A/N: This chapter diverges from the fifth chapter (not including the prologue) of Monsoon, towards the end of Tobirama's POV.

TOBIRAMA

Nearly an hour later, Tobirama still cannot seem to escape the arguments of the evening, and he knows he's been unfair to his sister. It's hardly her own fault she's to be Madara's wife, if she was naive enough to agree to the match, he has only himself to blame, and Itama is owed an apology for more than just his own bad mood. The thought carries him as far as the hall that leads to her door, and then he catches her scent. Itama, like all Senju women, has been taught the importance of knowing pleasure only at the hands of her husband, and he knows she's been faithful to her teachings as up until this moment, he's never caught the scent of her want as anything more than a wisp. Now, it fills his senses and quiets his mind, driving all rational thought out of reach and making his own want swell with such force he feels as though he might burst, nearly brought to his knees.

Tobirama curses himself as he braces himself against the frame of her door with white knuckles and wonders when his feet carried him this far. Inside, he can hear Itama, the tentative slip of her fingers between her legs and her soft pants, stuttering over a half-formed sound.

"Ma— ah —" Tobirama feels sick with the strength it takes to resist the urge to slide her door open and bring her to pleasure himself. It's not the first time he's had such a vile thought, but it is the most difficult. Need burns from within him, but the word that leaves her lips next drains every ounce of warmth from his heart. "Madara— ah, " she cries the name of their greatest enemy as if it were something holy. "Yes," she moans, and Tobirama knows he cannot leave her to fall further into this trap. Their father always looked at him with distrust where Itama was concerned, but—surely, even he would see her as she is now and understand that there is need for this. Better he lay hands on her than any Uchiha.

ITAMA

Itama's world has narrowed. Around her, the duvet is twisted and bunched, gathered thick under her hips and between her thighs so her hand doesn't crush against the floor as she pushes up on her knees and pants into the futon. Palm shifting, her fingers catch the swollen nerves between her legs at just the right angle and Itama has to bury her face to muffle her cries as the blood in her veins turns sweet and thick as syup. For how long has her body been capable of such carelessness? Such pleasure? To think—to think is an impossible task, and for all she feels, Itama's face still goes hot whenever she listens too closely to the wet sounds that come from between her legs.

Each time she thinks of Madara, the hot coil of pleasure low in her belly grows tighter as the pressure in her chest threatens to burst, and Itama feels her want turn so sharp it threatens to flay her from the inside out. There's something there, some knife's edge she hesitates to sit because she carries the terrible fear that this feeling will fade when she does.

To recall the way he touched her, though—if it weren't for the clarity in his eyes, his touch burned so hot she'd think him fevered as his skin left brands over her own, and the thought makes her knuckles go white where her hand clutches the futon above her head, tangled in the mess of her hair. Without stopping to think, driven only by the dense weight of need cradled in her hips and swelling fast to fill every inch of her with unbearable pressure, Itama drags her hand down to pull at her clothes enough that she might cup her breast as he had, and it nearly makes her cry. Perhaps this is why a woman is never meant to know pleasure without her husband's hand, it does not satisfy the same, not nearly wide enough, warm enough, calloused enough to match the one in her memory, but still; when Itama drags her thumb over the peak of her breast as Madara had, she follows an impulse and pinches tight and has to bite her tongue hard enough to taste blood to keep from crying out at the shock of her own desire.

"Itama," low and warm, the sound of her brother's voice—for a moment, Itama forgets herself. Tobirama's presence soothes the soft edge of her pleasure and she sinks deeper, feels her control slip further for half a heart beat as her body goes lax. Then, understanding cuts through her and her heart explodes with panic as her muscles seize painfully and she wrenches herself up clumsily from the futon, burning the skin of her wrist with how quickly she pulls it from the loosely tied linen that covers her. She tries not to show how her head spins from rising so fast. Before she can flee the room in embarrassment, Tobirama catches her wrist—the one wet with her pleasure as it had dripped down past her palm—and she freezes, utterly humiliated.

"Itama," he repeats, voice heavy in a way that's new to her. In the dark, like this, it's difficult to tell whether his eyes have deepened in the way she thinks, or whether it's just imagined. Tobirama's grip runs unusually hot, and when it tightens she knows he's sensed how her body responds to the thought.

"I—" Itama is briefly startled into silence by the hoarseness of her own voice. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't—I'm not meant to—"

"It's alright." There's a curl to his voice she's never heard before, and it sets her on high alert, even through the fast-fading fog of her own desire. When he shifts forward, Itama pulls back and out of his grip on instinct, but before she can draw away, he catches her ankle and Itama feels frightened of him as she never has before. Tobirama—her brother, more a father to her than Butsuma ever was—is the man who holds her in place, of that she has no doubt, but claw-like nails dig themselves into her flesh and Itama struggles to understand whose skin her brother wears tonight.

"Why have you stopped, sweet sister?" Itama hates herself for the speed at which her want returns, further rushed by the mortification his words give rise to.

"I—" Itama swallows, hard, "I don't know," she answers quietly.

"Then continue."

Unable to imagine what else she might do, Itama listens, as she always has.

With trembling fingers, she slips her hand past her linens once more and finds herself, if possible, more slick and swollen than she'd been moments ago. Itama holds her brother's eyes— have they gone sharper than they were, or has her imagination run away with her —in the dark and gasps, open mouthed, when she finds a sharp angle and flinches from her own satisfaction. Tobirama makes a noise low enough she feels it in her own chest, and Itama is drawn forward and down by his grip on her leg until she's left lying back with her brother knelt between her splayed thighs, hovering above her and running his hand up from her ankle up along the soft skin of her calf, her thigh, until his fingers meet with hers and he urges her to push harder.

Itama has felt the air before lightning strikes, the way it raises the hair on the back of her neck and sets all her nerves alight, and that is what it feels like to have Tobirama guide her hand with his own. To have the barest brushes of his skin against her most sensitive place.

"Tell me who you think of," he demands. It takes her a moment to parse the question past the fog of desire that clouds her mind. She thinks—thought—of Madara, but now—

"Brother, please," she pleads, "I cannot—"

"Tell me, Itama." His words sink like stone, right down to her core. "I will not be made to ask again," he cautions. The solid force behind his voice is one Itama has never been able to refuse, and she is not so changed as she feels, because her face burns as tears well in her eyes, and she gives in to the demand with shameful ease.

"You." A sob chokes her as she speaks, and Itama struggles to catch her breath against the way her chest fights to contract and shudder and cry. "I am sick, brother," she confesses.

"No," he soothes, hand beginning to move with more intent between her legs as he leans closer and Itama feels her nerves light once more at the feel of his breath against her neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin there when he speaks. "I've done this to us, Itama," Tobirama breathes, laboured as though it pains him to do so. "I've cursed us both by my nature—"

"No." Itama is surprised at the vehemenceness of her own voice. Surprised at how quickly her fear falls away when faced with her brother's guilt. Without thought, Itama slips her hand from his and presses his palm to her slick crease, pulling moans from both of them in unison as Tobirama mouths at her neck with more desperation. "You are good, brother," Itama swears, words carrying across broad breaths. "You have been good to me." Tobirama groans her name once more and she feels the vibration of it where his mouth is pressed to her skin. He sinks further down, gives her more of his weight, and she allows her legs to fall easily open the rest of the way so he might feel how she loves him, wants him near, wants him pleased more than anything.

"If I am not sick," a gasp breaks her sentence, "you cannot be either, brother." Tobirama, whether frightened or ashamed still, she isn't sure, but whatever he feels, he has found confidence in his own touch and it shows the way he works her now. Itama struggles to breathe, no room left for air in her chest, all pushed out by the heavy swell of arousal as he toys and teases, applying pressure against the keen nerves at the peak of her crease in a way that makes her worry her heart might burst from her ribs. A way that makes her want to scream. It's as though he reads her mind, because his free hand comes up to cover her mouth just as she fills her lungs.

"Sister," he groans, voice half stolen by a pant, "Itama, you are too—why—" A change is taking place in under his skin, she can hear the shift as his words grow raspier and heavier with each sound that tips off his tongue and Itama isn't sure what to make of it, but all thoughts flee her mind when he bites hard over her neck and pleasure takes her. His teeth—sharp, too sharp, but she cares little—pierce her flesh and warm blood pools and runs down her neck, and Itama cries out against his palm. The thing in her chest finally bursts and a rush of heat rolls out through her veins, hairs standing on end as the aftershocks ripple out across her skin and her body seizes while the last of her need is wrung from her body. When the strongest of her pleasure has passed, she's left to go limp under the man to whom her pleasure belongs.

Tobirama's hand slips from her mouth to cradle her neck as he loosens his jaw and begins to soothe the bruised and broken skin with tender licks and kisses. When Itama takes his face in her hands and drags him nearer to kiss, she can taste her blood on his tongue and it makes her feel halfway ready to reach her peak again.

Every kiss, every slip of his tongue and sharp glance of his teeth has him steal the breath from her lungs, and Itama mourns the intimacy between them when her brother is distracted from the taste of her to drag the fingers that cradle his cheek into his mouth, and Itama understands, suddenly, that it is the taste of her he craves. Before she can stop him or think to ask why, he has pulled back to dip his head between her thighs and Itama is overwhelmed to the point of tears when he begins to lave at the swollen and sensitive folds of her, breaking from his concentration only to kiss her thighs and drag his lips along the bend of her hip in a way that makes the thing in her abdomen go unbearably dense.

No doubt, her hands are too tight in Tobirama's hair, but he seems to care little and she cannot keep herself from it, nor from the way her thighs clench as she runs her heels over his back, struggling against the urge to writhe so erratically he cannot keep her in his grip. Soon enough, pleasure finds her again, the moment her brother's tongue breaches her as she has never before felt, while his fingers toy with the swell of her nerves. It hurts more, this time, when her peak grips her. The same pressure is there, the same heavy wave breaking across her skin from the inside, but—there is an ache, a sore drag that follows and leaves her truly boneless as she tries to pull him back, hands grasping and clutching at his shoulders.

"Please," she begs, "Tobirama, please, I need—" He is with her before she can finish speaking and steals the last of her words from between her lips. This time, he is close, heavy against her enough that she feels his want swollen and pressing into her skin. Even after all that's transpired between them, it's enough to make her face heat, but—Itama wants. She wants to bring her brother even half the pleasure he's brought her. Wants to show that she will shy from no part of him. Tentatively, she slips a hand between them to press against the swollen flesh and Tobirama shudders against her, mouth leaving hers to pant against her neck as she allows her head to fall back. She has little idea what to do, so she squeezes, gently runs her hand over him as she breathes heavy and stares up at the ceiling that seems to spin above her, reveling in her brother's low moan and the vibration of it though her own chest.

"Itama," he begins.

"Please," she begs, "please, let me—I want—"

"You do not even know," he huffs, laughing uncharacteristically soft against her skin. Still he does not deny her. She thinks he might, for a moment, when he pushes up to his knees to hover over her, but there he remains. "I would see your want for myself," Tobirama soothes. Braced above her, one hand comes up to cup her jaw, and Itama allows her mouth to fall open for the thumb that traces her lip as she eagerly finds the tie that keeps him modest and works it loose with her fingers. There is a novelty to being allowed to flatten her palms over the soft skin of his abdomen, feel the cut of his hips as her hands draw lower, is intoxicating.

Itama has never before witnessed a man's desire, and in any other state, had she seen him like this, swollen thick and heavy, half-hanging between her legs with clear evidence of his want for her gathered at the peak, she'd have wondered how any woman might want this. It would've frightened her, but as it is—she simply wants, although she knows little of how to take.

Glancing up at him, Itama delicately takes him in her hands and Tobirama's breath rushes out in a way that gives her confidence. The way his eyes bore into her, so intense she hardly knows what to do, is too much, so she looks back down to where she touches him, and tries to understand, tries to study as he would, to understand his reactions and know what might be good. Itama has never been as quick a study as her brother, but when his hips begin to rock against her grip as it tightens, she thinks she must have done something correct.

"Wet your hands," he pants. Itama is so distracted it takes her a moment to hear him, and when she does, she acts without thinking, letting him go to run her hands between her legs before returning them. Tobirama makes a sound as though the air has been punched from his lungs and Itama feels strangely thrilled. To feel the weight and burn of him against her palms, to watch the way he leaks and twitches in her grip and feel the heft behind his hips as he shifts above her makes Itama feel on a level with her brother she never has before. He's always been dignified, always steady, and to watch him fall apart—in her memories, she can only recall having seen his control slip as it does now once, and it's a time she pushes from her mind as swiftly as the thought comes. She has no wish to visit that place now.

Itama loses track of how long they go on like that, the air caught between them, the room still all around them, suspended in time, the breath they share the only thing that seems to move besides their bodies. She's grown so focused, so single-minded, that she startles when he pulls back slightly, gripping one of her hands with his own and tightening, speeding as he hunches over her, braced by on one hand on the floor while his head bows so low, his hair tickles at her belly and the muscles there jump at the soft touch. Itama doesn't understand until she hears as he seems to choke on his own breath and then, in the same seconds, flinches as she feels the wet warmth of his release paint the inside of her thigh. It seems to take a moment as he grunts and seizes as if in pain, and she feels the slow release of the last of his satisfaction leave him to slump forward, head resting over the beat of her heart.

Unsure of what else she might do, Itama careful cleans her hands on her skirt, and begins to run her fingers through his hair, soothing him as he always told her their mother did for him as a child. Above her, Tobirama relaxes until he lies against her chest and allows her to take his weight, and she finds herself anchored by the certainty she's done well.

A/N:

Uhh. Went a little crazy this morning and wrote not one, but two porny alternate chapters. Oops? Tobirama gets to be a little feral, as a treat.