the one

Tobirama had thought Madara’s violations had already reached their peak.

But the moment the Alpha forced his way into his womb, he finally understood the true depths of Madara’s madness.

The following days of Madara’s rut bled together into a fever dream of exhaustion. Tobirama’s world became a haze—thick, cloying, and suffocating, like drowning in slow-moving water. His senses dulled, his body betrayed him, and all that remained was the oppressive weight of heat and instinct, dragging him under.

Even breathing felt laborious, as if the air itself had turned viscous.

He was drifting, caught between consciousness and delirium, unable to tell where reality ended and the abyss of his mind began.

Then, a shift.

Tobirama stirred, his lashes fluttering as he pulled himself from the murky depths of his mind.

The sensation of cool silk against his bare skin was foreign, unfamiliar. Tobirama blinked slowly, trying to anchor himself, trying to carve a space between memory and the present.

This wasn’t the cramped, dimly lit room they had been confined to.

The air was different here. The architecture, the lingering chakra woven into the very foundation of this place—it all told him what he already dreaded.

This was the Uchiha estate.

Tobirama didn’t know how he had ended up here.

His silver lashes fluttered as his eyes slowly adjusted to the light, vision swimming as he struggled to anchor himself in reality. The last fragments of memory clung to him like the remnants of a fading fever dream—disjointed, blurred at the edges, slipping through his grasp before he could make sense of them.

The last thing he remembered…

He had been naked, his body swathed in thick blankets, wrapped so tightly he could barely move. Madara had tucked him away, cocooning him in warmth, leaving only a sliver of silver hair and the tip of his nose exposed. He had been gathered into the Alpha’s lap. Madara’s fingers had traced slow, deliberate patterns along his spine, as though intent on memorizing him through touch alone.

And yet—there had been someone else in the room.

Tobirama had felt it, even through the haze of his fever. A presence lingering just beyond the oppressive cocoon of Madara’s hold.

Then, a voice—measured, neutral, yet carrying an edge of concern.

“Your mate is burning up. You should let him rest. His body needs time to recover.”

Mate.

The word had stirred something deep within him, a protest that had died before it could reach his lips.

Madara’s hold had tightened, arms locking around him with quiet defiance, as though shielding him from view.

Then—warm breath against his temple, a voice murmuring into his skin.

“We’re going home, Tobirama. Let me take you back.”

That was the last thing he remembered before the fever dragged him under completely.

Now, reality returned in fragments. The faint scent of cedar and embers. The weight of silk against his bare skin. The oppressive silence of the Uchiha estate, vast and unfamiliar.

And warmth. A steady, unrelenting heat pressed against his back.

He wasn’t alone.

Madara was behind him, his body a solid, inescapable presence.

The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Madara’s chest pressed against his spine, the deep, even cadence of his breathing the only sound in the stillness of the room.

Tobirama swallowed, his throat dry. He didn’t dare move.

Since the moment Madara's rut had begun, Tobirama had never seen him sleep.

Every time Tobirama had surfaced from the fevered haze of their entanglement, Madara had either been driving into his body with ruthless, unrelenting force or holding him down, mouthing at his skin with an almost obsessive devotion. There had been no respite, no moment where Tobirama could gather himself, breathe, or even believe that it would end.

But now, for the first time, the Alpha was still.

Madara lay behind him, deep in slumber, his breath slow and steady against the back of Tobirama's neck. Even in sleep, the Uchiha's hold remained unyielding.

Tobirama's head rested on the Alpha's muscular forearm. One of Madara's hands had strayed to Tobirama’s chest, fingers possessively cupping his flesh, as if ensuring Tobirama wouldn't slip from his grasp even in unconsciousness. The grip was firm, almost bruising.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Madara's other hand was splayed across Tobirama's lower abdomen, clutching it with an eerie tenderness, fingers spread as if cradling something precious.

The Beta's stomach was swollen, unnaturally full, stretched taut in a way that felt deeply, horribly wrong.

Days. It had been days since Madara's rut had started, and Tobirama had endured every moment of it—endured the way the Alpha had forced his body open, claimed it, filled it again and again with reckless abandon.

And now, the evidence of that violation lingered within Tobirama.

The weight in his belly was unbearable, heavy with the sheer amount of seed still trapped inside. His womb, once dormant and untouched, had been forcibly awakened, forced to accommodate something it was never meant to bear.

It was obscene.

Madara had spent himself inside him so many times that Tobirama now looked as though he were carrying—three, perhaps even four months along if one didn't know better. The thought made his stomach churn.

If it stays inside me much longer—

A chill ran down Tobirama’s spine.

Even someone like him couldn't defy biology forever.

Not like this. Not when he had been force-fed so much of the Alpha's seed that his body no longer felt like his own.

Fear coiled in his gut, sharp and nauseating.

Tobirama’s instincts screamed at him—get it out, get it out before it's too late.

His pulse pounded in his ears. He had to move. He had to break free from the iron grip that kept him caged before Madara woke, before the Alpha decided to reinforce his claim all over again.

Tobirama willed himself to move.

His body trembled—whether from exhaustion, cold, or something deeper, he wasn't sure. But he couldn't afford to let his fear show. Not even in the faintest quiver of his breath.

Madara was still asleep, his deep, steady breathing brushing against the back of Tobirama's neck.

If the Alpha stirred now, if he so much as shifted, then Tobirama's fleeting chance of escape would be lost.

He had to be careful. Precise.

First, the arm wrapped around his stomach.

Tobirama reached down with painstaking slowness, his fingers ghosting over the heavy limb that lay possessively across his swollen abdomen. Madara's grip was firm, as if even in sleep, his instincts refused to release Tobirama. With deliberate care, Tobirama pried the Alpha's fingers away one by one. His pulse thundered in his ears. The slightest misstep could wake him.

Finally, the pressure around his belly eased.

Next—the other hand.

Madara's second arm was draped over Tobirama's chest, his calloused fingers curled possessively around the soft curve of his breast. The touch sent a sickening wave of heat crawling under Tobirama's skin, shame burning in his throat like bile.

Even now, even while unconscious, Madara refused to let go.

Gritting his teeth, Tobirama slowly began peeling those thick, long fingers away from his body. One. Then another. Then another.

Tobirama’s skin prickled when the last finger slipped free.

The cool night air rushed over his chest, and the sudden exposure made his oversensitive flesh tighten, a shiver running through him before he could stop it. Tobirama clamped his lips shut, swallowing back the traitorous whimper threatening to escape. His body had been pushed far beyond its limits, conditioned into unnatural responsiveness—and he hated it.

He hated himself for it.

Madara's arms had been like a web, trapping him with the patience of a predator who knew its prey had nowhere left to run.

But now, now, Tobirama was free of them.

He held his breath, steeling himself, and slowly—so slowly—began to lift his upper body.

Pain.

A sharp, sudden ache flared deep inside him, white-hot and unbearable. It stole the air from his lungs, and Tobirama nearly gasped, his body locking up in sheer instinct.

Something was wrong.

Dread pooled in his stomach as he hesitated, his movements stalling for the first time. Forcing himself to breathe through the pain, he turned his head just enough to glance down—

And felt his blood run cold.

Madara's cock was still inside him.

Tobirama's mind blanked.

For a moment, Tobirama could only stare, horror crashing into him like a tidal wave.

The Alpha had stayed inside him—had buried himself to the hilt and then had the audacity to fall into a peaceful slumber as if he hadn't been splitting Tobirama open just hours before.

His stomach churned, shame twisting into rage, into disbelief, into fear.

He wanted to scream.

But he couldn't.

His breath came in short, shallow bursts, panic clawing up his throat like a caged animal. He had known Madara was possessive, that the Alpha had no concept of restraint, but this—this was something else entirely. To still be inside him, to keep his body locked in this unnatural state even while unconscious—

It was obscene. It was humiliating. It was—

Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut, bile rising in his throat. He couldn't afford to let panic take over. He had to move, had to keep going, had to escape—

But how?

Every shift, every twitch sent another jolt of raw sensation spiraling through him, the overstimulation nearly unbearable. If he moved too quickly, if he pulled away too forcefully, the friction alone might wake the Alpha. And if Madara woke up still inside him—

No. Tobirama couldn't let that happen. Tobirama bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, grounding himself with the sting of pain.

A memory surfaced. Tobirama could hear Madara's voice again, low and husky against his ear.

"Tobirama is so disobedient. You can't even hold your mate's seed inside you properly."

"Let me put my cock back in, hm? If I keep it inside, you'll keep my seed better. You'll finally give me a pup."

The words dripped with indulgence, satisfaction curling at the edges of each syllable. Tobirama had been too far gone—too exhausted, too delirious from heat and overstimulation—to do anything but murmur weak, unintelligible protests. His mind had floated somewhere between reality and oblivion, unable to grasp what was being said to him, unable to fight back as the Alpha did as he pleased.

Now, with lucidity searing through him like a blade, shame curled hot and suffocating in his chest.

Tobirama clenched his teeth, rage and humiliation clawing up his throat in equal measure. He had to get out of here.

Summoning every ounce of strength left in his battered body, Tobirama slowly—carefully—began to shift his hips, inching away from the Alpha still buried inside him, his breath tight in his lungs as he tried not to stir Madara awake.

Tobirama could feel Madara’s cock dragging against his inner walls as he withdrew, an unbearable sensation of fullness ebbing away. Every slight movement made his abused nerves scream, but Tobirama bit down on his lower lip, swallowing the urge to whimper.

Almost.

Almost there.

Madara didn’t knot him. If he had—if that grotesque biological mechanism had locked them together—Tobirama wasn't sure what he would have done. The very thought made his stomach lurch.

Tension coiled in his muscles as he braced himself for the final pull, exhaling slowly before jerking his hips away in one decisive movement.

Рор.

A wet, obscene noise echoed in the silence of the room.

Tobirama froze, his entire body going rigid.

A thin sheen of cold sweat broke out across his skin as he listened—waited—prayed.

Madara didn't stir.

The Alpha's breathing remained steady, slow, unbothered.

Tobirama let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, relief washing over him so abruptly that his limbs nearly gave out.

But he wasn't safe yet.

Suppressing the tremor in his hands, Tobirama forced himself to move—dragging his sore, exhausted body forward, crawling inch by inch across the futon. He ignored the way his muscles screamed in protest, ignored the way his legs trembled violently beneath him. His entire being was singularly focused on one goal: escape.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he scanned the room.

Where are my clothes?

The last time Tobirama had been fully clothed was before stepping into Madara's room—before the nightmare had begun. Since then, the Alpha hadn't allowed him the luxury of covering himself. Every time he had been granted a moment's respite, it had been with bare skin against bare skin, Madara always seeking, always taking, as if obsessed with the feeling of their bodies pressed together.

Tobirama swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. He couldn't afford to dwell on it now.

His gaze darted across the floor. Amidst the scattered remnants of their entanglement, his eyes landed on a piece of fabric, abandoned and crumpled near where they had slept.

It wasn't his.

Dragging himself toward it, he snatched up the garment and hastily wrapped it around his body, shuddering at the way the fabric brushed against his too-sensitive skin. The warmth of Madara clung to it, overwhelming in a way that made Tobirama's stomach turn, but he grit his teeth and bore it. He had no other choice.

His heart pounded as he approached the door.

The wooden frame loomed before him.

Carefully, painstakingly, Tobirama reached for the sliding door, curling his fingers around the edge. His breath was shallow, barely there, as he pulled it open the slightest fraction—

A soft creak.

Tobirama's blood ran cold.

For a moment, he stood frozen, listening with every fiber of his being. The sound of his own heartbeat thundered in his ears. His grip on the door tightened, his knuckles turning white.

Behind him, Madara shifted.

Tobirama didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe.

A moment passed. Then another.

Madara let out a quiet sigh, his body settling deeper into sleep.

Tobirama exhaled silently, his hands trembling as he resumed his task—slowly, slowly sliding the door open just enough for him to slip through.

His feet barely made a sound against the wooden floor as he stepped out into the dimly lit hallway.

He was out.

But he wasn't safe.

Not yet.

Because if Madara woke up and found him gone—

Tobirama shuddered.

He didn't want to know what would happen next.

And he wasn't about to wait and find out.

Tobirama moved through the dimly lit hallway, his legs trembling beneath him.

Every step was a battle—his body screamed in protest, weakened and battered from days of relentless violation.

Yet, he forced himself forward, one unsteady foot after another, wincing with each shift of movement. The kimono he had thrown over his body was the only thing shielding him from complete vulnerability, its loose fabric draping over his form, concealing what lay beneath.

But even then, Tobirama felt exposed.

The walls surrounding him were too familiar, too suffocating.

This place—this house—was not unknown to him.

Before Izuna had married, Tobirama had often been here. The Uchiha brothers had shared this estate, living together in the clan's main residence.

Back then, it had only been the two of them. Madara and Izuna.

Tobirama had once been welcomed here.

But after Izuna's marriage, he had never returned.

And now—

Tobirama’s breath was shallow as he pressed forward, every muscle in his body tensed with the gnawing dread of being seen. If anyone were to find him now—if anyone were to lay eyes on him in this state—

He wouldn't think about it.

Couldn't.

His legs buckled again, nearly giving out beneath him.

Tobirama caught himself just in time, staggering toward the nearest wall, his palm pressing flat against the cold wooden surface for support. The trembling in his limbs was worsening, making it impossible to walk without dragging his weight forward, inch by agonizing inch.

His body was failing him. Tobirama could feel it.

The last of his strength was slipping away.

But he couldn't stop now.

He had to reach the bathroom.

A few more steps. Just a few more—

Tobirama's breath hitched when he finally saw it.

The entrance to the bathhouse.

Relief crashed over him in a dizzying wave.

With shaking fingers, Tobirama reached for the door, his grip weak as he pulled it open. The wooden frame slid aside with a quiet rasp, revealing the dimly lit interior beyond.

Tobirama barely made it inside before his legs gave out.

The moment he crossed the threshold, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor with a harsh, graceless thud.

His hands instinctively shot out to brace himself, fingers curling against the cold, damp tiles. His breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps, his body trembling violently as if he had just sprinted for miles.

But there was no time to rest.

The urgency clawed at him, raw and unrelenting.

Get it out.

He had to get it out.

Tobirama's fingers dug into the floor as he dragged himself toward the bathing area, his body sluggish and uncooperative. His vision blurred at the edges, dark spots clouding his sight, but he kept moving—kept crawling—until he reached the edge of the tub.

Tobirama pressed his weight against it, using the smooth porcelain as leverage to haul himself upright. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored them.

His hand shot out to the faucet, twisting the handle as far as it would go.

A rush of water erupted from the showerhead above, cascading down in a steady torrent.

Steam curled into the air. The sharp scent of minerals filled his lungs.

But none of it mattered.

None of it could quell the panic choking him.

Tobirama sat back against the tub, his body slumped in exhaustion, yet his mind spiraled with a single, desperate thought—

I can't.

I can't be pregnant.

I have to get it out.

Tobirama’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as he forced himself to move again, his hands trembling as he reached down—

The panic clawed deeper.

The horror sat heavy in his gut, unbearable and suffocating.

Madara had violated him. Had forced his body to endure what no Beta should ever have to endure. And now, after days of it, the sheer volume of Alpha seed still trapped inside him—

It wasn't just psychological anymore.

His stomach was swollen.

Tobirama clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, nausea rising in his throat. He had seen it in the mirror, however briefly—his abdomen, distended, as if carrying something unnatural.

As if carrying life.

His own biology told him it wasn't possible. Betas didn't get pregnant. Betas couldn't get pregnant.

And yet.

The sheer violence of Madara's claim over his body had left Tobirama doubting even that.

Fear coiled like a vice around his ribcage, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

No.

He wouldn't allow it.

Couldn't.

His trembling fingers dug into his own skin, nails pressing into the flesh of his thighs as he braced himself, the roar of the water deafening in his ears.

Get it out.

His breath came in frantic, uneven bursts.

Get it out, get it out, get it out—

Tobirama shut his eyes, blocking out the fear, the nausea, the horror clawing at his mind.

And then, with a sharp intake of breath—

He reached inside.

Tobirama stood beneath the pounding stream of water, his body trembling as he forced himself to endure the shame pooling in his gut.

Tobirama’s fingers hesitated only for a fraction of a second before he pushed past the instinct to recoil, past the nausea twisting deep inside him. His hand slipped between his legs, shaking as he pressed two fingers against the slick heat of his own entrance.

The first push inward made him bite down hard on his lower lip, his breath hitching at the sensation.

It was still there.

Still inside him.

He could feel it.

Thick, viscous warmth spilling over his fingers, clinging to the walls of his insides even as the water streamed down his body. His legs nearly buckled as the first wave of seed oozed free, slipping between his fingers, mixing with his own fluids before running in obscene rivulets down his trembling thighs.

There was so much.

Too much.

Tobirama felt sick.

Madara had come inside him so many times that even now, after all this time, it was still dripping out of him, sluggish and unrelenting.

Tobirama swallowed, his throat dry despite the water cascading over him.

There was no time.

Every second counted.

He had to be thorough.

His fingers pushed deeper, working past the overstretched muscles, seeking—searching—desperate to remove every last drop. His breath was ragged, his skin clammy despite the scalding heat of the water.

It wasn't enough.

He needed to go deeper.

A frustrated, panicked noise crawled up his throat as he tried to reach further, his fingers twisting, searching.

Where—?

Tobirama’s heartbeat slammed against his ribcage.

He knew it was there.

Madara had violated him deep enough to reach it.

So why—why couldn't he—

His nails scraped against soft, unyielding flesh, his movements growing frantic.

How did he—?

Madara had done it effortlessly, had pushed inside without restraint, had breached the very place Tobirama had never thought possible.

So why couldn't he reach it?

The frustration mounted, turning into a gnawing, suffocating despair. His fingers trembled violently, his breathing sharp and uneven. The humiliation of it all made his stomach churn.

Tobirama wasn't just touching himself—he was digging into his own body, trying to undo what Madara had done.

His legs were shaking too hard to hold him up anymore.

Tobirama sank down, his thighs parting wider in a desperate attempt to find a better angle.

Where is it?

Where’s his womb?

Where—?

Tobirama’s fingers pushed in deeper, unrelenting, nails scraping against tender flesh in his frantic search.

How did he get in?

Madara had done it.

Madara had forced himself inside, had broken through, had pushed so deep that—

A violent shudder wracked through Tobirama's body. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His mind reeled, drowning in the grotesque reality of what had been done to him.

The thought alone made him want to vomit.

And still—his fingers kept moving.

They had to.

They had to.

They had to—

A sudden weight pressed against his back.

Warm. Solid.

Breath ghosted against the nape of Tobirama’s neck, slow and steady.

A firm, muscular arm wound its way around his waist, fingers splayed possessively over his still-swollen abdomen.

And then—

A voice.

Deep. Smooth. Unmistakable.

Low enough to send a sickening chill down Tobirama’s spine.

"Tobirama... what exactly do you think you're doing?"

Tobirama froze.

His fingers, buried deep within himself, stilled as every muscle in his body seized up in sheer horror. A shadow loomed behind him, heat radiating from the firm chest pressing against his damp back. The water in the bath was warm, but the presence behind him burned hotter—searing, consuming, suffocating.

Madara.

How long had he been there?

How had Tobirama not sensed him?

A tremor ran through his limbs, his breath shuddering in his throat, caught between dread and something far more humiliating.

With what little composure he had left, Tobirama yanked his fingers out, his body recoiling in shame—but he wasn't fast enough.

A large, calloused hand clamped around his wrist, forceful yet infuriatingly deliberate, holding him in place. Keeping him open. Keeping him exposed.

"Sneaking away from your Alpha to touch yourself?" Madara's voice was low, deep, smooth like molten lava, yet sharp enough to flay him apart. His breath ghosted over the shell of Tobirama's ear, sending a violent shudder down his spine.

"How filthy, Tobirama. Have I not fucked you enough?"

"N-No... it's not like that—" Tobirama's protest was instant, frantic, his head shaking vehemently as if he could deny the damning accusation.

Madara hummed, unbothered by the denial. He tilted his head, lips brushing against the damp skin of Tobirama's throat as his grip on Tobirama's wrist tightened—guiding it back down.

"Then why did you stop?" A dark chuckle. "Go on. Continue. Let your Alpha watch you fall apart."

Tobirama choked on a gasp as his own fingers were forced back into his trembling entrance, slick and shamefully accommodating. His wrist was caged in Madara's grasp, no room for resistance, no room for escape.

A mortifying noise spilled from his lips when Madara moved him, slow and deliberate, making him thrust his own fingers in and out of himself.

The intrusion burned, not from discomfort, but from the sheer, unbearable humiliation seeping into his bones.

No. No. His mind screamed, yet his body betrayed him, heat curling deep in his stomach, thighs trembling as pleasure coiled through his nerves like a wildfire.

Madara exhaled, pleased.

"Why deny it?" Madara's voice was a silken purr, dark amusement threading through his tone. His breath, hot and unwavering, ghosted over Tobirama's ear.

"Look at yourself. You are hard."

Tobirama's breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic pants. He couldn't deny it—the evidence was right there, humiliatingly obvious. His erection twitched, a bead of slick gathering at the flushed tip, betraying him in the most damning way possible.

Tobirama turned his face away, shame coiling deep in his gut. "I—it's not—"

"Not what?" Madara chuckled, slow and indulgent, as if savoring Tobirama's humiliation. His fingers curled around Tobirama's own, still buried deep within himself, forcing them to move again. "You always like it best when I touch you, don't you?"

Tobirama gasped, his spine arching involuntarily as the relentless thrust of his own fingers sent jolts of pleasure sparking through his nerves. The movements were practiced, calculated—Madara had done this before, had learned every weak spot, every secret pleasure point inside of him.

He didn't even need to touch Tobirama's cock to undo him.

And gods, he was undoing him.

The pleasure built too fast, too sharp—Tobirama's body, traitorous and eager, responded exactly as Madara intended.

Heat pooled low in his stomach, coiling tighter and tighter, until—

Tobirama’s vision blurred. His muscles tensed, then melted. A shuddering cry tore from his throat as his release overtook him, spilling over his stomach in white-hot ribbons of pleasure.

Tobirama's body sagged, utterly spent, his limbs weak as he slumped back against the broad, unyielding chest behind him. His mind was hazy, his breath still ragged and uneven.

Tobirama's thoughts were a tangled mess, his consciousness slipping between clarity and delirium. His body swayed, weakened from pleasure and overstimulation, yet before he could even attempt to regain his footing—

Madara moved.

In one swift motion, the Alpha hoisted him upright, pressing him firmly against the cold, wet wall. A gasp left Tobirama's lips, his hands instinctively searching for stability, only to be caught.

Madara's fingers closed around his wrists, trapping them high above his head. His grip was unyielding, not painful—but absolute.

Trapped.

Madara caged him in with ease, towering over him, pressing him flush against the wall. One hand gripped Tobirama's wrists, pinning them above his head, while the other trailed lower—

A slow, deliberate slide of fingers down his abdomen. Lower. Lower still.

Tobirama sucked in a sharp breath, the remnants of his aftershocks making his skin hypersensitive.

Madara's fingers found him. Soft. Pliable. Slick.

"Tobirama," Madara murmured, voice deceptively gentle. His fingers traced over the sensitive, still-quivering entrance, pressing just enough to make Tobirama flinch. "You're so soft here now. So different from the first time."

Tobirama bit his lip, refusing to answer, but the deep, satisfied hum from Madara told him that his silence only amused the Alpha more.

"Your body is learning, love," Madara continued, dipping his head to press his lips against the curve of Tobirama's throat. "Learning to take me. Learning to belong to me."

His fingers teased at the overstimulated entrance, pressing in—just barely, just enough to make Tobirama's breath catch.

"Do you feel it?" Madara whispered, "The way your body opens up so easily for me now?"

Tobirama hated how his breath stuttered, how his body twitched in response.

The contrast was dizzying. The icy tile against his feverish skin. The unshakable warmth of the Alpha behind him. His own pulse, erratic and frantic, thundering in his ears.

Tobirama couldn't move.

Couldn't see Madara's face.

Couldn't anticipate what the Alpha would do next.

All he could do was listen—listen to the slow, measured breaths against his ear, listen to the subtle shift of movement as Madara's free hand wandered downward.

Tobirama held his breath.

He had to, or else the trembling in his chest would spill over into something humiliating—soft gasps, shuddering whimpers, something weak, something desperate. The warm trickle of bathwater cascaded down his back, pooling at the dip of his spine before sliding lower. It gathered at the curve of his hips, slithering between his thighs, and then—

Madara's fingers found him again.

Hot. Seeking. Unforgiving.

A sharp inhale caught in Tobirama's throat as fingers teased the swollen, over-sensitive entrance, parting him with unbearable ease.

Tobirama should resist. He should say something.

But all that came was a sharp shudder as water trickled in with every calculated movement.

"Did you think I wouldn't know?"

Madara's voice was dangerously soft, edged with something Tobirama couldn't quite name. His lips brushed against the bare skin of Tobirama's throat, his words pressing into his flesh like an unspoken brand. "Did you think I wouldn't realize what you were doing in here?"

Tobirama's breath hitched.

He knew.

Of course, he knew.

He had always known.

A slow, deliberate thrust of Madara's fingers made Tobirama arch, his entire body betraying him in real-time. The sensation was unbearable—heat curling at the base of his spine, a slow burn that he couldn't extinguish.

And then, Tobirama felt it again.

Something warm. Thick. Foreign.

Flowing out of him.

Tobirama shuddered, horror laced between the hazy pleasure as he realized what Madara was doing. What he was making him do.

Madara hummed, satisfied, his fingers spreading Tobirama wider, as if to savor the sight of his seed leaking out. The deliberate push and pull, the way his fingers curled just right—it wasn't just a tease.

It was a reminder.

A punishment.

"You are supposed to be bred properly," Madara murmured. His fingers scissored inside, pushing the last remnants of his seed out, letting the bathwater carry it away.

Then, lower.

Softer.

"And yet, here you are—trying to rid yourself of your mate's seed."

Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't answer—he couldn't.

But Madara wasn't done.

His voice dipped lower, a quiet growl, raw with possession.

"Do you understand what you've done, Tobirama?"

His fingers pressed deeper, forcing another gasp from Tobirama's lips.

"Knotting during a rut is a biological necessity. Every drop of my seed is meant for one thing—filling you."

Tobirama shivered, his entire body burning with humiliation.

"And yet," Madara exhaled, voice tightening with something dangerously close to anger, "you waste it."

A deep, predatory growl rumbled from the Alpha's chest, vibrating against Tobirama's back. His grip tightened.

"I should punish you for this, shouldn't I?"

Tobirama's breathing stuttered. His thoughts were slipping. His mind felt sluggish, body burning up, sinking into something primal.

Too hot. Too weak. Too much.

The fingers inside him withdrew. Slowly.

Tobirama sagged in relief, his body faltering—

And then—

"Ah—!"

A sharp, blinding intrusion.

Not fingers. Not teasing. Not a warning.

Something far thicker, far heavier, far more unforgiving shoved inside him in one brutal thrust.

His knees buckled.

His body collapsed.

But Madara was there.

Holding him.

Locking him in place.

And not letting him go.

"A... don't..."

The words barely made it past Tobirama's lips—slurred, breathless, trembling.

Too fast.

The last thrust had been too fast, an overwhelming onslaught of force that shattered his defenses before he could even brace himself. Tobirama couldn't keep up. His body lagged behind his will, his self-restraint always a single heartbeat too slow, always caving to the raw, unrelenting pleasure.

His breath hitched—a sharp, broken sound-but there was no escaping the way his body trembled, no denying the way heat pooled in his gut, no stopping the shameful, obscene sounds spilling from his lips.

Water dripped. Heat coiled. His mind blurred.

Maybe it was the steam clouding his senses. Maybe it was the way his body burned, too sensitive, too raw, too overwhelmed. Maybe it was the relentless friction, the thick intrusion, the punishing depth—

Whatever it was, his vision blurred, the world smearing into a mess of color and heat and suffocating sensation.

Tobirama felt empty.

Humiliated. Furious.

"Hngh—!"

A strangled noise tore from his throat as Madara slammed into him again, harder this time, faster, deeper.

Tobirama's hands slipped against the wet tile, fingers clawing for purchase. He barely had time to catch his breath before the next thrust stole it away.

"Hnngh—ah..! You... bastard—"

A ragged growl, the last remnants of his will crumbling beneath the force of Madara's assault. Tobirama's words dissolved into a cry, raw and wrecked, as tears burned at the corners of his eyes.

His body rocked against the wall, helpless against the unrelenting rhythm.

"Tch."

Madara's low, satisfied chuckle sent a sharp shiver down his spine.

Through the hazy heat, Tobirama could feel the Alpha's gaze—heavy, possessive, devouring. Madara's breath was hot against his damp, exposed neck, and his voice—

Dark. Smooth. Infuriatingly calm.

"For a moment, I thought I'd have to stop."

A deliberate pause.

A cruel, knowing smirk.

"But listening to you curse at me like that... it's oddly reassuring."

Tobirama's stomach twisted.

He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, but it did nothing to drown out the obscene squelch of slick, the deep, wet sound of Madara sinking deeper, the unbearable friction of skin against skin.

Madara's grip on his hips tightened, fingers digging into his flesh with bruising force.

"My rut isn't over yet, Tobirama."

Tobirama gasped—the only sound he could make before Madara rolled his hips, grinding against the deepest part of him. The pressure sent a sharp, unbearable jolt of pleasure up his spine, making his knees buckle, making his breath stutter, making his entire body quake—

And Madara felt it.

Sensed it. Reveled in it.

"I'm still angry, Tobirama."

The words were spoken against his skin, as if the Alpha were pressing them directly into his bones.

"I'm not stopping until I'm satisfied."

A sharp thrust.

A strangled sob.

Tobirama's nails scraped against the tile. His body couldn't take this. The heat, the force, the sheer overwhelming fullness—

It was too much.

"Nngh—! W-wait—“

Madara didn't wait.

Didn't pause, didn't falter—just drove deeper, harder, relentless, pushing until there was nothing left of Tobirama but trembling muscles and ragged, desperate gasps.

Then—

Then, Madara stilled.

For a single, breathless moment, Tobirama felt nothing but heat.

Felt the throbbing weight buried deep inside him.

And then—warmth.

Flooding him.

A sharp inhale—his spine arched instinctively against the force of it, against the liquid heat filling every inch of him.

Madara exhaled slowly, a low, pleased hum vibrating against Tobirama's shoulder.

His fingers drifted lower.

Pressing against Tobirama's stomach.

Pressing down.

Making him feel it.

Making sure he knew.

"You're so full," Madara murmured, almost in wonder, his palm smoothing over Tobirama's trembling lower abdomen.

“So much of my seed inside you..."

Tobirama bit back a sob.

But Madara wasn't done.

"You're taking it so well.”

His fingers curled possessively over Tobirama's stomach, pressing just enough to make him shudder.

"Who knows? You might already be pregnant."

Tobirama trembled.

His throat tightened.

His body wanted to fight, to protest, to deny it—

But all that came out was a single, choked noise.

And then, he wept.

.

.

.

Tobirama blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His vision blurred, the world nothing more than a haze of dim candlelight and soft shadows. His body ached. His limbs felt heavy. His head throbbed with the weight of exhaustion, as if he had been pulled under by a tide too strong to fight.

The room around him was silent. Still. Empty.

Madara was gone.

Tobirama’s breath hitched.

Slowly, he lifted a trembling hand to his forehead, fingers brushing against cool, damp cloth. Someone had left a wet towel there—carefully placed, gentle, deliberate.

His clothes were clean. His body was covered. A blanket had been draped over him, warm and soft.

Madara had done this.

Madara, who had torn him apart with hands that demanded everything.

Madara, who had touched him like he was something to be owned.

Tobirama’s stomach twisted.

His fingers clenched the fabric of his blanket, his breathing growing ragged. He needed to leave.

Run.

His breath came unevenly, shallow and quick. He clenched the fabric of the blanket in his fists, nausea rising in his throat.

He had to get out.

He squeezed his eyes shut, straining to listen—

There.

Faint voices. Somewhere in the distance. Growing closer.

His heart lurched.

His mind screamed.

Run.

Run now.

The thought struck him like lightning. His body moved before his mind could process it, hands flying together in the swift, precise motions of a seal—

And in an instant, he was gone.

Rain.

Cold. Unforgiving. Soaking through every inch of Tobirama.

It crashed down upon him, soaking through every layer of fabric, chilling him to the bone.

The world around him spun.

Tobirama’s body crashed against the ground the moment he landed, knees slamming against the wooden porch of the Senju estate. His breath came in ragged gasps, his limbs shaking, the weight of his own exhaustion nearly suffocating.

The rain pounded down in relentless sheets, the sky a blur of gray and silver.

Then—

The door slammed open.

“Tobirama—?”

A voice.

Familiar. Warm. Worried.

Mito.

She stood in the doorway, candlelight casting flickering shadows across her face. Her brows furrowed in confusion, then concern.

“Tobirama? Why are you back so soon? I heard your mission wouldn’t end until—”

She stepped forward.

Then, abruptly, she stopped.

Her eyes widened.

Her entire body went rigid.

Then—she took a step back.

Tobirama froze.

Mito’s hand flew to her nose, her breathing suddenly sharp, uneven—as if she were fighting against something suffocating.

“Tobirama…”

Her voice was shaky. Disbelieving. She stared at him, at the way his body trembled in the rain, at the way his soaked clothes clung to his frame—

Her grip on the doorframe tightened.

“Tobirama, what… what happened to you?”

A heartbeat of silence.

Tobirama’s breath caught in his throat.

Mito was an Omega. She was pregnant. She had always been more sensitive to pheromones—especially those of an Alpha who wasn’t her mate.

But—Tobirama was a Beta.

He had never had a scent.

Never.

And yet—

She was recoiling from him.

Tobirama’s hands curled into fists, his entire body suddenly numb. He swallowed, trying to form words, trying to breathe—

But the truth was already sinking in, sharp and merciless.

He couldn’t smell it.

He couldn’t feel it.

But it was there.

Madara’s scent.

Clinging to him. Wrapped around his skin, his clothes, his very being.

Twisting around him like shackles.

Unbreakable.

Unyielding.

Even as the rain poured down.

Even as the heavens tried to wash him clean.

It wouldn’t go away.

Tobirama’s breath shuddered.

His vision blurred.

Then, he broke.

A single, choked sob escaped him, barely audible over the storm.

Then another.

And another.

Until Tobirama was trembling—until he was sobbing in the rain, knees pressing into the wet wood, body curling inward, hands clenching his own arms as if trying to hold himself together.

But he couldn’t.

He was breaking.

And nothing could save him now.

.

.

.

Tobirama did not return home.

He could not bear to be alone.

No matter how much he hated it, no matter how much he told himself otherwise, the fear was always there—an inescapable shadow that lurked at the edges of his vision. Every night, the memory of it threatened to swallow him whole. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it—the weight, the heat, the crushing force of an Alpha’s presence pressing down on him.

And so, in the days that followed, Tobirama moved into Hashirama and Mito’s home.

Mito let him. She was the only one who understood.

It was not discussed outright, but neither was it questioned. Mito had taken him in wordlessly, guided him into the house as if he were a wounded bird—fragile, trembling, barely breathing. She did not ask him anything the first night, nor the second. She simply left the doors to her home open, let him exist in the space, let him try to find some semblance of himself again.

She was the one who had found him, who had helped him into the bath, who had washed the filth from his skin when he could not bring himself to move. In the steaming water, his body curled in on itself, trembling as she cleaned the wounds on his neck—the bite, the mark that should not have been there.

“You have to tell Hashirama,” she said one night, pressing a warm cloth to the fading bruises. “You have to tell him who did this to you.”

Tobirama sat still, watching the candlelight flicker.

“I will,” he murmured. “Just… not now.”

Mito clicked her tongue in frustration but did not press further.

She already knew the answer.

She already knew who it was.

Even if Tobirama did not say it, the scent of him had been unmistakable. The remnants of Uchiha Madara cloak draped over his shoulders had said everything. And for the first time in her life, Mito—calm, wise, patient Mito—had looked afraid.

If Hashirama had seen him like that…

Tobirama did not want to imagine what would have happened.

.

.

.

“You’ve been staying here too long,” Hashirama complained, stretching his arms lazily as Tobirama stood at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables. “When are you going back to your own place? You’re like a third wheel to us, you know.”

Tobirama froze.

For a moment, the knife in his hand trembled.

Before he could answer, Mito was already smacking Hashirama across the head.

“You absolute idiot,” she scolded. “What do you think I’ve been doing all day? Tobirama’s helping me. My pregnancy is nearing its last stage. I need someone to assist me. And where were you, Hashirama? Running around outside again?”

Hashirama grumbled under his breath but said nothing more.

Tobirama dared a glance at Mito, and for the first time that day, he felt relief.

She knew.

She knew how badly he needed to stay.

But even she could not protect him forever.

Tobirama avoided Madara as much as possible.

Every time they were in the same room, he sat as far away as he could. Every time he sensed that chakra, that suffocating force of nature, his fingers curled into fists. Even now, the memory was too much.

The mission had lasted ten days. It had officially ended on the third.

The remaining seven had been something else entirely—something neither duty nor obligation, but an unrelenting cycle of torment. Seven days of him and Madara, alone in the wilderness, trapped in a feverish hell.

No one had come to rescue him.

There had been no escape.

Even now, Tobirama wasn't sure if he had truly returned or if part of him still remained in that place, frozen in time, caught beneath the weight of something monstrous.

Tobirama was so tired. His body was exhausted in ways beyond physicality, beyond chakra depletion, beyond the weariness of war. It was a sickness of the soul, an unraveling of something deep inside him, something that refused to heal.

Sleep should have been a mercy, but instead, it had become a battlefield of its own.

At night, when the world was silent and dark, the nightmares came.

He would wake up gasping, his body slick with sweat, his throat raw as if he had been screaming. He could still feel phantom hands gripping his hips, phantom breath against his skin. He could still hear Madara’s voice, a low growl against his ear—

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

Tobirama curled into himself, pressing his forehead against the tatami. It was a dream. Just a dream.

And even now, Tobirama could not wake from the nightmare.

Every time Tobirama closed his eyes, the past came crawling back, dragging him under. So he fought it. He forced himself to stay awake, even when his body ached for rest.

At home, he lingered in the tea room with Mito, curling up by the hearth, pretending to be absorbed in the warmth. If sleep took him, it was always in these stolen moments, his head resting against the edge of the table, Mito's steady presence beside him like an anchor. It was the only way he could let himself drift off—only if he knew someone was there to wake him, to pull him out of the nightmare if it came for him.

And then there was the nausea.

The first time, he ignored it. Tobirama had thought it was exhaustion. The stress, perhaps, of keeping himself together when all he wanted to do was collapse. But it hadn't gone away.

The second time, Mito had to hold his hair back as he retched into a bucket.

The nausea was worse now. More frequent. It would creep up on him in waves, sudden and overwhelming, forcing him to abandon whatever he was doing to stumble toward the washroom.

And then came tonight.

He had barely managed to make it to the washroom before the nausea overtook him, his stomach twisting violently, his body heaving. Mito had found him like that—her warm hand rubbing slow circles on his back, her voice quiet as she murmured his name.

"Tobirama.." Her voice was careful, hesitant. As if afraid of what she was about to say. "Could it be...?"

No.

Tobirama felt his entire body go still. His breathing hitched, his fingers tightening against the wooden floorboards beneath him.

No.

That wasn't possible. That couldn't be possible.

He was a Beta. Betas can’t never—

His mind stuttered to a halt. His thoughts refused to continue.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Mito. And in the silence that followed, he knew. He saw the truth reflected in her expression, in the way her lips parted slightly, her brows furrowing in realization.

He was—!

The words refused to settle. They hung in the air, unbearable in their weight, suffocating.

No, no, no. This isn't happening.

The door slid open. A gust of cold air swept through the room.

And standing at the entrance, watching them, was Madara.

Madara stood in the doorway.

The world tilted. The floor beneath him felt unsteady, the very air in the room shifting, thickening, pressing down on him.

Tobirama felt his breath leave him.

Mito moved first.

Her face twisted with fury, her body moving on instinct. Before Madara could even take a step inside, her hand cracked against his cheek. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and visceral.

"You bastard," she spat, grabbing the front of his robes. "Do you even realize what you've done? Look at him!" Her voice shook, raw with anger, with disbelief. "You—you did this to him!"

Madara, unfazed, merely tilted his head, brushing a hand against his cheek where she had struck him. He looked at her, then at Tobirama. His expression remained unreadable.

"Hashirama is looking for you," Madara said simply. His voice was calm.

Mito trembled with rage. "You filthy—"

Madara caught her wrist before she could strike him again. His grip was firm but not cruel. "I need to talk to him," the Alpha said. "Alone."

Mito glared, her breath coming fast and unsteady, but she wasn't reckless. She knew Madara wasn't asking.

She turned to Tobirama instead. His hands were trembling where they rested against his lap, his body wound tight like a bowstring. But his eyes—they were terrified.

Mito yanked her hand away and jabbed a finger toward his face, her eyes flashing with fury.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on him, you Uchiha bastard!”

Madara didn’t flinch. He simply smiled.

“I won’t,” the Alpha said. “He’s carrying my pup, after all.”

The declaration sent a violent shudder through Tobirama’s body.

Mito’s rage ignited at once, her hand flying toward Madara’s face again—but before she could strike him, Hashirama’s voice called out from beyond the doorway, urgent and insistent.

She hesitated.

For one breath, Tobirama thought she would stay, that she would refuse to leave him alone with the monster looming over him.

But then, she turned on her heel and stormed out.

And the door slid shut.

Silence.

Tobirama sat motionless, his body curled inward, as if trying to disappear into himself. His fingers dug into his sleeves, his breath short and uneven.

He barely registered the sound of the door closing until Madara’s presence loomed over him

Slowly.

Deliberately.

His heavy footfalls echoed in the quiet room, each one sending a new spike of terror through Tobirama’s already-fractured nerves.

When he reached him, Madara sank to his knees.

“Enough running, Tobirama,” the Alpha murmured, reaching out to tilt Tobirama’s chin up between his fingers.

Tobirama could not speak. His throat was raw, hoarse from the sobs that he had swallowed, from the silent screams buried in the hollow of his chest. His vision blurred, and he hated himself for it—hated the betrayal of his body, the way it trembled, the way it caved, the way it recognized the weight of Madara’s presence and crumbled beneath it.

The contact made him flinch.

Madara ignored it.

His touch was light, almost reverent, but Tobirama knew that beneath that gentleness lay something immovable, something that would not let him go.

“Mito knows it,” Madara continued, his thumb ghosting over the curve of Tobirama’s lower lip. “I know it. And yet, the only one who doesn’t is you—my poor little Beta.”

His arms wrapped around Tobirama in a seamless motion, drawing him into his lap with such ease it was as if he belonged there.

Tobirama’s body stiffened, his pulse hammering in his throat. Madara held him as if he were something precious—something treasured.

As if he hadn’t broken him just nights before.

“Tobirama,” the Alpha breathed against his temple, “you’re carrying my pup.”

The words sliced through Tobirama like a blade.

He went still.

Utterly, completely still.

Madara kissed his eyelids, then his cheek, then lower, his lips tracing a path down to his jaw.

“Our pup,” he corrected softly, his hands splaying over Tobirama’s stomach, his touch reverent, possessive.

Tobirama couldn’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes.

His breath came in short, shallow gasps. His shoulders shook, and he tried to curl in on himself, but Madara would not allow it.

“Please,” he choked, his voice breaking into a sob, each syllable drowning in its own helplessness. “Please, let me go.”

Madara hummed, brushing away the tears that spilled unchecked down Tobirama’s cheeks—only to replace them with his lips, tracing along the path they left behind.

“How could I?” Madara murmured. “Do you not feel it, Tobirama? The way our pup craves its father’s presence? How could I leave my own flesh and blood unclaimed?”

His fingers pressed against Tobirama’s abdomen, as if trying to feel the life forming inside.

“Do you know how badly our pup wants my pheromones?”

Tobirama’s breath hitched, his vision blurring. He lifted trembling hands to his face, pressing his palms over his eyes as if that would somehow make this nightmare disappear.

But it wouldn’t.

It never would.

A soft, shuddering sob escaped him.

Madara shifted, his mouth brushing against the shell of Tobirama’s ear.

“You can’t stay with the Senju, you know that, don’t you?”

Tobirama’s shoulders shook.

“No matter how much Hashirama and Mito try to protect you, they won’t be able to shield you forever. The Senju do not raise bastards, Tobirama. They’ll turn you away the moment they realize the truth.”

Tobirama clenched his teeth, his chest heaving.

“And I,” Madara’s lips found his forehead, his temple, his jaw, branding him with every slow press, “will not let my child be cast aside.”

Tobirama did not fight when Madara peeled his hands away from his face, forcing him to meet his gaze. His vision was blurred, his lips quivering, his chest rising and falling in uneven shudders.

“This child is the future head of the Uchiha clan, and our child will be born here, Tobirama. Among their own.”

Tobirama let out a choked, broken sound, his breath trembling as his tears streaked down his face.

Madara’s expression softened as he leaned in, pressing a kiss against the corner of Tobirama’s lips.

“So let me be your husband,” he whispered. “Let me be your Alpha. Let’s raise our child together.”

His tongue flicked against Tobirama’s cheek, tasting the salt of his tears.

“There’s no escaping me now, Tobirama.”

And then—

Tobirama whimpered—a weak, pitiful sound that only made Madara’s grip tighten, his lips curve in satisfaction.

“There’s no running anymore,” Madara whispered, kissing the tears from his cheeks. “You are mine, Tobirama. You and our pup—you belong to me.”