the one

“Alpha, fuck me.”

The Omega crawled forward, drenched in desperate need, voice sickly sweet, pleading.

Tobirama stood frozen, watching the scene unfold before him.

Madara stood between him and the Omega, shielding him. His grip on Tobirama’s wrist was firm.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t.

Madara let go.

Tobirama’s arm fell limp at his side, empty, as Madara took a step forward.

Then another.

Closing the distance between him and that Omega.

Tobirama’s fingers twitched, a fleeting impulse—an instinct—to reach out, to grab, to stop him.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Why did it hurt?

The sound of rushing water filled the air. The icy splash hit his skin as Tobirama bent over the sink, hands trembling against the porcelain.

At some point, exhaustion must have taken over. His body felt sluggish, his mind clouded

Tobirama had been working through documents, eyes dragging over inked lines, body weighed down by the sheer monotony of it all. He must have drifted off. And, that wretched dream came to claim him.

Even now, fully awake, the remnants of it clung to him like smoke, curling deep into his lungs, refusing to let go. His chest ached, seared from the inside out, as though the emotions from the dream had been carved into his very bones.

And the worst part was, the emotions from that dream lingered.

Raw. Clawing. Devastating.

Even now, standing in the bathroom, his chest tightened, breath coming in shallow gasps. His stomach churned with unease, an ache that had nothing to do with the pregnancy.

Desperate, Tobirama scooped another handful of water and flung it over his face, the cold biting against his feverish skin.

But no matter how much he tried to shake it off, the feeling wouldn’t leave.

The hurt stayed.

The sound of water echoed through the empty bathroom.

A steady stream poured from the faucet, pooling in his trembling hands before cascading down, some of it soaking into his sleeves, some of it splashing against his face.

And yet, the dampness trailing down his cheeks—wasn’t just from the water.

Tobirama’s breath hitched.

A sharp, burning sensation crawled up his nose, behind his eyes. His throat clenched as his body betrayed him yet again, wringing tears from him like an open wound.

Why?

Why was it like this?

Tobirama swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white, trying to steady himself, to regain control.

But his body—his own fucking body—had stopped listening to him long ago.

No matter how much he fought it, it kept yearning.

For Madara.

For the man who had forced himself onto him, who had filled him, who had left him heavy with child—who had turned him into this.

A desperate, insatiable thing.

Near the final months of pregnancy, the weight of the baby bore down on him with relentless intensity. It pressed against his spine, against his ribs, making every movement sluggish, making every breath feel like too much and not enough at the same time.

Tobirama lowered his head, shoulders trembling as silent tears spilled down.

And yet—

Yet, he knew.

He had always known.

No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he understood one thing: If Madara never let him go, he would never escape.

That was the cruel truth.

However, the bond between an Alpha and an Omega was unbreakable.

Someday, Madara would find the one he was truly meant to be with.

His fated Omega.

Tobirama had read about it, had witnessed it in others.

It was nature—inescapable, inevitable.

When that happened, all of this—all of him—would become irrelevant. Madara wouldn’t have a reason to keep him anymore.

He was just a Beta.

That was all he had ever been.

A Beta, made into nothing more than a tool for an Alpha’s pleasure. A body to be used, a body that could be discarded the moment it was no longer wanted.

It had never been about him.

It had never been about choice.

Madara had taken him because it was convenient. Because at that moment, Tobirama had been the most practical option, the most accessible thing for him to claim.

And just as easily as Madara had taken him, one day, he would let go.

Because that was what Alphas did.

They moved on.

They found their true mates—their Omegas—the ones they were meant to have.

And when that day came, Madara’s hands finally loosened their hold on him.

And that should have been a relief.

Tobirama should have been grateful for it, for the freedom that would come. He had always told himself he would leave. That he would be free.

But now—

Now, he didn’t know.

Now, Tobirama’s body burned with a craving he despised, with a hunger that refused to be extinguished. He knew what would happen when Madara found his destined mate. He knew Madara’s attention—his touch, his scent, his presence—would shift to them, away from him.

And what would that leave him with?

Tobirama let out a shuddering breath, biting down hard to silence the quiet sob clawing its way up his throat.

He had become something pathetic.

Something disgusting.

Madara had forced him into this marriage, had made him stay, had shaped his body into something unrecognizable—something wretched. Madara had turned Tobirama into a thing that craved the Alpha, that ached in Madara’s absence, that burned with a hunger so humiliating it made Tobirama sick.

And Madara would always have the choice to walk away.

He was an Alpha—his future was not bound to Tobirama.

One day, he would find his fated mate, his true Omega, and when that day came, Tobirama would be discarded, abandoned like something broken and used up.

And then what would be left of him?

What would he be?

A hollow, ruined shell.

A ghost of something that never should have existed.

A body that no longer belonged to him. A body ruined beyond repair.

A body that had been shaped for an Alpha’s pleasure, now stripped of its purpose.

A tool that had outlived its usefulness.

A mistake, left to wither in the wake of something stronger, something real.

A body forever marked by the absence of the man who had destroyed it.

Tobirama was nothing. He had always been nothing.

And he knew—he had always known—that this was how it would end.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it?

The thought made his chest tighten. His throat burned. The sting behind his eyes became unbearable, and before he could stop himself, his vision blurred again.

With a sharp breath, Tobirama turned off the faucet and pressed his damp hands against his face, wiping away the moisture clinging to his skin.

Maybe it was just the exhaustion talking.

Tobirama hadn’t been sleeping. That much was undeniable. It was impossible to rest with Madara beside him, holding him, scenting him. Every night, his body burned, sensitive and needy, roused into a restless state of longing the moment Madara’s pheromones filled his lungs.

It was revolting.

He was pregnant. He was carrying Madara’s child. His body should be focused on that, and yet—it still wanted. It still craved.

Like some depraved animal in heat.

Like some desperate, insatiable whore.

And the worst part? It was only exhaustion that ever saved him.

Only when dawn approached, when his body had been worn thin by the sheer agony of want, did sleep finally claim him, dragging him into unconsciousness like a mercy.

Maybe he could rest in his office for a while. Even an hour would be enough.

Tobirama’s head was throbbing, his body weak. If he didn’t get some sleep soon, he was certain he would go mad.

With a heavy breath, Tobirama stepped out of the bathroom.

On his way back to his study, Tobirama passed by the balcony and heard the sounds from the courtyard below.

Curious despite himself, Tobirama stepped closer, resting a hand on the railing.

Down in the garden, beneath the midday sun, Madara and Hashirama were sparring. A crowd had gathered to watch.

It was a rare sight—two of the most formidable warriors of their time, locked in combat once more. Since the peace, Hashirama had been consumed with the duties of Hokage, and Madara, when he wasn’t out on missions, rarely had reason to engage in real combat within the village.

To witness them fight now was an event, a spectacle.

Tobirama’s gaze fell upon them.

Hashirama struck, a powerful blow meant to stagger, but Madara met it with fluid precision, redirecting the force and sending Hashirama skidding back across the courtyard.

The fight paused.

Both men breathed hard, their chests rising and falling, sweat glistening on their skin.

Madara stood with his back turned to Tobirama, bare from the waist up, muscles taut beneath the golden sheen of perspiration.

Even from this distance, from this height, Tobirama could feel it—the thick, suffocating heat of Madara’s pheromones rising into the air, curling toward him like invisible tendrils, filling his lungs, wrapping around his very being.

Tobirama’s mouth went dry.

The scent was overwhelming, burning into him like a fever, lighting up every nerve in his body.

A bead of sweat traced a slow path down the curve of Madara’s spine.

Tobirama swallowed.

He wanted—gods, he wanted—to be down there. To be closer. To press his tongue to that damp skin and follow the salt-stained trail with his lips, to taste the warmth of Madara’s body, to drink in every last drop of him.

His fingers twitched against his lips. His breath came unsteady, shallow.

This wasn’t right.

It wasn’t right.

Yet his body ached with the craving.

“Did everyone see that clearly?” Madara’s voice rang out across the courtyard. “This is how you drive back an opponent.”

The gathered shinobi nodded in unison, absorbing his every word like dutiful students.

Off to the side, Hashirama pushed himself up, brushing dust from his clothes with a lopsided grin.

“Or maybe,” Hashirama mused, flexing his fingers as he prepared to engage again, “I just imagined it, but your strikes don’t feel quite the same, Madara. Could it be? Has the mighty tiger of the Uchiha gone soft and turned into a housecat?”

A ripple of amusement passed through the onlookers.

Madara only laughed, tilting his head back slightly, the sound deep and careless.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, pushing it away from his face.

“Perhaps,” Madara mused, rolling his shoulders before cracking his neck with a satisfied exhale.

“After all, I’m a man with a family now.” Madara said, voice carrying easily across the courtyard. “I need to take care of my body—if something happens to me, who else will be there to look after my wife?”

The words were smooth, almost casual, but the moment they left his lips, Madara turned. The shift was subtle but absolute. The way his body turned, the way his focus narrowed—it was deliberate.

Madara’s gaze lifted.

And it found him.

Tobirama.

Madara’s eyes held him there, unwavering, sharp as a blade pressed to the throat.

Tobirama froze, caught completely off guard.

He hadn’t expected Madara to look up, hadn’t expected to meet his eyes so directly, so suddenly. A moment ago, he had been nothing more than an observer, a ghost behind the balcony rail.

Now, under Madara’s scrutiny, Tobirama felt exposed.

Down below, the gathered shinobi began to stir, their attention slowly following Madara’s. Tobirama could feel the weight of their stares.

And yet, none of it compared to Madara’s gaze.

Dark, smoldering, burning right through him—like an open flame licking at dry kindling, eager to devour.

Tobirama’s breath faltered.

His body was still flushed, still restless from the lingering effects of heat and hunger that had clawed at him moments ago, and now—now he was caught beneath his eyes, the very man responsible for this humiliating state.

Madara knew he was there.

There was something about the way Madara was looking at him, something unbearably intimate.

As if he could see through the walls of Tobirama’s mind.

As if he already knew what filth had festered there, what shame had curled its way into his bones.

As if Tobirama belonged to him.

The realization sent a jolt of panic through Tobirama.

Without hesitation, he turned sharply, retreating from the balcony as quickly as his body would allow.

His steps were unsteady, his pulse hammering in his throat, but he forced himself forward, refusing to stop until he reached the safety of his chambers.

The door shut with a quiet click, sealing him away from the world outside.

Only then did Tobirama allow himself to breathe.

His chest rose and fell, his swollen belly rising with each heavy gasp.

The ache hadn’t subsided.

The shame hadn’t faded.

Tobirama had to sleep. His body was too heavy, too exhausted from the weight of pregnancy, every movement dragging like lead.

Slowly, he moved toward his desk. His hands reached down, fumbling beneath it. There, hidden away, was a small cushion. Carefully, Tobirama pulled it out, smoothing it against the floor.

Then, without hesitation, he crawled underneath.

It was an effort, maneuvering his swollen body into the cramped space, but he managed. He curled up tightly, knees pressing close, limbs tucking inward in a silent attempt to make himself smaller.

Less noticeable.

Less real.

The air was thick, the remnants of Madara’s pheromones still clinging to his senses. They lingered in his lungs, in his skin, in the very fabric of the room, suffocating yet inescapable.

He could have chosen the sofa. It would have been easier, more comfortable.

But that would make him visible.

If someone entered and didn’t see him right away, perhaps they would leave him alone. Perhaps they would assume he had gone elsewhere and spare him the effort of existing in their presence.

Tobirama just wanted to disappear.

To retreat so deeply into himself that no one could find him.

Like before.

Like when he was small, when his father and Hashirama left to train for the battlefield, leaving him behind with nothing but the cruel company of other children.

They had taunted him. Called him names. Beaten him for his pale skin, for his hair, for being a Beta.

They had mocked him for being less.

He could have gone to his mother, but she had been pregnant then, carrying his younger brother. He hadn’t wanted to trouble her, hadn’t wanted to be a burden.

So Tobirama had learned to hide.

He had found small, quiet places where no one would think to look. Dark corners, narrow spaces, places where the world couldn’t reach him.

Eventually, he had escaped that life.

His father had finally allowed him onto the battlefield, and with blood and steel and unwavering will, he had carved out his own place in the clan. He had promised himself—sworn—that no matter what, he would endure.

That he would never be that powerless child again.

And yet—here he was.

Curled up beneath a desk, pressing himself into the cramped darkness like he could disappear into it.

Pregnant.

Carrying the child of the man who had forced himself onto him, of the man who had violated him.

How had he come full circle?

How had it come to this?

A lifetime of struggle, of clawing his way forward, of refusing to break—and now, it was as if none of it had mattered. As if everything he had endured, everything he had suffered to prove himself, had only led him right back to where he started.

Trapped. Small. Helpless.

Like that child Tobirama used to be.

How had a lifetime of struggle led him back here?

Tobirama lay on his side, his body instinctively curling inward, as if trying to shield something that had long since been taken from him. His fingers clenched weakly into the fabric beneath him, gripping the rough texture of the cushion.

His chest ached. His throat burned.

And still—his mind wouldn’t let go.

Why was he remembering this now?

The years of hiding, of learning how to vanish when no one wanted to see him, of forcing himself to be strong because no one would do it for him.

All of it, all the pain, all the loneliness—why did it all come rushing back now?

A bitter sound caught in his throat, something between a breath and a sob.

Tobirama shut his eyes. His fingers curled against his stomach, cradling the weight of his undoing.

Tobirama’s eyes stung. His breath shook.

A slow, silent tear slid down his cheek.

Then another.

And another.

Tears slid silently down his face.

He couldn’t stop them.

He couldn’t stop any of it.

The past, the memories, the crushing weight of everything he had fought so hard to escape—

It was all here.

And there was nowhere left to run.

Maybe, if he let the exhaustion take him, if he let himself sink deep enough, sleep would swallow him whole.

Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut. So he let the exhaustion take him.

Let himself slip into the only kind of peace left to him.

.

.

.

Thirsty. So thirsty.

Tobirama’s throat burned like it was being scorched from the inside out.

He needed water.

But there was none.

The world around him was nothing but darkness—deep, endless, suffocating. He was falling, spiraling down into it, weightless, untethered, drowning in the absence of light.

Something writhed inside his throat, a crawling sensation like a thousand tiny insects swarming through his windpipe. He gasped, choking, clawing at his own neck as if he could tear the feeling out with his bare hands.

Then—

An oasis.

A glimmer of silver-blue in the abyss.

Tobirama lurched forward, scrambling toward it on weak, trembling limbs. The ground beneath him felt like nothing—like mist, like illusion—but the oasis was real. It had to be.

He collapsed at the edge of the water, dipping his hands into its shimmering depths. Cool. Clear. The relief was unbearable.

Without hesitation, he plunged his face into it, gulping down mouthfuls in a desperate frenzy.

But it wasn’t enough.

The water rushed down his throat, filled his mouth, slid past his lips—yet the thirst did not fade.

If anything, it only grew worse.

He drank and drank and drank, but his throat still burned, his body still ached, the hunger inside him still clawed and gnawed and begged for more.

Tobirama.

A voice.

Distant. Echoing through the darkness.

He ignored it. He didn’t care. He needed more.

Tobirama bent down again, lips parting to take in another mouthful—

Tobirama.

The voice was clearer this time, firmer.

Then—pain.

Something yanked at his scalp, fingers curling deep into his hair, pulling him back so sharply his neck snapped backward. A shock of white-hot agony spread from his skull down to his spine, and he let out a broken, strangled gasp.

Tears pricked his eyes. His breath hitched. His body went rigid.

The darkness shattered.

Blinding light poured into his vision, so bright it was unbearable.

Tobirama’s eyes flew open, his pupils constricting in the sudden glare. His heart pounded, his throat heaved, his chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths.

And there—

The moment shattered.

Tobirama’s eyes snapped open, light flooding in so violently that it burned. His vision swam, blinded by the sheer brightness, the contrast too sharp, too overwhelming after the abyss of his dream. His breath hitched. His chest ached.

Then—

Madara.

The first thing he saw was Madara’s face, sharp and dark against the light.

His mind reeled, awareness crashing into him in broken, fragmented pieces. The room around him came into focus—the sterile walls, the crisp scent of disinfectant—this was the medical ward.

And he—

Tobirama stiffened, realizing something was terribly wrong.

His body—exposed.

His skin prickled with air against bare flesh. His lower half—completely naked. Only his shirt remained, but even that had been pushed up, caught on the swell of his stomach, leaving his chest and belly fully exposed. His thighs were sprawled, spread open where he sat—

On Madara’s lap.

The heat of the Alpha’s bare torso pressed against him. His belly was flush against firm muscle.

And—

His own arousal.

Tobirama’s breath stuttered, horror creeping up his spine.

His cock, stiff and leaking, was grinding against Madara’s abdomen. His lips—numb, tingling—his tongue felt swollen in his mouth.

Tobirama’s mind was blank.

A vast, white emptiness where memory should have been.

“Tobirama,” Madara called again. His arms were still locked around Tobirama’s waist, his grip firm but careful. Madara’s lips—slightly swollen, a raw flush on them, as though they had been bitten, sucked—

Tobirama recoiled.

A shudder ran through him, cold and violent.

He didn’t know how he got here.

He didn’t know what had happened.

The last thing he remembered—he had curled up under his desk, wrapping himself into the smallest space possible, trying to sleep.

But now—

Now he was here, bare and trembling in Madara’s lap.

Tobirama’s breath came in short, erratic bursts. Panic surged through him, sharp and nauseating.

“Tobirama, are you alright?” Madara asked, voice low, cautious. He leaned in, dark eyes scanning Tobirama’s face for answers.

Tobirama’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. His pulse pounded, erratic, a frantic rhythm drumming beneath his skin.

He didn’t understand.

He didn’t know why he was here—why he was like this, his body betraying him in the worst way possible.

His hands flew to Madara’s chest, shoving with all the strength he could muster.

“Get away,” Tobirama gasped. His limbs felt unsteady, weak, but he pushed anyway—pushed and scrambled until his back hit the wall. Coldness seeped through the fabric of his shirt, sharp against his overheated skin. He pressed himself into it, as if he could disappear into the solid surface, as if he could escape whatever this was—whatever had happened to put him here.

Madara didn’t move to restrain him. He didn’t force Tobirama back.

But the Alpha watched.

His dark, piercing gaze never left Tobirama, taking in every trembling breath, every flinch, every shudder that wracked his body.

“Tobirama,” Madara finally spoke, his voice low, steady. He leaned in slightly, just enough that Tobirama could feel his presence looming close. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Tobirama choked on air. His entire body shook, his chest heaving, but no words came.

Madara shifted forward, slow and deliberate, until he was close enough that Tobirama could feel the warmth radiating off him.

Close enough that his breath ghosted over Tobirama’s skin.

Too close.

Too close.

And then—

Pheromones.

A sudden, suffocating wave of it—thick, overwhelming, Alpha—swelled in the air and crashed over Tobirama’s senses like a tidal wave.

It sank into him, coiling around his nerves, tightening its grip on his body.

No—no, not again—

Tobirama’s breath hitched.

His legs trembled. Heat bloomed low in his stomach, wrong and consuming. A shudder wracked through him, violent, uncontrollable.

His body responded to it.

It always responded to it.

Tobirama clenched his teeth, desperate, furious at himself. He dug his nails into his palm, then bit down hard on his wrist—anything, anything to stop the way his body was reacting.

But it was useless.

The more he fought, the worse it got. The shivers only grew stronger. The need only burned hotter.

No—no, no, no—

He was terrified.

His vision blurred.

“Tobirama.”

Madara’s voice was softer now, almost gentle.

A hand reached toward him.

Tobirama snapped.

“Don’t touch me!” he screamed, slapping Madara’s hand away with all the force he had left. His voice cracked, raw and desperate.

Madara froze.

Tobirama’s entire body trembled, his breath ragged, uneven. His vision swam, but he could still see the way Madara’s brows furrowed slightly.

“Please…” Tobirama’s voice broke. His fingers dug into his own arms, clutching, gripping as if to hold himself together. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Pull back your pheromones. I—I can’t—my body—”

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t—

Tears spilled before he could stop them.

Shame crashed down on him, unbearable, suffocating.

He pressed his hands against his face, as if he could hide from it, as if he could hide from everything.

From himself.

From the way his body betrayed him.

From Madara.

“Please,” Tobirama whispered.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then—

“Tobirama…”

Madara’s voice was different this time.

Just quiet.

Careful.

Like he was realizing something.

“You can feel it,” Madara murmured. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it—an understanding, a realization that sent a shiver down Tobirama’s spine. “My pheromones. You can sense them?”

Tobirama couldn’t answer.

He didn’t want to answer.

But his body—his shaking, pitiful body—was already betraying him.

Tobirama’s sobs only grew harder. He tried to curl in on himself, as if that could make it stop.

As if that could make any of this stop.

“Tobirama…” the Alpha repeated, tilting his head slightly. “Could it be… you can sense my pheromones?”

Tobirama choked on his breath.

His chest ached, tight and full, his sobs growing heavier until they spilled from him, raw and unrestrained. His body trembled violently, the weight of his own despair pressing down on him like a crushing tide. Even his swollen belly quaked with the force of his heaving breaths.

“I hate you, Madara!” The words tore from his throat, splintering in the air between them. His voice was thick with anguish, shaking with fury. “I hate you!”

Tears blurred his vision, cascading down his cheeks as his hands clawed at his face, trying to scrub them away. But they wouldn’t stop.

“You did this to me!” Tobirama sobbed, his whole body wracked with tremors. “You—you turned me into this!”

His voice cracked, breaking apart on the weight of his grief.

“I’m a Beta,” Tobirama gasped, his breath hitching, as though saying it aloud would make it true again. As though it would undo everything. As though it would make this nightmare stop.

A Beta wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

A Beta wasn’t supposed to be this.

Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut, his arm trembling as he wiped at his tear-streaked face, but the pain—the shame—only deepened.

“You forced me into this!” Tobirama sobbed, each word drenched in raw emotion, in brokenness, in rage. “I never wanted any of this! You bastard! You monster, Uchiha Madara—”

But his words faltered.

Madara hadn’t interrupted him. Hadn’t spoken over his breakdown. Hadn’t tried to silence him or hold him down, like he always had before.

No—Madara was simply watching.

Watching, silently, as if he were taking in every shattered piece of Tobirama, letting each broken fragment of him sink into the space between them.

Madara’s gaze was unwavering, unreadable, but there was something in the way his eyes followed Tobirama’s every tremble, the way his expression softened—just barely—as if he had seen something there that he hadn’t before.

Then, slow and deliberate, Madara leaned in.

Not to overpower him.

Not to seize him.

But to lower himself—until their eyes were level.

Face to face.

Close enough that Tobirama could see the fine lines of exhaustion beneath Madara’s eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he breathed through his nose as though holding something back.

Madara studied him for a long moment, then spoke.

“…So you can smell it,” he murmured, voice low, almost… awed. “My pheromones.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable.

Something dangerous.

A hunger, a curiosity, a deep, unshakable longing.

Tobirama’s breath caught in his throat.

He hated him.

He hated him so much.

But the worst part, the part that made his stomach twist and his nails dig into his skin—

Was that his body didn’t care.

His body responded to it.

It always responded to Madara.

And Madara knew it.

The realization sat heavy in the air between them, unspoken, inescapable.

Tobirama shuddered, bile rising in his throat.

And Madara…

Madara only smiled.

Madara’s fingers closed around Tobirama’s wrist, firm yet gentle, his touch sending a tremor through Tobirama’s already shaking form. The Beta’s breath hitched, body convulsing with ragged sobs, his face streaked with hot, unrelenting tears.

“So good,” Madara murmured, his voice rich with satisfaction, as though he had just discovered something precious. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over Tobirama’s pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath his skin. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss against Tobirama’s tear-drenched cheek.

Tobirama shuddered violently. His entire body was trembling, wracked with helplessness, with the unbearable sensation pooling in his stomach, with the suffocating weight of it all. And yet—Madara’s warmth was inescapable.

The Alpha exhaled, and just like that—

The air grew thick again.

Tobirama gasped, choking on the sudden, overwhelming wave of pheromones wrapping around him like chains, seeping into his skin, his lungs, his very bones.

“No—stop—stop—”

His voice broke. His fists slammed against Madara’s bare chest in desperate bursts, but the Alpha didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Didn’t even acknowledge the feeble resistance, as if Tobirama’s struggling was nothing more than a child’s tantrum.

Instead, he only smiled.

And kissed him again.

A soft, featherlight kiss against his wet cheek. Then another, just below his jaw.

“Stop—stop it!” Tobirama shrieked, his fingers curling into fists, nails biting into his palms. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic intervals. “Pull it back—pull your damnpheromones back—”

Madara let out a slow, satisfied hum.

“You don’t understand how much I’ve suffered,” he whispered, and Tobirama could feel his lips brushing against the shell of his ear, every syllable a lingering ghost of warmth against his burning skin.

The next kiss landed against his throat. Then another.

Tobirama’s body betrayed him.

He could feel it happening—his muscles turning lax, his resolve crumbling, his body growing pliant under the tender press of Madara’s lips.

He was melting.

His breathing was becoming shallow, his pulse fluttering against the hand still wrapped around his wrist.

The worst part was—

He could no longer tell whether it was from the exhaustion of crying or the way his body was beginning to crave every touch.

Madara’s lips trailed lower, pressing lazy, scattered kisses against the side of his neck. His warmth was suffocating, his bare chest pressing against Tobirama’s, slick with the remnants of sweat from the earlier training session.

The Alpha smelled of battle—of exertion, of power, of something so deeply, inherently him.

Tobirama clenched his teeth. He didn’t want this. He didn’t.

But his body was betraying him.

Again.

Just like always.

Madara’s fingers traced slow, possessive circles over the small of his back, his voice dipping into something dangerously soft.

“They say pregnancy heightens a Beta’s senses.” A hand drifted lower, pressing against the curve of Tobirama’s spine. “That the further along they are, the more they start reacting to the scent of their mate.”

Tobirama whimpered.

Madara exhaled against his throat, his touch caressing, almost gentle. “I had started to lose hope, you know?” he murmured. “You’re already so far along… yet you never reacted to me.”

His voice was nearly petulant, like a lover sulking over an unreciprocated affection.

Tobirama wanted to scream at him.

But his voice—his body—his very will—

Everything was giving out.

His mind was a haze of heat, of exhaustion, of something far, far more insidious curling around his limbs and pulling him down. His breath stuttered. His fingers trembled where they weakly clutched Madara’s shoulders.

“But now… finally, you can feel it, can’t you?” Madara’s voice was low, thick with something unspoken. His breath fanned against Tobirama’s feverish skin, his lips pressing against the trembling corner of his mouth.

“Tell me, Tobirama,” the Alpha murmured between kisses, each word laced with something pleading. “Tell me what you feel when my pheromones wrap around you like this.”

Tobirama gasped, his breath shallow, his body betraying him once again. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight. His pulse drummed wildly against his ribs, his body hot and heavy and weak. “I—I don’t—”

“Tell me,” Madara whispered, his voice coaxing, urging, as his hands worked their way down Tobirama’s already disheveled clothing, fingers ghosting over every inch of burning skin. The Beta whimpered, his body curling inward, as if to protect what little remained of his dignity.

But Madara wasn’t having it.

“Do you have any idea,” Madara murmured, voice raw, almost wounded, “how much I want you? How much I crave to keep you locked away? Hidden? How my very existence feels like it’s splitting apart because I can’t—because you won’t let me?”

Tobirama gasped as Madara’s fingers splayed across his swollen belly, tracing the taut skin with aching tenderness. “Even now,” Madara murmured, “even when you’re carrying my pup, I—”

He exhaled sharply, voice tight with something that sounded like desperation.

“I live in fear, Tobirama,” the Alpha murmured, his hands tightening ever so slightly over Tobirama’s hips. “Fear that no matter what I do, I can never truly keep you bound to me.”

Tobirama shuddered. His mind was slipping.

It was too much.

The heat.

The scent.

The suffocating need clawing at his very core.

The way Madara was everywhere—around him, inside him, filling up every crevice of his senses until there was nothing left but him.

Tobirama’s voice wavered. “Alpha, please—”

Madara chuckled, his grip growing firm as he kneaded the curve of Tobirama’s ass, his breath scalding as it ghosted over the Beta’s ear.

“Betas are cruel creatures,” the Alpha said. “Do you even realize how cruel you are to me?”

Madara’s cock dragged along his entrance, teasing, coaxing, demanding.

Tobirama barely had the strength to whimper when he felt it—hard, hot, heavy, pressing right against the most sensitive part of him.

Tobirama gasped.

His breath hitched.

His body burned.

His head lolled back, dazed, disoriented, drowning in something too much to fight anymore.

“Tell me, Tobirama,” Madara growled. “What do you need from me?”

The head of Madara’s cock pressed against him again, slick with arousal, rubbing slow and torturous against his heat.

Tobirama trembled. His lips parted. His breath shattered.

His mind—his very soul—was crumbling into nothing.

He no longer knew if the figure above him was a demon or a savior. He no longer cared.

His body arched, his hands reaching blindly for the only thing grounding him in this haze of madness.

His voice, broken and raw, whispered the words before he could stop them—

“Alpha… fuck me.”

Madara stilled.

The room pulsed with heat, thick and suffocating.

Tobirama’s vision blurred. The hunger in Madara’s eyes could swallow him whole.

Then—

A low, dangerous chuckle rumbled from Madara’s throat.

He pressed himself harder against Tobirama, his cock rubbing against his entrance again, teasing, taunting—torturing.

“Say it properly,” Madara murmured. “Tell me—who do you belong to? Who do you want inside you?”

Tobirama gasped, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His mind was slipping, his body giving in, his resolve shattered into dust.

He wanted. He needed. He couldn’t take it anymore.

His fingers curled around Madara’s arms, clinging, desperate.

Tobirama, adrift in feverish delirium, barely processed the words before they spilled from his lips.

“Husband…” His voice broke, a threadbare plea. “With your cock—fuck me, please?”

Madara exhaled sharply, his lips curling into something like a smirk as he let his cock graze against Tobirama’s bare skin, dragging the heat of it along the curve of his thigh.

“Say it properly,” Madara growled. “Who is your husband?”

Tobirama reached for him, blindly, desperately, his fingers trembling as they brushed against Madara’s chest. His mind had been reduced to nothing but raw, pleading need. There was nothing left to hold onto except the truth he knew in his bones.

“Uchiha Madara,” Tobirama choked out, his voice thick with tears. “Uchiha Madara is my husband. You are my husband.”

He had given everything away—his body, his pride, his submission—laid it all bare, like an offering, like a sacrifice. But the man before him remained unmoved, watching him unravel with cool, detached amusement.

Silence.

The air stood still.

Then—

Madara smiled.

“Good,” Madara murmured, tilting Tobirama’s chin up, forcing their gazes to meet. “Then let your husband take care of you.”

Madara moved with unhurried certainty, letting the thick head of his cock press against the tight, resisting entrance between Tobirama’s trembling thighs.

Tobirama gasped, his body seizing up instinctively.

The pressure was unbearable—his breath hitched, his fingers clenching into Madara’s skin as a faint, broken whimper escaped his lips.

“So tight…” Madara hissed through his teeth. His muscles tensed as he forced himself to hold back, just barely. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Tobirama barely registered the question. His breath came in shallow, stuttering gasps.

“Fucking slut,” Madara snarled, his fingers digging hard into the swell of Tobirama’s ass. “Not even wet for me? What, you expect me to force my way in like this?”

Tobirama flinched.

The words struck deep, deeper than the pain of Madara’s grip. His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, the tears began to fall again.

“I’m sorry,” Tobirama whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… please…”

Madara stilled for a moment.

Then, in a sharp contradiction to his words, his lips found Tobirama’s face, pressing slow, languid kisses against the tear-streaked skin. He kissed the heat from his cheeks, the corners of his trembling mouth, the fluttering pulse in his throat.

“Why are you apologizing to me, Tobirama?” Madara murmured against his skin.

Tobirama whimpered, his breath stuttering. His mind felt untethered, slipping further and further from reason.

Madara kissed him again, trailing lower, down the sweat-dampened column of his throat, past the trembling line of his collarbone. He let his lips linger against Tobirama’s chest, his breath warm and slow.

“You only apologize when you’ve done something wrong,” Madara whispered, his mouth ghosting over a taut nipple. “But you haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”

Tobirama shuddered violently as Madara’s tongue flicked out, wet and hot against the sensitive peak. A startled moan escaped him, his body betraying him completely.

Madara chuckled.

“More than that…” Madara murmured against Tobirama’s skin. His hand slid lower, resting over the gentle curve of his swollen belly. “You’re carrying my pup.”

Tobirama froze. His breath hitched sharply, his entire body going rigid beneath Madara’s touch.

“An heir to a kingdom,” Madara said, his voice almost reverent. “You’re holding the future of the Uchiha inside you, my love.”

The words sent a hot, desperate ache blooming inside Tobirama’s chest.

Madara kissed him again—lower, this time. He pressed his lips against the swell of Tobirama’s stomach, lingering there, inhaling deeply as if to stake his claim.

Tobirama felt feverish, dizzy. His body burned, pulsing with something thick and unbearable.

“So even if your pretty little hole won’t get wet for me…” Madara exhaled against the heat between Tobirama’s legs.

His breath ghosted over the trembling entrance, making Tobirama’s entire body jerk in startled anticipation.

“…Your husband still has other ways to make you ready.”

Before Tobirama could protest, Madara’s mouth was on him.

The first wet stroke of his tongue sent a violent shudder through Tobirama’s frame. His back arched, his hands flying to Madara’s hair, fingers tangling helplessly into the dark strands.

“M-Madara—!” His voice cracked, high and desperate.

Madara only hummed in response, pressing his tongue deeper.

And Tobirama, wrecked and overwhelmed, finally, finally shattered.

Madara did not stop.

His tongue traced slow, agonizing circles, teasing, pressing, mapping out every inch of flesh. He licked deep, relentless, letting his breath fan over the flushed skin, dragging obscene, wet sounds from Tobirama’s trembling body.

Tobirama gasped, his entire world narrowing to the devastating heat between his legs. His swollen belly shifted with each helpless, ragged breath, each fractured sob.

“Ah—” His voice broke, dissolving into choked whimpers.

The next moment, his soft entrance was stretched open again—this time, by the searing heat of Madara’s tongue pressing inside.

The realization struck like lightning.

Madara was licking him.

Tobirama’s mind shattered, a frantic wave of pleasure crashing into him so violently it almost hurt.

A sob tore from his throat. “No, no, I—ah—!”

But his body was betraying him.

His hips lifted of their own accord, pushing into the slow, torturous thrusts of Madara’s tongue, his thighs trembling from the shameful pleasure.

Madara hummed against him, satisfied, his large hands gripping the soft flesh of Tobirama’s ass, spreading him open wider, holding him still.

He was thorough, merciless. Each time his tongue withdrew, slick and glistening, he plunged back in even deeper—fucking Tobirama with slow, indulgent strokes.

The wet sounds echoed in the room—slick, messy, lewd.

Tobirama couldn’t breathe. He tried to twist away, to arch his back, but Madara held him down, his grip unyielding.

“Stop,” Tobirama sobbed, his voice cracking. “I can’t—I don’t—ah, please—!”

Madara only chuckled, pressing another slow, deliberate kiss to the wet, trembling entrance.

“You say no,” he murmured, his tongue flicking out to taste him again, dragging along the sensitive rim, “but your body is begging me to continue.”

Tobirama shook his head, tears spilling freely now, dampening the sheets beneath him. His body was on fire, his mind unraveling, drowning in the sensation of Madara’s tongue working him open.

“Look at you,” Madara murmured against his skin. “Already clenching, already so sensitive. You’re dripping for me, little wife.”

Tobirama’s breath hitched, his hands clenching uselessly at the sheets.

Madara’s fingers spread him wider, his grip possessive.

“Tobirama,” he said, his voice dark with satisfaction, “I think you’re wet enough now.”

And then Madara licked him again, deep and slow, drinking in the helpless, shattered moans that followed.

Tobirama sobbed, his body trembling as pleasure tore through him, unforgiving and unstoppable. Every breath he took was laced with heat, every nerve alight with a shameful kind of pleasure that made his stomach churn.

And then there was Madara—Madara, whose warm breath fanned over his spread thighs, whose tongue had already desecrated him beyond redemption, whose fingers now traced over the sensitive, twitching rim of his entrance with deliberate slowness.

The moment stretched, unbearable.

Tobirama’s lips parted, trembling, as if to beg—though for what, he no longer knew.

Madara exhaled. “Such a lewd sight.” His red eyes gleamed with something ravenous.

Slowly, Madara pressed a single finger to the tight entrance before him. He did not push in, not yet—just let the pad of his finger rest there, feeling how it pulsed, how it clenched in anticipation.

Tobirama shuddered.

And then—without warning—Madara shoved his finger in.

“Ahn—!”

Tobirama’s back arched violently, his head snapping back against the sheet. His breath hitched, breaking into short, helpless gasps as the thick digit pressed deep inside, curling, stretching, invading.

It was too much. It was overwhelming.

Yet he could do nothing—nothing but lie there, body taut, trembling, slick with sweat, as Madara worked his finger deeper.

“Still so tight,” the Alpha murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Are you clenching around me, little wife? Are you trying to keep me out, or are you desperate to be filled?”

Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lower lip until he tasted iron.

He did not answer.

He did not have to.

Madara chuckled, low and deep, before adding a second finger.

“Nnh—aah—!”

Tobirama’s hands shot up, grabbing at Madara’s wrist, nails digging in. But it was useless. The fingers inside him curled, twisted, scissored, dragging obscene pleasure out of his body.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes again. He turned his head away, biting back the sobs that threatened to break past his lips.

“I hate you,” Tobirama choked out.

Madara exhaled, slow, indulgent. “And I…” He pressed his forehead against Tobirama’s temple, voice warm, rich, utterly maddening. “…am sincerely sorry for that, my love.”

With that, he pushed his fingers deeper—spreading them, stretching the soft heat open.

Tobirama shuddered violently, his breath stuttering.

“I missed you, Tobirama.” The words were murmured against the trembling skin of his jaw, warm and possessive, punctuated by Madara’s unsteady breaths. His lips brushed over Tobirama’s chin, then lower, pressing a lingering kiss to the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

Tobirama’s body quaked beneath him. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven motions as pleasure—raw and unbearable—coiled inside him like a burning wire. His fingers trembled where they clutched at the sheets, knuckles white.

He could barely think.

The heat, the scent, the overwhelming weight of Madara above him—his Alpha, his tormentor, his husband—had stripped him of all reason, leaving behind only pure sensation.

“Since our wedding night,” Madara continued, “this is the first time we’ve fucked again.”

The words sent a sharp jolt down Tobirama’s spine, as if stripping him naked all over again.

Since their wedding night.

Madara had always been there—arms wrapped around him, breath warming the back of his neck, lips pressing against his temple.

Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut. He felt full, unbearably so.

And yet—this was nothing.

Because then, with deliberate cruelty, Madara withdrew his fingers entirely.

For a second, there was only emptiness. A devastating loss of contact.

Then—something hot, thick, terrifying pressed against his entrance.

A fresh wave of panic crashed over Tobirama, his stomach twisting as he realized—Madara was positioning himself.

The thick, rigid length of Madara’s cock pulsed at his entrance, nudging against the stretched, slick heat that trembled in anticipation.

Tobirama froze.

Madara exhaled, his voice lower now, almost pained.

“Every day, I held you. And every day, I did nothing. Tobirama, I have spent so long trying to be a saint.”

The words barely had time to register before Madara thrust in.

Tobirama screamed.

His back arched, his vision blurred, his entire body clenched as a thick, unbearable stretch filled him in one brutal, unstoppable motion. It was too much—too much—he could feel the sheer size of Madara tearing into him, pressing into the deepest, most vulnerable parts of him that had gone untouched for so long.

The fullness, the invasion—it was maddening.

Tears spilled from the corners of Tobirama’s eyes, slipping down his temples in silent trails.

Tobirama barely had a second to breathe before Madara thrust in again.

“A—AHH—!”

His vision went white. His entire body seized.

The pain was immediate, searing, his already sensitive walls stretched wide to accommodate the thick, throbbing intrusion. It filled him in one brutal, single-minded motion, leaving no room for air, for thought—only the blinding sensation of being split apart.

His hands clawed at Madara’s shoulders, his nails raking down his skin, leaving red welts in their wake.

Madara groaned, deep and low, his hips pressing flush against Tobirama’s trembling thighs. His cock pulsed, buried deep within the wet, trembling heat of Tobirama’s body.

“Gods…” the Alpha exhaled, his voice strained. “Still so fucking tight.”

Tobirama whimpered, his nails biting into Madara’s flesh. His swollen belly quivered with every unsteady breath, every broken sob.

Madara leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his damp forehead. “I missed you, Tobirama,” he murmured. His hips rolled, slow, savoring the way Tobirama trembled beneath him.

Tobirama shuddered.

Madara smiled.

And then he began to move.

His cock throbbed, buried impossibly deep.

Tobirama gasped, his hands jerking downward, pressing against Madara’s stomach as if trying to push him away.

It was useless.

Tobirama was pinned, his thighs spread wide, his swollen belly trembling with each ragged breath.

A sob wracked through him. His arms curled protectively around his stomach.

“The baby—”

His voice cracked. Tears slipped down his cheeks in hot, helpless rivulets.

“You’ll hurt the baby,” Tobirama whispered, his voice raw with fear.

Madara stilled.

For a long, heavy moment, there was nothing but the sound of their uneven breathing—the soft, wet pulse of Tobirama’s body struggling to accommodate him, the tremble in his sobs.

Then—Madara leaned down, capturing his lips in a deep, lingering kiss.

“Our pup needs this, Tobirama.”

His voice was impossibly soft, reverent. His hands covered Tobirama’s, pressing them firmly against his swollen belly.

“The baby needs to feel me.”

A shudder wracked through Tobirama’s body. His breath caught in his throat, mind spinning.

Madara’s lips brushed against his temple, then his ear, his breath warm and slow. “Our pup needs my pheromones. It need to know its father is here.”

Tobirama was spinning, his mind fraying at the edges, unraveling like thread.

Madara’s lips pressed against his nape, his shoulders, the curve of his jaw—gentle, worshipping, even as his hips rolled forward, sinking deeper, pushing further into the trembling heat of his body.

Madara’s lips brushed against his ear, voice low, thick with lingering desire. “We’re still at work, so I won’t knot you this time.”

Tobirama barely heard him.

His body was too far gone—sensitive, trembling, wrecked.

His mind was drowning in a haze of pleasure, limbs weak, every nerve still pulsing with overstimulation. Madara’s tongue slid into his mouth again, slow and deep, coaxing another broken sound from the back of his throat. Tasting him. Claiming him.

Tobirama whimpered.

The pleasure was unbearable.

Too much. It coiled in his gut, twisting, spreading like liquid fire through his veins.

Madara’s fingers traced down his belly, his touch slow, deliberate.

“Come with me, Tobirama.”

The words struck something deep inside him, something raw, something breaking.

His whole body convulsed. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, his entire world narrowing to the pulse of Madara inside him, the steady drag of his cock against the oversensitive, swollen walls of his heat-slicked core.

Madara’s hand curled around his length, stroking him in time with each thrust. “Come for me.”

Tobirama sobbed, the pleasure shattering him.

“Ah—!”

His orgasm crashed over him in a violent, blinding wave.

His back arched, his body clenching desperately around Madara, milking him, holding him.

Tobirama moaned into the kiss, breath hitching as Madara’s hips rocked forward, pressing impossibly deep before shuddering against him.

Madara groaned, slamming in one final time—his hips snapping forward, his cock pulsing deep inside Tobirama’s trembling heat.

And then—he came.

Tobirama could feel it—the sudden warmth flooding into him, spilling deep, filling every inch of him. His mind blanked, his body trembled, his swollen belly quaking from the sheer force of it.

Tobirama’s vision blurred, his body clenching instinctively around Madara as the flood of warmth filled him. He could feel it—all of it—his body taking everything Madara had to give.

His cock pulsed weakly in Madara’s grip, spilling between their bodies. A soft, wrecked whimper escaped him as his muscles gave out, leaving him boneless in Madara’s arms.

It was over.

Tobirama shivered, the aftershocks running through him in waves, his breath still coming in soft, uneven gasps. He slumped forward, forehead pressing against Madara’s shoulder.

He barely heard Madara’s whisper.

“I love you.”

He barely felt the way Madara’s lips pressed against his temple, how his hands cradled him with something heartbreakingly tender.

He barely registered anything at all.

His body was spent. His mind shattered.

His head lolled forward, resting against Madara’s shoulder.

Madara held him close.

Large, calloused hands cradled him, running slow, soothing strokes down the length of his spine. One palm came to rest on his swollen belly, fingers spreading wide, protective and possessive.

Tobirama barely had the strength to lift his head. His body ached, liquid heat pooling in his core, the sensation of Madara’s release still deep inside him making him shudder.

Madara pressed a final kiss to his damp forehead, whispering against his skin—

“Let’s go home, Tobirama.”

Tobirama closed his eyes, letting himself fall into the warmth of Madara’s embrace, the scent of Alpha pheromones still clung to him.

.

.

.

The days that followed blurred into one long, fevered haze.

Tobirama drifted between wakefulness and sleep, lost in a state of half-conscious yearning. When he wasn’t being taken, he was sleeping, curled up in tangled sheets that still carried Madara’s scent.

His body burned.

It was a false heat, a Beta’s version of a rut—Tobirama had heard the doctor murmuring something about it when he came to check on him. The words had barely registered, lost beneath the dull, aching exhaustion that pressed down on his bones. He only knew that when Madara wrapped the blankets tighter around him, cocooning him in warmth, his body finally stopped trembling.

So Tobirama didn’t fight it.

Didn’t fight the way he instinctively burrowed closer to Madara’s chest, seeking out his scent, his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Didn’t fight the way his body reacted—craving, needing—whenever Madara left his side for too long.

It was unbearable.

If Tobirama woke up alone, his chest twisted with something painful, something aching and unfamiliar. He would bury himself in the sheets at first, desperately inhaling Madara’s lingering scent, but it was never enough.

His body refused to rest unless Madara was near.

So he would search for him.

Barefoot, skin flushed and bare beneath the blankets he dragged around his shoulders, he would follow the scent of Alpha pheromones through the halls of the Uchiha estate, his mind hazy with need.

Sometimes, when Tobirama found Madara, he would cry.

Tears would spill hot and silent down his cheeks, his body betraying him before he even knew why. He would cling to Madara’s frame, press his face into his chest, inhale his warmth, his scent—

Madara would hush him gently, kissing away the wetness on his cheeks.

“Now, now. Why are you crying this time?”

His arms were warm, steady, wrapping around Tobirama’s trembling frame, pulling him closer.

“I was only making you something to eat, you know.”

Tobirama would shake his head, voice hoarse, muffled against the fabric of Madara’s robes. “Don’t leave me.”

“Never,” Madara would murmur, pressing another kiss to his temple.

And Tobirama—exhausted, feverish, helpless in his own skin—would let himself melt into him.

But sometimes, Tobirama was lucid enough to realize just how pathetic he had become.

How shameless.

There were moments—brief and fleeting—when his body wasn’t completely lost to the haze. Moments when he was aware of the indecency of it all.

Like the time Madara picked him up effortlessly, carrying him back inside the house while Tobirama flushed in humiliation, burying his burning face against his shoulder.

“Put me down,” Tobirama hissed, his voice weak, breathless. “People are staring.”

Madara only chuckled, his grip tightening.

“And? Just moments ago, you were wandering through the house naked, looking for me.”

Tobirama went still, his entire body tensing in horror.

The heat in his cheeks spread down his neck, mortification sinking deep into his stomach.

Madara kissed the crown of his head, voice laced with amusement. “What’s there to be embarrassed about now?”

Tobirama had no answer—only the furious rush of blood pounding in his ears as he burrowed deeper into the blankets wrapped around him, avoiding the gazes of the Uchiha clan members who had undoubtedly seen everything.

Madara simply held him close, completely unbothered.

They did it so often that Tobirama sometimes wondered if he was even human anymore.

He felt crawling heat under his skin at all times, as if hundreds of ants were swarming through his veins—a restless, unbearable sensation that never truly faded.

Not unless Madara was inside him.

Not unless his body was filled, stretched open, pinned down, claimed in the most absolute way. Only then did the restlessness subside, leaving behind a dizzying, exhausted satisfaction that made Tobirama pant and tremble, his swollen stomach quivering with each breath.

How had it come to this?

He used to be strong. He used to have restraint, control—but now, all it took was a touch, a brush of warm skin against his own, and the need swelled within him like a sickness.

And right now, Madara was touching him everywhere.

Tobirama’s breath came in short, shaky gasps as he lay sprawled against the sheets, his legs spread over Madara’s broad arms. His skin burned, fever-hot, as the Alpha’s mouth worked over his length with slow, deliberate hunger.

Madara was devouring him.

Tobirama threw his head back, his silver-white hair spilling over the pillows as his fingers dug into the sheets. The slick heat of Madara’s mouth wrapped around him, his tongue lapping, teasing, swallowing—as if he was savoring something exquisite.

As if Tobirama was something to be consumed.

“You have pheromones too, you know.”

Madara’s voice was muffled, thick with satisfaction as he sucked deeper, his lips dragging up the length before swallowing him down again.

Tobirama let out a hoarse, broken moan, his breath shuddering as his body jerked, oversensitive.

“They’re faint,” Madara continued, his tongue flicking against the sensitive tip, making Tobirama whimper. “But I can taste them in your come.”

A slow, deliberate hum vibrated through the Alpha’s chest as he sucked harder, his throat tightening around Tobirama’s shaft. The sensation sent a violent shudder up Tobirama’s spine, his hands flying up to clutch at Madara’s hair, helpless against the way his body reacted.

He could feel it coming, could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut—

And then he broke.

Tobirama cried out, his entire body tensing, shaking, falling apart as the pleasure crashed over him in sharp, relentless waves. His vision went white, his back arching off the bed as he spilled into the Alpha’s mouth.

Madara growled softly, his grip tightening, holding Tobirama still as he swallowed every drop.

Not a single drop was wasted.

Even after it was over, Madara remained where he was, his lips still pressed against the sensitive, twitching flesh, tongue flicking lazily, drawing out every last tremor.

Tobirama lay there, completely boneless, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic breaths. His thighs quivered around Madara’s arms, his fingers still tangled in dark, sweat-dampened hair.

Madara watched him for a long time.

Tobirama’s body lay sprawled against the sheets, his skin dewed with sweat, his lips parted in the lingering haze of pleasure. His breath was uneven, chest rising and falling with the aftershocks. His silver lashes trembled against flushed cheeks, his red eyes half-lidded, unfocused.

He looked utterly spent.

Utterly ruined.

Madara leaned down, capturing Tobirama’s mouth in a slow, drowning kiss—a kiss that stole what little breath remained in his lungs. Their tongues tangled, wet and insistent, and Tobirama shuddered, his fingers clenching weakly at Madara’s shoulders.

The intimacy of it—the slow, deliberate claiming of his mouth—made heat pool in his gut all over again.

Madara pulled away, just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth, then the damp hollow of his throat. His hands roamed lower, over the gentle swell of Tobirama’s stomach, stroking possessively.

“Tell me, Tobirama,” Madara murmured, his voice dark and indulgent as he nipped at his mate’s flushed skin. “If you weren’t already carrying my pup, you’d be pregnant right now, wouldn’t you?”

Tobirama let out a broken whimper, his thighs clenching instinctively as the weight of Madara’s words settled over him.

Because it was true.

Madara had spent the past days filling him over and over again, spilling inside him relentlessly, as if trying to breed him all over again despite the child already growing in his belly.

“We’ve fucked so much,” Madara murmured against his skin, his teeth scraping over Tobirama’s pulse point. “If your womb were empty, I would’ve filled it by now.”

Tobirama whimpered, his head tilting back, exposing his throat in silent submission.

Madara groaned, his fingers tightening over Tobirama’s soft flesh.

His fingers traced up the curve of Tobirama’s belly, palm spreading wide, as if to feel the life inside.

“Stop working.”

Tobirama blinked, still lightheaded, still too hazy to fully register the demand.

Madara’s voice dropped lower. “The final weeks of your pregnancy are near. I don’t want you going anywhere.”

His hands wandered, gripping, stroking, kneading every inch of Tobirama’s skin, memorizing the shape of him beneath his touch. He pressed slow, wet kisses down the length of Tobirama’s throat, his warm breath fanning over his pulse, making Tobirama shiver.

“I won’t have your filthy, desperate little body wandering around outside,” Madara murmured, pressing a kiss just below his ear, his voice a rough whisper against sensitive skin. “What if that bastard from the Hyuga clan saw you? What if he tried to force himself on you?”

A sharp growl rumbled from deep in Madara’s chest, his hand tightening suddenly over Tobirama’s breast.

Tobirama let out a sharp gasp, his back arching at the roughness of the touch. His breath hitched, panic thrumming beneath his skin at the sheer force behind Madara’s action.

“Say it.”

Madara’s voice was a low, dangerous purr, vibrating against Tobirama’s skin. “If you wanted to be fucked, would you offer your ass to your husband? Or would you spread your legs for that Hyuga bastard?”

Tobirama’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat.

“M-Madara, no, I—”

“Say it.”

The Alpha’s hand squeezed tighter, fingers digging into soft, over-sensitive flesh, making Tobirama cry out.

“Who do you belong to?”

Tears welled up in Tobirama’s eyes.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that he could be so devoted, so utterly surrendered, and still—still—the Alpha could doubt him like this.

Tobirama shook his head, his lower lip trembling as he sobbed, his chest heaving with the force of his emotions. “No one else—just you—just you—”

Madara watched him for a long moment, his sharp red eyes scanning every inch of Tobirama’s tear-streaked face, as if searching for any sign of dishonesty.

And then, just as suddenly as his grip had tightened, he softened.

A deep, satisfied rumble echoed from Madara’s chest as he leaned down, dragging his tongue slowlyover the delicate skin he’d abused, soothing the marks he had left behind.

“Good wife.”

Madara pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the damp skin of Tobirama’s breast, lips lingering, tongue flicking over the tender flesh. He suckled gently, his free hand coming up to caress the curve of Tobirama’s swollen stomach, grounding him, soothing him.

Tobirama’s body shuddered, relief and humiliation warring inside him.

And then Madara kissed him.

Softly.

Deeply.

His lips met Tobirama’s tear-stained ones, moving slowly, reverently, until all the sharp edges of his jealousy melted into something warm, something unbearably tender.

Tobirama whimpered into the kiss, clutching at Madara’s shoulders, melting into the touch.

Madara kissed his lips, his cheeks, his tears—licking away the wetness, whispering something too low for Tobirama to hear, too gentle for him to comprehend in the blur of heat and exhaustion.

Madara kissed him deeply—wet, slow, unrelenting—his tongue prying into Tobirama’s mouth, swallowing every breath, every sound.

It wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

Madara’s hands wandered, impatient, sliding down Tobirama’s trembling body. His fingers found their way between soft thighs, spreading them apart with ease, then pushing, probing, slipping inside the slick heat that clenched around him instinctively.

Tobirama let out a soft, shivering gasp against Madara’s lips. He blinked dazedly, his breath hitching as he felt the thick weight of Madara’s arousal pressing against his entrance, the blunt tip rubbing slow, teasing circles over sensitive, swollen flesh.

Tobirama’s fogged mind struggled to catch up, his body still shuddering from the last time Madara had taken him. His legs twitched weakly, as if trying to close, but Madara’s grip on his thighs was firm, unyielding.

“A-Again?” Tobirama’s voice was hoarse, breathless, barely more than a whisper.

Madara chuckled, low and indulgent, pressing his forehead against Tobirama’s, his lips ghosting over Tobirama’s trembling mouth.

“Of course.”

Madara smiled.

“You need this.” The Alpha’s voice was deep, rich, unwavering. “You’re already inviting me in.”

Before Tobirama could think, before he could argue, Madara took his wrist and guided his own handup around the Alpha’s neck—forcing him to hold on.

“See?” Madara purred. “You don’t even realize how much you want it.”

Tobirama’s cheeks burned, his mind spinning, but before he could form a coherent thought, Madara’s hips snapped forward, the thick length of his cock sinking into heat, stretching Tobirama open once more.

Tobirama’s breath caught, his nails digging into Madara’s shoulders as a low, helpless moan spilled from his lips.

So deep.

So full.

So soon.

His body trembled, his senses drowning in the sheer intensity of it—the feel of Madara’s heat pressing flush against his own, the overwhelming sensation of being filled again, stretched and claimed over and over without reprieve.

His lashes fluttered, his mind slipping into that familiar, intoxicating haze—weightless, thoughtless, consumed.

Madara chuckled, pleased, as he lifted Tobirama easily, arms encircling his waist, holding him close, forcing him to take everything.

“That’s right.”

The Alpha’s lips ghosted over his ear, his voice a deep, sultry murmur against fevered skin.

“Just let me have you.”

Tobirama exhaled a soft, hazy sigh, his grip tightening around Madara’s shoulders, his body yielding completely.

Yes.

Yes, that was right.

He didn’t need to think.

Didn’t need to fight.

All he needed was this.

All he needed was Madara’s hands on him, Madara’s voice in his ear, Madara’s body sinking into his own until there was nothing left between them.

His breath hitched as Madara moved, deep and slow, rolling his hips in a way that sent shudders down his spine, in a way that made his overstimulated nerves spark with unbearable pleasure.

Tobirama’s mind drifted, his lips parting in a quiet, delirious moan as his eyes grew glassy, unfocused.

So good.

So good that he forgot everything else.

Forgot the past, forgot the future—forgot that there had ever been a time before this, before Madara holding him, taking him, keeping him close.

His lips parted again, a soft, broken whimper escaping as his body melted into Madara’s hands.

And Madara just smiled against his skin, satisfied.

There were moments of clarity when Tobirama forced himself to return to work.

Tobirama did not care what others thought. The village-building reports were piling up, a mountain of bureaucratic demands threatening to drown him.

Even when exhaustion gnawed at his bones, even when the weight of pregnancy made his body sluggish and uncooperative, he worked. His eyelids would grow heavy, the ink of his brush smudging slightly as he fought against the pull of sleep. But he always pushed forward.

When sleep inevitably won, Madara would find him.

A strong hand brushing against his cheek. A voice, low and steady, calling his name. Tobirama would stir, grumbling at the intrusion, weakly swatting at the hand trying to wake him. Then, he would feel himself being lifted, warm arms securing him against a broad chest. He would instinctively nuzzle into the warmth, surrendering to sleep once more as Madara carried him home.

Today would be no different.

The office was too quiet, save for the soft scratching of a brush against paper.

Tobirama didn’t stop writing.

Didn’t look up.

Stacks of documents towered on his desk, their edges curling under the weight of neglect. Plans, laws, revisions—the foundation of their village, the bones of a future still in its infancy.

If he stopped working, if he let it pile up any further, his brother would have to clean up the mess.

Tobirama refused to let that happen.

But the words in front of him were starting to blur.

His eyelids felt heavier than stone, his limbs sluggish, the warm weight in his stomach making it even harder to focus.

Tobirama had ignored his body for too long.

Sleep, exhaustion, hunger—they all bled together into a dull ache, a constant haze at the edges of his mind. Some days, he barely knew what time it was.

Still, he wrote.

Wrote until the letters bled into one another, until his hand stilled against the page, until the rhythmic drumming of rain against the window became distant, muffled—

—until he sank into something weightless, formless, dreamlike.

.

.

.

Someone was calling his name.

A hand, warm and firm, pressed against his cheek.

Tobirama flinched, frowning in his sleep.

Madara.

It had to be Madara again, pulling him away, dragging him home, forcing him to rest.

Tobirama’s brows knit together. He batted at the hand half-heartedly, his words slurred with sleep.

“Not now…” He mumbled, turning away. “M’busy.”

The voice called again, closer this time.

“Tobirama.”

The sound was wrong.

Tobirama’s breath caught, a slow prickle of unease crawling up his spine.

The hand touched him again—gentle, careful.

Tobirama’s fingers tightened against the desk.

Slowly, unwillingly, he forced his eyes open.

The world was hazy, unfocused, the office around him dissolving into a murky blur. The figure before him was nothing but a silhouette at first.

But as the fog of sleep began to lift, as his vision sharpened, the figure came into focus.

Long, inky black hair, falling past the silhouette’s shoulders.

A face too familiar, too deeply ingrained in memory.

And eyes—

Crimson eyes were searing straight into his own.

Tobirama’s breath stopped. His lips parted, his voice a whisper.

“Izuna?”