Madara lives in a house of monsters, mages and demons. Most of the time he doesn’t mind. It is relieving to not have to hide his craft at home, like he’s had to before. Here he could do a summoning on the kitchen table and only have to worry about being judged on technique or, if it’s Hashirama, being lectured for defiling the table.
It makes something warm unfurl in his stomach, this easy camaraderie. Even if he never pictured living with someone, much less living with a dozen-odd supernatural variants, there’s a certain comfort to be derived from a place where you’re welcome and wanted and among your own kind.
Tobirama is a pain in the ass, but that, too, is easily overlooked for the hours where they get along, discussing philosophy and magic and spell theory in various rooms in the house.
His brother is happy, a fact which comprises most of Madara’s contentedness on any given day, and they even have a stray clansmen or two living with them. Uchiha are humans born with the eyes to see magic, pierce the veil that hides the supernatural from the ordinary, and living in this house means not having to hide it.
Even if it means not being the most powerful member of the household. Really, really, not being the most powerful mage around. Hashirama is the Avatar of the world’s power, for God’s sake. It chafes, a little, if Madara is foolish enough to dwell on it.
He is, however, the only summoner. Despite that some of his and Tobirama’s magic occasionally overlap, the elemental necromancer had signed no pact.
(“Did you know, little Uchiha? The fact that demons can be summoned– it’s a matter of blood. There’s a collective that all demons are born into that allows us to communicate, through space and dimensions, and call our kin to us. When you signed the blood pact with your first summons, you entered that collective. And that collective? Is first and foremost a caste system. Minor demons come when greater demons call. Greater demons whom owe favors can come, when called. And if you’re a Prince?” A chuckle into the back of his neck, fingers like brands on his hips. “The kings of hell are not denied. You bound yourself with consent and blood. You belong to me.”)
Madara shivers just remembering. So, at first he’d panicked and kicked and tried to find something, anything to get him out of this. Had he really been part of this agreement since he was a child? Had his father, before him?
(“Compare it to signing on to work at a company. You’re an entry-level sales tech, but the company is mine. I’m the CEO. You use my resources, my power, exist in my domain. And the contract you signed? Comprised everything you are. Not even death can save you, little demon. You’ve been one of mine since the first time you touched this magic. You’ll be mine until your soul dies.”)
Now it’s just a fact of life. It had always been a fact of his life, he’d merely not known. And knowledge is always preferable to ignorance. It’s one of the few points he and Tobirama agree on.
Life hasn’t really changed. Madara remains one of the most powerful summoners alive; which is to say, one of the most powerful mortals tapped into the demon collective, a magical connection stretching across dimensions. With awareness of his status in that collective comes an easier time summoning. No longer does he worry about summoning a creature too powerful for him.
He is, however, worried about being summoned. Fortunately, there’s a complex system in place. He is incredibly unlikely to be summoned, simply because not many know his name.
The beings he’s been summoning all his life are mostly those without identity. Minor demons and forces from the conjured realm don’t require anything but an offering of power in exchange for tasks– they’re like animals, sentient but not sapient. Spectral swords cannot speak, animals made of pure elements like fire and wind cannot reason, and it’s extremely rare for him to risk bringing something into this dimension that is smart enough to turn against him.
There is also a certain measure of security– as damning as it is, as horrible to his pride– in his current arrangement. Obito had explained it to him, once summoned– without the demon trap, without the apparent ‘rudeness’ that human summoners engage in when they make demands of demons more powerful than they.
It was a request instead of a forced summoning, and Madara had waited nearly thirty minutes before a demon had consented to come through the connection. When he had, it was his choice.
Things that would be mortifying and wholly unacceptable to humans are just the way of things in hell. That, more than anything, has convinced Madara of the futility of his protests. Obito had been increasingly confused at Madara’s upset. Madara agreed. He put himself in the demon collective, became a demon in all the ways that mattered, subject to the rule of their lords, their laws, and reaping the benefit of the summon system.
Every demon in the realm is in the same situation. Well– not the same. They must all obey the laws, exist in society without disrupt– the same as humans, surely?– and ultimately be under the direct authority of the ruler of the realm.
They just don’t live with him.
If Naruto gave an order in hell, it would be followed.
When Naruto tells Obito to do something, as a subject instead of a friend, Obito obeys without question. It’s the way of the universe, and Madara knows that, he does– he knew it the moment Naruto first gave him a direct command.
Demons don’t acquiesce as a matter of laws and punishment.
It’s physically impossible to disobey. It’s the way demons are created, the way the magic in them, and Madara, works.
So Madara’s life is not that different now that he knows he’s for all intents and purposes a mortal demon. Not much has changed in his work or craft, beyond his perception of himself.
What Madara had first chafed under, and has now grudgingly resigned himself to, is being owned.
It’s not– it’s not that Naruto makes a big deal out of it. Why would he? Literally all demons are his subjects. Obito is his subject, for all that he’s also a trusted friend, and the incubus does not seem at all bothered by his liege.
(“Why would I?” And Madara had boggled, and Obito had grown increasingly frustrated with the line of questioning, until Kisame had offered to take the incubus out for a relaxing day at the beach, frowning and smoothing out the crease of skin at his forehead with a finger.)
Living in a magical house with like magical roommates is an experience and, Madara is honest enough with himself to admit, mostly a good one. His brother is here, and his brother is happy, and that goes a long way.
Madara is himself happy, most times, which is all a being can really ask out of life, no matter his species of origin or occupation.
Life is exciting, with something new every day, and his job is rewarding– helping people, killing the true monsters in the world, and bringing families back together.
Best of all, he doesn’t have to cook.
Madara is drawn from his room to the kitchen by the delicious smell of lunch. It’s the second Saturday of the week, so most all of them had slept in. Madara certainly had, enjoying a guilt-free day off, and his stomach makes its displeasure over the missed meal known the moment the aroma of food hits him.
They have a large kitchen. A very large kitchen, to Hashirama’s absolute delight. With a baker’s dozen living here, they need it.
Sitting eight to each side and two at the heads, the large table takes up a quarter of the room. There’s an island with half as many stools nearby, spanning nearly the whole length of the kitchen. Frankly, Madara’s seen restaurants with less actual cooking space and appliances. There are shelves aplenty, some for knick-knacks and books, others for spell ingredients and paraphernalia.
One pantry is for food, the other for herbs and various jars of potion supplies. Both are expanded with wizard-space to be much bigger on the inside than the outside would suggest. In fact, a lot of the house is like that.
Even for Madara, who grew up on and around magic, the sheer amount of it fed into their home is shocking. Then again, the sheer amount of magic present in all the occupants of the house is prodigious.
He doubts there’s a higher concentration of power elsewhere on the planet, actually.
Hashirama is already in the kitchen, speaking enthusiastically to one of the cooks. He’s not sitting, merely leaning forward with his forearms on the island.
The two making lunch, Kisame and Genma, talk back amicably, though neither stops their creation of enough food to feed an army.
They move with an easy synergy, well used to cooking together.
Madara feels himself grow immediately more awake as he notices the other people in the room. Obito is nodding off into his food, cheek on his fist and elbow on the table. Naruto watches him, fondly. Sasuke is nowhere to be seen, likely still asleep. Mage or not, entertaining two powerful incubi for half the night would do that to someone.
Sakura, yawning and looking exhausted, gratefully takes a plate from Genma and brushes past him, padding back to her room on sock-clad feet.
Madara rolls his eyes at himself, breathes, and steps into the kitchen. His housemates generally look up at his entrance, smiling.
“Good morning!” Kisame says, animated in his frilly apron.
“What smells so good?” He asks, walking to the counter. The shapeshifter grins at him, as easily pleased as always. Hashirama looks delighted, as per usual.
“Oh, nothing much…” Kisame blushes more purple than red. It’s an interesting trait for anyone, but against the sun-bronzed brown of his skin even more so.
“Coxinha!” Genma calls cheerfully. “And sides.”
“And deserts, I see.” It’s hard to miss the delicate little truffles of various colors and flavors taking up a few feet of island.
Kisame is surprisingly modest for a professional chef. He ducks his head, grinning.
“Have some!” Genma says, sliding over and slipping several of the battered chicken snacks onto a plate. Madara moves forward to do just that, taking in the wide breadth of options.
“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” Kisame says cheerfully, having moved over to mind the bubbling grease on the flat cooktop built into the counter. There’s another on the other side, and two stoves on the wall behind it; Hashirama doesn’t like to cook spells in the same area food is cooked.
“Really!” Hashirama jumps on the opportunity to know more, irritatingly genuine. Madara takes the plate and rolls his eyes.
“Learning Brazilian cuisine is surprisingly fun,” Genma tells him, eyeing Kisame and Hashirama– and their excitement– with amusement.
“It’s the rest of us who really benefit,” Madara points out, gesturing with his plate, now stacked tall with food.
Genma hums in thanks, smiling before turning back to the array of pots he’s got on the stove nearest the sink.
Eager to dig in, Madara carefully maneuvers himself and his plate through the kitchen, aiming for his usual seat, nearest the door to one of the living rooms.
He’s stopped by Naruto’s voice, cutting through the air to Madara like a knife. No one else pays his words any attention, for which Madara is not sure to be grateful or offended.
“Why don’t you come sit on my lap, instead?” The incubus offers, and Madara swallows heavily. His heartrate quickens. His plate suddenly weighs more than it did a moment ago.
This is– not new.
The audience is.
Still, Madara cannot refuse.
He girds his metaphorical loins and, ignoring the slight flush rushing to his cheeks, walks over to Naruto. Naruto is sitting, as he does, at the head of the table. Hashirama usually takes the other end.
Obito doesn’t so much as twitch at his arrival, eyes closed. He may actually be asleep. Madara hopes he is.
When he’s actually standing next to Naruto, Madara hesitates.
Oh god, he can’t—
He has to.
Naruto, of course, notices.
“Mmh?” Naruto asks, a little hum.
Madara flushes heavily. He’s not sure what to do with his plate, or his arms.
Or his legs, for that matter.
Thankfully, Naruto must read it on his face, and the blonde smiles at him before scooting his chair back some, spreading his legs just a bit, and patting his lap. Madara maneuvers his legs, shuffling until he’s between Naruto and the table, sets his plate down–
And sits.
His face is pink. His hands are shaking, ever so slightly. He tried not to put his full weight on Naruto, as pointless as it was, but Naruto brings his hands to Madara’s hips and moves him just slightly until he’s sitting more fully in Naruto’s lap.
It’s.
Madara would make some kind of noise, if any could escape his throat right now. He’s not sure what it would sound like, other than strangled.
Naruto makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat.
His hands are on Madara’s hips, however briefly, and his body’s learned response to that is not something appropriate for the table. Not that any of this is.
Madara’s cock started to stir the moment Naruto spoke, half in fear and half in excitement. Now it’s a little flushed with blood and the head rubs against the cotton of his boxers, ever so slightly leaking.
He’s not hard yet. Not really, and thank God, because–
Hashirama and Kisame still talk on the other side of the kitchen. Kisame is telling the idiot about his home in Brazil, how the coast looked. Madara can’t parse the individual words.
Obito shakes himself enough to rouse, looks to his food, and tiredly spoons some into his mouth. He says nothing about Madara’s predicament, if he notices.
It’s– not sexual.
That’s the surprising part.
“Eat,” Naruto says, lightly, like it’s a reminder.
Madara remembers his plate, somewhat embarrassed at having forgotten, and obeys.
Naruto laughs a little, bright and carefree.
The movement jostles Madara ever so slightly. He has to use one hand to catch himself on the table’s edge.
While delicious, the food isn’t something that requires silverware. Madara has to lean a bit to bring his hand to his mouth. The coxinha is just a croquette, shredded chicken that’s molded, battered, and fried. They’re shaped like teardrops, or rice balls, familiar to his hand.
It’s awkward to chew while leaning slightly forward and down. His weight is situated oddly– he wants to brace one arm on the table to hold himself up. After a moment, he decides it’s probably acceptable and does so.
He’s warm with embarrassment and the sheer inappropriateness of this.
Madara finishes the first coxinha and a bit of the side dishes, which thankfully allow for a fork. He can sit up a little for that without worrying about getting crumbs on the table. It’s distressingly intimate, sliding around on Naruto’s legs to sit up– not fully, not with Naruto behind him and the mane of his hair– more and bring his food to his mouth.
He feels– and it feels absurd to even think it– too big for this. He shoves the thought down and resolves never to think of it again, and nevermind that Naruto is no doubt decades older than him, no matter how young he appears.
Then Naruto pitches his voice a little louder and says, “A little stall, you said?”
Madara nearly chokes.
Kisame responds positively with something Madara doesn’t actually hear, about his grandma and her business, and Hashirama draws Naruto into the conversation because contributing to Madara’s earthly suffering is his favorite pastime.
Hashirama, unlike Tobirama, does it by accident– or so Madara’s eighty-five percent sure.
They’re speaking around him, loud enough that Madara should be able to hear, but– Naruto’s hand is on his hip. Just one hand.
The thumb presses into his hip. It’s not a warning; it is a distraction.
He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to speak, so he doesn’t.
Naruto’s hand is very hot. Madara takes another bite. The thumb starts moving in little circles, in a way that would be soothing in any other situation.
“It was very good,” Naruto says, and that Madara hears. Madara had just bent forward to grab another lacrima when Naruto– jostles him. Just a little bit of movement, issued without a pause midword, and it makes Madara nearly unbalance, grabbing for the table instead of his food.
This is absolutely mortifying and Madara wants to die.
Kisame is quick to thank him. Obito makes an agreeing sound, not looking at Madara. Kisame and Obito talk back and forth.
Madara can’t parse the words.
Naruto keeps doing it, as he eats. Moving Madara just a little– with his hand, or lifting a leg just the slightest bit, rocking him in Naruto’s lap. The motions are never large enough to draw attention.
Madara must be pink-cheeked again. He’s not– he can’t believe this is happening.
“Oh?” Naruto says, in response to some question or another.
“Yes, if you can believe it,” Kisame says.
Naruto purposefully nudges Madara, just a little bit, but right as he’s taking the first bite of his second coxinha. It moves him about as much as a hiccup, but it’s the strongest so far.
A strand of Madara’s hair, long and slightly tangled from bed, falls into his face.
Before he can reach up to move it, Naruto’s free hand lands on his spine with a gentle press that nevertheless forcibly moves him. Madara goes down and only just misses hitting the table.
He makes a sound caught between a yell and a squawk, barely catching himself.
Fuck, Madara thinks, cheeks heating up with red. Jesus Christ.
Images fill his mind, born half of experience and half of imagination, of Naruto pulling his pants down right then and there. It doesn’t matter who’s there, who can see, and there’s not a goddamn thing Madara could do or say to stop him.
Begging might work– or it might only make Naruto fuck him faster.
He can see it, fingers sliding along his cleft, thumb catching on his hole, slick and wet if Naruto wants it to be. He’s one of the most powerful beings in creation and his focus, once entirely on you, is legendary. Intimidating. Erotic and terrifying.
Madara fell down to the table, barely catching himself with both elbows– hitting hard, with a grunt on impact, coxinha falling back to his plate. His hair falls completely into his eyes.
Obito, three feet away, is going to see his face when he’s split on three fingers and near tears, begging to be fucked.
Hashirama is going to have the perfect view of Madara’s ass, raised in the air over the edge of the table, red with firm slaps and stretched around Naruto’s merciless fingers. Will see his– his hole, stretched lewdly around them.
Madara feels like he’s dying, like everything he’s ever done with Naruto is going to happen all over again, all at once in the span of five minutes for everyone to see, and it’s maddening.
Behind him, Naruto inhales sharply. Obito breathes a little bit faster, looking at Madara with interested eyes.
“Fuck,” Madara says, only it comes out as barely a whisper under his breath.
Madara is keenly aware that Naruto can and will do whatever he wants. His blood thunders in his ears, deafening–
But all Naruto does is gather Madara’s hair. He feels it pull away from the nape of his neck with some confusion, startled by the gentle gesture.
“To keep it out of the food,” The prince explains.
He materializes a tie out of nowhere with a shocking, casual display of power and pulls Madara’s hair up with efficient, painless ease.
Familiar hands glide along his back when he’s done, feeling him and making him hot all over. It’s a palm brushing his vertebrae, fingers pressed briefly to the small of his back, knuckles on his shoulder blades.
When he allows Madara to sit up, Madara finds his hair is in a high tail, quite unlike Izuna’s lazy style. It bounces with every movement. Madara wants to scream.
“You have longer bangs than your brother,” Naruto muses, letting silky strands catch between his fingers. “It all goes up, instead of the shorter bits staying to frame your face.”
Madara fights a shiver.
“Softer, though. Just a bit.” When he pulls a few strands, out of curiosity rather than malice, Madara can’t help the way his muscles clench. He swallows the sound that tries to escape.
“Mmm.” Naruto says, sounding amused. “Not quite as responsive.”
He pats Madara’s ass where it hangs off his lap, possessive.
The reminder that Naruto fucks his little brother is extremely unwelcome, for all that he knows– knows, because he asked and demanded and damn well made sure— their relationship is completely different. With Izuna, Naruto is all laughter and playfulness. They taunt Obito and Sasuke together, make games out of making love, and if it’s ever tinged with violence it’s the kind with safewords that’s discussed five times beforehand.
Still.
Madara doesn’t want to hear that Naruto has been in his little brother. He doesn’t want the knowledge or the comparison.
Naruto, obviously, doesn’t care.
He laughs, carefree and a little evil, at Madara’s expression.
“Finish eating,” He says, but brings both hands to Madara’s hips and starts massaging the skin there.
It’s– being held like this is– Madara is still hot from the unexpected brush with disaster, and his blood doesn’t stop boiling now that his lover– his liege— is pushing and pulling his hips a bit. The motion reminds– speaks of– something far more intimate than a massage.
It would hardly be the first time Naruto has used his otherworldly strength to move Madara in his lap, up and down and on and off him, at his own pace and with an iron grip, until Madara couldn’t handle it– until he begged for more. Until he came, just from that, without being allowed to touch his dick. It had taken nearly fifteen minutes and Madara had sobbed during.
Afterward, Naruto had arranged him on his hands and knees and lazily fucked into him until he was hard again and crying from the constant stimulation. They had both achieved orgasm ten torturous minutes later. The aftercare for that session still made him blush to think about.
Naruto, unlike Obito, isn’t averse to affection at all.
Naruto takes care of his subjects. He wants them to last.
It could be so, so much worse.
Madara tries to remember that as his hair bounces against his bare collarbone, tickling. He wishes he’d worn something less revealing than an undershirt to bed.
Naruto kindly reaches out and pulls the tail over his shoulders, so that it brushes against his cloth-clad back instead.
Madara makes a noise of thanks, blushing to the tips of his toes at the sudden rush of cool air to his neck and ears. It’s ridiculous how vulnerable something so small can make him feel.
He’s rather fond of this hairstyle, actually. It’s not uncommon for him to wear it up like this around the house, to keep it out of the way while he reads or works out.
It’s just incredibly embarrassing for it to move about, brushing softly against the back of his neck, when he’s in Naruto’s lap.
Madara shoves his worries away, or at least further down, and tries to eat his food with as much dignity as possible.
It is delicious.
And Naruto hasn’t taken his voice, per se, so Madara thinks about paying Kisame a compliment as well. He ultimately dismisses the notion.
There is nothing stopping Naruto from baring his ass and spanking him for the presumption. Just the thought makes Madara squirm– or it would, if he could move so much as an inch. A distressed noise leaves his throat, low and he’d be horrified, but– Naruto is holding him still with one hand, and Madara still can’t move his hips at all. Squirming would usually require a person to exert extra force to keep you in place, but Naruto’s grip is like an iron band. It doesn’t give a millimeter.
Madara’s toes curl. He can feel heat stir low in his belly, the clench of his ass on nothing at all. He wonders if asking Naruto to fuck him would be like surrendering, would mean he loses this game but wins the prize of being spirited away to the prince’s bedroom.
Naruto is hot like a furnace under him, and shows precisely zero discomfort at having a grown man perched on his thighs for so long; to him, the weight is likely negligible.
Hashirama says something and though Madara doesn’t usually care what Hashirama has to say, he couldn’t hear now even if he wanted to. He’s hard, and it’s appalling.
Horrible.
He’s never tried to eat while sporting an erection before, certainly not in another man’s lap in front of an audience. He has no choice in the matter, though. He eats.
The movement of his jaw as he chews isn’t enough to move his hair, so Naruto intervenes. He starts rocking Madara once more, barely-there motions that don’t exceed what his own lungs do pulling in breath, but the aspect of control there is maddening.
The iron grip doesn’t have any give to it, so Madara is just–
Moved.
And his ponytail moves with him.
While Naruto talks over his head to his rival.
Genma, at least, announces his imminent departure. Madara can’t even pretend to care. The room is still veritably full of people he doesn’t want to be fucked in front of, and the possibility of just that dances in front of his eyes like a mad dream.
Naruto sets up a maddening rhythm, which Madara’s cock is deeply and traitorously on board for. The molten hardness against Madara’s ass is achingly familiar. He tries to rub back on it, uncaring that he’s likely bruising himself in the process and getting nowhere fast. He has to do something. Madara chews but doesn’t taste the food.
He finishes the second coxinha and moves onto the last, sex-stupid brain finally coming to the conclusion that if he can just finish his food they can leave.
The next jolt is so completely unexpected that Madara has to drop his food to brace himself on the table, biting down hard on his own lip to stifle a cry. Naruto, previously talking to Hashirama, interrupts himself.
“– So clumsy.” He says, rolling his eyes. And then: “Here”
He reaches forward, scoops up the last croquette from the table where it had fallen, leaving a small amount of crumb, and brings it up a few inches from Madara’s mouth.
Madara flushes a dull red. He goes to take it, only to stop dead–
As Naruto makes the slightest sound of disapproval.
His meaning hits Madara like a ton of bricks. He has to blink several times to get over the sheer humiliation that’s being asked of him– no, demanded. But he can’t make Naruto wait, so Madara swallows, leaves both hands where they are– fisted into the table and holding his upper body up– and slowly stretches his neck forward until he can take a bite.
It takes two more bites before Madara can finish the morsel, and each time his lips and teeth get closer to Naruto’s fingers. Finally, the coxinha is no more and Madara could shake with relief. He very carefully doesn’t, but neither is he allowed to sit all the way back up.
Naruto hasn’t moved, so Madara risks a glance back at him. Naruto raises an eyebrow and Madara realizes–
Then, before he can think about it, Madara chokes out, “Thank you.”
And Naruto makes a pleased noise.
“Good boy,” he says, without bothering to lower his volume.
He goes right back to his conversation with Hashirama, as though nothing had happened.
Madara has never been so hard or outraged or turned on or embarrassed in his entire life.
Eventually, he can breathe again. It takes only moments to finish the rest of his plate.
He can’t move from the waist down. He’d like to adjust his dick at the very least, but he knows without asking what the answer would be to that question.
He wants something in him, and–
The thought makes his cheeks burn.
Madara is used to Naruto doing whatever he wants to him, has come to even appreciate how it feels to be on his knees– if only sometimes, and with great reluctance on his part, but that’s ninety percent pride— metaphorically as well as physically. Naruto makes it good for him, gives Madara things he didn’t even know he wanted, brings him mind and body to new heights of pleasure and servitude.
Once, Madara didn’t get off on humiliation. Or get off while being humiliated. It’s just he’s been remade since then.
Thankfully, Naruto stops rocking him after that. He leaves one hand on his hip, just to keep Madara in line, probably. If he wasn’t being held so tightly he’d at least have to wiggle, in order to get more comfortable or just to feel a tiny bit more in control of the situation.
Naruto lets him do neither, using his free hand to gesticulate and laughing at something Obito says.
It’s torture.
When Madara finishes his food and pushes his plate away, he expects– something.
Some form of acknowledgement. Instead, Naruto doesn’t seem to notice.
Not a single thing changes.
That’s not true. Suddenly, Madara doesn’t have anything to do.
He becomes increasingly aware of his position, physically, which is something he hadn’t thought possible.
Balancing is awkward without anything to do, or anything to distract him. His plate is completely clean, not even anything left to pick at. He still hasn’t been given permission to speak, though he’s not sure he would.
Drawing Hashirama’s attention to his predicament is the last thing he wants, right now. To be fucked within an inch of his life is the first. But not here. Not in front of people. And what would they even do?
In an normal setting, an audience to such would likely be offended, horrified, etc. In this house? With two incubi in residence and more sex going on than most brothels?
Madara doesn’t want to think of Hashirama’s face, were he to see Madara bent right before him. Doesn’t want to wonder if he’d be disgusted or intrigued, angry or– fuck.
Turned on.
Madara still can’t squirm, not even from his own thoughts; he’s being held firmly. The most he can do is–
Clench.
On nothing.
He hopes Naruto doesn’t feel the movement in his lap, just as much as he hopes he does. Hopes he feels that Madara is a writhing ball of want and mortification and–
“I don’t know what to do with my hands,” He blurts out.
He regrets the outburst immediately, sudden heat radiating up to his face.
Oh, god.
Naruto looks delighted.
“Here,” He says, and strong golden fingers guide his wrists. Madara expects them to be put behind his back, or crossed in his lap, or held— his mind races with the possibilities– but instead Naruto merely sets them down on his own thighs.
“Relax,” Naruto says, soft. Madara obeys instantly. He hates commands like that, as much as he loves them. It doesn’t take any work at all for his shoulders to loosen, tension drained away. The stiffness in his legs abates.
He leans back against Naruto as relaxed as he’s ever been, warm all over.
The prince is like a line of fire at his back.
His hands are in his lap, and Naruto nearly purrs as he wraps both arms around Madara’s torso, sets a chin on his shoulder.
“Good boy,” Naruto says.
It makes Madara flush to his hairline, said quiet enough that no one else can overhear, if not precisely a whisper.
He shuffles a little, shocked that his hips actually move. Now it’s his upper body that’s pinned. The friction of his erection against his pants has him biting back a wordless sound.
“Oh?” Naruto says, as though just noticing, as though he doesn’t have a very real sixth sense for how turned on Madara is, as if he’s not getting a meal from the pleasure.
Shit, shit, shit.
Madara tries to brace himself, but if Naruto is anything it’s ‘unpredictable.’
“Well,” Says the incubus, a little laugh in his voice. “If you’re going to be hard for me, you might as well be wet for me, too.”
Oh, fuck.
His tone shifts to evil as he trails fingers along Madara’s happy trail, heat evident even through his shirt, voice hot at Madara’s ear.
It takes barely a handful of seconds before Madara can feel what Naruto means, and if he could duck his head, he would, but he’s facing Obito and the left half of the room and his hair is pulled back, he can’t hide at all.
He’s getting wet inside.
Not all at once, nothing so familiar– it’s not that Naruto willed him to be lubed up and lubed up he became. No, this is– is warm.
He can feel it, feel himself producing— slick. Like a woman.
He’s getting wet.
It’s gradual, which is even more horrifying. The more Madara focuses on the sudden state of his innards, the more he squirms and feels his dick meet damp, unyielding fabric, the more his face feels like it’s on fire, the…
Wetter he gets.
Exactly like a woman.
Naruto could have made him slick and ready all at once, but instead he’s giving Madara the ability to do so and–
Watching him get hot.
Watching him fidget and wriggle and squirm, and watching how every little movement makes him more aware of the wetness. He clenches, entirely involuntary, and has to bite back a groan at the feel.
The sound that escapes is muted in comparison, a very quiet grunt that’s basically forced out of him. God, he wants. He’s wet enough that–
That Naruto could just slide right in, right here, without any prep and, shit, Madara is not emotionally prepared for this, this morning. The only thing stopping Naruto from putting his dick in Madara is the thin layers of his pants and underwear, certainly of no hindrance to a high power.
He feels ridiculously, achingly vulnerable and every tiny movement of his hips rubs his slick, ready hole right along Naruto’s erection and it doesn’t matter that he’s wearing pants, as well.
Naruto could be naked with a thought, a literal thought, and that much power and focus narrowed in on Madara always, always makes him sweat.
The seat of his underwear isn’t damp yet, though the front surely is, cock twitching and spreading another bead of moisture on the fabric at just the thought of what Naruto could do to him. How helpless he’d be to stop it.
How he’s on display right now, entire face and neck visible due to the stupid high tail, cheeks a bright red and breathing harder than normal, trying to stifle sounds and trying and failing to not thrust his ass back in little, half-aborted movements.
Anyone looking at him could see him enjoying it, despite his best efforts, and despite the fact that some small part of his is screaming– a much larger part is, as always, on his knees for Naruto, and any reluctance or embarrassment doesn’t put a dent in his arousal.
It merely stacks on top of it.
Fuck, he’s rubbing himself against Naruto’s erection, how has no one commented on this?
He’s moving like a desperate whore, and even if the motions aren’t big and obvious, surely–?
Madara risks a glance to the side, stunned to see Hashirama helping Kisame with the dishes. When had the water run? Had everyone else eaten already? Had his other housemates come and gone from the kitchen while was distracted?
The worry pools in his gut, sticks in his throat. Who has seen him like this, just perched in Naruto’s lap– well, not in any obviously sexual to the observer way, but like a teenaged girl in her boyfriend’s lap, at some party, certainly indecent on some level?
Madara remembers Obito, sated and naked on the couch last week, one arm thrown over his face. Remembers Sasuke walking into the room, stripping to the same state, and swinging a leg over.
“Give me dick so I stop thinking about my boyfriend,” He’d said, tone aggressive and on the edge of rude.
“Oh, thank fuck,” Obito had said, “Something normal. You know Izuna ate me out for an hour earlier?”
And Madara would have loved to have left the conversation then and there, having already heard more than enough, thank you very much, but Sasuke opened his mouth and said,
“Naruto doesn’t have sex with me. We make love.”
He looks annoyed and overwhelmed; Obito makes a disgusted sound in sympathy.
Madara decided to cut his losses and cross the living room before it could get worse; otherwise he’d never be able to leave the house.
When he’s passing behind the couch, Obito decides to complain,
“It’s not the tongue up my ass that bothers me, you know? I love rimming. It’s the poetry he slurs while he does it,”
“Arrrgh!” Madara yells, a chest-deep scream. “Why would you say that?”
Obito’s sits up, mildly surprised. His head clears the edge of the couch.
“Oh, are you leaving? Pick up some milk on your way back.”
Sasuke doesn’t say anything, just smirks at him. The little shit.
He moves, Obito goes suddenly cross-eyed and moans, and Madara decides he doesn’t want to know.
He’d slammed out of the living room, ignoring the suddenly loud, suddenly happening sex on the very public couch.
Madara is sitting in Naruto’s lap at the table and no one bats a fucking eye.
He tears his eyes from Hashirama and Kisame in disgust, only to see Obito grinning at him from the front. He’s woken up enough to finish his food and cradle his coffee with both hands, watching Madara with knowing eyes.
And just why is he so chipper?
Madara stills his hips with an effort of will, breaking free of the small rhythm to glare.
Obito catches his eye and smirks, the little bastard.
A small bit of moisture runs down to Madara’s balls, making him shudder. Naruto is basically cuddling him, arms wrapped tight.
The answer dawns and Madara huffs, offended.
“Go get your morning pick-me-up somewhere else, pervert,” Madara says, mouth opening before his brain can catch up.
Obito’s eyebrows shoot halfway to his hairline.
“Oh, I’m the pervert?” He asks, laughing incredulously.
Madara hasn’t stopped blushing since he climbed into their lord’s lap, but blood rushes up to keep the color in his cheeks.
“You can leave!” Madara protests, wanting to punch that smug grin right off the other incubus’ face.
“Oh, yeah?” Naruto asks, turning his lips to brush against Madara’s ear. “You think you can’t leave, Madara?”
The way he says Madara’s name is like a caress, heavy and wet and smooth like Naruto’s tongue in his ass.
Madara manages a strangled ‘gurk.’
“Well?” Naruto demands, firmer this time, less a tease. “Do you want this to stop?”
And damn him, God damn him, Madara doesn’t. Not enough to ask for it, at least. Not enough to disappoint Naruto and get twice as much torture the next time he’s called to his liege’s bed. Naruto has perfected the art of making Madara cry with pleasure, beat his fists on the bed and scream and beg.
“No,” Madara forces out, all gravel and sex-rough.
“No, what?”
Madara gulps heavily, acutely aware of the arms along his midsection, the hot line of his lord at his back, the clenching wetness of his hole that would welcome a slow, dirty fuck right now and damn who sees.
“No, my lord.” Madara says, and it comes out higher than he meant it to because Naruto is holding him still again, by no other effort than not allowing his arms to be moved, suddenly a statue’s hold–
While he rocks up against Madara, purrs low in his chest, erection dragging against his hole and forcing a whine from his throat.
It doesn’t matter that there’s cloth between them, that they’re in the kitchen; Madara gasps for it, ragged and wanting. He would pitch forward and grab the table for leverage to push back on that hot, familiar cock, to rub against it and whine–
Of course, he can’t go anywhere. His muscles are thwarted by the unyielding arms of his liege and Naruto doesn’t give an inch, chuckling low in his ear and breathing warm and damp against it; Madara clamps his jaw shut, wedging his tongue against the roof of his mouth to muffle the sound that wants to ride along the organ, splash and break against his teeth like a cresting wave of please, please, all consonants dressed up in vowels’ garb.
Across them, Obito makes a sound like he’s been punched in the gut.
Madara tears his eyes open to see the incubus’ face, wary and curious at once. Obito’s cheeks are flushed slightly with blood, pupils dark. He no longer looks amused. He looks half-starved.
He’s almost certainly hard, and thinking about it makes Madara’s mouth water, the press of his cock on dark jeans beneath the table– maybe one hand palming it, pressing it down? But no, Obito has no shame for this, no concept of sexual deviancy– a different set of mores entirely and perhaps the only reason he doesn’t have his cock out, stroking as he watches, is because of who it is.
This is Naruto’s meal, his domain, and it must seem gift enough from his prince just to sit there and be allowed to feel the waves of pleasure emanating from their coupling. Obito’s not getting off from this– he’s living off it, feeling it in his magic, letting it keep him alive.
Madara lets his head thunk against Naruto’s shoulder, wanting one hand to slip lower and cup his cock, stroke him to completion. Wants to come, aching in Naruto’s hand, wants the climb to his release to make him sweat and the feel of it to paint his cheeks ruddy with exertion.
Obito is right there, watching him back, and Naruto hums as he rubs the thick head of his erection around Madara’s hole, slow and repetitive. Figure eights, slipping into his cleft, butting into the rim each time and making him spasm in a soft but inescapable hug. His breath pants out.
Naruto is amused and grinding into him, basically, and the seat of his pants is getting damp. He can feel it, not the liquid feel of lube or come leaking out of him, but like–moisture, absorbed by the cloth of his pants, that he can only discern by the material touching the skin of his ass cheeks. Naruto’s hips are pressed flush to Madara’s, so– probably he’s not—
Fucking christ–
‘Wet’ enough for his boxers to collect moisture otherwise. It’s just that the fabric is pushed close to his skin. The weight of Naruto, the force of him, how solid he is seems to– exacerbate the process.
If they were in Naruto’s room, Madara would moan. He’d take this, enjoy it, do nothing and be nothing that his sire doesn’t want, with no worry in his head but obeying. Simple pleasure, heightened by embarrassment without being consumed by it.
It’s so frustrating—
He’s hard and leaking–
And wet.
Can Obito feel that? The way he’d– the way he’d be able to feel if a woman was aroused? Has the taste of Madara’s pleasure changed?
A moment to worry that he’s biologically different, but what exactly will he do if that’s the case? Either Naruto will fix what he’s done, or he won’t. There’s no use worrying about it.
That mental image– fleeting, horrifying, full of guilt– flashes by, thankfully gone a moment later: Madara, with breasts.
Madara without breasts, but also without a dick, like a reverse of Sakura’s circumstances, Naruto in him and all around him, the wrong-dirty-pleasure of–
It’s gone and Madara takes a deep breath, holds it, pants it out before he’s ready because he can’t take the tease of this, the unbearable heat between them, making him sweat from being fully dressed– making sweat mingle with the fluid leaking from his weeping cock, and sweat mix with the lube– natural lube– his ass is producing.
Naruto shows no signs of stopping.
He won’t, not if he doesn’t want to, could very easily just keep Madara like this, perched on the head of Naruto’s cock– massaging it with his hole. His balls could be halfway to falling off with the pain of it, tears could be streaming down his face, and the only thing that could make Naruto stop is the prince wanting to.
Madara desperately, fervently hopes Naruto won’t pick him up and use him like a– like a toy, a fleshlight, pressing tip alone in over and over, an immortal’s strength keeping him in the air and not letting him sink down like he wants, like he needs—
“Naruto,” Hashirama says, quick for once, vowels properly Japanese instead of the long, English stressed Nah-ROO-toh. Half the time his American accent makes Madara want to throw him headfirst out of the nearest window.
Madara counts his blessing and finds them sorely lacking compared to this torment.
He sits in his master’s lap, face aflame, hoping that Hashirama is too dense to notice what’s going on or too preoccupied to pay attention.
“Ah?” Naruto asks, voice perfectly level. It hits Madara hard, right in the spine, that he’s going to get talked around again, like Naruto isn’t even digging a thumb and his engorged penis into Madara’s hip and backside respectively, like Madara isn’t even there and doesn’t matter—
Not that he wants Naruto to be obvious about that–
And certainly not for Hashirama’s eyes to be drawn to where their lower bodies meet.
It’s just.
He cuts his eyes to Obito, not wanting to look at Hashirama; not wanting to be ignored by Naruto for the duration of the conversation.
“Have you tried one of the truffles?”
Madara doesn’t turn to look, remembers the spread of little bites sat on individual cupcake wrappers like tiny frogs on lily pads, every color of the rainbow. Genma isn’t a fancy cook, but Kisame went to culinary school and bakes like a pastry chef, for all that he’s paid to make gourmet seafood.
“No, I haven’t had the… pleasure.” He brushes a rough callous against the flushed skin of Madara’s hip. The fat head of his cock catches on Madara’s hole through the boxers. Whatever magic he’d cast to render Madara responsively wet is still in full effect. He feels himself clench and leak slick.