the one

Tobirama jolted awake.

A faint light filtered through the room, soft yet piercingly bright against his weary eyes.

His eyelids felt heavy, like lead pressing down. He blinked a few times, his mind a muddled haze. One breath in. One breath out. The world was blurred at the edges.

He wanted to lift a hand, shield himself from the slant of light, but his limbs refused to move. His entire body—numb, sluggish, shattered—lay against the bed as if it no longer belonged to him.

Something inside him screamed.

Run. Now.

But Tobirama couldn’t.

His body was wrecked, unresponsive. Every muscle screamed, every bone felt like it had been ground to dust. Panic surged in his veins, but all he could do was tremble, helpless and frozen.

This wasn’t his room.

A sharp breath hitched in his throat.

His pulse pounded against his ribs, erratic and weak. A chill ran across his bare skin, and only then did he realize—he was naked. Completely, utterly stripped.

And his body…

Bruises in dark, ugly blotches littered his skin. Teeth marks embedded deep. Fingertip-shaped welts pressed into his thighs, his arms, his chest. His nipples were swollen, red—bitten raw.

A slow, creeping horror slithered down Tobirama’s spine.

He had to move. He had to move.

Somewhere in the distance, voices murmured.

Tobirama latched onto the sound, desperation clawing at his ribs. Dragging his body across the floor, he ignored the pain—the way his joints screamed in protest, the way his raw skin burned at every friction against the cold wooden panels.

One hand in front of the other.

A slow crawl.

A trembling reach.

Fingers shaking, he pushed aside the curtain.

And there—standing near the door, half-dressed, broad back facing him—was Uchiha Madara.

Tobirama stilled, breath shallow.

Madara was speaking to someone.

“I’ll have food prepared for you, my lord,” the servant said, bowing slightly. “Alphas require proper nourishment during their rut. I’ll arrange for it immediately.”

Madara gave a slow, measured nod.

“And your mate?” the servant hesitated. “He is a Beta… I do not know what to prepare for him.”

Tobirama’s stomach twisted.

“Prepare Omega-nutrient supplements for him,” Madara said, voice calm. “I will feed him myself.”

The world beneath Tobirama cracked apart.

No. No. No.

His breath stuttered in his throat. His lungs clenched, as though he had plunged into freezing water, unable to resurface. He wanted to scream—to tear his throat raw with the sound of his own terror.

But nothing came out.

His voice was gone.

Too much screaming. Too much crying. Last night, he had used up every sound, every breath. And now—now, even that had been stolen from him.

The servant must have noticed movement from behind the curtain.

“Ah, it seems your mate is awake.”

Madara turned.

Their eyes met.

Tobirama felt something inside him break.

He tried to crawl back, but his body—weak, battered, ruined—refused to obey. His nails scraped against the floor, useless.

Madara’s gaze darkened.

“Hold the food,” Madara ordered. “Bring it when I call for it.”

The servant gave a brief nod, stepping away. The door gently slid shut behind him.

Tobirama’s blood ran cold.

No. No. No.

Help me. Please, help me.

But there was no one left to see.

Only Madara.

And then, before he could react, Madara was there.

At some point, the man had crossed the room, slow and quiet as a prowling beast. He knelt before Tobirama, one strong hand reaching out—tilting his chin up.

Tobirama flinched.

His entire body shivered violently at the touch.

“Awake already?” Madara murmured, stroking a thumb across his cheek.

His voice was gentle. Soft.

As if Tobirama weren’t already breaking apart beneath him.

Tobirama’s breath hitched, panic clawing at his throat. Madara’s fingers trailed lightly over his skin, but to Tobirama, it felt like chains tightening around his neck.

"What's wrong?" A voice—low, smooth, almost amused—broke through the ringing in Tobirama's ears.

"Shall we do it again?"

A shiver tore through his body.

Before Tobirama could recoil, hands—strong, merciless—slid down his waist, gripping familiar places. Fingers kneaded into the soft flesh of his hips, palms claiming his trembling body with ease. And then—a push, a stretch, a deep, unrelenting intrusion.

Tobirama choked on a sound.

His spine arched involuntarily. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, raw and unwilling.

"Ah—!"

Madara smirked.

"Tsk. Wasting an Alpha's seed like this," Madara murmured, his voice rich with feigned disapproval.

Tobirama barely had time to process the words before he was lifted and hauled onto Madara's lap, forced to straddle the larger man.

Tobirama’s back pressed against the warm, solid weight of Madara's chest. Strong hands grasped his thighs, dragging his pliant body up, spreading his own thighs wider, and with it—

Tobirama's legs followed.

His knees, already weak, slipped further apart as Madara's hands trailed down—gripping, coaxing, forcing—until his thighs were splayed open, leaving him utterly exposed, utterly vulnerable.

A whimper broke from Tobirama's lips.

His thighs burned from the stretch, his muscles trembling from the sheer effort of holding himself up.

But Madara wouldn't let him close them.

Large hands gripped the undersides of his knees, fingers digging into soft flesh, keeping his legs wide, obedient, open.

Tobirama sucked in a breath, his pulse hammering against the grip that held him apart.

And that was when he felt it.

A slow, thick warmth seeping out of him.

Tobirama's breath hitched. His vision swam.

White, viscous trails dripped down the insides of his legs, sliding over his skin in shameful, glistening streaks. The sensation was sickeningly familiar—a warmth that did not belong to him, a stain he could never wash away.

His stomach twisted.

His gaze flickered downward.

And then he saw it.

The floor, marred with smears of white.

The trail, slick and unmistakable, marking his slow, desperate crawl across the room.

The proof, undeniable and damning.

Tobirama's lips trembled.

He couldn't deny it.

It was his.

Madara's.

And it was still inside him.

A sudden stretch—deep, invasive.

Tobirama gasped, his body locking up as something thick, strong, unyielding pressed inside him again, forcing its way through the mess already there.

He knew what it was before he even looked.

Fingers.

Madara's fingers.

Too large. Too long. The knuckles broad, the tips pressing deep, curving, stirring—churning.

Tobirama froze, his breath caught in his throat.

Inside him, something shifted—warm, slick, shameful—and Madara kept pushing, twisting his wrist, letting his fingers drag through the slick filth he'd left inside Tobirama's body.

No. No.

Tobirama shuddered, his stomach twisting, his insides clenching around the unforgiving intrusion.

Madara chuckled.

"Still so full," he murmured, voice amused. "Does it feel good? Having me stir you up like this?"

Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut, his hands curling into weak fists. He wanted to move, to crawl away, to close his legs, to disappear.

But those fingers wouldn't let him.

They filled him too easily.

They knew exactly how to keep him open.

And worst of all.

They weren't leaving.

"You already know how pathetic Beta fertility is, don't you?", Madara murmured, his voice a low purr.

"And yet, look at you." His fingers traced the mess smeared along Tobirama's thighs.

"Shouldn't you be more obedient, then? Shouldn't you hold onto my seed properly?" Madara’s fingers pressed deeper, curling, spreading, deliberately stirring the warmth inside Tobirama's wrecked body.

A shudder wracked through Tobirama, his stomach twisting in something sick and helpless.

Madara exhaled, his grip tightening. "No matter," he mused. "I'll just have to fill you up again, won't I?"

Tobirama shuddered.

No. No. No.

A choked sound crawled up his throat, raw and desperate, but before he could plead, recoil, crawl away—

Madara pulled him close.

The warmth of Madara's bare chest burned against his trembling skin, his thighs forced apart, his entire body made to fit against Madara's unyielding frame.

"That's better," Madara murmured, his hands settling possessively on Tobirama's thighs. "Sit still."

Tobirama's breathing hitched.

His body knew what was coming before his mind could catch up—before he could fight, recoil, escape.

Madara lifted him.

The thick, unyielding fingers withdrew—only to be replaced by something worse.

And then, in one slow, merciless push.

Something thick, hot, and unrelenting began to press into him.

Tobirama froze.

No. No. Too much. Too deep. Too—

The blunt, massive head of Madara's cock stretched him open, forcing its way inside inch by unbearable inch. The sheer width of it—hot, pulsing, iron-hard—split him apart, forcing his body to yield around something far too big to take.

Tobirama’s breath shattered. His nails dug into Madara's arms.

"Wait—“

But Madara didn't wait.

With one firm, ruthless thrust, Madara dragged him down, forcing him to sink fully onto the impossible length of him.

Tobirama's entire body seized.

His head jerked back, his spine arching in a sharp, silent scream as the sheer depth of the intrusion knocked the air from his lungs.

His insides clenched helplessly around the invading heat, stretched far beyond what should have been possible. Madara was too big, too deep, too thick, pressing against places that sent waves of terror through Tobirama's shattered mind.

Madara exhaled, satisfied.

"Hah... Look at that. Every time, you struggle like it won't fit."

His hands squeezed Tobirama's waist, holding him fully impaled, his cock buried to the hilt inside Tobirama's trembling body.

Tobirama's nails raked down Madara’s skin, his legs trembling from the sheer strain of being stretched so full.

"But see?" Madara chuckled, dragging his lips along Tobirama's throat. "You always take it."

Tobirama's vision blurred. His fingers clutched at Madara's arms, his whole body trembling from the effort of keeping himself upright.

And then, before he could catch his breathー

Madara lifted him up—

And slammed him back down.

Tobirama’s spine arched violently as his body fought, failed, yielded. The intrusion split him apart, merciless in its depth, and the pressure against his insides threatened to consume him whole.

His vision blurred. His throat burned.

"No—“

But his protest broke into a fractured, breathless cry as Madara thrust forward, forcing himself deeper, claiming every inch.

Tobirama was breaking.

He knew this. He felt it.

"Not enough," Madara murmured against his skin, voice thick with pleasure.

"You'll take more. won't you?"

Tobirama sobbed.

"There we go," Madara murmured, pleased. He gave a slow roll of his hips, forcing his length deeper, reveling in the way Tobirama tensed, gasped, choked on air.

"See how much better you take me like this?"

The nightmare was starting all over again.

His mind—his body—his soul—

All of it was being crushed in Madara's grasp.

How did it come to this?

.

.

.

Tobirama was a Beta.

And he had never thought of it as a weakness.

Even when the Senju clan, known for producing only the strongest Alpha warriors, looked down on his secondary gender. Even when his father’s scorn had burned into him, demanding to know why he had not emerged as an Alpha like Hashirama.

Still—Tobirama had never resented being Beta.

It had never stopped him from fighting, from strategizing, from carrying the weight of his clan on his shoulders. It had never stopped him from carving a path of blood and steel on the battlefield, proving that he could match even the strongest Alpha opponents and return alive.

Being Beta had never held him back.

Until now.

This was the first time in his life that Tobirama truly despaired over being a Beta.

Because Beta senses were dull.

Because Beta noses could not detect the shift in pheromones fast enough.

Because a Beta like him could not have predicted what was about to happen.

The mission was supposed to be simple.

He and Madara were only supposed to deliver their proposal to the daimyō’s palace, obtain approval, and return to the village.

There had been no threats, no battles, no complications.

Even the daimyō had cooperated without issue, sealing the necessary scrolls days ahead of schedule.

“Uchiha-sama, the daimyō has returned the signed documents. We may leave tomorrow at dawn.”

Tobirama knocked twice on the sliding door to Madara’s inn room, waiting for a response.

Silence.

Tobirama frowned.

Even without hearing a response, he could feel Madara’s chakra presence inside the room.

Why isn’t he answering?

A quiet tension curled in Tobirama’s stomach. Something wasn’t right.

Carefully, Tobirama slid the wooden door open.

The air inside the room was thick.

A humid, stifling heat pressed against his skin the moment he stepped in.

And there—against the far wall, bathed in the dying amber glow of sunset—

Sat Uchiha Madara.

He was leaned back against the wall, his chest bare—rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. A sheen of sweat clung to his exposed skin, highlighting the taut lines of his broad shoulders, his arms, his torso.

But his face—

Madara’s face was pale.

Tobirama’s pulse stuttered. Without hesitation, he crossed the room in quick strides, dropping to his knees beside the man.

“Uchiha-sama,” Tobirama called, reaching out. “Can you hear me?”

His fingers brushed Madara’s cheek—

Burning.

Tobirama yanked his hand back on instinct, a sharp jolt running through his skin, as if he’d touched open flames.

Madara was burning up.

A fever? No—it was too sudden. His body was too hot, too unnatural.

Tobirama’s stomach twisted. His hands hovered uncertainly, torn between checking Madara’s pulse or shaking him awake. But before he could decide—

A sharp inhale.

Then, in the space of a single heartbeat—

Madara’s eyes snapped open.

Deep, abyssal red—

Sharper than a blade.

Tobirama froze under the weight of that gaze.

“You’re running a fever,” Tobirama said, carefully measured, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “Let me call someone to help.”

Tobirama moved to stand—

But the moment he did, an invisible force crashed against his body, yanking him downward with a brutal, unnatural strength.

The breath was stolen from Tobirama’s lungs as his knees hit the tatami. A second later, his chest slammed against the wooden floor, forced flat before he could even react.

A heavy weight pressed down against his spine.

Heat.

Blistering heat, sinking through the fabric of his uniform, burning where Madara's body caged him down.

Tobirama's pulse hammered against his ribs.

Get up.

Move.

But the grip around his waist tightened—possessive, commanding, unyielding. Madara's hands—too large, too hot—slid across his ribs, fingers trailing lower, lower, lower.

Tobirama flinched at the sensation.

The difference in their body temperatures was stark. Tobirama had always run colder than most shinobi—his water-aligned chakra making his skin naturally cool to the touch.

But Madara—

Madara was burning.

Not with fever.

With something else entirely.

Every nerve in Tobirama's body screamed danger.

Tobirama sucked in a slow, controlled breath.

Stay calm. Do not provoke him. Do not act rashly.

He is delirious. He does not know what he is doing.

Tobirama forced the tension out of his voice as he spoke, willing it into something calm, rational, steady.

“Uchiha-sama,” Tobirama said evenly, “I didn’t come here to cause trouble with you. Please let me go, now.”

Silence.

Not a single response.

Madara remained still above him.

The weight of his presence oppressive, suffocating.

Then—

A quiet chuckle.

Low.

Amused.

And predatory.

A cold wave of dread shot through Tobirama's spine.

He felt it before he saw it—

Something thick, solid, and unbearably hot pressing against the curve of his hip, nudging insistently.

Tobirama stiffened.

No.

It was subtle, at first—just the lightest, slowest grind. A shifting of Madara's weight, pressing harder against him. A motion deliberate, teasing, cruel.

No. No. No.

Tobirama’s throat clenched.

Carefully, deliberately, Tobirama shifted his head to glance backward—

And his breath caught in his chest.

Through the fabric of his trousers, Madara's cock was fully erect, straining against the thick material.

Madara was hard.

The realization hit Tobirama like a shuriken to the gut.

This wasn't just fever.

This wasn't just delirium.

Uchiha Madara had went into rut.

The way Tobirama’s breath hitched, the way his muscles tensed in raw, unfiltered fear—

Madara saw it all.

And he smiled.

Lazily.

Amused.

Like a beast toying with its prey.

“What I want,” Madara murmured, voice low, seeping into the air between them, “is not a fight.”

The words had barely settled before Madara rolled his hips again.

Slow. Deliberate.

Pressing up—grinding against Tobirama’s trapped body.

Tobirama’s breath left him in a sharp, involuntary gasp.

The motion was unmistakable—a steady, rhythmic mockery of something far more obscene.

Even through layers of fabric, it felt like a violation.

Disgusting.

Humiliating.

Unforgivable.

A pulse of rage shot through Tobirama’s veins.

He moved.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Tobirama wrenched his body to the side—forcing a shift in their positions.

Madara’s weight tilted—just enough.

In an instant, Tobirama threw his momentum forward, flipping their bodies.

Now—

Tobirama was on top. Madara lay beneath him, sprawled across the floor.

Tobirama wasted no time.

CRACK.

A brutal punch—full force.

Knuckles split skin as Madara’s head jerked to the side.

Silence.

Tobirama’s chest heaved.

He kept his hands braced against Madara’s torso, ready to strike again if necessary.

“I apologize,” Tobirama said, voice firm, unwavering. “But I have no other choice.”

Madara did not move.

Did not blink.

Simply lay there, head turned, blood on his lower lip, breathing slow and controlled.

And then—

He turned his face back to look at Tobirama.

Unfazed.

Unshaken.

Unreadable.

His eyes burned—deep, abyssal red, piercing straight through Tobirama.

A stare so still it felt suffocating.

Tobirama ignored the way his own heartbeat hammered.

“You have gone into rut,” Tobirama continued, forcing his voice steady, reasoning with a man who looked anything but reasonable.

“You are not in your right mind.”

No reaction.

Madara watched him.

Unblinking.

Studying.

“What you need,” Tobirama pressed, “is an Omega. A nest.”

“I will leave you alone to stabilize.”

“I will inform the innkeeper—”

The words hung.

Unfinished.

A long, stretched silence settled between them.

Thick.

Suffocating.

And yet—Madara’s stare never wavered.

"Why must it be an Omega?"

Madara's voice was low, velvety, almost amused.

Tobirama barely had time to register the question before Madara moved.

His hands clamped down, iron-tight, seizing Tobirama's wrists in an unrelenting grip.

Tobirama tensed, muscles coiling, but before he could react—

A sharp thrust.

Madara's hips ground forward, pressing deliberately against Tobirama's body.

Even with the barrier of fabric between them, the sensation was unmistakable.

Thick. Hard. Intentional.

Tobirama recoiled.

A wave of nausea and fury coiled deep in his gut. The feeling of Madara's arousal pressing against him, like a violation even before anything had truly happened.

And yet—Madara smiled.

Still looking up at Tobirama, eyes gleaming like a man toying with his food.

"I find myself rather pleased with this, Tobirama."

"Even if you are a Beta."

Calm.

So terribly calm.

Like this was inevitable.

Like Tobirama belonged beneath him.

Rage surged. Every inch of Tobirama bristled, screamed.

Tobirama moved again.

Madara's grip on his wrists was unyielding, but Tobirama was not weak.

With all the strength in his core, he lunged forward and slammed his forehead against Madara's.

A sickening crack.

Madara's hold loosened—

Just for a fraction of a second—

Just enough.

Tobirama tore free.

His fist flew. A second brutal punch connected—full force against Madara's jaw.

CRACK.

A sharp exhale escaped Madara's lips as his head snapped to the side.

Instinct took over. Tobirama moved, he barely registered his own heartbeat slamming in his ears as he lunged forward, desperate to break free, desperate to create distance.

Away.

Away from him.

But Madara was faster.

Before Tobirama could fully escape, iron fingers clamped down—

A vice-like grip seized Tobirama’s thighs, dragging him back—down—

Onto Madara’s face.

Tobirama barely had time to snarl, to thrash, to fight—

Then—

Sharp, searing pain.

Tobirama's body convulsed.

Madara's teeth sank deep into the soft, sensitive flesh of his inner thigh.

Hard. Brutal.

The sheer pressure of the bite was enough to make Tobirama's vision blur.

Fangs.

The unmistakable, merciless bite of an Alpha.

Tobirama gasped. His entire frame buckled.

Even with fabric between them, the pain was blinding—the force behind it undeniable.

The bite pierced skin.

Pain.

Raw. Sharp. Unrelenting.

It ripped through Tobirama, forcing a gasp from his throat.

Blood welled up, staining cloth, warmth seeping against Tobirama’s thigh.

And before Tobirama could stop it, his entire body collapsed, his balance utterly shattered.

Straight onto Madara.

And then, the realization sank in. Tobirama couldn't move.

Madara's hands had already secured him. His powerful arms pinned Tobirama's thighs open, keeping him locked in place.

Restrained.

Controlled.

Overpowered.

And worst of all—

Madara's face was still buried against Tobirama’s crotch. His breath一hot, uneven一fanned across the skin he had just marked.

The weight of it, the raw possessiveness of it, sent a violent shudder ripping through Tobirama's spine.

But before Tobirama could even gather himself, before he could even process the pain, before his hands could scramble to push himself up—

Something hot brushed against him.

A slow, deliberate nudge.

A breath—humid and unbearable.

Madara's face was still there.

Right between his legs.

Tobirama's breath seized as he felt it again—

The firm, insistent press of Madara's nose.

It nudged against him, rubbing over the fabric of his uniform, right where he least wanted it.

No. No—

Before Tobirama could even react, even think, the fabric of his uniform was already being yanked down—

Sliding—

Dragged—

Torn from his skin.

In a mere breath, the cool air struck Tobirama.

Tobirama froze. His mind blanked, but he could feel it—

The way Madara's gaze darkened at the sight of him.

The way those same hands gripped him now, holding him apart, holding him still.

The way his breath—hot and heavy—ghosted over him.

Fear coiled in Tobirama’s gut, squeezing his lungs tight.

Tobirama shuddered violently—

Not from pleasure.

From terror.

By the way Madara’s lips brushed over Tobirama, the way his tongue tasted—slow, unhurried, indulgent.

By the way Madara’s lips dragged up his thigh—slow, lazy, relishing every inch.

Madara made a low, satisfied sound, almost like a hum, deep in his chest. He pressed his nose into Tobirama's bare skin once more.

And then—

Heat. Wetness. A touch that was almost reverent.

The softest press of lips.

Tobirama's breath caught in his throat.

The moment he felt it—wet, hot, and suffocating—his entire body locked up.

No. No—

Madara pressed a lingering kiss to the flushed head of Tobirama’s cock, his lips dragging over the sensitive tip before parting ever so slightly—just enough to taste.

Tobirama twitched violently when wet heat engulfed him.

At first, it was slow. Measured.

The burning heat of Madara's tongue traced over the slit, teasing, coaxing, tasting.

And suddenly, Madara’s lips sealed tightly around the head—sucking.

Not harshly.

No. That would be too kind.

Madara savored it. Toyed with it. As if he were indulging in some forbidden delicacy—

Madara’s tongue pressed firmly against the tip, flicking against the sensitive slit, twisting and rolling as if trying to draw out every last trace of wetness.

A slick sound filled the air.

Tobirama's stomach tightened. His fingers dug into the tatami beneath him, shoulders locking up, trying to resist—trying to pull away.

But the suction deepened.

Madara took Tobirama’s cock in further, inch by agonizing inch, his mouth stretching around the stiff length, hollowing his cheeks as he sank down.

The sheer heat of it—wet, suffocating, relentless—made Tobirama's entire body lock up. His eyes squeezed shut, as the obscene, slick sounds of sucking and swallowing filled the room.

Madara didn't just take Tobirama in. Madara devoured him.

Each time Madara pulled back, his lips slid up achingly slow, dragging along the sensitive underside—a deliberate, unhurried torment—before sinking down deeper than before.

Too much. It was too much.

Madara's tongue coiled around him, rubbing, kneading, teasing every inch, mapping out the veins and ridges with meticulous precision.

Tobirama's lungs burned with uneven, stilted breaths. His thighs shook. His back arched involuntarily.

Madara pulled off with a wet pop.

The air felt cold against Tobirama's flushed, spit-slicked skin.

And then, a hot, damp breath ghosted over the length of his shaft.

Madara leaned up again.

No. No, no, no—

A violent shudder wracked through Tobirama's body as Madara's mouth trailed lower.

Lower.

Madara’s tongue slid down, over the taut skin of his shaft, down to the base.

No, not there.

Tobirama whipped forward, nearly jerking away, but a crushing grip slammed down on his hips, holding him in place. He flinched violently when a hot, wet tongue dragged across his balls, licking, pressing, sucking.

Tobirama's breath stuttered as Madara latched on, mouthing at them, rolling them over his tongue, his teeth scraping lightly, just enough to make him flinch.

He—he's—

Madara's deep groan sent a wave of vibrations straight up Tobirama’s core, rattling through his bones.

And then—

Then, the bastard buried his face into Tobirama's inner thighs.

Inhaled deeply.

Scenting him. Smothering himself in it.

Madara huffed a dark laugh, lips pressed to the overheated skin of Tobirama's thighs.

"With a treasure like this right in front of me," Madara murmured against the sensitive flesh, his voice husky, dripping with satisfaction, "you really expect me to go looking for an Omega?"

A sharp bolt of horror shot through Tobirama's spine.

His stomach lurched. He couldn't breathe. Tobirama was weightless in Madara’s grip.

Madara's hands—large, scorching, possessive—dug into the firm flesh of his ass, kneading, spreading, gripping without a shred of restraint.

Humiliation burned under Tobirama's skin.

Yet his body yielded, forced into motion—

Lifted.

Lowered.

Used.

The strength of Madara's arms alone dictated the pace, guiding Tobirama's hips into a slow, obscene rhythm as Tobirama was made to fuck into the wet, unrelenting heat of the Alpha's mouth.

Madara groaned, the deep vibration traveling straight up Tobirama's spine as Madara sucked him down, swallowed him whole.

Every time Madara took Tobirama in deep, his fingers would tighten around the flesh of Tobirama's ass—kneading, spreading, pressing bruises deep into the skin. His tongue curled and twisted, lavishing Tobirama’s cock with slick, sinful caresses, teasing the ultra-sensitive slit until Tobirama was trembling violently in his grasp.

"Haa一"

A desperate, uncontrolled gasp.

Tobirama's fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his own palms as he fought against the unbearable tension coiling in his gut.

Too much. Too much.

Tobirama had never—never—felt something like this before.

He was powerless, his entire body reduced to nothing but a shivering, panting mess, helpless as Madara's pace grew mercilessly steady, ruthlessly deep.

And then—

It hit him. The tension snapped.

Heat erupted through Tobirama’s core, rushing through his veins like fire as his body convulsed violently, uncontrollably. His vision blurred, breath caught in his throat, and for one agonizing moment, Tobirama's entire existence was reduced to nothing but pure, shattering release.

His hips stuttered. Jerked. Seized.

His thighs clamped around Madara's face as he came—

Hot, thick, helpless.

Tobirama’s entire frame buckled forward, collapsing, his weight crashing down against Madara's mouth, his trembling form pressing against the wet, sticky warmth of the Alpha's face.

Even in his dazed, post-climax haze, the realization sank in—

Tobirama had come inside Madara's mouth.

His lungs burned, his chest heaved, his body buzzing, overstimulated, utterly spent.

Yet even as his mind reeled, Madara did not let go.

The Alpha hummed in satisfaction, lips still wrapped tightly around Tobirama's softening cock, his tongue lazily tracing the slit, lapping up the last drops of release.

Tobirama shuddered. A sharp gasp ripped from his throat as Madara suckled one last time, slow, indulgent—pulling, milking.

And then—finally—

Madara let go.

A wet pop echoed through the room as Tobirama slipped free from the Alpha’s mouth, slick with saliva and spent release.

The last thing Tobirama registered was Madara's smirk as he dragged his tongue along the flushed, over-sensitive tip, as if savoring the taste.

And then—a firm, possessive squeeze to his ass, fingers digging in one last time before—

Tobirama was released.

He crumpled. His body hit the floor, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants.

The tremors in Tobirama’s thighs still hadn't stopped. His hands still couldn't find the strength to push himself up.

His mind—his mind was fractured, spinning, unmoored.

Madara simply leaned back, lazily wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

Tobirama’s mind screamed at him to move.

Run.

Escape.

Now.

Tobirama’s instincts finally kicked in. His arms trembled as he pushed against the floor, dragging himself forward. His legs felt like they weren’t his own, weak and shaking beneath him, but the door was there—so close, just a little more—

And then—

A voice curled around his spine.

“An Alpha went into rut… yet still so devoted to his mate’s pleasure first?”

Tobirama’s breath caught.

Behind him, Madara’s presence was a heavy weight pressing against the room, against his very skin.

“Tobirama… don’t you think I’ve been really good to you?”

The words slithered down his spine again, but Tobirama refused to acknowledge them. He gritted his teeth, his breath coming in shallow, broken gasps as he dragged himself forward. The floor beneath him felt like an endless stretch of cold, unforgiving ground.

The door. He had to reach the door.

His nails scraped against the surface, red crescents blooming where his fingers dug in too hard, his arms straining to pull him just a little further. His legs trembled violently with every movement. And yet, he pushed forward, inch by agonizing inch, like a man drowning, clawing desperately toward the surface—toward air, toward freedom.

But he was suffocating.

His vision blurred, a sharp sting building behind his eyes, but he refused to cry. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—

“Tobirama.”

A shudder ran through him at the sound of his name.

“I haven’t even come once.”

The voice was closer now.

Too close.

Something deep inside him twisted at those words, an almost primal fear sinking into his bones.

It wasn’t the threat itself that shattered his resolve.

It was the way Madara said it.

As if the night was far from over.

As if this was only the beginning.

Tobirama’s breathing hitched.

He dug his fingers harder into the floor, willing himself to move faster, to escape before—

The warmth behind him loomed, shadowing over his fragile body.

He had to get out.

He had to—

“This time, during my rut… I will make sure you carry my pup.”

Madara’s words wrapped around Tobirama, sinking into his bones, poisoning the air he breathed.

And then—

The door slid shut.

Hard.

The soft rasp of wood against wood was deceptively quiet, but the final clack as it settled into place sounded like a death sentence.

Tobirama froze.

His breath, already unsteady, came to a sharp halt in his throat. The doorwas now nothing but an impassable wall in front of him.

Shut. Sealed away.

Tobirama’s mind blanked.

For a moment, Tobirama stayed frozen, his outstretched hand still hovering in the air, fingers barely inches from the surface. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling in uneven jerks, his body trembling with the force of his devastation.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

But then—warmth.

A presence at his back.

A burning presence, too close.

Fingers—feverish, searing—still ghosting over the wooden frame.

Madara.

He had closed it.

The heat of the hand, still burning from the fever of its owner, retreating from where it had slammed the door shut.

Madara.

He had done it. He had taken away Tobirama’s last chance at escape as easily as snuffing out a candle.

Tobirama’s world crumbled.

A whimper—small, broken—caught in his throat, but before it could form into something real, before he could force out the scream for help clawing at his lungs—

Madara’s hand was on him.

Searing hot, fingers curling around his wrist.

Tobirama gasped, his body reacting before his mind could process it, his free hand scrambling against the door—pushing, clawing, trying to hold on.

But Madara’s grip was absolute.

“You’ve been running long enough.” Madara’s voice was a low growl.

And before Tobirama could even think of struggling, he was ripped from the door, from the last shred of hope he had, his body dragged backward with a force that stole the breath from his lungs.

And just like that—

Tobirama was pulled into the abyss.

This was it.

This was where his nightmare truly began.