small campfire was quickly spreading, consuming like a wildfire, flames licking at their skin, settling in their veins.

His lips brushed against her chin as her head tilted back, the position allowing for Madara to push deeper. “Tobirama,” he murmured, brow furrowing. Perhaps he wouldn’t last long, not now, not with how she gripped his cock. “By the Gods,” he gasped softly, hips rolling, chasing both hers and his own release. Her hands reached up, one tangling in thick onyx locks, the other scrapping blunt nails down the expanse of his back. The sharp shock of pain drew a surprised groan out of him, much to her amusement.

“Good boy,” she teased, only to gasp a moment later at the feeling of teeth digging into the sensitive flesh of her neck. “Mad-” her voice cut off by a loud moan as he moved his weight onto one arm, his free hand slipping between them to brush against her clit. Wordless sighs and moans spilled free as she rolled her hips against his, creating a wonderful fiction that had them both beginning to become consumed with the flames that threatened to burn them alive.

Madara pressed heated kisses along her throat as he felt her shudder beneath him. “Close, darling?” He murmured in her ear, lips brushing against the shell as she whimpered. “Will you be a good girl and come for me, then? Come around my cock like I know you want to?” His voice was no longer smooth, growing more haggard as his own completion began to burn at the base of his spine. “Come on, Tobi, you know you want to.”

“Shut- shut up,” Tobirama panted, even as she tossed her head back as he gave a particularly hard thrust. So close, so close. “Don’t stop, Madara- oh- oh, there! Please,” her voice pitched into a whine as her hand abandoned his hair to clutch at his back. Her walls pulsed around him once, twice, three times before she stilled, her back arching, mouth dropping open to release a sob of his name, tears spilling free at last from garnet hues.

Madara pushed himself up to watch, searing the image of her coming around his cock into his memory. The way her cheeks were flushed red, her brows furrowed, her nose scrunching up- she was beautiful in that moment. She was always beautiful, but this was a new type of beauty, something so delicate and precious that he hadn’t ever imagined being privy to. He moved slowly, the thrusts dragging against her walls, dragging out her pleasure and inching him close to his own. It hit suddenly, coming over him like wildfire consuming brush that lay in its path. He stilled above her, his head hanging low as he groaned out her name like a prayer.

She lay beneath him, panting and whining at the feeling of him filling her- hot, so very hot, it threatened to send her over the edge by the feeling alone. Shaky hands reached up to brush through surprisingly soft onyx tresses as he began to slowly gather himself. A moment longer, she thought to herself- let this last for a moment longer. The feeling of him settled over her, shuddering, panting, the heat that radiated from his skin so very pleasant, it had her relaxing into her bed.

But all good things must come to an end. Madara was careful as he pulled out, rolling his weight to the side to settle beside her with a breathless laugh. “Oops,” he hummed, reaching over to drag his fingertips along her thigh, watching as her leg jumped. He traced the red tattoo up, along the top of her thigh and onto her hip. “Was I supposed to pull out?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she murmured, reaching over to brush her fingers against his cheek, brushing away his hair. So messy… “Mito taught me how to make tea that will… Ensure it won’t take.”

“How soon do you need to drink it?” An innocent question as he rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his palm.

Tobirama hummed, shifting and grimacing at the feeling of his seed leaking. Oh, that’s why she hated it. “I’ll have it with my breakfast,” comes the simple response as she dips a hand down between her thighs to drag her fingers through the mess. “No wonder why there are so many of you Uchiha,” she comments idly.

A snort escapes Madara as he sits up, gaze drifting to the apex of her thighs. “Could always clean it up for you,” his fingers tap a slow rhythm on her thigh.

“Who said I wanted to be cleaned up?” Tobirama shoots back, legs slowly spreading. “Or are you just a one-and-done kinda guy?”

A grin spread across Madara’s lips as he slipped back between her thighs, pressing kisses along her stomach. “Do I look like the kind of man to leave a woman unsatisfied?”

“No,” she sighs, reaching down with her clean hand to brush his hair back from his face. “I feel that I will never be unsatisfied with you around- oh!” The feeling of his tongue brushing against her slit had her jolting in surprise, a chuckle rising to meet her ears.

Fires are awfully hard to extinguish once they grow out of control and consume everything within its sight.

#fandom: naruto #Content: fanfiction #rating: e #naruto fanfiction #naruto #madatobi #naruto founders #madara x tobirama #tobirama senju #fem!tobirama senju #madara uchiha #mito uzumaki #she makes a brief appearance #smut #naruto smut #have fun #unholy scripture [ n s f w ]

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