i swear i still remember i can post. i just havent had a lot of time to draw stuff and actually end up liking it. not even to mention any writing that i'm hiding away in a cavernous vault
anyhow. madatobi for the evening. Hibernation resumes! Maybe!! We'll see!!!
Prompt: 16. Hate Sex with Madara and foreign!Reader (Req. by @yangjeonginswifeyy)
Summary: Being a new arrival to Konoha, you land the lucrative position as assistant to the three founders. However, any excitement you had about reestablishing yourself in your new home quickly vanished. Hashirama is warm and welcoming, his brother cold and indifferent, while Madara barely tolerates you. As tensions rise between you, Madara, and Tobirama, Hashirama devises a 'team-building exercise' that has unintended consequences.
A/N: I didn't want to split this into more than two parts, so this one is LONG AF. Like 10k words. Sorry lol. But enjoy 🫶🏼🫶🏼 (Next part will be with our white-haired Senju :))
You remember seeing Konoha for the first time— a bustling village nestled in the heart of the Land of Fire. It was growing rapidly and seemed like the perfect place to start anew. You spent your entire life in a small, matriarchal village in the West. You hailed from the Hikari clan, known for their intelligence and marrying off their daughters to other powerful clans as a sign of prestige. It was not a fate you wanted for yourself, so you sought a new beginning.
And it was refreshing— until it wasn’t.
You quickly landed a job as an assistant to the founders of the city, which was exciting at first.
But you soon discovered it was going to be the most irritating position on the planet.
Hashirama was the easiest person to work with, so you always sought him out first if you were able. Unfortunately, your work was typically delegated by Madara or his equally tense counterpart, Tobirama.
You weren’t sure who was worse.
Tobirama at least didn’t act disgusted by your presence, so there was that.
The same could not be said for Madara.
Like now. The papers felt heavy in your hands as you stood in the entrance to Madara's office, watching him scowl over a scroll without acknowledging your presence. The late afternoon sun filtered through the window behind him, catching notes of dust and casting half his face in shadow.
"Excuse me, Lord Madara," you said, clearing your throat as you entered the room. "I have some reports that need your attention."
His dark eyes flicked up to you, narrowed with instant irritation. "Leave them on the desk."
You hesitated, the stack of papers clutched to your chest. "Lord Tobirama specifically asked that you review these immediately. He said there were some errors that needed—"
At the mention of Tobirama's name, Madara's face darkens further. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he glares at the papers you're holding as if they might burst into flames—which, given his nature, isn't entirely impossible. "Of course he did," Madara cut you off, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Always finding fault, isn't he? And sending you to deliver the message."
The way he emphasized "you" made your skin prickle with heat. You placed the papers carefully on the edge of his desk, trying to maintain your composure. "He's been quite busy with the eastern boundary today."
"And I'm not?" Madara snaps, gesturing to the mountain of scrolls already piled before him. "Does he think I sit here twiddling my thumbs, waiting for his paperwork?"
The scent of ink and iron mingles with the faint smell of burnt sage that always seems to cling to him. You notice the untouched tea at his elbow, long gone cold.
"I could help sort through some of these if you'd like," you offer, trying to be helpful despite the tension thickening the air.
His laugh is harsh, without humor. "Help? From you? I think not."
Something inside you cracked. Weeks of sideways glances, dismissals, and barely veiled contempt finally broke through your professional front.
"What exactly is your problem with me?" The words burst from your lips before you can stop them, and your voice rose sharply in the quiet office.
He scoffs as he continues to work, attempting to blow you off. “Do not irk me, girl. You have accomplished what you came here for. Now, I suggest you leave.”
You stand in front of his desk with a scowl, crossing your arms in defiance.
"I have done nothing but work diligently since arriving in Konoha, yet you treat me like I'm your enemy. This isn’t fair."
“Life is not fair, and you are pressing what little patience I have left. Go.” His final word was nearly a growl as he flashed you a warning glance that made your heart freeze.
For such a cold man, he was devastatingly handsome, making him even more insufferable.
Biting your tongue, you turn to leave, letting his office door slam behind you without a care.
It was only a matter of time before you lost your self-control. Never in your life had you been talked down to as Madara does. He is crass and out for blood, quick to demean you for the simplest mistake, acting as if your very existence is a burden.
So when the day finally came, you exploded like a bomb.
Several weeks later, you found yourself in the Hokage's library, surrounded by towering shelves of scrolls and the lingering scent of aged parchment. The space is quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper and Madara's irritated sighs as he reviews your latest report across the table. You've been cataloguing border incidents for the past month— tedious work requiring meticulous attention to detail.
Your fingers tap nervously against your thigh beneath the table. The silence between you stretches thin, ready to snap at any moment. Madara hasn't spoken in nearly ten minutes, but his frown deepens with each page he turns.
"This is unacceptable," he finally says, his voice cutting through the stillness. He slides the report back toward you, a single finger pointing to a section you'd spent hours compiling. "The chronology is jumbled. The witness accounts contradict each other. And your analysis lacks any meaningful insight."
You swallow hard, heat creeping up your neck. "I followed the format exactly as instructed."
"Following instructions doesn't equate to competence," he replies, leaning back in his chair. The sunlight filtering through the windows catches in his dark hair, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. "Perhaps the Hikari clan's reputation for their superior intellect is merely propaganda."
It was a low blow, even for him. His attack was getting personal, and all you could do was clench your jaw as you met his eyes.
"I spent three days on that section alone," you say, struggling to keep your voice level. "The contradictions in the witness accounts are clearly noted in the footnotes."
He barely glances at the pages. "Footnotes that fail to reconcile critical discrepancies. This level of work might be acceptable where you're from, but not in Konoha."
"Where I'm from?" Your voice rises slightly, drawing a sharp look from a scribe across the room.
"Your clan sends women to secure political alliances through marriage, does it not?" His tone is casual, conversational even, which somehow makes it worse. "I imagine thoroughness isn't a priority when your primary value lies elsewhere."
Your eye twitches, and something inside you snaps. The weeks of condescension, the sneers, the insults— it all comes pouring out in a torrent you can no longer contain.
"How dare you?" You hiss, standing so abruptly that your chair scrapes loudly against the floor. "You know nothing about me or my clan. I've worked twice as hard as anyone else here just to be treated with basic respect, and you sit there judging me based on prejudices and assumptions."
Madara's eyes widen slightly, but his composure remains intact. "Lower your voice. This is a library."
"I don't care!" The words burst from you, louder, more intense than intended. "I've endured your attitude since the day I arrived. What exactly did I do to piss you off so much? Or is it simply that you can't stand the idea of working alongside a woman? An outsider?”
Madara's jaw tightens, his shoulders squaring beneath his high-collared robe. The temperature in the library seems to rise several degrees as his chakra flares subtly, making the air pressure shift around you.
"You mistake my criticism for contempt," he says, voice dangerously controlled. "Perhaps if you focused more on your work and less on perceived insults, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
You lean forward, palms flat against the table as you deepen your scowl. "You've barely looked me in the eye since I got here. You dismiss every suggestion I make. That's not perception— that's reality, Madara."
He rises slowly to his feet, his height forcing you to tilt your chin up to maintain eye contact. "Reality is that I have a village to protect. I don't have time to coddle your feelings or validate your presence."
"I've never asked for coddling," you counter, the blood rushing in your ears. "Just basic courtesy would be a nice start."
"Courtesy is earned," he says coldly. "Not demanded like a petulant child throwing a tantrum."
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. "And how exactly am I supposed to earn anything when you've already decided I'm worthless?"
"I never said you were worthless." His voice remains steady, but his eyes flash dangerously. "I said your work was inadequate. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I'm standing, you've judged me based on my clan, my gender, everything except my actual abilities."
A muscle twitches in his cheek. "Your abilities have yet to impress me."
"Because you refuse to see them!" The frustration building in your chest threatens to choke you. "You look at me and see only what you expect to see."
Something shifts in his expression— a crack in his carefully maintained facade. "And what exactly do you think I see?"
"A woman you can dismiss. A foreigner you can distrust. Someone beneath your notice."
His lips press into a thin line. "You know nothing about what I see."
"Then enlighten me, Lord Madara," you challenge, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "What exactly is it about me that you find so objectionable?"
The silence stretches between you, charged and dangerous. When he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet you have to strain to hear it.
"Your presence is disruptive."
You laugh incredulously, throwing your hands up. "How the fuck am I disruptive— to what? To your precious routine? To your—"
Something snaps behind his eyes as you go on. In an instant, his meticulously controlled demeanor shatters.
"TO EVERYTHING!" He roars, slamming his fist down on the table with such force that scrolls scatter to the floor, causing you to flinch. "You walk into rooms like you belong there! You question decisions like you have the right! You look at me with those damned eyes!" His voice echoes through the library, shocking even himself with its volume.
The scribe gasps as his Sharingan flares, causing you to freeze under his daunting glare. Your hesitation only lasts a moment before you snatch up your notebook with a matching glare, saying nothing.
You leave as swiftly as you can, not daring to let him see the tears pooling in the corners of your eyes. You practically run, your throat burning with repressed emotion as you hurry home. You don’t know what you want from Madara— perhaps it’s approval, or just simple acknowledgment.
But he refuses to give you anything but hostility.
The tears finally come once you reach your tiny apartment, spilling hot and shameful down your cheeks. You curl into yourself on your futon, his words echoing in your mind like thunderclaps.
Disruptive.
To everything.
What had you done to deserve such animosity? You replay every interaction, searching for the offense that turned him so completely against you. Was it your questions about the village defense plans? Your suggestions about improving clan relations? Or was it simply your existence—a woman from a clan he clearly despised, daring to stand in his presence?
The moonlight filters through your thin curtains as you wipe your face with the back of your hand. Your chest aches with each breath, and you hate yourself for caring what Madara Uchiha thinks of you. Yet the hurt lingers, cutting deeper than you want to admit.
By morning, the hurt has crystallized into something harder, sharper. Determination. You splash cold water on your puffy eyes and stare at your reflection in the small mirror. Enough is enough. You've traveled too far, sacrificed too much to be treated like this.
You dress with purpose, pulling yourself together to resemble your normal grace. The morning air is cool against your skin as you make your way to the administrative building, rehearsing what you'll say to Hashirama. Surely he'll understand. Surely there's another position where your skills could be useful, away from Madara's scorching contempt.
The corridors are quiet this early, your footsteps echoing against the wooden floors. You take a deep breath before knocking on the door to Hashirama and Tobirama's joint office, squaring your shoulders.
"Come in!" Hashirama's cheerful voice calls out.
Your heart sinks the moment you step inside. Madara stands by the window, his imposing figure silhouetted against the morning light. His eyes find yours immediately, and the memory of yesterday's confrontation hangs between you like a physical thing.
"Ah, good morning!" Hashirama beams at you, seemingly oblivious to the tension thickening the air. His desk is covered in architectural plans and proposals, a half-eaten breakfast pushed to one side. "What a pleasant surprise! What brings you by so early?"
You feel the blood rushing to your face as you struggle to maintain composure. Tobirama glances up from his work, his red eyes assessing you with quiet interest.
"I..." Your voice catches. Madara hasn't moved, but his presence fills the room like smoke, making it hard to breathe. "Lord Hashirama, might I speak with you privately for a moment?"
Before Hashirama can respond, Madara scoffs, pushing himself away from the window.
"The brat's here to ask to be relieved of her duties with me, isn't that right?" His voice is cold and full of spite.
His words and demeanor reignited the embers of rage, embarrassment, and shame that lay in your gut. You longed to scream, to hit him in the face, to do anything but stand here and cower beneath his gaze.
"Actually, Lord Madara, that's exactly what I was going to do," you snap back, no longer caring about propriety. "I don't see how I can continue working for someone who clearly despises my very existence."
Hashirama's eyebrows shoot up, his face forming a perfect expression of surprise. "Now, now, I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding—"
"There's no misunderstanding," Madara cuts in, taking a step closer. "She's incompetent and argumentative. I have neither the time nor the patience to babysit someone who can't follow simple instructions."
Heat floods your cheeks as hot anger courses through your veins. "Babysit me? Is that what you call hurling insults and ignoring every contribution I make? If that's your idea of leadership, it's no wonder half the village walks on eggshells around you!"
Tobirama sets down his pen, leaning back in his chair with the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes dart between you and Madara like he's watching an especially entertaining sparring match.
"You dare—" Madara begins, his chakra flaring so intensely that papers on Hashirama's desk flutter.
"Yes, I dare!" You step forward, meeting his glare with equal intensity. "Someone needs to tell you that your behavior is unacceptable. You can't treat people like they're beneath you just because you feel like it!"
Hashirama rises from his chair, hands extended placatingly. "Please, both of you, let's take a breath and discuss this rationally—"
"Rational discussion requires rational participants," Madara growls, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm looking at the most irrational, stubborn woman I've ever encountered."
"That's ironic coming from you," you retort, crossing your arms. "A man so blinded by prejudice he can't recognize competence when it's right in front of him."
Tobirama clears his throat, drawing your eyes to him. "I find it interesting, Madara, that you're so affected by someone you claim is beneath you." His voice is cool, measured, but there's a glint in his red eyes that suggests he's enjoying this immensely. "One might think you're protesting too much."
Madara's attention snaps to Tobirama, his Sharingan activating in a flash of crimson. "Stay out of this, Tobirama. Not everything requires your unsolicited opinion."
"On the contrary," Tobirama continues, unperturbed by Madara's flaring temper. "I've reviewed her work myself. Her assistance has proven beneficial for the village. Perhaps your judgment is compromised in this matter."
Madara's voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "Are you implying I can't assess the work of my own subordinates?"
You stand frozen, genuinely shocked that Tobirama came to your defense. Your eyes dart between the two men as tension crackles in the air like lightning before a storm.
"I'm merely stating facts," Tobirama says nonchalantly, rising from his chair with grace. "Her report contained insights about the border patrol rotations that even you missed. Her work is exemplary. Perhaps it's not her abilities that have you so perplexed."
Madara takes a menacing step toward Tobirama, his temper flaring so intensely that you can practically feel his anger move with him. "You know nothing about how I conduct my affairs. The girl is—"
"The girl has a name," Tobirama interrupts coolly, "and skills that would be better utilized if you weren't so determined to find fault with everything she does."
Your mouth falls open slightly. Never had you expected Tobirama— cold, analytical Tobirama— to support you so openly. The shock must show on your face because Madara's eyes flick to you, narrowing dangerously.
"Don't look so surprised," he snarls. "Of course, he'd take your side. Anything to undermine my authority."
"This isn't about taking sides," Tobirama counters, crossing his arms. "It's about efficiency. Your personal vendetta is wasting time and village resources."
Madara's laugh is sharp and brittle. "Don't flatter yourself, or her. I simply expect competence from those who work for me."
"Enough!" Hashirama's voice cuts through the hostility, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by his strong, commanding presence. The wooden floor beneath your feet trembles slightly— a subtle reminder of his formidable power. "This petty bickering undermines everything we're trying to build in Konoha."
Silence falls as all three of you turn to face him. Hashirama's eyes are hard as stone, his disappointment palpable.
"I've watched this tension fester for weeks," he continues, circling his desk. "Madara's hostility, your frustration—" he nods toward you, "—and Tobirama's... provocations." His brother scoffs but doesn't interrupt. "This ends today."
The finality in his tone makes your stomach clench. This is it— you're about to be dismissed from your position, possibly even removed from the village. You straighten your spine, preparing for the blow.
Instead, Hashirama's serious expression melts into something far more alarming— a broad, mischievous smile.
"I have the perfect solution," he announces, clapping his hands together. "The three of you will work together on the western district development project."
"What?" The word escapes your lips in unison with both Madara and Tobirama, creating a discordant chorus of disbelief.
"Brother, you can't be serious," Tobirama protests, his usual composure slipping.
"Absolutely not," Madara growls simultaneously.
Hashirama's smile only widens. "I'm completely serious. The western district needs infrastructure planning, security protocols, and community engagement— perfect for your combined talents." He begins shuffling through papers on his desk. "You'll share the field office by the river. I expect daily progress reports. Signed by all three of you."
The horror of the situation dawns on you slowly, like ice water trickling down your spine. Forced proximity with both Tobirama and Madara… There is no worse fate than this, you dread internally as both men argue and plead with Hashirama to no avail.
“So it’s settled!” Hashirama chides as he smiles at you, your face void of any emotion.
Behind him, Madara glares at you with a chilling gaze, and beside him, Tobirama’s sinister scowl is aimed at Madara. You felt sick; there’s no way you’re going to be able to do this. Dealing with Madara’s moodiness was one thing— getting caught between the Uchiha and Senju was another.
Morning comes too quickly, the sun's amber light filtering through your curtains as you stare at the ceiling, dreading the day ahead. Your stomach churns as you dress, selecting your most professional attire— a silent armor against whatever awaits at the Western Field Office.
The path to the riverside office takes you through a section of Konoha still under construction. Workers call greetings as you pass, oblivious to your inner turmoil. The scent of fresh-cut timber and wet earth fills the air, mingling with the soft hum of the nearby river.
When you arrive, the small wooden building stands solitary against the backdrop of tall, swaying trees. Your hand hesitates on the door handle, pulse quickening before you gather your courage and step inside.
Relief washes over you when you see only Tobirama occupying the space. He stands by a large table covered with maps, his white hair catching the morning light. He looks up at your entrance, his red eyes softening almost imperceptibly.
"You're early," he observes, returning his attention to the map.
"I thought it best to get a head start," you reply, setting your bag down on one of the three desks arranged in the room. "Before..."
"Before Madara arrives and the air becomes unbreathable?" Tobirama finishes for you, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.
Despite yourself, you smile. "Something like that."
A comfortable silence falls as you unpack your materials. The morning light filters through the windows, dust motes dancing in golden beams. Without Madara's oppressive presence, the tension in your shoulders begins to ease.
"I wanted to thank you," you say suddenly, looking up from your notes. "For what you said yesterday. About my work."
Tobirama studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I merely stated facts. Your analysis was thorough."
"Still," you persist, "not many would have spoken up against Madara like that."
He makes a noncommittal sound, turning back to his map. "Madara's temper does not intimidate me. Never has."
You move closer, curious about what he's studying so intently. The map shows the western district with various markings and notations.
"I've been considering security protocols," Tobirama explains, sensing your interest. "The river provides a natural boundary, but also a potential vulnerability."
"The terrain itself presents challenges," you reply, leaning in to trace a finger along the riverbank on the map. "These bends create blind spots that could—"
The door bangs open, slamming against the wall with enough force to rattle the windows. Madara stands in the threshold, his imposing silhouette blocking the light from outside. His eyes sweep across the room, narrowing when he sees you standing so close to Tobirama.
"How cozy," he remarks, voice dripping with disdain. "Planning without me already?"
The peaceful atmosphere shatters instantly. You step back from the table, crossing your arms defensively. "We were just discussing security concerns along the riverbank."
Madara stalks into the room, the air growing heavy with his chakra. "I'm sure you were."
Tobirama straightens, his face returning to its usual impassive mask. "Since you've finally decided to join us, perhaps you'd like to contribute something useful rather than baseless insinuations."
You watch Madara's jaw clench as he drops a stack of scrolls onto the empty desk farthest from both of you. "Unlike some, I spent the morning gathering actual intelligence on the district, not making drawings."
"Yes, intelligence," Tobirama's voice turns cold. "Is that what you call intimidating the local merchants?"
"I don't intimidate," Madara snaps. "I inquire directly. Something a Senju might find difficult to comprehend."
You clear your throat, desperate to redirect their attention. "I've prepared a schedule for our first week. If we divide the tasks—"
"I don't need a schedule made by you," Madara interrupts, not even glancing your way. "And I certainly don't need to be managed by someone with barely a year's experience in administration."
His words make you feel small, and you try to keep your emotions in check, wanting to avoid an encounter like the last. "It was just a suggestion."
"A poor one," he retorts, finally turning those dark eyes on you. "This project requires experience and authority, not... whatever it is you think you're bringing to the table."
Tobirama makes a sound of disgust. "And there it is. Your inability to work with anyone who doesn't bow to your every whim."
"It’s not inability— I just don't need instructions from an assistant," Madara interrupts again, turning his cold gaze back on you. "Especially one who seems to have forgotten which founder she reports to."
Heat rushes to your face. "I report to all of you. That's the entire point of this project."
"Is it?" Madara's voice drops dangerously low. "Or is this just another of Hashirama's misguided attempts at forcing cooperation where none is wanted?"
Tobirama scoffs, rolling up the map with quick, precise movements. "If you're finished with your tantrum, perhaps we could begin the actual work."
For the next several hours, you attempt to navigate the frigid hostility between the two men that would occasionally get thrown back on you. Every suggestion is met with opposition— not because of the ideas themselves, but because of who proposes them. When Tobirama outlines a sensible approach to drainage systems, Madara immediately finds fault. When Madara suggests a layout for residential zones, Tobirama criticizes the efficiency.
You find yourself speaking less and less; any spirit you harbored was crushed under the weight of their mutual antagonism. The small office feels increasingly crowded, dense with tension, even as everyone works in silence. A while later, Madara abruptly leaves, leaving you alone with Tobirama once again.
Tobirama's pen scratches softly against parchment, the only sound in the office now that Madara has gone. The late afternoon sun slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. You massage your temples, trying to ward off the headache building behind your eyes.
"This project is going to be the death of me," you mutter, more to yourself than to Tobirama.
He glances up, his expression softening slightly. "Madara has that effect on people."
A small laugh escapes you, easing some of the tension from your shoulders. "How do you maintain your composure around him? I feel like I'm constantly one comment away from throwing something."
"Years of practice," Tobirama replies, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "And the occasional count-to-ten technique."
You're surprised by this momentary lightness between you. In all your time in Konoha, you've rarely seen this side of the usually stoic Senju. He was all business, sparing little time for chatter for all alike.
"Would you mind looking at this?" Tobirama suddenly asks, gesturing to a document on his desk. "It's a requisition for building materials for the western district. Something about these numbers seems off."
You push yourself up from your chair, grateful for the distraction. Walking over to his desk, you lean forward to examine the parchment, bracing one hand against the polished wood.
"Which section?" You ask, scanning the columns of figures.
"Here," Tobirama points, his voice closer than you expected.
You lean in further, and as you shift your weight, your knee accidentally brushes against his. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through you, and you immediately stiffen, acutely aware of his proximity. His scent— clean like rain and cedar— fills your senses.
"Sorry," you murmur, feeling heat rise to your cheeks as you try to focus on the requisition form. Your heart beats at a rapid pace against your ribs, your reaction catching you off guard.
Since when did Tobirama Senju make you nervous?
"I think..." Your voice sounds strangely breathless to your own ears. "I think they've calculated for reinforced foundations. See this notation here?" You point to a small mark, acutely aware of how close your hand is to his.
"Ah," he says quietly. "You're right." Tobirama nods, seemingly unaffected by your closeness.
The door swings open again without warning. Madara strides in, his dark eyes immediately locking onto the scene you and Tobirama present. His expression hardens as he takes in your position, leaning over Tobirama's desk, your bodies close enough to touch.
"Don't let me interrupt," he huffs, his voice laced with venom. "I just came for a folder, but clearly you two have found more... pressing ways to pass the time."
You straighten immediately, embarrassment and anger flaring in equal measure at his bitter hint. "We're reviewing requisitions, which is more than I can say for you since you stormed out earlier."
Madara's lip curls as he retrieves a folder from his desk. "Say whatever you wish, you do not fool me."
The insinuation hits like a slap. "Fuck you, Madara!" The words explode from you as rage boils through your veins. "You have no right to—"
"I have every right when you're making a spectacle of yourself with Tobirama right in our shared workspace," Madara snarls, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously. "If you wish to throw yourself at a Senju, do it on your own time, not when we have a village to build."
The further accusation strikes like lightning, shocking and burning all at once. You've never felt such rage before— it consumes you completely, turning your vision red at the edges.
"You insufferable bastard—" Words fail you as fury closes your throat. "You know nothing about me!"
"I know enough," he spits, turning on his heel and storming toward the door. "And I've seen enough."
You're moving before you can think, propelled by a storm of indignation. "Don't you dare walk away from me!" You follow him out the door, your shoes clicking against the wooden porch.
Behind you, you hear Tobirama sigh heavily. "Don't waste your—" he starts, but you're already out the door, chasing Madara's retreating form.
You chase Madara down the dirt path, heedless of the villagers watching with wide eyes and hushed whispers. The afternoon sun hangs low in the sky as you follow his swift strides toward the construction site.
"Is that what you think of me?" You shout at his back. "That I'm some... some shameless woman throwing herself at men? After all the work I've done?"
He doesn't slow, doesn't turn. "I think you're a distraction this village doesn't need."
"How the hell am I a distraction?" You quicken your pace to keep up with his longer strides. "I've done nothing but work myself to exhaustion since arriving here! I left everything behind to come to Konoha!"
"No one asked you to," he retorts coldly, weaving between newly-built structures.
The construction site looms ahead, several buildings in various stages of completion rising from the cleared earth. Workers pause their hammering and sawing to watch your approach, tools hanging forgotten in their hands.
"You're impossible!" Your voice rises with each word. "What exactly is it about me that offends you so much? Is it simply that I don't cower before the great Madara Uchiha?" You spit.
He continues walking, jaw clenched, deliberately ignoring you. The dismissal only fuels your anger.
"Or maybe," you say, your voice dropping dangerously low, "you're threatened by the fact that I see through your intimidation tactics. That I'm not afraid of you like everyone else."
That gets his attention. He stops so suddenly that you nearly collide with his back. When he turns, his eyes are blazing with barely contained fury.
"You think I care what you think of me?" His voice is soft, which somehow makes it more menacing.
"I don't give a damn what you care about!" You shout, stepping directly into his space, close enough to see the flecks of crimson beginning to swirl in his dark irises. "You've been nothing but cruel to me since the moment I arrived, and I deserve to know why!"
The construction workers scatter, abandoning their posts as your chakra flares involuntarily with your anger. Dust rises around your feet, swirling in the charged air between you.
"Go away," Madara warns, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder.
"No." You plant your feet firmly, tilting your chin up defiantly. "Not until you explain yourself. What have I ever done to make you hate me so much?"
His nostrils flare as he takes a measured breath. "You're making a scene."
"Good! Let them all see how their precious Uchiha founder treats people who don't worship his feet!"
Something dangerous flashes across his face— a crack in his careful control. "Last warning."
"Or what?" You challenge, pushing even closer. "You'll shout at me? Insult me again? I'm not afraid of you, Madara, and I won't be dismissed like some—"
Without warning, his hand closes around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Not here," he mutters.
Before you can protest, he's pulling you away from the curious onlookers, dragging you toward one of the finished buildings. Your feet stumble over uneven ground as you struggle to keep pace with his long strides.
"Let go of me!" You demand, but your words fall on deaf ears as he yanks you through a doorway into the shadowy interior of the bare structure.
The moment you're inside, he releases your wrist, only to grasp your shoulders and back you against the nearest wall. The wood presses against your spine as he looms over you, his powerful frame caging you in. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek.
You gasp at the sudden proximity, your heart hammering wildly in your chest as your anger shifted to something else. The dim light filtered through small windows, casting half his face in shadow, making him look even more dangerous— and devastatingly handsome. Fear mingles with something else, something molten and unexpected that pools low in your belly.
"You want to know why I can't be around you?" His voice is barely above a whisper, rough with honesty. His eyes search yours, no longer cold but burning with an intensity that steals your breath.
You should feel threatened, should be pushing him away, but instead, you find yourself frozen, captivated by the change in his demeanor. The anger is still there, but beneath it lies something raw that caught you completely off guard.
"Yes," you inhale, the word barely audible even in the silence of the empty building.
"I can't stand it," he growls, his voice strained with something primal. "The way you act, how you challenge me, look at me—" His fingers dig into your shoulders, not enough to hurt but enough to feel his strength. "I can't focus when you're around. I can't think clearly."
Your breath catches as understanding dawns. This isn't hatred— it's something else entirely.
"I’ve tried to ignore you," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "but you're always there, in my thoughts, distracting me. Making me want things I shouldn't want— from an impotent outsider, nonetheless."
His hand moves to grasp your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The gesture is rough but controlled, his gloved fingers warm against your skin. Heat floods your cheeks as his dark eyes bore into yours, no longer cold but blazing with barely restrained desire.
"Is that what you wanted to hear?" He demands, his knee pushing between your legs, pressing you more firmly against the wall. "That I can't keep my eyes off you? That you haunt me day and night?"
You can't speak, can't breathe, as his proximity overwhelms your senses. The scent of smoke and sandalwood that clings to him fills your lungs, making your head spin. His body radiates heat, and you're suddenly acutely aware of every point where he’s touching you.
Madara's eyes drop to your parted lips, and something in his expression becomes predatory. His mouth descends to your neck, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.
"Look at you," he murmurs against your pulse point, "trembling for me now. Is this what you wanted when you chased me out here? When you pushed and pushed until I broke?"
A small sound escapes your throat— something between a gasp and a whimper— as his lips brush against your skin. Your body betrays you, responding to his touch with shameless eagerness despite all the anger that came before.
His hand slides from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. "You're enjoying this," he says, his voice taking on a mocking edge that somehow only heightens your arousal. "Where are all those spiteful words now, hm?"
You try to summon your indignation, to remember why you were so furious with him, but his proximity makes coherent thought impossible. Your hands, which should be pushing him away, instead clutch at the fabric of his shirt.
"I should hate you," you murmur, your voice unsteady.
"But you don't," he says with certainty, his lips curving against your neck in what you feel is a smirk. "Your body gives you away. So eager and needy— is this how you act with Tobirama too?"
The accusation stings, cutting through the haze of desire he was lacing you with. "You’re being ridiculous," you manage to say, your voice coming out as a harsh whisper.
Without warning, he shifts his weight, pressing his muscular thigh harder between your legs. The increased pressure against your core draws a gasp from your lips, your body instinctively arching toward him.
"You’re dangerous," he growls, his mouth moving closer to yours. "You make me lose control."
You tremble as his hot breath fans across your lips, your hands rising to grasp his shoulders— whether to push him away or pull him closer, you're not sure. Your fingers curl into his tunic, feeling the solid muscle lying beneath.
His lips hover just above yours, and you can't suppress the slight, needy sound that escapes you. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression darkening as he takes in your dilated pupils, your parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
"Tell me," he commands harshly, his voice laced with satisfaction and scorn. "Is this why you've been so desperate for my notice?”
The accusation hangs between you, his words stripping away your defenses. You didn’t ponder your need for Madara’s approval. Yes, you could have simply ignored him, and he would have ignored you just as much as possible in turn. If he and Tobirama managed to work together, then you could too.
But instead, you took everything personally, because you wanted him to like you.
Truthfully, you wanted everyone to like you.
"Why is it so bad for me to want your approval? Would you prefer I didn’t?” You question with your chin up, conjuring the fire of defiance in your bones.
Madara’s face twists with a dark smirk— hints of triumph mixed with a primal hunger at your admittance. "So the little Hikari princess has been begging for my attention all this time," he murmurs, his voice dangerously soft. "How pathetic."
Before you can respond, his mouth crashes against yours, swallowing your gasp of surprise. The kiss is brutal, controlling— nothing like the soft embraces you've imagined in your weakest moments. His lips claim yours with punishing force, his teeth catching your bottom lip and biting down just hard enough to make you whimper.
Your hands clutch at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer as he devours your mouth. His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring the heat of your mouth with demanding strokes that leave you breathless and trembling.
When he finally breaks the kiss, you're panting, your lips swollen and tender. His eyes are molten with desire, Sharingan activated, memorizing every detail of your flushed face.
"You’re despicable," he growls, his voice rough with contempt and desire. "Giving yourself to the man you hate."
"Shut up," you breathe as your body betrays you, arching into his touch.
His laugh is dark and knowing, giving you goosebumps despite the heat running through you. "Here you are, pining like a common whore."
He presses you harder against the wall, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides beneath your tunic, the leather of his glove trailing across your skin. You feel like you're burning alive, consumed by a need that overshadows your pride, your anger, everything but the feel of his hands on your body.
"Madara," you gasp as his fingers trace the curve of your waist, moving higher.
"Say it again," he demands, his lips back on your throat now, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.
"Madara," you repeat, the name falling from your lips with a whimper as he bites your flesh gently.
His hand moves suddenly, pulling off his gloves, dropping to the hem of your skirt and pushing it up your thighs with impatient movements. The cool air against your exposed skin makes you shiver, but it's nothing compared to the jolt that runs through you when his fingers move against your inner thigh.
"Spread your legs," he commands against your ear, his voice leaving no room for refusal.
You comply without thinking, your body responding to his command with an eagerness that should shame you. His fingers trace higher up your thigh, reaching the edge of your panties. There's a momentary pause— just long enough for your breath to catch— before he pushes the fabric aside and rubs his fingertips through your sopping lower lips.
"Look at you," he hisses against your ear, his voice dripping with disdain even as his touch remains deliberate and precise. "Soaked through already. Is this what fighting with me does to you? Makes you wet and desperate?"
Heat floods your face at his crude assessment, humiliation warring with the pleasure coursing through your veins as his fingers explore your slickness. You try to turn your face away, but his other hand grips your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"Answer me," he demands, dipping his fingers between your soaked lips.
"Yes!" You cry, the confession torn from your throat as he circles over your clit.
His laugh is dark and cruel. "I suppose having you around will serve some purpose." He slides a thick finger inside you without warning, making you gasp. "If you make yourself useful."
Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, seeking more friction. He adds a second finger, stretching you in a way that sends sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.
"How desperate you must be," he taunts, his voice rough with desire, loosely concealed beneath the contempt. "Spreading your legs for me on mere impulse." His fingers curl inside you, finding a spot that makes your knees buckle. "You really do submit too easily."
You should hate this— hate him for reducing you to this trembling, needy mess as he talks down to you— but his skilled fingers are drawing you closer to the edge with each deliberate stroke. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt as tension coils wickedly tighter in your core.
"Please," you breathe, not even sure what you're begging for.
"Please, what?" Madara's voice is dangerously smooth against your ear. "Please fuck you? Please make you cum?" His thumb circles faster, his fingers pumping in a rhythm that has you teetering on the edge of your sanity. "Is that what you want? To cum on my fingers like the desperate little slut you are?"
"Yes," you gasp, beyond shame now as your body tightens around his fingers. "Please, Madara, I—"
And then, without warning, he withdraws completely. The sudden emptiness leaves you shaking, hovering at the edge with no release. Your eyes fly open to find him watching you with dark satisfaction, his Sharingan memorizing every detail of your frustrated need.
"Did you think I would reward you so easily?" He asks, bringing his glistening fingers to his lips, eyes locked on yours, as if savoring not just the taste but your raw humiliation. A slow, wicked smile blooms on his lips as he withdraws his fingers with obscene leisure.
"You should see yourself right now," he murmurs, closing in on you once again. "No shame at all. I will take you right here and you’ll only beg for more."
The hunger in his gaze is dizzying, a shock of heat that makes your thighs tremble. Every inch of your skin prickles with anticipation and mortification, and he was right, you still want more. You want everything, even if it means surrendering what little pride you have left.
You reach for him, desperate for any contact, but Madara seizes your wrists and pins them above your head in a single, effortless movement. His body presses you into the wall, and you can feel the hard line of his cock through the layers of cloth, already straining against his pants.
"You don’t get to touch," he hisses, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. "Not until I say so."
He let go of your hands and moved to his waistband, freeing himself with a practiced motion. You hear the rustle of fabric and then feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip. The sight is almost as dizzying as your own desire, as is the knowledge that you did this to him— that beneath all the contempt and mockery, he is every bit as desperate.
"On your knees," he orders, pulling you down with a fist in your hair.
You collapse in obedience, palms hitting the rough wooden floor. The musty scent of sawdust and earth fills your nose, grounding you just enough to process the feral hunger in Madara’s eyes as he towers above you. He grips his cock at the base, then steps forward so the head of his cock smears precum across your parted lips.
“You wanted my attention?” He growls, tapping it against your mouth. “Now you have it.”
You hesitate only a fraction of a second before your lips part, tongue darting out to taste the salty bead of precum at the tip. He doesn’t wait for you to get your bearings— the moment you open, he thrusts forward, sheathing himself halfway down your throat with a low, guttural sound of satisfaction.
"Fuck," he grunts, hand twisting tighter in your hair as he sets a merciless rhythm. Your jaw aches, but you force yourself to relax, to breathe through your nose and keep up. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as he uses your mouth with a personal intensity— shallow, punishing strokes that leave you gasping in between for ragged breaths.
He never looks away, watching your struggle with vicious pleasure. Every time you gag, he mutters something filthy— "Such a mess," or "You can take more,"— until you’re trembling not just with arousal, but with the sick thrill of being completely and utterly dominated.
Your hands find his thighs, digging into the thick muscle as you try to anchor yourself. He fucks your face harder, his pace unrelenting until saliva is running down your chin in profane strings.
He pulls back suddenly, his cock leaving your lips with an obscene wet pop. You gasp for air, the rawness in your throat proof of what you’ve endured. Madara looks down at you, his expression a study in predatory satisfaction. He uses a thumb to wipe the trail of spit from your cheek, then shoves your hair behind your ear with a tender roughness.
“You’re ruined,” he sneers, though his voice quavers with restraint, “and yet you only want more.”
He yanks you to your feet by your hair, your vision spinning as you’re hauled upright. The world lurches dizzyingly, the muscles in your neck and scalp straining from the force. He pins you to the wall again, your back slamming into the rough timber. Your legs tremble, barely supporting your weight, so when he pushes his thigh between them, you cling to him instinctively, arms winding around his neck for balance.
“Hold on,” he commands, hands gripping beneath your ass and hoisting you up with ease. Your legs scissor around his waist, skirt pooling at your hips, and you’re all but suspended, caught between the wall and the crushing weight of his body. Your hands tangle in his wild hair, pulling him down until his mouth is on yours again— less a kiss, more a claim, as he bruises your lips with the ferocity of his hunger.
He breaks away with a snarl, breath ragged, and shifts his hips so the head of his cock drags through your dripping folds. He teases you with it, rubbing harsh, taunting circles over your swollen clit, smearing your arousal everywhere, refusing to give you the relief you want most.
“Is this what you want?” He growls, biting your lower lip until you gasp, eyes watering. “Say it. Tell me how much you want it.”
You glare at him, teeth gritted, clawing for any scrap of dignity. “I want you to shut up and fuck me.”
He laughs, a volcanic sound deep in his chest. “Still defiant. Even now, when you’re all but sobbing for it.” He lets go of your ass, balancing you easily with one hand, and uses the other to slap your clit. The stinging shock makes you yelp, your whole body jerking in his iron grip.
“Try again,” he says, his gaze pinning you like a butterfly to the wall.
You bare your teeth and spit, “Please, Madara, I want it.”
He raises an eyebrow, as if daring you to go further. So you do— leaning in until your mouth is pressed to his ear, voice low and hoarse: “I want you to ruin me.”
He growls— actually growls— and with a single, brutal thrust, he buries himself inside you to the hilt. The shock of it steals your breath as you cry out, the stretch and fullness so sudden and overwhelming you can only cling to him, nails digging into his nape. He moves immediately, a punishing pace, rutting you against the wall as though he intends to fuck every last thought from your head.
The world narrows to the brutal rhythm of his hips, the lewd slapping of skin, the harsh sound of your breathing tangled together. He holds you, your legs hitched around his waist, your back rubbing against splintering wood. Each movement drives you higher, your body tight and trembling, tears dampening your lashes from the sheer intensity.
“It’s too much—” you gasp, but he cuts you off with a hand at your throat, squeezing just enough to slam your cries back into your lungs. Your vision blurs at the edges as he fucks you harder still, the world reducing to the slick, relentless pounding, the bruising pressure of his hand at your neck, the split awareness of pain and pleasure.
“Shh,” he hisses, lips dragging hot along your jaw. “You want everyone to hear you getting used like this?” His teeth grazing the flesh at the crook of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark that will last for days. You shriek, or try to, but his grip at your throat throttles the sound to a muffled whine, your body arching instinctively, desperate for oxygen, for friction, for release.
He shifts, hand sliding from your throat to your jaw, digging his fingers in so you’re forced to look straight into the spinning crimson of his Sharingan. His hips never slow, slamming into you with a savage, powerful force. “That’s it,” he growls, voice low. “Take every inch. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?”
You want to deny it, to spit words back in his face, but you can’t. Your brain has liquefied, your body a live wire of sensation, every thrust leaving you closer and closer to shattering. He feels it, senses it in the way your body clamps around him, in the desperate clutch of your thighs. He leans in, voice so low you feel it rather than hear it: “You will not finish until I allow it. Understood?”
You nod, tears streaking down your cheeks, your whole world reduced to the heat and hardness of him filling you over and over. Then his hand moves, releasing your face to slap your cheek, hard, twice in quick succession. The sound rings out in the tiny space, echoing off the hollow beams.
You dig your nails into his nape, clawing for purchase, and he laughs— low, cruel, ragged. “Cling all you want, girl. You belong to me now.”
He punctuates his words with an especially brutal thrust, and you cry out, the sound echoing in the empty, half-finished house. He chokes off your scream with his mouth, swallowing your broken whimpers as his tongue invades, teeth scraping your lip. His hand drops between your bodies, finding your clit with talented cruelty— he circles it, presses down, slaps it, keeping you high on the edge but never tipping you over. Every time you get close to release, he slows, or stops, or bites you somewhere new, dragging your agony out.
You’re babbling by the time he finally relents, the words barely a language: “Please, please, please—”
“Pitiful,” Madara sneers, but his own voice is shaking, hips stuttering, cock throbbing inside you. “Fine. Cum for me. Cum on my cock, and let everyone know you’re mine.”
The command obliterates your restraint. You shatter instantly, a tidal wave of heat and electric pleasure ripping through you, violent and uncontrolled. Your vision whites out, your body spasming around him, gushing slick and wet, soaking his cock and thighs. He keeps moving, grinding into you through your clenching heat as he rides out every pulse, refusing to stop even as you sob through the aftershocks.
He’s insatiable, rutting into you until he’s right at the edge—then, abruptly, he pulls out. You cry out at the sudden emptiness, only for his hand to snake down and jam two, then three fingers inside your pussy, knuckle deep, curling to find your softest, most sensitive spot. Overstimulated, you jerk in his grasp, legs kicking weakly in the air as he fucks you with his fingers, palm grinding your bruised clit. The pleasure is torturous, almost painful, your body raw and hypersensitive.
“Wait—” you slur, shoving at his wrist as your nerves short-circuit, “Madara—”
He only smirks, red eyes glittering. “No,” he says, voice dark with satisfaction. “You can take it.” And he keeps going, relentless, his fingers plunging and curling until your entire body arches with a violent shudder. You scream as a second orgasm rips through you, this one so fierce you gush violently around his hand, splattering the floor, his sleeve, his abdomen. It’s obscene, the wet sounds echoing in the empty structure; you almost collapse, but he holds you up easily, savoring your helplessness.
“Messy girl,” Madara sneers, his hand dripping with your release. He presses his palm to your clit again, and you jolt so hard your teeth snap together. He finally relents, letting your legs slide limply down to the floor, your chest heaving with the effort of breathing. For a moment, you just slump there, boneless, the wall the only thing keeping you upright.
But he isn’t finished.
Not even close.
He grabs your hips, spins you, and shoves your chest against the rough boards. You whimper, but he kicks your feet apart and lines himself up again, slamming into you from behind with such force that your forehead cracks against the wall. You’re still so wet, so wrecked, that his cock slides in to the root on the first thrust, filling you utterly. He takes you hard— brutally, each movement punching what little air you have from your lungs. Your face streaks with tears as you steady yourself, raw and desperate, your climax instantly reigniting.
He fucks you with rabid intensity, one hand pinning your wrists behind your lower back, the other gripping your hair and yanking your head back. He fucks you like he hates you, his cock thick and merciless inside you, every stroke bruising your insides. You can feel the new orgasm building, and when it hits you, it feels like you’re drowning— you scream and sob, your body buckling, but Madara just holds you tighter, rutting through the convulsions with single-minded purpose.
The world blurs; you can barely see through the tears, your body so shredded by pleasure and exhaustion that you barely register the next orgasm building, then detonating in another helpless spasm. He growls, the sound vibrating through your spine as he cums deep inside you, hips slamming forward so hard the wall shudders. Heat floods your pussy— thick, possessive, inescapable.
He holds there, panting, your bodies trembling together. For a long, taut moment, neither of you moves. You hang suspended between his body and the wall, pinned in his iron embrace, utterly spent.
When he finally eases his grip, you sag forward, knees buckling as his softening dick slides from your pulsing center. Madara doesn’t let you fall; he supports you against his chest, his arm a steel band around your ribs, his other hand braced against the wall beside your head. You wilt under his weight, unsteady, the aftershocks shooting up your spine. The smell of sweat and sex is thick between you, your pulse a fast hum in your ears.
He doesn't speak. He simply holds you there, chests rising and falling in a jagged duet, while his seed seeps from between your thighs and down the inside of your leg, slick and unsparing. You become aware of your own whimpering breaths, your jaw slack and raw from his rough kisses. Shame gnaws at the back of your mind, but it’s a distant, powerless beast compared to the vivid pleasure still echoing through your body.
You expect him to shove you away, to leave you broken and stalk off in disgust. Instead, he straightens after a moment, hands gripping your hips, and spins you around. You tumble back against the wall, loose-limbed and dizzy, your knees threatening to fold entirely. He cages you in again, looming over you with a treacherous aura. He’s breathing hard, sweat tracking down his temple, hair wild and damp, eyes black as an eclipse.
Your gazes catch and entangle— electric, raw, dangerous. You can see it in his eyes: he’s still hungry, still furious, and something else, something that aches as much as it burns. You can only look up at him, helpless, exhausted, pleading for something you can’t even name.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, his voice making every nerve in your body stand at attention.
“Like what?” Your lips are numb, your thoughts tangled, but even now you won’t let him have the last word.
He sneers, exposing the sharpness of his teeth. “You know exactly how.”
He leans in and takes your mouth again, his lips bruising, tongue insistent, fingers threading so deeply in your hair as if he might tear it out. You still expect him to hurt you more, to bite until you bleed, but the kiss is almost tender—almost.
He breaks it off with a staggering abruptness and stares at you, his brow knitted, breath still harsh. “You’re a fucking disaster,” he rasps, and for a second, you can’t tell which of you he means.
He lets go, finally, and you nearly crumple to the floor. You can feel the slick of his cum dripping down your inner thighs, pooling on the floor, and the knowledge that you did this, that you let him do this, is a fire in your blood and a blade in your heart.
“Clean yourself up.” He’s buttoning his pants, his back already turned, the words tossed over his shoulder like an afterthought. “I’m not walking the streets with you looking like that.”
Keep in mind Madara was in a cave, alone, for many years… surrounded by Hashirama’s DNA. I doubt that chunk he took from the arm was the first he stole from him.😏
And finally I came back with my new small fanart of Tobirama Senju in the Uchiha's clothes :D
It is a colored sketch that I've posted before; you can find it on my page.
Inspired by Feet Follow the Shoes by Nvim <3
Just fooling around animating Hotaka, MadaTomo's second born child <3 He's basically his father's twin, except for those side bangs he stole from his mother 🙌
