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In its first change of leadership, Konoha finds itself largely the same. Long term operations carry on seamlessly, bylaws and commandments remain as they are, and the village hardly wavers in its balance. For all of remembered history, few successions have been this bloodless and undisputed - as rumor goes, Kirigakure has so far had nine Kage take the bloodied seat. Only five years from founding day, the Shodaime declares that his term is over, his time to enjoy the fruits of the village have come, and that by the next year a new Hokage will be elected.
The exchange of the Hokage title from Shodaime to Nidaime is graceful, widely admired, and only those directly involved seem to note any real disturbance to their routines.
Hashirama delights in shrugging off the mantle, escaping responsibility like a joyful, freewilled child, and dedicates his time to doting on his wife and children (to the extent that, after a month, she considers a very, very long trip to her homeland.)
Madara is admired for the humility he shows in accepting the hat, the respect he gives to Hashirama’s time with it, and his immediate devotion to maintaining the village that has grown from nothing. Although he had always seemed to have more talent in paperwork than Hashirama, he does end up spending almost exactly the same long hours in office every day.
Yet a great deal of the credit, agreed by almost every citizen, is owed to the Shodaime’s brother. He has remained the advisor to the Hokage, the steadfast right hand. Despite some quiet misgivings, he even seems invigorated by the change - energetic, somehow, and as deeply committed as he had been for the past half decade. Everyone can acknowledge that Tobirama has built and been the steady foundation for Konoha to stand on. He provides continuity to every diplomatic affair, helps to hold up the sudden burden of the hat, works to fill any gap left in the transfer of power, and devotes just as much of his time in aid of the Nidaime as he did his own brother.
Madara’s robes are pristine, well-woven and worn proudly - the hoari cut shorter at the leg than Hashirama’s, and perhaps decorated with more red flame. Only in the closed office, warded and unwatched, does the Hokage’s hat lay set aside on a low table. The rest of it, he continues to wear as the evening draws on - not just for pride, but for the pure pleasure of looking at his clothed legs and draped haori on either side of naked, pale shoulders.
Tobirama can’t be accused of favouritism. He spends exactly as much time dedicated to the Nidaime as he did the Shodaime. Albeit a great deal more of it on his knees.
“Slower,” he orders, and Tobirama’s hands twitch on his own bare knees, throat working in a drawn-out, careful swallow. “Good.”
He accepted the role with grace and every appearance of modesty, and he fully intends to be remembered as a just leader. But still he savours the admiration, the recognition, the sight of an Uchiha face carved into history on the mountain face above the village. He puts on his robes like vestments each dawn and he walks in the early morning through his village to the highest floor of his tower, and watches Tobirama - already there and waiting - greet him with a short, deferential bow.
He likes that. He enjoys every bow, every Hokage-sama, every nod and every order obeyed.
He likes to lean forward - crushing Tobirama further down onto his cock - and looking down over an inclined head, at a bare nape, the naked line of Tobirama’s back, his bare feet curled under him, the rise and fall of breath in his flanks and the flush at his nape where Madara rests his warm palm and keeps him still under the table.
It’s fascinating, he muses, that Tobirama could have gone so long satisfying his wonderful need to serve by taking battlefield orders and doing his brother’s mind-numbing secretary work. Now that he can channel every drop of that potential, Tobirama has flourished. Perhaps it’s the forced patience and stillness that he’s put through at least once a day, but he’s never been quicker, more innovative, or more daring with his experiments. Another of Madara’s successes as Hokage.
The sun dips over the furthest edge of the treeline, casting long shadows through the village and shining gold in each pane of glass and rippling pond. He finishes the last signature, and sets down his brush. His sleeves are pushed halfway up his forearms, and no ink mars them. He pushes his chair back abruptly, and Tobirama follows just as suddenly on hands and knees to keep his mouth held at the base of Madara’s cock. He gags, and his shoulders hitch, and Madara’s cock pulses.
“Up.”
Tobirama lifts his head, throat clicking, and uses his long fingers to stop the heavy, trailing string of spit from falling upon Madara’s perfect robes. The back of his hand wipes over his wet mouth, and he glances up to see how far the sun has set.
Madara takes a hold of his hair, and gives it a rough tug. “Eyes down. Stand for me.”
It’s hardly enough space for a man of his height to crawl forward and unfold himself. But he does it, feet apart, the backs of his thighs almost brushing against the oak edge of Madara’s desk. His strong shoulders are held back, spine drawn up tall, and his eyes stay down. Madara has seen other trained whores hold their hands in the small of their back when they present themselves, but only a fool would ask a shinobi to keep their hands out of sight. Tobirama holds both arms up, fingertips barely resting on the sides of his throat, and displays himself obediently as Madara uses Tobirama’s discarded shirt to dry the spit from his cock.
If anyone were to open the door of the Hokage’s chambers, they would find themselves staring directly at Tobirama’s naked back, narrow ass, and thighs. Still, he stands unflinching and keeps his eyes on the floor. His lashes are wet from watering, and his pink cock hangs half-hard and immodest between his legs.
Like a horse, Madara thinks, and flicks it with his forefinger and thumb. Tobirama’s biceps and stomach tense and relax as one, but he makes no noise. He stays in place as Madara stands, stretches, adjusts his haori on his shoulders and steps close enough for his robes to brush against Tobirama’s skin. He puts both hands on Tobirama’s hips, kneading and then gripping hard enough to leave matching red marks, thumbs digging into the soft little indent in the wing of each hipbone. Tobirama’s bare feet slide apart the merest inch.
“You’re desperate today,” he comments, and palms Tobirama’s ass to see the effect that has on his generous cock. A twitch of vellum-like skin. “Like you think you’ve earned something.”
Tobirama says nothing.
It’s a curious thing, Tobirama’s face - often stern, sometimes carefully blank, always guarded. He wears a pretty mask made of discipline and caution every waking hour, smooth as porcelain. His face is pleasing to look upon, but reading it is the interesting part. Tobirama called himself the enemy of the Uchiha, once - but how could that have ever been true, when it takes the Sharingan to know him? To understand how much desire and silent, hungry want he really holds?
His skin is almost translucent along the soft insides of his arms, blue veins snaking deep beneath his shoulders and the line of his bicep. Madara follows one with the tip of a finger and the edge of his nail, drawing over the thick curve of muscle and into the soft heat of his underarm to drag down as far as his elbow joint. Tobirama’s breath hitches and his flank quivers, and Madara does it again, squeezing the bulk of his shoulder and pressing his thumb into his armpit until Tobirama’s breathing comes rough.
He imagines pushing him down. Standing between his splayed open thighs, gripping his wrists together and fucking him hard enough to make the table groan and shift along the floor, taking him over the unrolled parchment and picking up the hat, pressing it over his pretty face -
Patience, he decides, is a virtue he should demonstrate.
He clicks, and points to the ground at his right. “Heel.”
It took no time or trouble at all to train Tobirama into a few positions on command. Not even his greatest critic could take issue with his intelligence or memory. And he took to it like a natural - like the child soldier he always has been and will be. Madara half wishes he could do it all over again and have the pleasure of bending Tobirama into each pose he wanted and attaching an order, until Tobirama flowed between them as though each syllable were the crack of a whip.
For this, he moves to Madara’s right hand side and bends at the waist, putting his hands laced behind his back and his temple pressed against Madara’s hip. His hair is just barely long enough for Madara to take hold of it and lead him where he pleases - like a fine hunting dog, his gaze forced down and reliant on Madara to guide him. They move around the desk, to the centre of the round room where shinobi, police, and politicians alike stand to give report to their Hokage, and Madara rubs Tobirama’s scalp before letting go of him.
“Look at you,” he says, and his tone comes out warm. It’s too easy to sound that way - he has everything he wants, and everyone is happily handing it to him. He’s selfish, as hungry as each of his forefathers stretching back to Indra were, and he’s long past changing now. “Doesn’t this light suit you well?”
Tobirama’s fingers curl to his palms, and his flush spreads lower.
“Do you remember the hand signals?”
“Yes,” Tobirama says, hoarse from sucking cock and curt from offense at the idea of him forgetting anything at all.
Madara shows the cue - his hand parallel to the ground, palm down, and watches with delight as Tobirama lowers himself to his hands and knees and slowly lays face down on the wooden flooring, legs parted and each hand on the opposite elbow. His cheek is pressed to the ground, his eyes closed, and his cock must feel like a bright spot of torment, trapped between his stomach and unforgiving wood, where a thousand shinobi have stood a hundred times. Rather than let his feet lay relaxed, he keeps only the balls of them to the floor, heels up and calves flexed. He looks -
Well. The fact that it’s Tobirama, of all people -
He’s still hard, under the layers of his robes.
He likes to walk around Tobirama, boots heavy on the wooden boards. Why silence his steps, when this is his kingdom? Why should he need to hide his movements, when Tobirama’s eyes move under their closed lids every time he deliberately steps a breath from his thigh, an inch from his nose, close enough to his hip for the leather of his boot to brush skin? Tobirama likes it too. He knows he does, regardless of whether he ever admits it or not, because his body betrays him all the time. Even now, he shifts his weight to his knees and lifts his hips incrementally from the floor, back bowing into a curve.
Madara lifts his foot, and presses it down into Tobirama’s tailbone. His hips meet the floor again, and he makes a faint pained noise. His back is a tense line of muscle drawn tight, and Madara watches how he slowly loosens. His foot lifts away, Tobirama breathes in, and immediately exhales hard and guttural as Madara rests his foot lightly against the upturned side of Tobirama’s face. Rocking it, gently, heel against his jaw and ball of his foot on his temple. Tobirama’s mouth is open, panting, and his calves tighten as he flexes his own feet. Madara’s pulse ticks in his temple.
“When you believe you’ve earned my cock,” Madara murmurs, throatier than he’d intended, “- kneel and open your mouth for it.”
He walks away, and sits back carelessly, heavily against the edge of the table. He lets his haori sweep out behind him, a fall of sewn flames like the long tapestry that hangs behind the Hokage’s seat of office, and rests his hand over his cock as he watches Tobirama lie there and grapple with the problem.
He loves to give him these unanswerable, unbearable questions and watch him work the problem - because to Tobirama, it is a problem, a solvable equation that he can unravel if he can fix down any constant - what Madara wants from him, if he’s achieved some set goal, if he’s been good, that nebulous thing. Does Madara wish for him to wait, to rush to his side? Is he too proud if he kneels straight up, too pathetic if he languishes here on the ground?
There is no answer; and it pleases him to see Tobirama struggle with that. Eventually, always, it’s Tobirama’s own desire that flows over and makes him lift his head and bring himself slowly to his knees, unsure - and Madara will praise him every time, just to confuse him more and ruin the data. So Tobirama will only ever make the right choice, and if every equation has the same answer, he’ll never solve it at all. Perfectly simple.
Watching Tobirama helps to deal with the boredom of waiting for him to pick himself up from the ground. He’s a handsome thing, and so aloof hardly anyone knows it. He doesn’t strip himself down on the training fields to draw an appreciative eye like the others. He doesn’t go to the bathhouse with the rest of the active shinobi of the village, and he certainly doesn’t allow his yukata to slip wide at the neck after too many drinks. There’s nothing flirtatious in him at all, all of his virtues wasted until Madara discovered them.
His to hoard, now. And while his body may be a virtue, his obedience is an unthinkable prize unearthed.
Night has fallen fully and the lights have flickered on around the high reaches of the tower when Tobirama puts his palms to the floor, and rises slowly from his position with a deep curve of his back. His knees, he pulls in under himself to sit in seiza. Madara lets his grin grow further, cocks his head to the side, and crooks his fingers to beckon once.
No, he muses, and rests his chin on the heel of his palm as he watches Tobirama crawl to him like he’s sneaking through brambles into an enemy camp. He’s truly not provocative or seductive at all. But he bends nicely and breaks even better - allows himself to be broken down and chewed up and takes some obscene pleasure in it to match Madara’s.
“Get someone to sweep that floor,” Tobirama mutters, sitting on his heels between Madara’s feet, jaw held up by Madara’s hand. He must feel raw, shell peeled back. “It’s disgraceful.”
Madara grins, shakes him lightly by the chin. “You might polish it well with your tongue.”
“I thought my tongue was meant for higher purpose,” Tobirama says, and flits his eyes down to the shape of Madara’s cock tenting his robes. His face is more arresting with age; childhood softness melted from his mouth and cheeks, eyes all the more fox-like and steely. Time has gifted and robbed them both; it galls Madara to admit that he needs Tobirama this close to see him in sharp detail. Then again - what reason is there to keep him at arm’s length now?
“They do call you that.” Madara lets his thumb press so hard as to whiten Tobirama’s lower lip. Slipping it into his mouth, feeling the hard edge of his teeth and the quick flicker of his tongue over the intrusion. “Silvertongue.”
Tobirama’s eyes narrow. His mouth is wet, soft and held open by Madara’s thumb and first finger. He pries them inside carelessly and takes hold of his tongue - saliva pools, gathers, and Tobirama breathes heavily. His throat works; his cheeks burn hotter and the spit he can’t swallow down brims over. It hits his bare chest when it falls shining wet from his mouth.
Madara smiles, pulls his fingers out and wipes them roughly over Tobirama’s cheek and back over his mouth. “A politician’s tongue for Konoha, and a sweet waiting cunt for your Hokage.”
“I’m not your wife,” Tobirama says, scornfully. He remains ever haughty, even on his knees and with his mouth shining wet.
“No.”
He reaches out once more and cups Tobirama’s dry, unmarked cheek with his right hand. His left - tacky with spit - is busy with parting his robes again, folding up the innermost layer and removing the stifling press of fabric over his cock. Tobirama’s eyes latch on it as it’s bared, as he lowers his head instinctively closer and lets his jaw go slack.
“I would never say such things to a wife of mine.”
A pretty picture, Tobirama offering his tongue; Madara grips the back of his neck to feed him his cock, fingers threaded through short-shorn hair. Tobirama chokes, hands fisted in the hanging hems of Madara’s haori and his eyes squeeze shut like he’s controlling himself, forcing his throat to accept the intrusion. He swallows, again and again and Madara thrusts into that fluttering clench around his shaft - deliciously tight, tender, making his gut heat in pleasure.
“But look at this. Your open, drooling little cunt of a mouth - what else could I call it?”
He pulls Tobirama back, and takes his own slick cock in his hand. Tobirama’s watering eyes fix on it, following the shine of his own thick spit and Madara’s precum mixing - and in such a simple push and pull of their bodies against each other, he’s once again docile and malleable as river clay in Madara’s hands.
“Slower,” Madara tells him, and tugs Tobirama’s head up by his hair when it lists forwards. “The tip of your tongue.”
Tobirama swallows, his glare melted to a soft, hazy focus, and he angles his head until his ear almost grazes his shoulder - Madara rests his hand over that stretch of bared neck, sweeping his thumb up and down the pronounced line of his throat. He licks carefully from root to tip in one smooth stripe of his tongue, hunching and making himself smaller, tipping his head back further to lap at the underside of the cock before him, cold-tipped nose brushing against softest skin before his tongue laves up it. His eyes flutter closed, and his thick cock lies half-hard in the valley between his seiza-folded thighs.
Madara has always loved things by watching them; sometimes, he’s so taken by a picture or a scene that he simply has to stand and take it in as it is. Sometimes, the fall of a bolt of silk or position of a blooming flower has to be adjusted until it’s just perfect enough to commit to memory.
He lets his cock drop and fall against Tobirama’s face, wet and heavy on his brow - Tobirama glances up, momentarily surprised before a flash of embarrassment burns his cheeks hot. Madara holds the base of his cock and does it again, just to see Tobirama’s face twist and his shame burn brighter with every insulting slap of a cock against his cheek, skin smacking against skin, and every filthy smear of spit and precum that marks the bridge of his straight nose and shallow, prim bow of his upper lip.
Tobirama’s hand squeezes at his knee, fingers digging furrows into the heavy cloth over it - it almost aches, grinding bone on bone, but Madara can hardly distinguish the ache from the burn of pleasure ripping through his chest to his gut and spine.
A grunt - Tobirama twists his head, catches the head of Madara’s cock in his mouth to suck it hard - almost painfully, hungrily, and Madara grips a handful of his white hair. He’s taught Tobirama to accept a cock, not take it for himself.
Tobirama’s nose crushes into the bridging bone of his pelvis and stays there, inhaling at the root of his cock and the thatch of hair above it - little whistling breaths, barely enough to fill his chest. His hands contort, and his flanks heave as he gags. Madara holds him there, both hands on his head, keeps him forced down between his thighs and holds himself back from the precipice of cumming down Tobirama’s throat.
“You,” he says, and rests his heel firmly against Tobirama’s bare hip, “forget yourself.”
He leans forward, rubs circles between Tobirama’s shoulders with one hand, and keeps the other fisted in his hair to hold him down. Sweat beads at the nape of Tobirama’s neck, in the fine hair that feathers down it, and Madara feels wet heat soak the base of his cock as Tobirama’s eyes well up and his drool spills over. Maybe his nose is running, too, with all of the choking he’s doing down there. Maybe his eyes are rolling up, as his grip loosens on Madara’s legs.
And Madara has to see it, needs to choose the delight of seeing what he’s done to him over feeling the pleasure of a spasming throat on his cock.
He’s rewarded, when he lifts Tobirama’s head - lolling, sharp face dazed and flushed. He looks dishevelled, dirty - wrecked and fucked out, and every kind of ruined that Madara wants him to be. There are tears smudged into the thin skin under his eyes, clumping up his lashes like a dove feather twisted between his fingers.
“Such an obedient pet,” he coaxes, and Tobirama’s honest face softens and leans up like a sapling facing sunlight. He’s so very weak to those precious, meaningless little words. “Come back, now. You were doing so well.”
Tobirama’s slower to start again, so tired - breathless - that his head droops and he sinks down on Madara’s cock helplessly, more effort expended to lift his head again than to swallow down a mouthful of cock. But he pushes through, like always, and bobs his head dutifully as Madara arches his chest up and stretches to take in a full, open breath. The room is heady with the smell of sex, warm with his chakra’s heat, and the night yawns starless black outside their closed, private chambers. The noises Tobirama makes are lurid and filthy - a wet catch in his throat and little panting breaths, faint moans that get buried into the lowest part of Madara’s stomach and vibrate against his shaft.
“You feel so good when you obey. It’s the damned fundamental truth of you. You are obedient, you are submissive, you are meant to please and serve me.”
On every thrust, Tobirama presses his tongue to the underside of his cock, and every time he draws back Tobirama hollows his cheeks and sucks him hard, holds the head of his cock tight in his mouth until he’s fucked into again. His nape is hot and his shoulders are flushed, his huge cock painfully hard and untouched, all from having his throat fucked raw by his Hokage.
“You love this, and I didn’t even have to make you.”
It’s that - seeing the glimpse of Tobirama’s cock so erect and so forgotten between his kneeling legs, pulsing with the race of Tobirama’s breathless heartbeat - that brings him his satisfaction, in the end.
Tobirama chokes on his cum, spine jackknifing as it burns his nose and fills his mouth to spilling. He swallows it down in fits and starts and trembles between Madara’s knees, bare legs splayed out to the side of him and his careful seiza completely lost. Hair damp at the temples, cum brimming in his mouth and lips reddened.
He sits back on the edge of the heavy table and pulls Tobirama closer, uncaring of the filth that stains him. He comes easily, and it takes no effort for Madara to turn him around with a hand on his shoulder and settle him back between his legs. With Madara seated, Tobirama’s cheek rests on his thigh. Madara’s forearms lay over his shoulders, fingers meeting over his warm, rising and falling chest.
The night is warm. The air is still, each cricket chirp and every rise in distant conversation carrying far. Above it all, the tower shines a gentle glow through each window. These lamps will burn through the night, and every sentimental shinobi and civilian child will look up to the steady light.
Aside from central position, height, and deep red roof, there’s little grandeur to the Hokage’s tower. No ornaments or gold, no guards at the door or attendants lining the halls. The Shodaime was the humble kind of figurehead; and if Madara must make overtures to show Konoha how simple and how steady its change of power is, he will not spoil it for something so petty and small as seeking finery.
And what need has he of gold, when he has silver in his hands and living rubies that gaze up at him?
“It’s perfect, isn’t it?” he says aloud.
Tobirama’s face presses into his clothed thigh.