Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Crossdressing, assumed incest (Madara's dumb), heel kink, lipstick kink, smut, language, humor, etc.

Word Count: ~2800 (complete)

Pairings: Madara/Tobirama

Summary: Tobirama doesn't give a damn about gender roles and gender-assigned clothing. Madara really, really doesn't mind. (Or, Tobirama in thigh-highs and heels. Madara's a fan.)

Notes: Holly is the worst influence ever, Exhibit 9864.

(Title from the Garbage song of the same name, because what is creativity.)

Cherry Lips

Raised voices are a rarity in the Senju Clan Head's House. For all of Hashirama's boisterousness, he's usually cheerful, and when he isn't he's mopey. Madara can't think of a single time he's ever seen the man lose his temper in almost two decades of knowing each other.

Therefore, when he hears Hashirama cry, "I can't stand this anymore, Tobirama!" Madara comes to a dead halt, blinking at the closed bedroom door in surprise.

There's a long pause. Something rustles, like cloth, and Hashirama's maddening little brother—almost as maddening as Madara's, and that's certainly saying something—answers coolly, "I wasn't under the impression that I was forcing you, brother."

Madara's eyes widen, and he gives the door a horrified glance, his brain adding together those words plus the sound of clothing being removed plus the location, and—

Oh god. Oh no. It cannot be what he thinks it is. There's no way.

(Surely even Tobirama has better taste than that.)

"Tobirama!" Hashirama sounds almost desperate. "I know Mito encourages this, but if anyone finds out—"

"I'm not ashamed," Tobirama says simply, and a zipper rasps. "This is a way of relaxing, and there's nothing wrong with it."

Hashirama makes a noise akin to deep despair. "If Father had ever known about this, he would have disowned both of us!"

"That argument would carry more weight if you had ever given a damn about Father's opinions on anything," Tobirama bites out, an edge of arctic chill beneath the evenness of his voice. There's a pause, and then a short sigh. "Stop fidgeting and come help me with this. The zipper is—"

"No! I said I can't do this anymore!" The door slams open, and Madara is almost mowed down as Hashirama barrels out. The big man stops short just in time, eyes widening, and flushes brilliant crimson from hairline to neckline. "Madara!" he squeaks, the spins on his heel and bolts like a coward.

Under normal circumstances, Madara would chase after him, corner him, and demand to know what was wrong so that he could force Hashirama to face it as is befitting of a Hokage. In fact, that's what he fully intends to do, right up until there's a click of steps on polished wood, and Tobirama appears in the doorway.

Then Madara chokes on his tongue, unable to do anything but stare, because Tobirama is wearing a dress.

It's not just any dress, either. Short, tight, and slinky, it has just enough drape to emphasize the leanness of Tobirama's definitely masculine body while downplaying the width of his shoulders. He's wearing deep purple eye shadow, heavy and smoky, and even darker lipstick. Madara stares at his mouth, unable to help it, and when he desperately drags his eyes downward, they catch on long, long legs revealed by the dress's extremely short skirt, and covered in—

"Are you wearing tights?" Madara demands, and it comes out a hell of a lot shriller than he intends it to. He thinks, in this case, his vocal cords can be forgiven.

"Thigh-highs," Tobirama says without so much as batting an eyelash. "Tōka swears tights don't work under this dress."

Thigh-highs. Madara feels slightly faint. It might possibly have to do with the extra four inches in height Tobirama has suddenly gained thanks to the black-and-purple heels he's wearing to complete the ensemble. In men's civilian clothes, Tobirama's legs are already long enough to inspire a plethora of indecent thoughts. Right now, Madara can't manage to look away, and just about the only thing he can think of is having them wrapped around him, those heels pricking against his back as he—

Something flickers in Tobirama's eyes, like interest, and he leans casually in the doorway, cocking a hip. "Madara," he says, lower than normal and slightly throaty. "Do you have a moment to spare?"

"How do you want me?" Madara's mouth blurts before his brain can catch up, and he flushes. "To help! How do you want me to help?"

Oh god. Maybe Madara should just make a run for it now.

Painted lips curve in a distinct smirk, and Tobirama pushes away from the frame and turns, sauntering back into the room. It's a bad sign that Madara can't tell if he's exaggerating the movement or if that's just how one walks in heels that high. "The zipper is stuck," Tobirama says over his shoulder, and the profile of his face, red marks and dark lipstick and long lashes, is just about enough to steal Madara's breath and brain function completely. "Can you help me with it?"

Madara's tongue is currently in knots, but he steps into the bedroom, barely taking in the other two sets of feminine clothes laid out on a table. His eyes are fixed on the zipper in question, about three inches undone, and the pale skin revealed by the gaping fabric. A glance down takes in the curve of Tobirama's ass, all too noticeable under the draping fabric, and the flash of lace high up on Tobirama's thighs.

Thigh-highs and heels. Madara is feeling a bit lightheaded, and possibly more than a little hot under the collar.

"Close the door," Tobirama tells him, and in an instant Madara knows exactly how this is going to go.

He's the very furthest thing from minding.

Closing the door, Madara crosses the room in three long strides and reaches out, curving his palm around Tobirama's bare shoulder. The skin is smooth over the firmness of muscles, satiny-soft, and he smells clean, masculine. Madara breathes it in, leaning close to lay his lips right beneath the edge of shaggy white hair, and Tobirama shivers faintly under his touch. Sliding his fingers along the edge of the strapless top, Madara presses another kiss to the vee of skin revealed, then gets his fingers on the metal teeth. The work of a moment has the bunched fabric uncaught, and he eases it down without having to be asked, slow and careful, hungry eyes on the bare skin he's uncovering.

The zipper stops just above the curve of Tobirama's ass, and he takes a step forward, then lets the dress drop. It slides down those long legs to pool on the floor, and Madara swallows hard at the sight that's left. Heels, stockings, and black panties, lacey to the point that they're more hole than cloth.

"You were thorough," he rasps, rough and intent, and Tobirama chuckles. He sweeps a hand down his side, fingers trailing along the waistband where it clings to his hips, and plays with the fabric for one tantalizing moment.

"Tōka takes great pleasure in helping me," he says, and hooks his fingers into the lace.

It takes no thought at all to have Madara stepping forward, catching Tobirama's hands before he can and stilling them. "Allow me," he murmurs, and Tobirama makes a low, hungry sound. It's more than enough to have Madara dropping to his knees in an instant, pressing a kiss to the small of Tobirama's back, then another to the swell of his ass right above the panties. He regrets, for one brief, heartfelt moment, that he can't see this from the front, Tobirama's erection straining the delicate fabric—

But why can't he, really?

"On the bed," he orders. "On your back. Keep the shoes."

It's gratifying how, for the first time in Madara's memory, Tobirama obeys without so much as a hint of protest. In an instant, he's sprawling out on the mattress, legs bent obscenely and delicate heels braced against the cover. He looks—

He looks like every dirt fantasy Madara has ever had about him, compressed into an instant and wrapped up in lace. He's hard, beautifully so, and the panties don't do anything to hide it. They're straining, not nearly enough fabric to do anything but accentuate the trapped curve, the dark head smearing precome on his stomach where it presses above the waistband.

Madara wastes no time joining him, eyes sliding up Tobirama's fighting-lean body to catch on his flushed face, the heavy-lidded red eyes, the parted, painted lips. He makes a sound before he can help it, low in his throat, and slides over him, dragging his hands up those long, gorgeous legs. Tobirama moans and arches into it, into Madara as he settles on top of him, and Madara presses him down, takes a messy, desperate, open-mouthed kiss that smears the lipstick and tastes of want and hunger. Hands fist in his hair, drag him closer, and Tobirama wraps a leg around his waist.

The prick of the heel against the back of his thigh makes Madara's cock twitch, makes him rut forward, grinding down hard. Tobirama gasps into his mouth, head tipping back, and drags Madara away a few inches. "Clothes off," he insists. A hint of a smirk, obscene with his smeared lipstick and kiss-bruised lips, and he adds, "You have few redeeming features, Uchiha. Your body happens to be one of them."

Madara bristles, but he also doesn't hesitate to clamber off the bed and start stripping as fast as humanly possible. "Fuck you," he snaps.

Tobirama laughs, low and throaty, and spreads his legs. "Please do," he purrs, and Madara nearly garrotes himself in his hurry to tear his shirt off.

"I," he spits, throwing himself back down and crawling up between Tobirama's thighs, "have skills you have never even dreamed of, Senju. I'm going to make you eat those words."

"You're welcome to try it," Tobirama invites, still smirking, right up until the moment Madara presses an open-mouthed kiss to straining lace and he loses it on a startled cry.

Madara keeps every lick and suck light, teasing and taunting as he pins Tobirama's thrusting hips down. They're the same height, but Madara outweighs the slighter Senju by quite a bit, and it's mostly muscle. He puts it to use, holding Tobirama still as he thrashes and jerks, trying to press up into Madara's mouth, trying to flip them. The sounds he makes are going to Madara's head just as much as the hard flesh under his tongue, and when he groans Tobirama cries out desperately, like it's been wrung out of him.

"Please," he spits, bitten out and bitten off and not something Madara has ever heard him say before. In reward, he drags the damp panties down and off, following their path with his mouth despite Tobirama's gasped protest, and bites red marks into pale thighs above the lace tops of the stockings. He's rutting against the mattress, desperate for friction on his aching cock, one hand on Tobirama's ankle and the delicate straps of one heel, when a tube bounces off his skull and drops onto the blanket next to him.

When Madara raises his head to glare, Tobirama smirks back. He loops his leg around Madara's shoulders, lightly pressing the heel of his shoe into Madara's spine, and arches long and lazy, though it's slightly ruined by his deep flush and quick breaths. "You're boring me," he accuses.

Madara laughs roughly, leaning forward to lay glancing kisses up his cock. "Am I?" he mocks. "How sad. I can draw this out more if you think it will help. Maybe—"

With a sharp hiss, Tobirama digs the heel into his back. "Get on with it, Madara, and fuck me!"

Not about to wait, Madara grabs the tube of lube and squeezes a generous amount onto his fingers, then slides up to kiss Tobirama's infuriating mouth again. Tobirama kisses him back, tongues twisting, his entire body arching into it, and when Madara presses two fingers into him his cry gets lost in Madara's mouth. Madara should take it slow, ease him open gradually, but he's so hard he can't think, want and impatience all twisted in his gut, and the heel pricking his skin, the lace against his side, the taste of Tobirama's lipstick is just making it worse.

"Come on," Tobirama hisses, and Madara's ever-tenuous patience gives way like cobwebs in the wind. He grabs Tobirama's thighs, fingernails scraping over the stockings, and drags them up around his torso. Obligingly, Tobirama wraps them around him, dragging him in with fingers twisted in his hair. Madara just barely manages to get a hand on his cock, slicking it quickly, before he's shoving in, too hard, too fast—

Tobirama cries out, sounding like it's been jolted out of him, tightens his legs, urging Madara on. He kisses Madara, sloppy and desperate and messy, smearing more deep plum between their lips, and at this point Madara has to be wearing just as much as him. The tight clutch of Tobirama's body around him is overwhelming, whiting out his thoughts in favor of more, more, more, and he thrusts hard, short and sharp. Tobirama meets him, pressing back, the stockings a strange scrape that makes Madara gasp as they move. He grabs for Tobirama's hand, dragging it from his hair to twine their fingers together and brace their hands on the bed, and tries to catch his breath in the heated air between them.

"Harder," Tobirama orders, and one of the heels digs in deeper, making Madara jolt and gasp. "Harder—ah!"

"Demanding bastard," Madara informs him, though he barely has enough breath for it, and before Tobirama can do more than smirk at him he leans down to kiss him again, hips driving hard. Release is rising like a cresting wave, like a fire building, deep-hot and drowning. He surges forward, feels Tobirama match him, feels the edge of teeth on his lips and the points of those damned shoes in his back, and is lost with a guttural cry.

When the spots clear from his vision, he's slumped over Tobirama's chest, Tobirama's long legs still loosely wrapped around him, and that hand still in his hair is stroking lightly. Their other hands are still twisted together, and Madara isn't in any hurry to let go. The wetness between them means Tobirama found his release as well, and that's enough to make him content with damn well everything right now.

"Still only want me for my body?" Madara huffs into the skin of Tobirama's shoulder, before giving in to temptation and laying a kiss there.

Tobirama hums, amused. "This hardly would have convinced me otherwise," he points out, and when Madara growls in unspoken disgust, he gives in with a snort. "It would be much, much simpler if all I felt for you was lust, Madara."

The implications of that statement make Madara catch his breath, not quite able to answer. Instead, he kisses Tobirama's shoulder again, then his collarbone, then the hollow of his throat. Tobirama tilts his head back with an interested sound, and—

The door flies open. "Tobirama, I'm sorry!" Hashirama wails, throwing himself into the room. "I didn't mean it! I support you in anything…you…do…"

Their eyes meet. Hashirama looks as horrified as if he just walked in on Madara murdering his brother, rather than fucking him, and Madara's lovely post-orgasm lassitude is vanishing under an encroaching wave of blood-chilling terror, because he knows exactly what Hashirama is capable of beneath his buffoonery.

A little hysterically, Madara wonders if he counts as "anything".

Very, very slowly, still staring at Madara with the rising fury of a volcano heading for eruption, Hashirama backs out of the room and gently, carefully closes the door behind him.

"I'll mourn for you," Tobirama says, not sounding at all like he means it. In fact, on anyone else Madara might call that tone gleeful.

Madara smothers him with a pillow, and feels not one ounce of regret for the action.