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Sleeplessness can be the downfall of a strong man.
Madara is strong; and still he suffers a bone-deep exhaustion. He’s sought healers and salesmen and folk remedies, but has found no relief in tonics and charms and bundles of burning herbs. Alcohol can make his passing sleep deeper, but still he wakes wretched and sick in the deep of the night, eyes burning and his head pounding in the sun. His vision fogs around the edges and his mind becomes slower, heavier, his thoughts moving through murk that threatens to drown him.
Strange, then, that his restlessness is what allows him to notice the change that’s crept over the nights.
Something stalks the dark, and hides from the light. Something without chakra, taste, or scent. Small things go missing - his combs, a lamp from the kitchen, a cup of sake left on the shrine. Others in the household complain of strange dreams that they cannot describe, while the ninneko bristle and pace and elect to sleep in the rafters instead of by the irori. He listens in the night to the sounds of breath and footsteps as his clansmen pass through the halls of the main house, and counts one pair of steps too many. Tension laces the air.
But these are wartimes, and fear is expected to follow them all home.
Moonless, cloudless midnight. Too late in the year for bell crickets to sing, too early for the fish owl to call out to a mate on the Naka banks, where fog rolls out over the silt and sand. The village is perfectly still and silent, for just a moment. The darkness is a void in the corners of his sleeping chambers, but for twin red eyes. They watch him, unblinking, over the outstretched sleeve of his kimono, left prepared and hanging on the ikō like a motionless crucified figure.
Madara is sitting up and reading through a trade deal in the hope of tiring himself out when he finally spies the glint of those eyes in the reflection of his polished pipe.
He pretends, very carefully, to have seen nothing as he sets his scroll down, dims the light and folds back the top sheet of the futon to slip beneath. The pipe smoulders, half-stubbed out, and casts a faint red ember glow on the table. His heartbeat remains steady, and he rests his head in the crook of his arm to feign sleep and watch that dark corner from under lidded eyes. His ribs fall and rise with slow measured breaths.
It has the shape of a man. It creeps forward like a cat, slow and prowling to reach the edge of the futon and settle its hand there - waiting, for a moment, to see if the change of balance disturbs the sleeping man. Madara doesn’t move. Emboldened, the shape slinks a little further, hips and shoulders sinous, and lowers his body down as if to pounce -
Madara lunges up and grapples the intruder onto his back.
He thrashes, nails like claws digging into Madara’s forearm. He grunts, tightens the angle of his arms and strangles what feels like a throat. The kicking redoubles, now fighting death instead of a shinobi, and Madara hangs on - locks his shoulder, braces his stomach against the furious, sharp blows of the man’s elbow. His bulk overshadows his assassin’s, and he’s quite assured in his upper hand - until a whipcord lashes around his neck and squeezes tight.
Madara chokes, pulse bounding in his ears as the cord tightens - and shifts, like the coiling of a snake. It’s endurance, now - who can survive longer, hold tighter, and his advantage is steadily becoming less certain. It must be some kind of jutsu that controls the cord, because he can feel both of the man’s hands trapped underneath him - squirming, bucking, still trapped.
His vision begins to spot grey and black. Roughly, and viper-fast, he removes his hand from that narrow throat and grips short hair to bring the assassin facing him. His sharingan blooms scarlet, and the struggling stops right as he realises he isn’t holding a human man at all. Wild, slitted pupils stare back into his from a unearthly face, and his sudden spike of adrenaline sends a flood through the chakra pathways of his eyes.
Nothing elaborate. It’s the simplest of genjutsu - sleep, the illusion of utter safety and deep, bone seated tiredness. The creature - for that’s what it is - collapses between his legs.
He hadn’t fully expected the sharingan to affect a yokai, and he pulls back the futon cautiously, drawing his legs away as he rubs his hand over his throat. A trick would be just the kind of thing he’s come to expect from the spirits the forest attracts. The candles of the room flicker to life with a pulse of his chakra, like a spark flying from flint, and the dark shadows of the bedroom are brought into warm, wavering light.
When he blinks away the clouding of his vision, he can take in the figure slumped across his futon in a deep slumber. Somewhere deep in his gut, something heats and sends warmth to his groin.
“What manner of demon…” he murmurs.
His hand hovers over the fallen body, hesitant for a moment. It’s his catch, though - why shouldn’t he touch?
The creature has the frame of a bigger man without the meat to fill it. Like it’s gone hungry, ribs and collarbones jutting under Madara’s exploring hands. Regardless, it’s a body made as if to appeal to him - long legs and a small, firm ass, angular and undeniably masculine. A continuous red stripe is painted down the length of its spine, or perhaps tattooed there. It stays stark and clean-edged when he rubs his thumb over it. Above that pert ass is a tail that extends seamlessly from the base of his spine, white like the rest of his skin. It’s long, Madara observes, circling his thumb and forefinger around it to stroke up the full length. It coils slowly around his wrist like it has a mind of its own, the last half-foot of it tufted in white fur that reminds him vaguely of a foal’s tail.
And he wouldn’t mind only ever seeing its backside, handsome as it is, but curiosity compels him to turn the yokai over. He’s slack with sleep, a considerable dead weight, but Madara has spent his life wielding a gunbai. A man is nothing at all to handle, even one with claws and a tail.
His curiosity is rewarded, as it often is. The creature has lovely features and lovelier endowments - pure white hair between its legs, and a strange-shaped cock. The sheer size had been all he’d noticed, firstly, but soon the differences become apparent - it’s pointed, curved up like a barb, and bears a deep red streak that runs from the base to the tip. Beneath it is a subtle bulging of the skin instead of testes, with another red line running down it like a scored peach.
When he examines its face again, the red markings on it match his cock and spine perfectly. Not an injury then, he assumes, but something purposeful or natural.
He presses his fingers to that soft bulge - the yokai breathes out in his sleep, hips shifting slightly. Harder, and he makes a faint noise of protest that fades out as he massages slowly and watches its cock fill slower. Madara is so busy admiring the thing that he’s almost startled when something wet leaks over his knuckles. It’s warm, and slippery, and on exploration he finds a slit where he would expect unbroken skin - closed like a clamshell, with no obvious arsehole that he can feel in the dark. Just that wetness, and a faint fluttering under the thin, strong seam that holds the creature’s slit tight.
The inhumanity of it excites him, inexplicably, and he shifts as his own cock throbs.
Bold, he moves up the futon and holds himself up over the sleeping body. The yokai’s brow is smooth, mouth slightly parted with sleep, and he wastes no time in prying its jaw open to see what teeth or other curiosities it might have there. The teeth are almost as he’d expected - little canines that look wickedly sharp - but the tongue fascinates him far more - red and black at the split tip like a garter snake.
He knows of many kinds of yokai, from yuki-onna to amanojaku - and while it’s hard to tell which this creature might be more similar to, he can make his assumptions. This pretty yokai would stalk him and seduce him, feed itself on his chakra rather than blood or flesh…and all the tales he knows of such creatures tell of the deep, dreamless slumber their victims enjoy.
Madara’s hand runs down the length of the creature - from temple to cheek, throat to sternum, chest to belly and down, down to the curve of his ass and shapely thighs. The tail flicks and brushes against his knee, and in a moment of daring, he leans in to brush his lips against the yokai’s. His mouth is soft and sweet in sleep, and tastes like rainwater.
He sits back on his heels.
Before he does this, he should think. Consider the ramifications. The inherent wisdom of using a sleeping yokai’s body for the sake of a possible cure to his sleeplessness. Guilt, he can put aside - the creature crept into his room with the aim of either eating or fucking him, and has little moral high ground here. Caution would be a fine thing, but in the face of that soft, coiling tail and those firm thighs…
He drags a takamakura to the middle of the futon, and slides it under the yokai’s hips. He’s limp over Madara’s arm when he lifts him, and slumps over the low wooden bolster as soon as Madara lets him back down. With his hips raised, his chest presses heavily into the sheets and his spine bends in a deep curve. Madara arranges him - arms stretched out above his head, chin gently turned so the yokai can breathe past the rumpled sheets, and smooths his palm down the length of that bowed spine. The creature doesn’t react when he slaps it, one pale cheek of its arse turning flushed, but it does make a breathy noise when he runs his finger down its wet slit.
It’s a lovely, lovely thing.
Madara passes his forefinger over it again, and then the side of his thumb. It doesn’t part for him, and he examines it closer with a thumb on either side, letting his sharingan burn to life again. All along the plump and pinkish seam, he sees fine little filaments that interlock like fingers laced together - like a plant he’d seen once in Suna, lush and pink, inviting insects to its sap before snapping closed around their tiny struggling carapaces. More charming still, this creature!
Beneath his futon, he keeps a kunai hidden.
The flower-like slit pulses under his fingers and leaks yet more slick. He considers the creature’s sex, as he rakes his hair back from his eyes. Imagines the press of a blade to that fragile, shyly hidden thing and the sudden parting of it, the spill of slick and maybe blood to spatter the sheets. But as he studies it, his hand hesitates on the hilt - how brutish it seems, to bring a knife to this prize and cut it open like fruit. How like a man who only knows war, slaughter, violence, and not the methods to coax a lover into a blossoming.
He thinks, again, of that pretty desert plant.
When he leans back over the yokai and strokes his fingers from nape to tail, he lets his hair hang loose over his shoulder. It brushes between its legs and the whole lanky creature shivers, hips canting up.
Madara grins. It had stolen his comb, after all. Perhaps he would have woken one morning to a lock of hair cut from his head, if it had been able to stalk him properly. He lets his breath warm the creature’s hidden sex. Too risky, Madara decides, to let his tongue trace it when it could easily be poisonous or barbed. He exhales over it instead, nuzzles the base of the slowly flicking tail, and allows his half-undone braid to slowly, maddeningly spill across its lower back and down its thighs. Its body trembles at the tickle of heavy hair running over it like a great ink brush - and with Madara’s hair and heat catching on hundreds of soft tendrils, it splits open and lets down a rush of hot slick.
It drools down to the futon in a long glimmering thread, and Madara revels in his new territory - a tempting cunt as peculiar as the cock above it, like some shining-wet orchid, many-petaled and whiter than flesh should be. Small stamens cluster deep inside it, slowly pulsing inwards like the beat of a heart’s valve, the flowing contractions of a man’s gullet. Strange and delicate and speckled red inside like a lily’s core.
Desire beats out caution. His hand rises to his mouth.
When Madara licks at his fingertips, he tastes sap, faintly sweet, and then the heavy, rich tang of a woman hours into being bedded. His lips don’t burn, his mouth doesn’t tingle or his throat close up, and he laughs out loud in the silence - disbelieving and delighted. A honeyed cunt, delivered to his bed.
His middle finger slips easily into the creature’s core. It makes a faint, sighing sound - one long leg twitches - and he eases in deeper, twisting, exploring the tight sopping heat that clings to his hand. He’d swear it sucks at him, too, tightening around the first joint of his finger as he pulls it free, just to add his first finger and sink both back inside. And he would map it out, determine the differences that lie within, if the creature didn’t react so wonderfully in its sleep.
Madara’s fingers curl, and its tail thrashes. He pushes them down hard and straight to test its depths, and it moans quietly into the sheets. When he fucks his fingers in hard, fast, the heavy cock pressed up against the bolster leaks and twitches and hardens for him, for the pleasure he gives it. His pride sings, his ego stroked and bolstered, and he grins as he slips both thumbs into the yokai’s cunt and pulls to admire the way it relaxes and gapes for him. The stamens have retracted deeper, still pulsing and intact, and the whole thing is covered in a wet sheen. He feels hypnotised by it. Entranced, as his fingers sink back inside to curl hard, fast and dirty. He angles his wrist, works his fingers in a beckoning motion like he’d give to a woman riding his hand - sloppy, wet noises filling the room over his breathing and the yokai’s whines, more and more slick running down onto the futon until the creature’s cunt clamps down and its cock spurts a short rush of clear fluid out onto the sheets.
The candles flicker, and he presses his hand over its mouth as it comes and makes a high keening noise in its sleep. That lithe body is warm against him, upturned ass plush against his hard cock, and its cunt keeps pulsing through the aftershocks of the climax he’s brought it to.
“There,” he murmurs, chest warm with pride - the creature mewls and its hips hump the takamakura prettily. It’s lovely in pleasure, completely slack and soft around his wrinkled fingers.
He brings his cock to the sweet, wanting hole; and he is completely, utterly lost.
The yokai’s spine arches into the first steady thrust in, into every thrust after that, arse taking the firm slaps of his hips and bouncing. Even sleeping, it’s perfect. Made to be fucked, body soaking in the pleasure and twitching prettily. If he didn’t trust his eyes implicitly, he’d swear he was being tricked by them - but the longer he looks, the more sure he is. Its ribs are becoming less shadowed, the nubs of its spine melting down into smooth healthy muscle. Firm thighs develop a softer give under his hands, and he watches in avid curiosity as the creature flourishes into a strong, healthier body underneath him.
When he focuses, he can feel the steady siphon on his chakra. It’s drunk down directly from his root chakra, flowing into the creature’s body and being metabolised down. Fine hair becomes lush and silky. Skin becomes plump, bouncy, and the cunt he’s grinding into becomes impossibly wetter and warmer. For another man, the drain could be lethal. For him, it’s a sip from an ocean, and only heightens his arousal in the way a good fight does.
His cock is bathed in heat, in a slippery grasp that milks and squeezes his cock. He feels drunk with lust, desperate to snap his hips forward again and again to bury himself deep and drape himself over the yokai. It’s too good.
“Fuck,” he swears, helplessly.
How can he ever let this creature go? He knows that there’s no way he could bring himself kill it, as a shinobi should deal with malicious yokai - not now, after taking this pleasure from it. He can’t allow it to stalk the Uchiha compound and fuck some unsuspecting civilian to death. Nor can he let it plot revenge on him for turning the tables like he has.
An idea comes to mind, and he pulls out long enough to turn the yokai over onto its back.
His obi makes a fine scarlet gag for the creature, twice-knotted and pushed behind its teeth. A heavy leather strap meant for gathering his hair ties its wrists together against its chest, and Madara rests on hand on each of its knees to slowly press them apart. His cock slips back in like a sword to a sheath, and he lets himself enjoy the power of a few slow, deep thrusts that rock the creature’s pliant body before he leans forward and presses his hand to the base of its throat.
He releases the genjutsu.
The yokai yelps through the gag, eyes wide and darting from its bound wrists, to Madara’s hand, to the body thrusting steadily between its own spread thighs and the eager bounce of its own cock against its stomach. It squirms violently, bucking hard and promptly shivering as it simply fucks itself down onto Madara’s cock.
“Settle,” he coaxes it, too satiated and warm with pleasure to be cruel. The heel of his palm kneads its flat chest. “Sh, sh.”
It stops thrashing out of obvious intelligence, not exhaustion, and Madara silently notes another thing to enjoy about the creature. It eyes him warily, still tightening its long fingers into its palms on every gentle push of Madara’s cock into its ready cunt. It must have noticed the change - its hunger sated, its body filling out into its proper strength with the steady influx of energy.
“We,” Madara says, and grinds his cock into the depths of its cunt - its eyelids flutter - “could be of great use to each other. You were starving, hm?”
Slowly, it nods its white head once.
“You could have fed on far easier prey than me.”
Pale cheeks flush, and the creature stares pointedly at a fold in the futon’s sheets. He laughs, pictures the creature beneath him as a fluttering moth - wavering around the burning flame, blind to the plain lanterns it could have alighted on. A well of chakra like his must have looked like a feast laid out for the taking, too grand to notice a few mouthfuls stolen away.
“Or are you just a wayward, dirty little yokai eager for a mortal to take you,” he teases.
The yokai scowls, and any doubts he has about its intelligence are firmly assuaged. It’s certainly not human, but it has pride and language and a stubborn sort of appeal - difficult to be at all irritated by, when he’s had its perfect ass in his hands.
“If I remove the gag, will you be as sweet as your pretty cunt is for me?”
Although it looks like it would happily set him on fire, the yokai nods again. It spits fussily - Madara tries not to laugh - when he pulls the sodden cloth free, and flicks its tongue over its teeth as if ridding itself of the taste.
“Do you have a name?”
A very comely pout.
“Do you speak?” he questions.
It rolls its eyes. Even the eyelashes are a feathery white. “Yes. I know your horrible clunky language.”
Madara smiles. In the past, he’s tolerated insolence…poorly. Here, with that wet cunt still clasping him, he thinks he could forgive the yokai for spitting in his face. The old-fashioned way it speaks is rather charming too.
“Why don’t we make a deal?” he offers, and rubs his thumb into the base of its cock. It twitches, responsive to his touch. “You don’t have to starve again. I can give you more energy than you’d know what to do with, and a warm, safe nest to stay in during the daylight. No hunters or monks would trouble you.”
Suspicion writes itself all over the creature’s pretty face. “What boon to you want from me? I am no hinnagami.”
“I’ve been looking for a sleep aid for some time.”
For a moment, it looks so offended it’s practically human. “Take a tincture!”
“You’re far sweeter than nemunoki bark,” he purrs, and leans forward to cover the yokai with his own body. His cock pushes in deeper, and the yokai shivers as he mouths at its neck and noses at the underside of its jaw. Awake, the experience is different - the yokai leans back into him, sniffing at his hair and darting its tongue out to taste the scent of him. Perhaps it’s pleased by what it finds; its cock throbs again where its trapped between their bellies. “Won’t you give me a name to call you? I feel most impolite for our first meeting to have gone this far without me knowing it.”
A sniff. “...Tobirama will do.”
“Tobirama,” he tests, and finds it sits nicely on his tongue. “Tobira. I’m Madara, but I suppose you knew that.”
“Where would I hide during the day?”
“Here.” He reaches over to pick up an embroidered silk throw, takes a corner and touches it to the yokai’s soft cheek. “In all the silks and soft linens you please, to sleep away the days in comfort. It’s warded stronger than a fortress, and nobody would dream of entering my chambers without my knowledge. So long as I can return to you at nightfall to find you warming my bed.”
Tobirama leans into the silk instinctively, nosing at it before lifting his head and blinking rapidly. His tail keeps flicking, and his pout softens as he mulls it over.
Madara presses a light kiss to one collarbone, and then the other.
“I want something, first.”
“You only have to tell me, pretty thing.”
“More,” Tobirama instructs bossily. “Another wet-shaking-good.”
He laughs, too beside himself to care if half the household comes running or Izuna hits him in the morning for cackling like a madman in the night. “A climax? You’d like me to make you feel nice again?”
It’s not clear whether Tobirama can flush, but it’s obvious that he’s embarrassed. His tail wraps around his own waist and twitches like a cat’s feather toy, and his ears flatten back. Madara rests his forearm down beside the yokai’s face and curves his wrist to play with his hair, stroking little circles over the crown of his bedmate’s head. He rubs the soft tip of one ear between forefinger and thumb, and Tobirama’s chest arches high.
“I can do that,” he promises, his thighs flexing as he grinds down into Tobirama’s welcoming cunt. “I can make you feel so good you’ll never want to taste another chakra again.”
He’s already imaging the night he’ll return to his chambers after a long day of fighting, and be greeted with red eyes, a lashing tail, and parted knees in his bed.
“Very well,” Tobirama says, proud and haughty with his chin raised, and his cheeks warm. “Let this coupling mark our deal.”
Madara did get an excellent night’s sleep. He also, however, got severe indigestion from consuming trace amounts of Tobirama’s mildly toxic bodily fluids.