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Madara meets Hyuuga Aio’s opalescent glare with his own spinning Sharingan, gratified when she deactivates her Byakugan and looks away with a snarl. Her dōjutsu is simply lesser, and it would seem that she knows it, however unconsciously.

He sits back in his chair with a smug smirk hidden beneath the bristly black waterfall of his bangs – another round won for the Uchiha.

To his left, the Senju bastard rolls hellfire eyes, tapping his long, slender fingers impatiently on the meeting table and motioning at his brother to hurry up and finish what rambling speech about friendship he’d been giving to the newly-joined Hyuuga, like the Hyuuga are deserving of any kind of speech whatsoever. Their kekkei genkai is inferior to that of Madara’s own Clan, one of the two founding Clans of Konohagakure, and they should not have to scrape and grovel and bow to those pretentious snot-nosed assholes to get them to join their flourishing little village. 

Tobirama looks like he’s three seconds away from strangling Aio when she gives a little sniff and softly accepts the proposal in her prim voice, so Madara assumes he feels the same.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s ever agreed with Tobirama on anything, but it’s still surprising to him, enough to warrant a discreet sideways glance to catch sight of— 

—pale collarbones, the joint of his jugular and clavicles, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

It’s possible that Madara forgets how to breathe.

Doesn’t the damnable Senju have – have manners? What the hell is he doing wearing a yukata that gapes open to bare his neck and throat and the top of his chest to the kami and the Hyuuga and everybody? Why does he own clothing so ridiculously oversized that it reveals his lickable neck to the world at large—

“…adara, you agree, right? This is acceptable to you?”

“It is most certainly not,” he snaps, because he has a legitimate sense of propriety and would never permit Izuna to go walking around in public practically naked.Why on earth are you letting your brother wear – wear that, Hashirama? He might as well be shirtless!”

Tobirama and Hashirama both turn to him, their eyebrows quirked in an identical expression of inquiry that somehow manages to come out as much fiercer on Tobirama’s sharp face, probably due to how Madara’s just embarrassed him in public in front of their new ally. She gives Tobirama’s bared skin a dubious glare, which is not okay, because only Madara is allowed to glare at Tobirama’s throat and wonder what noises he would make if it was licked and bitten and kissed-!

Oh.

Oh, no.

He realizes It just as Hashirama apologetically ushers the Hyuuga woman out of the room, just as Tobirama tugs self-consciously on the collar of his stupidly large shirt. It strikes him like a hammer to the head just as his brain decides to comprehend what the hell he’d just said out loud, into the air where everybody heard him, and before he knows it Madara can feel his face burning in a violent blush. It is a rare day when a ninja such as himself feels mortification, but he is no more immune to emotion than any civilian; if anything, it strikes him harder, stronger, more deeply because of his Sharingan and his heritage and his ruinous mouth.

As soon as Hashirama is clear of the office, Senju turns to him with absolute, unbridled rage boiling in his expression, face flushed redder than his eyes in his embarrassment and pretty pink mouth twisted into a fearsome scowl that, mercifully, does an excellent job at cowing the part of Madara’s brain that has suddenly and unexpectedly become addicted to producing fantasies about Senju Tobirama, of all people.

He does not swallow nervously. He is Uchiha Madara; he doesn’t feel nervous. He can hold his own in battle against Hashirama. He can fight a bijuu single-handedly and win. He is powerful, well-respected, feared. He is all of these things and more, and he’s never felt smaller than he has now, pinned beneath the burning anger of Tobirama’s glare, the sole unfortunate focus of his ire.

Instead of speaking immediately, he does something worse. He just takes a deep breath, inhale, exhale, repeating the action several more times like it’s a necessary precaution to take if he wants to avoid just leaning across the table to strangle Madara with his bare hands, something that wouldn’t surprise him at all. Given his own embarrassment, he might even let him, might even enjoy it if it’s Tobirama choking the life out of him— 

“What,” Tobirama says, calm and gentle and soft like he’s speaking to one of his young summons, “the fuck was that, Uchiha?” His voice is velvety and venomous, laced with an undercurrent of threat that makes Madara want to curl up and hide very far away from him and what undoubtedly horrible things he’s planning to do in retribution.

His throat feels very dry, all of a sudden, and he shakes his head slightly so that the thick fringe of his bangs falls more securely into his face, blocking his view of Tobirama and, most importantly, Tobirama’s delicious throat.

“I asked you a question, Madara. What do you think you did there? What was the point of that?”

The pointed use of his first name feels like a knife to the heart, and Madara doesn’t quite shrink back from Tobirama’s accusatory tone, but it’s a close thing, and only his decades of shinobi training keep him firm and upright in his seat. If he’s going to die on this hill, he might as well go ahead and do it; he wasn’t wrong, after all, about the way Tobirama looks. His own thoughts are proof enough of that. 

“Not my fault you choose to go around looking utterly indecent,” Madara rumbles in response, keeping his voice carefully neutral and doing his best not to reveal the fact that he would be the first offender in terms of thinking about his colleague with utter indecency. 

Tobirama blusters angrily, clenching his hands into fists and flexing his fingers like he wishes he could wrap them around Madara’s throat. “Wh- I am not indecent, you’re just a pervert! Honestly, Hyuuga wasn’t about to jump my bones and I don’t know why you’d assume that she was, not that I’m interested in women-” An incredibly unhelpful sentiment, that. “-and there happens to be nothing wrong with my shirts!”

He seems to have misinterpreted Madara’s hateful libido as Madara’s famous distaste for the Hyuuga mixing with his famous distaste for Tobirama, thank every god there is.

“I don’t know where Hashirama gets the idea that he can just let his little brother go walking around like a two-bit whore-”

“A what,” Tobirama snarls, and Madara is definitely flirting with danger in riling him up so, but it’s just so damn fun and he has jealousy and horniness to get out of his system.

“-but if Izuna did that, I’d dress him myself until he grows out of it. Do tell your anija when you see him next that he really can’t be permitting people to get – ideas about you, especially if you wear clothes like that.”

Tobirama mutters something poisonous and pointed under his breath, but Madara really can’t be in the room with him any longer or he risks getting an erection, and he sweeps out the door with as much dignity as he can muster (read: not very much at all) to go find Hashirama and order him to make his brother dress more modestly.

Honestly. Someone might start to think of that too-pale rat bastard as attractive, and then Madara would have to kill them, for the sake of Tobirama’s honor, of course; if the man can’t be bothered to protect his virtue himself, Madara will be a gracious ally and future Hokage and deign to do it for him.

(He’s gotten very good at lying to himself.)

Chapter Text

Tobirama hums, rifling through Hashirama’s closet and tossing robes and shirts and pants of all kinds back to Mito, who catches them, examines them, and then drops them in her ‘keep’ pile or ‘burn so that this atrocity may never see the light of the sun’ pile accordingly.

“Ooh, Tobira, this one would look good on you – green brings out your eyes.”

He turns around to see her stroking a bright emerald yukata with a subtle floral pattern around the hems, wiggling her eyebrows and then holding it up in such a way that she can visualize Tobirama and the yukata at the same time. She’s right, of course; Mito has flawless taste and a firm understanding of color theory, and it’s not like Hashirama’s ever worn that anyway.

“I’ll take it,” he says dismissively, waving a hand toward his own ‘keep’ pile and turning back around to peruse through his anija’s closet once more as Mito throws it over to join the growing mound of clothes that he’s determined to be theft-worthy. 

The habit of wearing Hashirama’s hand-me-downs began when they both were children, as a way to conserve resources and money as they grew, and it just never really stopped, even now that they’re both adults. Rather than buying his own clothes and wasting money that could be spent on weapons or his laboratory, Tobirama will simply take any of Hashirama’s that he decides he likes, and Mito will do the same, since apparently Hashirama likes it when she wears his clothes. Some kind of territorial thing – Tobirama wouldn’t know, since he doesn’t have a partner to share clothes with.

If he did, they would be welcome to join him in rooting through Hashirama’s unbelievably large store of clothing. He buys pretty much everything that people attempt to sell him, regardless of whether it’s in his size or not; this is beneficial for both Mito and Tobirama, since neither of them are as tall or broad as him and some of his more fitted outfits, while good for emphasizing his muscles, look terribly oversized on them. Overall, it’s a crapshoot as to whether or not either of them will come away with clothes that actually fit, but by necessity, the both of them are fine with being swallowed up by fabric. It’s nearly impossible for Tobirama to find shirts with sleeves that go all the way down to his wrists anyway, being so tall and also so skinny, so he’s just had to accept the reality that if he wants appropriately long clothing, he’ll have to deal with the size being far too big.

“Hn. Oh, hey, hand me that purple one over there, will you? I think it’s closer to my size than yours.”

Tobirama obligingly throws Mito the purple kimono shirt she’d been pointing at, and while she’s definitely right about it not being able to fit him, it still looks almost like a dress when she holds it up over her body. The color is nice, though, so he tells her to keep it.

Three hours later, they’ve finished their springtime purging of Hashirama’s closets, each coming away with a fairly decent haul. Tobirama wears his newest prize out of the bedroom – a deep blue yukata with a silver obi and long sleeves that cover his wrists (!), one that suits him so much more than it would his brother -and Mito in hers, a maroon-and-gold haori embroidered with the Senju crest that drowns her in a draping swathe of fabric.

“You have to admit,” he tells her over tea, both of them cradling their cups close to their faces and breathing in the fragrant steam, “it saves time and money and we don’t have to go shopping.”

Mito coils a lock of bright red hair around one of her slender fingers, twisting it around and around with a thoughtful light in her violet eyes.

“Well, unless Hashirama really keeps all of his clothes, we will soon.”

“How do you mean?” 

With a mischievous smile and a wink, Mito points at her midsection, swallowed as it is by the oversized haori, and when Tobirama reaches out to examine her with his chakra-sense, he finds something there where there should be nothing but the overarching sensation of her whirlpool energy. 

The first stirrings of a new life – the developing chakra coils of an infant, tucked away inside her torso and still so small and fragile that he can barely detect it. 

Tobirama nearly spills tea on himself in his excitement.

Mito! You didn’t tell me!” The shock sets in.

“I just did!”

“Well – still! Oh, I’m going to be an uncle!” And then the realization. “Oh, fuck, Hashirama’s going to be a father.

Mito shares a sly smirk with him and sips primly at her tea. “Don’t worry, Tobira, I’ll be there to make sure he doesn’t influence our child too much. Besides that, though, what’s had you in such a bad mood lately? You were grumpy all yesterday after that meeting with the Hyuuga and you nearly took Hashirama’s head off when he asked you what was wrong over dinner. Is it politics again? Madara?”

Tobirama sucks in a breath and looks away. He doesn’t want to meet her eyes as he says it. “He called me a whore, you know. I was wearing one of Hashirama’s shirts and I guess it was too loose because my neck was showing and he called me a whore. No, Mito, don’t laugh, that’s the exact opposite of a confession! That’s not what we want to happen!” 

“That’s – ahaha – that’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve heard all week, you know! You show up to a very official meeting with the village’s newest Clan Head, and Uchiha Madara – he – he says you’re a whore for borrowing your brother’s clothes!”

Tobirama thinks some rather unkind thoughts as Mito laughs at him, choking on her tea in her mirth and then cackling like a witch when she spills it all over her new coat.

As a ninja, his sense of honor is thin and worn, but he really can’t go around assaulting a pregnant woman for insults to his person, and Mito is stronger than he is anyway. To attack her would be foolish and to alienate her would be unwise, as she’s the only ally he has in his quest to seduce Madara, who has been proving extraordinarily difficult to wrangle a date out of.

His sister-in-law sets her teacup down with delicate precision and gives him a Look, drawing back into her chair and cleaning and drying her jacket with a quick Suiton jutsu. “You know what I think?” 

“That this is the funniest thing you’ve heard all week?”

“I think that it’s working. You should step it up. You just got a bunch of Hashirama’s clothes, right? Ones that he’s never really worn?”

Tobirama eyes her suspiciously, stomach sinking. He has a bad feeling about where this is going. 

“I think that you could just, you know, casually imply that the clothes that obviously can’t be yours because of their size really belong to your boyfriend, a mysterious giant from outside of the village who you’ve been seeing in secret so as not to bring down the wrath of your anija onto your beloved’s head. You know, stir up that classic Uchiha jealousy. He’s taken the bait, Tobira, you just need to reel him in.” 

“This is an awful idea,” he says, because it’s an awful idea. “He’s just going to get angrier at me and suggest I quit my job and become a courtesan so that I can loiter on the streets, selling my beautiful body for rice and fish.”

“You’d make a terrible whore,” Mito says judiciously, and she’s right, as she always is. “Too uptight, and you’ve been on too many honeypot missions to successfully sleep with strangers without killing them.”

“Mm,” he agrees. “Still, though, that doesn’t solve the problem.” 

Mito smirks at him. 

“Let me deal with that.”

Chapter Text

Madara leans against his gunbai and strategically positions the weapon in front of his body so that Tobirama’s kids don’t have a chance of seeing the way he hardens at the very sight of the man dancing through his katas, pouring himself through the movements, so elegant and powerful and perfectly controlled…

“Ah, Madara, my best friend!” Hashirama yells, bouncing up behind him out of absolutely nowhere and clapping firm hands to his shoulders so that he doesn’t stand a chance of escaping. “Ho, isn’t Tobira so cute when he’s training with our students? Look at them! So little and green! Look at how they watch him!”

Kagami is fourteen years old, and Madara knows this. He’s just on the verge of discovering sexuality.

That doesn’t excuse the way his developing Sharingan are repeatedly drawn to his sensei’s ass as the man demonstrates proper taijutsu forms, nor does it explain why Shimura, that tiny bastard, blushes every time Tobirama reaches over to correct his stance.

They think he’s attractive, which is – unacceptable. Only Madara is allowed to look at Tobirama’s beautiful ass and wonder about what it would feel like under his hands.

That is, he thinks it’s unacceptable until unacceptable gains an entirely new definition when Tobirama removes his kimono shirt – covering up some actual clothing, today, which is something of a minor miracle – to reveal a sleeveless, skin-tight crop top emblazoned with the words BABY SLUT.

Hashirama makes a noise not unlike a whistling tea kettle, and Madara is fairly certain that his own screeching is audible in Suna.

The BABY SLUT himself is perfectly content to ignore their distress, turning to Madara with an innocent gleam in those pretty red eyes, tipping his head to the side in an expression of feline curiosity. “Oh, Uchiha, you’re here today. Won’t you spar with me? The brats want a demonstration, and I suppose you’ll suffice."

“Spar,” Madara says, voice strangled. “With you? Here? Now?”

Tobirama’s gaze sharpens into a glare, and he props his hands up on his hips, drawing Madara’s attention to just how criminally tight his black training leggings are.

“Spar,” Tobirama confirms, crossing his arms. His shirt, if it can be called a shirt at all, clings to every dip and curve and muscle that it touches, and he has to force his eyes away from that delicious body and up to the man’s actual face.

His expression is utterly inscrutable. Madara’s blush burns hotter than the fires of Amaterasu. In the background, Hashirama appears to be suffering a heart attack, and the kids are just letting it happen.

He’s going to fucking die. Uchiha Madara, killed by the hottest piece of ass anywhere in the Elemental Countries.

“Fine.”