Happy birthday, Madara and Happy New Year for all people!
We have our first japanese guest: @riochance69 from Twitter.
Since this event’s leader has now many friends on Twitter you can be sure, all permissions will be given properly, in personal correspondence.
Hearty as an Ox Madara/Tobirama Words: 2,079 Rating: Gen - Sypnosis: Go home, Tobi, you’re sick. Pure fluff set in IzunaIsAlive!AU. -
Tobirama slumps in his office chair, contemplating on
committing the one act that is unheard of when considering his stubborn,
prideful hide; defeat.
Aches jostle every fibre of his muscles. His head is pulsing
like an angry, bleeding wound – Hashirama could’ve grown branches out of his
desks, repeatedly slam it on his forehead, and neither the frequency, nor the
severity of the throbbing would change. Chills penetrate his armour, making him
quiver. Exhaustion threaten to drag his eyelids close. Pure stubbornness had gotten
him dressed, fed and to his office this morning, but is quickly leaking out of
A sniffle escapes from him. Tobirama sighs and reaches for a
Around him is the hum, thrum and drum of chakra signatures,
adding to the pounding his head. Times like these, being an astounding sensor
becomes a double-edged sword. One aggravating chakra signatures is bouldering
their way towards him, and Tobirama grips his letter opener for his customary
His door slams open. “Senju–,” Madara seamlessly ducks as
the letter opener goes flying over his head. “That’s a pretty weak throw. You’re
losing your touch, Senju. Anyhow, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
Any other, normal,
person would take one look at the pure, unadultered hatred burning in his eyes, and body flicker away screaming. Not
this buffoon. No, this monkey is the type to poke a growling tiger with a stick
whilst snickering and end up wondering why he’s getting clawed to pieces.
Maybe Madara will catch fire from the heat of his glare,
wouldn’t that be ironic.
“What do you want, Uchiha?” snarls Tobirama, then cringes
because a snarl is only half as effective when it rings this nasally.
Madara’s jaw snaps shut. A leather gloved hand comes up to
tuck a wad of spiky fringe behind his ear, and the dark, soulless eyes roam up
and down Tobirama’s face. “You’re sick.”
“I’m not,” denies Tobirama. It would have been convincing,
if not for the pile of tissues in the rubbish bin beside him. Face stiff and
stony, Tobirama shuffles a foot over to tuck the rubbish bin under his desk –