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If it had been anyone else pushing him up against a wall, significant other or not, Madara would have likely broken their wrist. That was considering they were lucky enough to survive the encounter with such a minimalistic injury. But as it were, it was Ryouji, and Madara couldn’t help but revel in how the man towered above him from behind. The hand that tangled in his hair and near yanked his head to the side was in no danger of retaliation, and all Madara could do was claw at the wall, his eyes darkening and breath hitching as Ryouji pressed into him.
He growled as he assaulted Madara’s lips with his own, the hand gripping his hip as hot as flame to Madara’s skin even through his clothes. It held him still while Ryouji ground himself into his backside, a moan tearing out of him that left his mouth accessible to Ryouji’s domineering tongue.
Rarely did he ever get like this. This possessive, this demanding. If he didn’t know with every cell of his being that Ryouji would stop at the first hint of resistance, Madara might even find it off-putting. But he did know Ryouji. Knew him better than he’d ever known anyone before him, and something about how he gripped his hair, how greedily he sucked the air right from his lungs, how their mingled scents hung heavy in the air - something about Ryouji made Madara want this and so much more.
The word “mine” was not a threat whispered against his lips, seared into his neck with teeth and tongue. It was a promise that had Madara desperate for friction, his head falling back the second it was free from Ryouji’s grip, his blood boiling through his veins as the potentials for the night stretch before him.
Yes, if it had been anyone else, Madara would not have wasted a moment before showing them pain and regret. But Ryouji had often found himself an exception, and Madara could not wait to see what he had in store for the both of them.