Chapter 7
“The interrogation is over.”
Tobirama closed the notebook in front of him with a soft thud, his fingers lingering briefly over the worn cover before he pushed it aside.
Across from him, the Omega spy sat in silence, his posture rigid. The bruises along his face—marks left by Madara—had begun to fade.
Still, there was a difference now.
His gaze no longer burned with hostility. The quiet defiance from earlier had dulled into something more… subdued.
Acceptance. Or perhaps, resignation.
The spy bowed his head.
A small, almost imperceptible nod.
Tobirama regarded him for a moment before exhaling softly.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
He stood, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the wooden floor. Around them, the presence of the other shinobis in the room remained unobtrusive.
No Alphas had been permitted. Not after the last time.
Tobirama turned, prepared to leave.
But then—
“You’re a Beta?”
The voice was soft. Almost hesitant.
Tobirama stilled.
The question hung in the air, unexpected, yet spoken with a quiet intensity that made it impossible to ignore.
Slowly, Tobirama turned back, his crimson gaze meeting the Omega’s for the first time without the weight of interrogation between them.
Tobirama regarded him in silence for a moment.
Then, finally—
“Yes,” he said. His voice was steady. Unwavering.
The Omega spy did not look away. His gaze was piercing, deliberate, watching Tobirama as though searching for something unseen.
“So… the pheromones I smelled on you last time,” the Omega murmured, “they belonged to your mate?”
Tobirama knew exactly who he was referring to.
Madara.
He parted his lips to respond, but before he could speak—
“To leave such a heavy imprint of scent on you,” the Omega mused, his voice tinged with something unreadable, “it made me mistake it for your own.”
Tobirama’s eyes sharpened.
There was something unsettling in the way the Omega spoke—something that made the air between them feel too still.
The Omega’s wrists were bound now, his arms restrained as the guards moved to take him away.
But just as they were about to leave, Tobirama spoke.
“Wait.”
The Omega stopped. Turned.
Tobirama hesitated, crimson eyes lingering on the Omega’s face before he finally asked, voice quiet—
“That person’s pheromones… what do they smell like?”
A pause.
The Omega stared at him for a long time.
Then, slowly—he spoke.
“A wooden cabin,” the Omega said. “A fireplace at dusk.”
Tobirama felt his breath hitch.
But the Omega wasn’t done.
“The scent on you right now smells like that—” A slow, deliberate tilt of the head. “—charred wood, roasted chestnuts, a wisp of smoke curling through the air… and underneath it all, just barely lingering—” He smiled. “A trace of vanilla.”
Tobirama felt the weight of those words settle over him.
“As if designed to draw people in,” the Omega continued, his voice lower now.
“Like honey luring a fly into a trap. Sweet, intoxicating, irresistible—”
His eyes flickered over Tobirama, scanning him, dissecting him, as though drinking in the lingering scent still wrapped around him.
“And yet…”
The Omega tilted his head, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his lips.
“The moment you get too close—the trap snaps shut.”
Tobirama felt the faintest bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck.
“Every note of that pheromone,” the Omega said, “screams possession.”
He took a step closer, lowering his voice.
“This one is mine. No one else may touch him.”
A chill ran down Tobirama’s spine.
The guards tugged at the Omega’s bindings, urging him forward.
But even as he was led away, his gaze never wavered.
And Tobirama—
Tobirama could feel the embers of a long-dead fire, lingering in the back of his mind.
.
.
.
“Mn… ah…”
Tobirama’s breath hitched, his body tensing briefly before melting into the warmth of Madara’s touch.
The dim glow of the lantern cast flickering shadows across their bedroom.
Madara was kneeling behind him, his large hands pressed firmly against the curve of Tobirama’s lower back, thumbs working slow, deliberate circles into the tense muscles around his hips.
The pregnancy had been harder since that incident.
The child inside Tobirama had grown restless, often shifting, twisting, pressing against him from the inside. Some nights, the pain would bloom into something unbearable, and all Tobirama could do was curl into himself, biting down his whimpers as his body struggled to adjust.
And yet, in those moments—Madara would always be there.
Tonight was no different.
Tobirama knelt on the futon, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him, breath hitching every time Madara’s thumbs pressed down just right, easing the tension lodged deep in his hips.
A quiet moan slipped past his lips.
Madara leaned in.
His mouth found the damp skin of Tobirama’s nape, lips brushing over the beads of sweat that had gathered there.
“Comfortable?” Madara’s voice was low, almost too gentle, muffled against his skin.
His hands kneaded deeper, working along the sharp dip of Tobirama’s spine.
Tobirama shuddered. His nails dug into the sheets.
Madara chuckled, a deep, knowing rumble against his skin.
Then—teeth.
A sharp, fleeting graze along his throat. Just enough to make him gasp.
Tobirama’s breath trembled.
The child inside him kicked.
Madara’s hands stilled, fingers splaying wide over his stomach, as if soothing not just him, but the restless life within.
The room felt warmer. Closer. Their breaths the only sound between them.
“Does it feel good?”
Madara’s voice was low, hushed against Tobirama’s skin, vibrating through the delicate column of his throat. His lips grazed the damp skin of Tobirama’s neck before his teeth closed in, a fleeting scrape, followed by the heat of his tongue.
A soft moan slipped from Tobirama’s lips again, his body already pliant beneath Madara’s touch. His breath shuddered, the last bit of tension unraveling as strong, calloused hands continued to press into the aching muscles of his hips.
It felt good—so good that his body surrendered completely, going slack under Madara’s hands.
Too tired to resist, too weary to fight.
Madara guided him down, shifting him effortlessly until he was lying on his side, curled against the broad, bare chest above him.
The Alpha hadn’t bothered to dress since earlier, his body flushed with a thin sheen of sweat, muscles taut beneath the flickering light of the lantern.
Tobirama’s lashes fluttered, the world turning hazy at the edges as his gaze drifted over the figure above him.
Madara was warm, unbearably so, his skin fever-hot as he pressed lingering kisses down the slope of Tobirama’s collarbone.
From the corner of his vision, Tobirama caught the slow drag of hands over his stomach. Strong, capable hands—hands that had slain countless men—now smoothing over his skin with something dangerously close to tenderness.
He let out a slow, shaky breath.
His body pulsed with exhaustion, yet every nerve seemed attuned to the warmth of those hands. The press of fingertips against his lower belly. The rhythmic kneading against his sore muscles. The deep, steady breaths against his throat.
And through it all, that scent.
Faint at first, but unmistakable.
A lingering trace of charred wood.
It was comforting. Anchoring.
Tobirama closed his eyes.
Let himself sink into the warmth, the hands, the scent that surrounded him.
The scent drifted into Tobirama’s nose again.
Faint at first—just a whisper of woodsmoke, curling at the edges of his awareness.
Tobirama sighed, body lax, sinking deeper into the sheets. It was pleasant, he thought dreamily, that earthy warmth wrapping around him, drawing him under.
But then, something shifted.
The scent thickened, deepened. Charred wood, dark and heady, laced with something richer—something syrupy, dangerously sweet.
A tremor of unease curled at the edges of Tobirama’s mind.
Why was it so strong?
His heavy-lidded gaze flickered open, struggling to focus. The room was dim, shrouded in the amber glow of the lantern. His body was still pressed against the mattress, but something was off.
Where was that scent coming from?
Across from him, Madara was watching.
Dark eyes gleamed, the corner of his lips curling into something indulgent.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
His voice was warm, low—a gentle hum beneath the weight of the air.
Tobirama felt his stomach tighten.
The scent was growing richer, denser. His breath came shallow, unsteady, as if every inhale only pulled more of it into his lungs. The air itself felt thick, heavy with something unseen yet suffocatingly tangible.
It clung to him.
Wrapped around him like an invisible chain.
A kiss landed at the damp hollow of his throat.
Tobirama flinched, but Madara was already moving, pressing another kiss just below his jaw—then another, slower, deeper.
By the time their mouths met, Tobirama’s world was already spinning.
Heat.
Wet.
The slide of lips, the deep press of a tongue, the phantom burn where teeth had been moments before.
Tobirama gasped against it, but the scent drowned him, filled every inch of his lungs, his bloodstream, his very core.
Burnt wood and vanilla.
Heat and smoke.
Honey-laced poison.
A distant memory surfaced—a warning.
“Like honey luring a fly into a trap. Sweet, intoxicating, irresistible—”
“And yet…”
“The moment you get too close—the trap snaps shut.”
A shudder wracked through Tobirama.
A slick tongue traced his lower lip before pressing inside again, slow, coaxing. Madara’s grip was firm at the back of his head, holding him in place as the kiss deepened.
“Every note of that pheromone screams possession.”
“This one is mine. No one else may touch him.”
A bead of cold sweat trailed down Tobirama’s temple.
Tobirama could feel it.
For the first time in his life—he could feel it.
Madara’s pheromones.
Tobirama was drowning.
His lungs were full of it—of him.
Madara’s pheromones pressed in from every side, saturating the air, sinking into his skin, threading into his very breath. Every inhale only drew more of it inside him, wrapping around his ribs, coiling at the base of his spine, unfurling through his bloodstream like a slow, creeping poison.
And the kiss—Gods, the kiss.
Madara’s tongue slid past his lips with deliberate slowness, parting them wider, coaxing him open. The deep press of it curled against his own, hot and insistent, mapping out every inch of his mouth, demanding submission.
The taste was rich, thick, laced with something dark and burning at the edges.
Tobirama shuddered.
The scent wasn’t just in the air anymore.
It was inside him.
Madara’s pheromones weren’t just lingering in the room; they were pressing into him, sinking into his very skin, curling into his breath like a brand that would never wash away.
His limbs felt weightless.
Madara’s pheromones curled in the slick heat between their mouths, clinging to his tongue, sinking into the wetness of his lips. Each drag of their lips, each slick, languid slide of tongue against tongue, only pressed it deeper into him.
Tobirama tried to pull away—tried to breathe—
But Madara chased him down, pressing forward, tilting his chin up with a firm grip. His teeth grazed, then bit, sinking just deep enough to make Tobirama jolt.
A gasp slipped from his lips.
Madara took it.
Swallowed it whole.
The kiss turned messy, feverish, all slick heat and slow, thorough devastation. The longer it lasted, the heavier the air became—the thicker the scent grew—until Tobirama didn’t know if the dizziness came from the lack of oxygen or the crushing weight of pheromones suffocating his senses.
His chest heaved.
His head spun.
For a fleeting, delirious moment, he genuinely thought he might die.
Would he suffocate first?
Or would he drown in pheromones before he even had the chance?
His breath broke on a soft, strangled noise when Madara finally pulled away.
A single strand of saliva stretched between them before breaking.
Tobirama barely registered it. He was shaking.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven pants, lips swollen, slick with the remnants of Madara’s heat.
His body felt weightless—no, unsteady. Every inch of him thrummed, too aware of the lingering taste on his tongue, the phantom press of lips against his own.
A lingering swipe of tongue against his lower lip, a final press of lips against the corner of his mouth.
A warm palm smoothed through his hair, fingers threading through damp strands before settling at the nape of his neck. A quiet hum, a lingering stroke of fingertips, then—
“Sleep.”
A thumb brushed his cheek. Tobirama’s body shivered involuntarily at the warmth behind it.
“I’ll take a bath and come back to you.”
A final kiss, barely a press of lips against his temple.
Then, the weight lifted.
The air shifted.
Tobirama forced his gaze to follow, barely registering the sound of footsteps, the creak of the door. The moment Madara disappeared beyond it, the silence that settled was too thick, too full—and yet, he was still there.
Still in the sheets.
Still in the air.
Still on him.
His trembling fingers curled into the mattress.
His breath came shallow, uneven.
All around him, the scent remained.
It clung to the walls.
It soaked into the sheets.
It lingered in his lungs.
And for the first time—for the first time—a Beta like him could feel what it meant to feel an Alpha’s pheromones.
.
.
.
It was only Madara.
No matter where he was, no matter what time of day—it was always only Madara.
At first, Tobirama thought it was just exhaustion. A trick of the mind. An aftereffect of their nights together, or perhaps even the pregnancy itself warping his senses.
But it never went away.
Every morning, the moment Tobirama opened his eyes, it was there—lingering.
The scent of burnt wood, of slow-smoldering embers, thick and inescapable, curling around him like a second skin.
Even now, the phantom warmth of Madara’s last touch still clung to his lips, as if the man had kissed his scent into them, pressing it down, sealing it there.
A sweet trap, spun from smoke and honey.
Tobirama’s breath came slow, measured—but the scent only deepened.
He was drowning in it again.
How?
How could this be happening?
His fingers curled into the sheets, tremors running down his spine. This—this shouldn’t be possible.
He was a Beta.
A Beta.
And yet—
For the first time, Tobirama didn’t need his chakra to sense Madara anymore.
He only needed the scent.
One inhale, and he knew.
Madara was near.
The realization struck him cold.
Had it always been this way?
Was that why—
Tobirama’s breath hitched. His stomach twisted.
He understood now.
He understood why all Omegas he knew had started avoiding him.
The wary glances. The stiff, cautious distance. The sudden hesitance whenever he stood too close.
It wasn’t personal.
It was the scent.
His entire body reeked of Madara.
Even now, after waking, after hours spent apart, the scent was still there—sunk deep into his skin, woven into his hair, soaking into every fiber of his being.
It wouldn’t leave him.
Just like how Madara wouldn’t leave him.
The weight of it pressed down on him.
And suddenly, Tobirama understood everything.
He understood why the Hyūga Alpha had spat those words at him in disgust.
Madara’s whore.
A slow, sickening realization curled in his gut.
Had he been claimed without knowing?
Had Madara marked him so thoroughly—so deeply—that even Tobirama himself hadn’t noticed?
Had he—
Had he let it happen?
His fingers clenched tighter around the sheets, his shoulders trembling with something he didn’t know how to name.
Tobirama curled inward.
For the first time in a long time—he felt small.
And for the first time in his life—he felt filthy.
So, so filthy.
Tobirama felt miserable.
The weight of an arm, firm and unyielding, wrapped around his waist from behind. Warm breath fanned against the back of his neck, steady and deep, as the Alpha behind him slept, utterly unbothered.
Madara’s scent filled every inch of the room. Even in sleep, his pheromones pulsed in waves, thick and inescapable.
At least it was weaker now.
At least when he was asleep, it wasn’t as suffocating—wasn’t as overwhelming—wasn’t as wickedly intoxicating.
But it was still there.
Always there.
Tobirama lay still, eyes open, staring into the dark.
Ever since the day he realized he could smell Madara—truly smell him—he had been afraid.
Afraid of what it meant.
Afraid of what it made him.
A Beta wasn’t supposed to perceive an Alpha’s pheromones this way.
A Beta wasn’t supposed to—
Tobirama’s breath hitched, shame curling deep in his gut.
It wasn’t just that he could smell it.
He reacted to it.
That was the worst part.
Every inhale—every slow, involuntary breath—dragged that scent deeper into his lungs.
The phantom taste of it lingered on his tongue, clinging to the back of his throat like the aftershock of a drug.
And worse—so much worse—
It felt good.
A slow, creeping heat pooled in his stomach, and Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to betray him no further.
He was sick.
Sick.
Something was wrong with him.
Because no matter how much he told himself to resist it—no matter how much he willed himself to feel nothing—his body responded.
Every time Madara pulled him close.
Every time the scent of burning wood and vanilla wrapped around him like chains.
Every time—every single time—
Tobirama wanted.
And he was disgusted with himself for it.
The child in his stomach stirred, shifting, and Tobirama forced a breath through clenched teeth.
How fitting.
Even the baby knew.
Even the baby obeyed Madara’s scent.
It knew how to respond to its father’s pheromones.
Tobirama bit down on his lower lip, fighting the sting behind his eyes.
But he wasn’t an Omega.
He wasn’t.
And yet—
Madara’s arm tightened around him in sleep, pulling him just a fraction closer.
Tobirama felt his chest ache with something he couldn’t name.
He couldn’t keep living like this.
Couldn’t keep pretending this wasn’t happening.
Couldn’t keep pretending this wasn’t changing him.
Because the truth—the real truth—
Was that he wasn’t sure he wanted it to stop.
And it seemed—no, it was certain now—that Tobirama could only perceive one scent.
Madara’s.
Nothing else.
Nothing but him.
Tobirama was terrified.
The realization had crept up on him slowly, agonizingly, in the quiet hours of the night, in the stillness of dawn.
At first, he thought it was a trick of his senses—a mistake.
But the truth was far worse.
It had become inescapable.
Now, he knew where Madara’s scent was the strongest—knew exactly where it lingered, thick and heady, like a brand burned into his skin.
The nape of his neck.
The curve of his throat.
The sharp edges of his collarbones.
His wrists.
His ankles.
And worst of all—
His thighs.
Tobirama trembled.
That wasn’t normal.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
And yet—
Yet, whenever Madara returned from a battle, or a long day of exertion—whenever the Alpha’s body ran hot with lingering adrenaline and sweat—Tobirama felt thirsty.
A deep, aching thirst.
The kind that made his tongue feel too dry.
The kind that made his lips part, involuntarily, like a starving man salivating at the sight of food.
Disgusting.
The thought alone was enough to send another wave of shame rolling through his chest.
How had he fallen so low?
How had he become this?
He should be fighting this.
He should be resisting—should be rejecting the way his body craved.
But it was hard.
It was so hard.
And Madara’s heat was wrapped around him, suffocating in the way it always was, in the way it always would be.
The Alpha’s arm was draped over him, lax in sleep, and Gods, he felt feverish beneath its weight.
It was too much.
And yet, not enough.
His body knew before his mind could stop him—knew before he could summon the restraint that had already begun slipping through his fingers.
Carefully—so carefully—Tobirama lifted Madara’s arm.
Just enough.
Just enough to bring the fabric of his sleeve close—just enough to press his nose to the skin beneath.
Just enough to breathe.
Heat licked up his spine, pooling low in his stomach, and a quiet sound escaped his throat.
Ah—
There it was.
Tobirama exhaled, shaking.
And when he inhaled again, it was deep and desperate.
Ah—there.
A low, helpless sound escaped Tobirama’s throat.
There it was.
Madara’s scent.
Tobirama could feel it—could taste it—where it clung to the Alpha’s wrist.
It was thick, warm, lingering.
Gods, he wanted more.
More of this scent, more of this warmth, more of this unbearable, suffocating presence that pressed into his lungs like smoke.
It smelled so good.
Too good.
Too much.
But no matter how much he took, it was never enough.
His breath hitched, but he moved carefully—so carefully—mindful of the Alpha sleeping behind him.
He had to be quiet.
Had to be light.
Had to keep his movements small, so he wouldn’t wake Madara from sleep.
Tobirama needed this.
His body burned with it—with the craving.
When he inhaled again, it was deep and slow, dragging the scent of woodsmoke deep into his chest, until his ribs ached from the pressure of holding it in.
Tobirama needed more.
So, he moved.
It was difficult—painful—with the weight of his stomach making each motion awkward and unbalanced.
But eventually—finally—he managed to turn onto his side, his face mere inches from where Madara slept.
The Alpha’s breathing was slow. Even.
Tobirama’s throat went dry.
With a trembling hand, he reached out, tugging at the fabric of Madara’s robe, pulling it just enough to expose the column of his throat.
And then—helplessly, desperately—he pressed his nose to the newly bared skin.
Gods.
Yes.
Tobirama shuddered.
The scent of Madara was stronger here—richer, deeper.
Better.
Like sweet, burning wood.
Tobirama’s eyes fluttered shut, and before he could stop himself, he pressed in closer, sinking into the warmth.
It felt so good.
Too good.
His mind swam in it, drowned in it, and by the time he realized what had happened—what his body had done—it was already too late.
His cock was hard.
Stiff, aching, leaking.
Heat coiled deep in his stomach, sharp and unbearable, and it was then—only then—that the horror set in.
This wasn’t normal.
This wasn’t right.
This was—
Gods.
Tobirama’s breath hitched, and his fingers dug into the sheets beneath him.
He wanted more.
Even now, his body screamed for it, for more.
More heat.
More pressure.
More scent.
More Madara.
Tobirama pulled at Madara’s robe, desperate to bury himself deeper into the scent.
It wasn’t enough.
Not here.
The pheromones weren’t strong enough at his throat—not where he needed them.
Somewhere else.
Somewhere lower.
His fingers twitched.
And before he could stop himself, he reached.
Tobirama’s hand moved without thought, searching, searching—until his fingertips brushed over the thick, heated outline of Madara’s cock through his pants.
His breath stilled.
There.
The warmth of it pulsed beneath his touch, even through the fabric, radiating heat and scent—more, more, more.
Tobirama’s fingers curled.
He could take it.
Could press his face against it, sink into it, breathe in until he drowned in the scent, until his lungs ached from the weight of it, until—
Tobirama froze.
His breath hitched, sharp.
What—?
What was he doing?
A horrible jolt of clarity surged through him, tearing through the thick haze of need.
His fingers, shaking, guilty, desperate, hovered at Madara’s waistband, only a breath away from undoing it—
Gods.
His body moved before he could think.
Tobirama jerked back.
His breath came out in shallow, panicked gasps, heart hammering so violently it threatened to shake him apart.
He stared.
Madara’s collar was undone—his robe askew, his scent heavy.
But the Alpha hadn’t stirred.
He was still sleeping, breath slow, deep, unbothered.
Unaware of what Tobirama had just done.
Tobirama’s stomach twisted.
Why?
Why was he like this?
Why had he reached for it? Why had he felt so starved for more?
Why had his body moved on its own—like some desperate, depraved thing?
Panic coiled hot in his gut.
Tobirama staggered away.
Then he ran.
His feet carried him backward, away, away, away, until his back hit the cold bathroom door.
His pulse was pounding in his ears, deafening, suffocating.
Tobirama braced both hands against the sink, his legs trembling beneath him.
Breathe.
He couldn’t.
His body ached.
His cock—hard, dripping, desperate—
Tobirama sobbed.
Gods, what was wrong with him?
His fingers shook as he clutched the edge of the sink, his whole body breaking into an uncontrollable tremor.
This was—
This was wrong.
It had to be.
But the moment he’d inhaled Madara’s pheromones, the moment his body had reacted—
It was like something inside him had cracked open.
Like something ugly had slithered out.
Like he’d lost control of himself completely.
Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut.
His cock throbbed, demanding—needy.
Tobirama gasped for breath, his body trembling, his mind screaming at him to stop—stop—stop.
But it was too late.
The hunger, the need, the craving, had already taken root in his bones, curling into every aching nerve, twisting his insides into something raw, something ugly, something unrecognizable.
And the worst part—the part that made his throat tighten with shame—
Was that some part of him still wanted to go back.
Still wanted to crawl back into that bed.
Still wanted to bury his face against Madara’s cock, inhale him, drown in him, taste him.
Still wanted to press his tongue against the thick heat beneath his waistband—lick, suck, take, until the salt of Madara’s arousal coated his tongue, until every inch of him reeked of the Alpha’s scent, until—
No.
Tobirama choked on a sob.
His breath came out ragged, broken, his nails digging into the soft fabric of Madara’s robe—
Madara’s robe.
He still had it on.
Tobirama froze.
The scent of it hit him all at once—smoke, sweat, something dark and smoldering, something that burned into his lungs and set every nerve in his body alight.
It was everywhere.
Madara was everywhere.
And then—his body moved on its own.
A shudder wracked through him as his fingers trembled at his waistband, yanking down his pants, freeing his aching, leaking cock.
His whole body was flushed—too hot, too tight, too desperate.
His stomach, swollen with the baby, made it difficult to move, made it clumsy, but he didn’t care.
Didn’t care how pathetic he looked, hunched over the sink, panting like an animal in heat, his hand wrapping around his own cock, fisting himself with urgent, frantic strokes.
The room spun.
His breath hitched, broken and shaky, his swollen belly shifting with each uneven tug.
But—why?
Why couldn’t he—?
Why wasn’t it—?
Why wasn’t he coming?
His strokes faltered, frustration clawing at his throat.
Tobirama whimpered—a horrible, choked sound—his whole body trembling with the unbearable, overwhelming, agonizing tension.
More.
He needed—more.
His fingers clenched around the fabric of Madara’s robe, dragging it to his face, desperate, starved.
And then he breathed.
Deep.
Greedy.
The scent—thick, cloying, dizzying—flooded his senses.
Pheromones.
Madara’s pheromones.
Heavy, intoxicating, overpowering.
Tobirama whimpered again, his lips parting, his throat tightening, his stomach clenching with shame as his hips jerked into his own touch.
He stroked himself harder.
Faster.
The robe—Madara’s robe—was pressed to his nose, and he breathed it in like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
His lashes fluttered.
His thighs shook.
His body curled in on itself, shaking, needy, pathetic—
And then—he came.
His whole body convulsed, shaking violently, pleasure crashing through him in sharp, unbearable waves. His breath left him in ragged, shuddering gasps, his thighs trembling, his stomach tightening, his fingers sticky with his own release.
It took him a moment to remember where he was.
To remember what he had just done.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, erratic breaths. His arms felt weak, his legs felt useless, and for a brief, terrifying second, he couldn’t move.
Then, as the high faded, as the thick fog of arousal began to lift—
He saw it.
The mirror.
The pathetic, ruined reflection staring back at him.
And he didn’t recognize it.
The man in the mirror was disheveled, ruined, trembling on the cold bathroom floor.His hair was damp with sweat, white strands sticking to his forehead. His eyes were red-rimmed, wide with horror, with disbelief, with something raw and ugly and unrecognizable.
His lips were swollen, like he’d been biting them too hard, like he’d been desperate for something he shouldn’t want.
His clothes were in disarray, his yukata slipping off one shoulder, baring the curve of his collarbone.
His pregnant stomach, swollen and heavy, looked utterly obscene paired with the slick wetness staining his inner thighs.
And worst of all—
His hands.
His hands, still shaking, still wet.
His own seed was smeared across his fingers.
Tobirama stared.
And stared.
And stared.
As if he were looking at a stranger.
Who is that?
That couldn’t be him.
That wasn’t him.
It—it couldn’t be.
Because Senju Tobirama was not this.
He was not this broken, trembling, disgusting creature.
He was not someone who would press his face into a shirt soaked in the scent of the man who had ruined him, who had stolen everything from him, who had forced a child into his belly.
He was not someone who would rut into his own hand, desperate, shaking, his mind drowning in Madara, Madara, Madara—
He was not this weak.
Tobirama’s breath hitched.
How had it come to this?
How—how had he let himself sink this low?
How had he become this?
His breath was uneven, ragged, every inhale trembling with something too sharp, too ugly, too unbearable. His body was still shuddering, still burning, his release warm and sticky between his trembling fingers.
He turned away from the mirror, but it was too late.
The image was already burned into the back of his skull, a wretched, permanent stain.
And it was because of him.
Because of Madara.
Tobirama shook his head, violently, desperately, as if he could somehow force the thought out, as if he could somehow cleanse himself of the shame curling like filth beneath his skin.
But the scent was still there.
Clinging to him.
Suffocating him.
Madara.
His pheromones still lingered on his lips, in his lungs, in the very air around him.
His body was still aching for more.
More of Madara’s scent.
More of the intoxicating pheromones that made his body ache, his mind fog over, his skin itch for something more, something unbearable, something he didn’t want to name.
More of Madara.
Tobirama could still smell it.
Pheromones thick in his lungs, coating his tongue, clinging to his skin like filth. He could still taste it, still feel the ghost of it on his lips, inside him, everywhere.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the scent wouldn’t go away.
His fingers were still trembling with the memory of touching himself to that scent.
Tobirama let out a broken, choked sound.
His vision blurred.
And then—he was crying.
Hot, silent, endless tears.
Tears of shame.
Tears of self-hatred.
Tears of horror, because some part of him still wanted to go back—still wanted to bury his face against Madara’s skin, still wanted to breathe him in, still wanted—
No.
Tobirama covered his mouth, as if that alone could stop the ragged, humiliating sobs from spilling out.
But it was too late.
He had already become this.
He had already been ruined.
Hadn’t the Hyuga Alpha said so?
A whore.
A disgusting, depraved whore.
A broken thing, ruined beyond repair, nothing but a bitch starved for an Alpha’s touch, desperate to be bred.
And wasn’t it true?
Hadn’t he just proven it?
Hadn’t he just—
Tobirama’s hands were trembling as he pressed them against the floor, trying to push himself up, trying to breathe past the panic thick in his throat.
But his knees gave out.
He collapsed back down, his breath hitching violently, his whole body shaking.
Tobirama gasped, curling in on himself, his forehead pressing against the cold, unforgiving tiles of the bathroom floor.
His chest heaved.
A sob broke past his lips.
Then another.
And another.
Until he couldn’t stop them anymore.
Tears spilled down his cheeks—hot, endless, uncontrollable.
No—
No, no, no, no—
This wasn’t him.
It couldn’t be him.
Then why did it feel like it was?
Tobirama let out a silent scream, his fingers digging into his own skin, his nails scratching, clawing, desperate to tear it off.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
He would never be able to.
Madara’s scent was inside him.
It was everywhere.
And that—
That was the most terrifying thing of all.