Chapter 3
The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of lanterns casting long shadows on the walls.
Hashirama and Madara sat across from one another, their voices low. The clink of sake cups punctuated their words.
“I’ve decided how you will atone for Izuna’s death.” Madara’s voice broke through the silence again.
Hashirama looked up, his easy demeanor only a mask for the tension that had settled between them. Hashirama smiled, but it was brittle, as though he already knew where this conversation would lead.
“Leave Senju Tobirama in my clan,” Madara continued.
“Your brother will bear the consequences of taking my brother’s life. The eyes Izuna gave me—” Madara gestured to his own, the faint gleam of the Sharingan flickering in the low light. “They’re a constant source of pain. Every moment, they remind me of what I’ve lost. If Tobirama stays, he can care for this affliction, research the toll the Sharingan exacts. That will be his atonement.”
Hashirama leaned back, the tension easing from his shoulders, replaced with an unsettling cheer. “If that’s what you want, Madara, then so be it. As long as it put you at ease.”
Tobirama sat frozen, his hand tightening around the cup he had not yet sipped from. The wine in his cup rippled slightly as his hands trembled.
He had no place in this conversation, no voice amid the decisions being made about his life. They didn’t even look at him.
His brother’s casual acceptance stung more than Madara’s cold decree.
The room was quiet save for the crackle of the fire.
Hashirama looked at Tobirama. His gaze was warm as always, but there was an edge to it, a faint impatience that Tobirama rarely saw.
It wasn’t anger—Hashirama rarely grew angry with him—but disappointment.
“Thank Madara,” Hashirama said. “He’s shown restraint, something he didn’t have to do. After all, he’s a founder of this village, just as much as we are. What he’s asking for is nothing compared to what you’ve done, Tobirama.”
The words were a blade, twisting deep into Tobirama’s chest. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his head. His voice was steady when he finally replied.
“Yes, I understand.”
Tobirama nodded. Inside, something cracked, and Tobirama realized that whatever small shred of hope he’d held onto had finally shattered.
Hashirama’s expression softened. He reached out, patting Tobirama’s shoulder, as if that small gesture could mend the damage his words had done.
But Tobirama didn’t feel it. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the last few days, the unrelenting torment he had endured at Madara’s hands.
It had been brutal, dehumanizing.
Madara’s smirk, his words, his possessive grip—all of it burned into Tobirama’s memory, a cruel reminder of his helplessness.
When Madara had finally let him go, it was exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness that weighed Tobirama down as he dragged himself back to his small house on the outskirts of the village. Tobirama hadn’t even bothered to clean himself up, too numb to care about the state he was in.
But his reprieve had been short-lived. Barely had he collapsed onto the futon when a messenger arrived, summoning him to the main Senju estate.
Now, standing in front of his brother, Tobirama felt stripped bare, his dignity eroded by both Madara’s cruelty and Hashirama’s unyielding optimism.
Tobirama sat motionless. His hands rested limply on his knees, trembling faintly as he replayed the conversation.
He had always known that his brother trusted Madara more than him.
Tobirama had seen it in the way Hashirama’s eyes softened at the mention of his name, in the unshakable bond they seemed to share. But to hear it spoken aloud, to feel the weight of Hashirama’s choice, was something entirely different.
“Madara has every right to ask this of you,” Hashirama said. His tone was gentle, but it was the kind of gentleness that bruised more than it soothed. “After all, it was Izuna who paid the ultimate price. This is your chance to atone, Tobirama.”
Atonement.
As if what Madara had done to him was some sort of divine justice.
As if handing him over to the Uchiha leader was the logical conclusion to the chaos that had torn their families apart.
Tobirama had tried, once, to tell himself it would be different. That Hashirama would see reason, would listen to him. But now, he understood the futility of it. His brother’s unwavering faith in Madara was not something Tobirama could undo.
Madara’s confidence had never wavered—not when he made his demands, not when he met Hashirama’s gaze with that insufferable calm. Madara knew he would get what he wanted, because Hashirama always bent toward him. Tobirama had watched it happen again and again, and each time it chipped away at what little trust he had left in his brother.
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.
Hashirama had already made his decision. He had handed Tobirama to the devil without hesitation, justifying it with a smile and a promise that this was for the greater good.
For Izuna. For the village.
But not for Tobirama. Never for him.
Tobirama had considered pleading with his brother, laying bare the horrors he had endured at Madara’s hands. The thought of doing so made his stomach churn. How could he explain what had happened when the very man who had inflicted it was the one Hashirama favored?
Hashirama would dismiss it. He would chalk it up to bitterness, to a misunderstanding. He would trust Madara’s words over Tobirama’s, just as he always had.
In the end, Tobirama said nothing. He didn’t fight, didn’t argue. He simply sat there, numb, as his brother condemned him with a smile.
“You’ll be fine,” Hashirama had said, resting a hand on his shoulder. Tobirama hadn’t flinched then. The weight of that hand felt like a shackle.
Tobirama’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he knelt on the tatami mat, his body betraying him with every tremor.
The soreness, the deep ache that radiated from his core, was something he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried. Sweat trickled down his back, the damp fabric of his clothes clinging to his skin. Every subtle shift in posture sent a fresh wave of discomfort through him, but he gritted his teeth and stayed still.
Hours ago, Tobirama's body still bore the raw, lingering ache from Madara's relentless thrusts. His flesh, still swollen and tender, pulsed painfully at the memory of being stretched around Madara's cock. The humiliating sensation lingered, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly Tobirama had been fucked.
Madara's gaze burned into him now, sharp and predatory, and Tobirama's breath hitched.
It was the same gaze that had pinned him down earlier, that had driven Madara to press him into the ground, his cock unrelenting as it filled him over and over.
Tobirama's face flushed with mortification at the thought, his throat tightening as he tried to block out the sounds that still echoed in his mind—his own cries, the obscene slap of skin against skin.
He had vanished after completing his mission and Madara had found him.
If this continued—if Madara insisted on using him so thoroughly at every chance—Tobirama wasn't sure how much more his body could endure.
Tobirama pressed his hands to the ground for balance, his vision swimming with exhaustion. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't forget.
His exhaustion was bone-deep, and though his body protested every motion, Tobirama forced himself to remain upright.
The room was filled with a quiet hum of conversation between Hashirama and Madara. The scent of sake lingered in the air, mingling with the faint bitterness of his own sweat. Tobirama’s fingers twitched where they rested against his thighs, the only outward sign of the effort it took to maintain a facade of composure.
Across from him, Madara’s eyes never wavered.
They were sharp, dark pools of amusement that seemed to strip Tobirama bare no matter how much he tried to shield himself. There was a slow, deliberate rhythm to the way Madara lifted the small cup of sake to his lips, as if he were savoring not just the drink, but the sight of Tobirama’s silent suffering.
Tobirama could feel the weight of those eyes and it made the knot in his stomach twist tighter.
Hashirama, oblivious as ever, laughed brightly, his joy filling the room. “Madara, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you so at ease! This feels just like old times.”
Madara smiled at Hashirama, his expression disarmingly calm. “Old times indeed. It’s good to share moments like these again.” His gaze flicked back to Tobirama, lingering there.
Hashirama, ever clueless, chuckled warmly. “I’m glad you think so. Tobirama’s always been dedicated to the betterment of the village. I’m sure he’ll prove to be just as valuable to you as he’s been to me.”
Tobirama’s breath hitched.
The words stung, not because they were untrue, but because of the casual way Hashirama handed him over without a second thought. There was no malice in his brother’s voice, only the easy assurance of someone who believed he was doing the right thing.
Hashirama’s laughter filled the room, warm and unassuming. He hadn’t seen Madara this relaxed in years, and the sight seemed to fill him with genuine joy.
But Hashirama didn’t know.
He didn’t know that just hours ago, the same friend he toasted with had pinned his younger brother down as Madara’s relentless pace didn’t falter, each thrust sharp and deliberate, carving humiliation deeper into Tobirama.
He didn’t know that those sharp, commanding eyes that now gleamed with polite amusement had been filled with a dark, consuming hunger as Tobirama’s desperate pleas for mercy echoed in vain.
He didn’t know that Madara's grip on his hips tightened as his thrusts drove deeper, each movement making Tobirama feel as though he might split apart entirely. The crude, unforgiving sensation of Madara's length inside Tobirama brought a fresh wave of tears, streaming down his face unchecked.
He didn’t know that Tobirama had pleaded, his voice cracking, the words tumbling out between ragged sobs. His body convulsed, torn between the urge to flee and the paralyzing weight of despair that kept him rooted in place.
"You become much more obedient when I fuck you."
Hashirama didn’t know that his younger brother's body stiffened at the crude remark, his shame burning hotter than the pain coursing through him. His face flushed a deep crimson as tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision. He bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood, desperately trying to suppress the sobs clawing at his throat.
And Madara… Madara knew that Hashirama didn’t know.
That was what made it worse.
The weight of the moment crushed Tobirama. His body trembled—not from fear, not from anger, but from the sheer effort it took to hold himself together. His nails bit into his palms, leaving crescent-shaped indentations in the skin.
Madara set his empty cup down with a soft clink and leaned back, his gaze still locked onto Tobirama. The faint smile playing at his lips made Tobirama’s stomach churn.
“Then, when can Tobirama move in?” Hashirama asked.
“Right now,” Madara answered smoothly. “My clan always has spare rooms. Your brother can move in whenever he’s ready.” His gaze, sharp and unrelenting, pinned Tobirama in place.
Tobirama, who had spent the entirety of the conversation staring at the ground, startled at Madara’s words. His head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief.
No, no… the thought screamed within Tobirama, echoing like a desperate cry in an empty cavern.
Madara’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile, savoring the helplessness etched across Tobirama’s pale face. Hashirama, oblivious, clapped his younger brother on the shoulder with jovial force. “Did you hear that, Tobirama? Go and get ready.”
The weight of Hashirama’s hand seemed to crush the last of Tobirama’s resolve. He lowered his head, his voice trembling as he forced out, “Yes… yes, I’ll prepare.”
With great effort, Tobirama rose to his feet, bowed stiffly to the two men, and excused himself, retreating from the room with a calm façade that belied the storm raging inside.
Outside, the façade cracked. His legs, trembling from exhaustion and something far deeper, struggled to carry him. His hands reached for the walls as if they could anchor him, keep him upright when his strength had long since abandoned him.
I can’t… I can’t do this. The thought ran wild in his mind as his body betrayed him further.
Tobirama’s legs felt like they would give out any second, trembling under the weight of exhaustion and dread. As he dragged himself along the hallway, his mind spiraled into despair.
The two strongest men have decided my fate—how can I change it?
If the strongest have already chosen, then what hope do I have?
The thought repeated like a mantra, cold and unyielding. His hands brushed against the walls, seeking stability his own body could no longer provide.
What a cruel irony. The strength I once revered is now my prison. The man I admired is the one I cannot escape.
Even if I wanted to escape, I couldn’t. His strength has me locked in place. My fate was never my own to decide.
For years, Tobirama had secretly admired Madara. From the battlefield, he had watched the Uchiha leader with equal parts resentment and awe, unable to deny the sheer force of will and power the man possessed.
But now, that very strength he had admired was the thing binding him.
Madara’s power was inescapable, a force that now held him captive. Tobirama’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as if to anchor himself in the present.
Tobirama stumbled, his body too weak to carry him further. His knees buckled, and he felt the weight of his exhaustion pull him to the ground. The world seemed to tilt as he began to fall, but before he could hit the ground, strong arms caught him.
The touch was firm, steady, holding him in place. Tobirama gasped, his breath hitching as he felt another arm wrap around his waist, pulling him upright.
Madara.
“Uchiha-sama…” Tobirama whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
Madara stood behind him, his expression unreadable, yet his grip unmistakable. One hand held Tobirama’s arm, steadying him, while the other rested possessively on his waist.
Tobirama’s mind reeled.
When did he get here? He hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t felt his chakra.
Tobirama stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt the Uchiha’s grip tighten around him. Madara’s presence was suffocating, overwhelming, as though the very air around him bent to his will.
“Careful,” Madara murmured, his voice low and smooth. There was no mistaking the satisfaction laced within it. “You wouldn’t want to collapse before you even reach your new home.”
The words hit Tobirama like a blow, but it was the tone that twisted the knife.
The gentleness in Madara’s voice was a subtle reminder that Tobirama’s fate had been decided, and he was powerless to resist.
Tobirama's breath hitched as he felt the warmth of Madara's hand shift against his waist.
At first, the grip seemed steady, almost supportive. But then, the touch changed.
Fingers, deliberate and confident, slipped beneath the fabric of Tobirama's uniform. The coarse texture of Madara's calloused hands met the bare, sensitive skin of his side, sending a shiver coursing through him.
Tobirama couldn't suppress the tremor that overtook his body. Madara's hand moved with excruciating slowness, his fingertips trailing upward in a way that felt both measured and invasive. Each inch of contact seemed to burn against Tobirama's skin, leaving behind a trail of humiliation that he couldn't shake.
When the hand neared his chest, Tobirama's body acted before his mind could catch up.
Tobirama’s own hand shot up, trembling as it gripped Madara's wrist tightly. His head remained bowed, strands of white hair falling forward to shield his face, but his voice was caught in his throat.
Madara paused. His dark eyes bored into Tobirama, drinking in the sight of the man trembling beneath his touch.
"What is it, Tobirama?" Madara's tone was smooth.
Tobirama didn't answer. He couldn't.
His fingers clutched Madara's wrist with a strength born of desperation, but his grip was weak-pathetic, even. He knew that Madara could easily break free if he wanted to, and perhaps that was the cruelest part of it all.
Madara leaned closer, his breath warm against Tobirama's ear. "You're trembling," he murmured, his voice low and intimate.
Tobirama's shoulders tensed, his entire body locking up at those words.
The hand beneath his uniform didn't retreat.
Madara's fingers pressed just slightly forward, enough to send a warning. His hand remained in place, teasingly close to Tobirama's chest. With deliberate slowness, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin just below Tobirama's collarbone before continuing upward.
When they grazed the tender peak of one nipple, swollen and red from earlier torment, Tobirama's breath hitched audibly.
Madara’s fingers lingered there, circling the flushed peak with a maddening gentleness that felt more torturous than any outright cruelty.
Tobirama’s trembling grew worse, and a faint gasp escaped his lips despite his best efforts to remain silent. His hand tightened around Madara's wrist as Madara’s thumb brushing over the swollen nub with a featherlight pressure that sent a jolt of sensation through Tobirama's body.
Tobirama’s voice quivered as he spoke, his breaths shallow and uneven.
“Uchiha-sama, not here…” His trembling hands clutched at Madara’s wrist, desperate to hold him back, though the strength in his grip was barely enough to stall the Uchiha’s overwhelming presence. His head shook violently, strands of his silver-white hair sticking to his sweat-slicked skin.
Madara’s gaze bore into him, dark and unwavering, as though stripping away every layer of composure Tobirama clung to. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, as Tobirama tried to force the words out.
“I… I can’t,” Tobirama stammered, his voice faltering, fragmented by gasps. “That place… it still hurts… It’s not healed yet, and it’s swollen… If we continue, it… it might…” He trailed off, swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat.
The words tumbled out in disjointed fragments, his shame and fear tying them into knots. “But… but I can help you another way… I could… with my mouth…” Tobirama’s eyes darting away as his voice cracked on the last word. Each syllable felt like a dagger twisting in his pride, yet the fear of Madara’s displeasure overpowered everything else.
Madara tilted his head slightly, his piercing gaze never leaving Tobirama.
The silence stretched once again, heavy with Tobirama’s labored breaths and the oppressive weight of Madara’s presence.
Then, a smile broke across Madara’s face.
“Who said I was going to do anything?” Madara’s voice was smooth, almost casual, yet it carried an edge that made Tobirama’s blood run cold.
Tobirama froze, his wide eyes snapping back to meet Madara’s. His heart pounded in his chest, his fear tangible in the way his shoulders stiffened and his breathing grew more erratic.
The weight of Madara’s words settled over him, each syllable echoing in his mind. Tobirama’s lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. He could only stare, his gaze locked with Madara’s, paralyzed by the subtle menace in the man’s tone.
Madara leaned in ever so slightly, his smile never wavering, and Tobirama felt the air around him grow heavy with unspoken intent.
Tobirama’s body betrayed him once again, a tremor coursing through him as he struggled to steady himself. His fear and humiliation churned within him, a maelstrom of emotions he couldn’t escape. Yet, through it all, Madara simply stood there, smiling, watching, and waiting—enjoying every moment of Tobirama’s helplessness.
“Where did you learn to sweet-talk men like that, Tobirama?” Madara’s voice was low, teasing, yet the edge beneath it sent shivers down Tobirama’s spine.
Tobirama opened his mouth to respond, but his voice failed him, the tremor in his body betraying the terror that gripped him. His breath hitched at Madara’s words, his fear bubbling over like water on the verge of boiling.
Madara tilted his head, leaning in so close that Tobirama could feel the warmth of his breath against his skin. A rough hand seized Tobirama’s chin, tilting his face upward, forcing his tear-filled gaze to meet Madara’s piercing one.
“I didn’t know you were so eager to do this here,” Madara murmured. “Seeing you so… willing—it’s making me quite excited. Should we go ahead and do it right here, Tobirama?”
“No… no…” Tobirama’s head shook violently, his hands rising instinctively to push Madara away, but his strength was no match for the Uchiha.
His body trembled uncontrollably, his voice lost in his fear, as tears spilled over his cheeks before he even realized he was crying.
Madara’s thumb brushed against his face, smearing the damp trail of tears. “Always so quick to cry.”
The curve of his lips softened into a smile. “I was only joking,” Madara said, chuckling as if the terror on Tobirama’s face was an overreaction, as though his earlier words hadn’t clawed at the depths of Tobirama’s soul.
Madara wiped away the tears with his fingers, his touch deceptively soft, and tilted Tobirama’s face further toward him.
“Why do you cry so easily?” Madara mused, his tone almost tender now.
Tobirama tried to pull away but before he could react further, Madara moved. With startling ease, the Uchiha scooped Tobirama into his arms, cradling him as if he weighed nothing.
“Uchiha-sama—” Tobirama started, his voice faint, a quiver in his tone as his hands pressed against Madara’s chest.
Madara silenced him with a soft laugh, holding him closer. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “I’m taking you home.”
The words hung in the air, deceptively simple, but Tobirama knew better. There was no safety in Madara’s embrace, no refuge in the promises he made. His body trembled, and yet, against his will, he let himself be carried, his spirit too weary to resist anymore.
Madara’s arms tightened around him, his smirk unwavering as he strode forward, his prize secure in his grasp.