Fic: For The Kill (Madara/Hashirama; for heltja
Title: “For The Kill”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: before the Senju/Uchiha truce; features both flashbacks and flashforwards
Summary: Day after day Uchiha and Senju fight for superiority. Night after night, the fight continues. [Madara/Hashirama; PWP] Please R&R!
Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Kishimoto Masashi.
A/N: This is a strange piece of writing which the not-too-successful completion of my exams resulted in.
Dedication: for heltja. Потому что ты супер! А инст - зло! Вот тебе моральная поддержка))))
FOR THE KILL
So dose me up, once is not enough.
I can still see the ground…
Tom McRae. ‘End of the World News’
Madara hates Hashirama’s hair. It is inexplicably smooth and soft, so non-shinobi-like. It feels like some exotic silk when he sifts his fingers through it, and he wants nothing more than to pull and tug at it in hopes of inflicting but minor pain on its owner.
Hashirama likes to entangle his hands in Madara’s mane that falls in unruly waves over his shoulders. Sometimes he finds heads of burdock stuck to the mats that spread chaotically through the pitch-black strands. His fingers get caught, and his forced to pull, and he enjoys the throaty sigh his actions tear out of Madara.
Hashirama’s hair streams like liquid chocolate, framing his patrician face. Madara’s hair bristles, unwilling to be tamed, much less by these hands. Madara is coarse, and rough, and battle-worn, permeated with the mixture of blood and oil and sweat and other indefinite scents that echo wormwood altogether. The smell alone is intoxicating.
(Madara narrows his eyes, cold fury building inside him.
“Who the fuck is that?” he spits, eyeing a tall armoured man coming out of their supposed client’s house. That scumbag of a daimyou has apparently double-crossed them by hiring another clan for a back-up.
“I’d be damned!” one of the elder clansmen breathes in disbelief when the enemy ninja turns, exposing his shield branded with a curved sign of a specific clan. “It’s a Senju!”
“Who?”
“The Forest Clan. They are unbeatable.”
Madara’s spine becomes straight, rigidly so. He scrutinizes the dark shadow, taking in every visible detail, from the dark coral layers of his armour-plating to the smooth speed of his motions as Senju disappears into the shadows.
“No one is unbeatable,” he whispers in a voice that sounds like it belongs to someone other than him.)
Hashirama’s tongue glides down Madara’s sculpted cheekbone, on to the outline of his jaw. It is unexpectedly dry, almost crude. Madara’s hand constricts around the man’s shoulder, digging into the flesh. They are fully clothed because it is winter (and a bloody cold one, too) and they are stranded at some point between their respective campsites. Snow keeps falling, laying a pristine white tapestry around them, and each of them cannot help thinking what the blood of the other would look like if spilt upon this embodiment of purity.
The armour having been cast off from the start, they search for gaps in each other’s clothing, and push their hands through anxiously upon finding them, stroking, teasing, outright tormenting each other with deliberate slowness. Every seemingly casual touch makes their hearts beat faster.
Hashirama bucks his hips, thrusting harder into Madara’s hand. They stand so close to each other, practically swaying in weightlessness. In turn, Madara grinds himself against Hashirama’s palm, and Senju’s next squeeze sends jolts of unparalleled excitement through his body. His throat is raw like it is full of sharp needles; and he keeps his mouth shut and his jaws clenched for fear of letting those needles spill out with a moan.
He has missed this. The Senju and the Uchiha haven’t crossed paths for a while. Rumour has it the Senju have been taking missions somewhere North.
Madara thought there would be no one left to kill by the time the Senju returned.
(Senju Tobirama hates him; that much Madara is sure of. Every time his honey brown eyes are fixed upon Madara, Uchiha feels the urge to bring his katana upon the insolent brat. He is as far from being like his brother as the Earth is from the Moon.
“They say his father’s a raven king,” Tobirama says loud enough to make sure Madara catches it. “I’d think twice before consorting with a demon changeling.”
Madara’s eyes turn a deeper shade of red for a moment. Of all the rumours people spread about him, he despises this one the most because it insults not only him, but his brother too.
To his credit, Hashirama laughs.
“He is no more a bird than I am a tree!” he notes, his tone heavily condescending.
Madara wants to rip him apart. At night he claws at his back and does his best to cover his bodies in bruises to prove that some trees are meant to be cut down.)
But this, he missed so much more than he did their rivalry and constant bloodshed. Those touches that are enough to drive him to the edge; the way they fit perfectly into each other’s ready grasp; the way it ultimately makes them both moan and writhe in hateful pleasure.
Halfway through it all Hashirama forces him on his knees and pushes down with him, latching onto the side of his neck. Madara’s breath caught in his throat, he lies back on the crisp crust of hoarfrost that covers the torpid ground and allows Senju to straddle him. He cannot but count inwardly all the battles Senju has been through, all his artily crafted assassination plans, all his miraculous getaways. He admires and hates Senju Hashirama with passion.
He wants to know if Hashirama feels the same.
He yearns this knowledge like never before. He wonders what Senju thinks when Madara lies beneath him like that. He is usually very careful to maintain his calm façade, and it is only by those lustful moans that slip through his gritted teeth from time to time that Madara knows how much his rival truly wants this.
Their lower bodies rub fervently against one another, and Madara’s breath becomes ragged and washes over Hashirama’s cheek in hot whiffs as the man brings his face closer to Madara’s, his eyes clouded with fierce determination. Sharp. Hateful. Strong. Or is it simply Madara’s wishful thinking? He would rather have the hated Senju hate him back, for the alternative is friendship and to him, it could be his undoing.
It is more than he is willing to pay for losing himself.
(Seeing Izuna in a coffin, so cold, repulsively white, his empty eye sockets covered with a piece of featureless cloth, breaks Madara’s heart. He stands over him, staring in no particular direction, until a clansman of his approaches, with a letter in his hand.
The Senju call for a truce.
The Uchiha are inclined to accept it.
“My brother has not died for nothing!” Madara hisses venomously as his hand signs the papers and his mind plots revenge.)
Hashirama rises over him, his legs spread on both sides of Madara, and impales himself on Madara, gasping at the forced intrusion. He moves jerkily a few times, hurting himself even more, but a small smile glimmers in the corner of his mouth. Madara arches his back, feeling suddenly powerless before the damp heat that encases him. He should be the one in control but he doesn’t feel that he is.
Hashirama simply does what he does best: he takes charge. He sets the rhythm and the pace, and all Madara can do is watch his resolved, focused countenance melt gradually as he slides up and down.
Madara reaches out and cups Hashirama’s length again. Scissors it between his fingers, strokes and caresses it frantically. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to have Hashirama as his subordinate. In his rightful place, beneath him. But that could never happen. Most likely, Madara would not have acknowledged him at all if Hashirama hadn’t been his equal. Knowing that they are perfectly equal, balanced even, drives him into ecstasy.
Hashirama spasms around him, tearing him out of his ruminations, and Madara bucks inadvertently, boring deeper, and he is rewarded with a harsh outcry. Hashirama presses his palm flat against Madara’s chest for support, and both of them attempt to outrun each other yet again, falling in and out of their intrinsic rhythms. Madara digs his fingers into Hashirama’s thigh, the rough fabric of his trousers stretching to the extreme. They avoid nudity at all costs; it makes them too vulnerable, too much like others, and somehow Madara knows that underneath it all Senju looks appallingly wholesome.
Hashirama leans into him and parts his lips against his, nipping at his skin demandingly. Madara opens his mouth reluctantly and sucks him into a hungry parody of a kiss as, together, they hit the climax. It is the only moment they can waste on kissing. One brief, forceful pressure of mouth to mouth, their tongues dancing over each other, their teeth gnashing.
For a split second, Hashirama’s eyelids droop. If this isn’t the sign of weakness, then what is?
* * *
The overcast sky hangs low overhead. It seems that if he stands high enough, Madara will be able to touch the clouds. They churn up there like some thick rotten grounds.
“The Forest Clan appears to have returned,” his brother murmurs thoughtfully. They stand shoulder to shoulder on a small plateau overlooking the valley where the Senju remove the remains of their campsite.
“Must have smelt the blood,” Madara smirks. “Dogs.”
Izuna cocks his head in solemn pensiveness. “Do you think we should throw a welcoming party?”
His lips are tinged with a shade of a smile. Madara skews his eyes upon him, uncertain if it is a piquing remark addressed to him, or a sudden burst of brutality. To his knowledge, Izuna has never been fond of needless battles.
Whatever his intentions truly are, Madara has no need to justify himself. He does what he does at his own discretion and he stands above all explanations.
“I already have,” he whispers. The lack of reaction coming from Izuna pleases him.
(Madara’s eyes are lifeless and open wide when Hashirama leans into him and brushes his lips against Madara’s. Just like those nights, the one kiss that dragged on through each of them.
Madara’s bones are broken in several vital points. A sword pierces his belly, yet he tries persistently to keep on his feet. Hashirama’s fist is caught in his hair. He pulls away, that bare suggestion of intimacy gone like a passing breath of wind, and the Shodai lets go. Madara falls.
“I’m sorry,” Hashirama whispers in a hoarse, grief-stricken voice.
On the brink of death, Madara finds the strength to believe that his grief is genuine - and he hates him even more for it.
A feeble spark of chakra blazes brighter. It is now that there is finally nothing but hate between them. And he will live on because it is him, Uchiha Madara, who is truly unbeatable. He will live on to watch the Senju fall.)
January 27-29, 2009
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: before the Senju/Uchiha truce; features both flashbacks and flashforwards
Summary: Day after day Uchiha and Senju fight for superiority. Night after night, the fight continues. [Madara/Hashirama; PWP] Please R&R!
Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Kishimoto Masashi.
A/N: This is a strange piece of writing which the not-too-successful completion of my exams resulted in.
Dedication: for heltja. Потому что ты супер! А инст - зло! Вот тебе моральная поддержка))))
FOR THE KILL
So dose me up, once is not enough.
I can still see the ground…
Tom McRae. ‘End of the World News’
Madara hates Hashirama’s hair. It is inexplicably smooth and soft, so non-shinobi-like. It feels like some exotic silk when he sifts his fingers through it, and he wants nothing more than to pull and tug at it in hopes of inflicting but minor pain on its owner.
Hashirama likes to entangle his hands in Madara’s mane that falls in unruly waves over his shoulders. Sometimes he finds heads of burdock stuck to the mats that spread chaotically through the pitch-black strands. His fingers get caught, and his forced to pull, and he enjoys the throaty sigh his actions tear out of Madara.
Hashirama’s hair streams like liquid chocolate, framing his patrician face. Madara’s hair bristles, unwilling to be tamed, much less by these hands. Madara is coarse, and rough, and battle-worn, permeated with the mixture of blood and oil and sweat and other indefinite scents that echo wormwood altogether. The smell alone is intoxicating.
(Madara narrows his eyes, cold fury building inside him.
“Who the fuck is that?” he spits, eyeing a tall armoured man coming out of their supposed client’s house. That scumbag of a daimyou has apparently double-crossed them by hiring another clan for a back-up.
“I’d be damned!” one of the elder clansmen breathes in disbelief when the enemy ninja turns, exposing his shield branded with a curved sign of a specific clan. “It’s a Senju!”
“Who?”
“The Forest Clan. They are unbeatable.”
Madara’s spine becomes straight, rigidly so. He scrutinizes the dark shadow, taking in every visible detail, from the dark coral layers of his armour-plating to the smooth speed of his motions as Senju disappears into the shadows.
“No one is unbeatable,” he whispers in a voice that sounds like it belongs to someone other than him.)
Hashirama’s tongue glides down Madara’s sculpted cheekbone, on to the outline of his jaw. It is unexpectedly dry, almost crude. Madara’s hand constricts around the man’s shoulder, digging into the flesh. They are fully clothed because it is winter (and a bloody cold one, too) and they are stranded at some point between their respective campsites. Snow keeps falling, laying a pristine white tapestry around them, and each of them cannot help thinking what the blood of the other would look like if spilt upon this embodiment of purity.
The armour having been cast off from the start, they search for gaps in each other’s clothing, and push their hands through anxiously upon finding them, stroking, teasing, outright tormenting each other with deliberate slowness. Every seemingly casual touch makes their hearts beat faster.
Hashirama bucks his hips, thrusting harder into Madara’s hand. They stand so close to each other, practically swaying in weightlessness. In turn, Madara grinds himself against Hashirama’s palm, and Senju’s next squeeze sends jolts of unparalleled excitement through his body. His throat is raw like it is full of sharp needles; and he keeps his mouth shut and his jaws clenched for fear of letting those needles spill out with a moan.
He has missed this. The Senju and the Uchiha haven’t crossed paths for a while. Rumour has it the Senju have been taking missions somewhere North.
Madara thought there would be no one left to kill by the time the Senju returned.
(Senju Tobirama hates him; that much Madara is sure of. Every time his honey brown eyes are fixed upon Madara, Uchiha feels the urge to bring his katana upon the insolent brat. He is as far from being like his brother as the Earth is from the Moon.
“They say his father’s a raven king,” Tobirama says loud enough to make sure Madara catches it. “I’d think twice before consorting with a demon changeling.”
Madara’s eyes turn a deeper shade of red for a moment. Of all the rumours people spread about him, he despises this one the most because it insults not only him, but his brother too.
To his credit, Hashirama laughs.
“He is no more a bird than I am a tree!” he notes, his tone heavily condescending.
Madara wants to rip him apart. At night he claws at his back and does his best to cover his bodies in bruises to prove that some trees are meant to be cut down.)
But this, he missed so much more than he did their rivalry and constant bloodshed. Those touches that are enough to drive him to the edge; the way they fit perfectly into each other’s ready grasp; the way it ultimately makes them both moan and writhe in hateful pleasure.
Halfway through it all Hashirama forces him on his knees and pushes down with him, latching onto the side of his neck. Madara’s breath caught in his throat, he lies back on the crisp crust of hoarfrost that covers the torpid ground and allows Senju to straddle him. He cannot but count inwardly all the battles Senju has been through, all his artily crafted assassination plans, all his miraculous getaways. He admires and hates Senju Hashirama with passion.
He wants to know if Hashirama feels the same.
He yearns this knowledge like never before. He wonders what Senju thinks when Madara lies beneath him like that. He is usually very careful to maintain his calm façade, and it is only by those lustful moans that slip through his gritted teeth from time to time that Madara knows how much his rival truly wants this.
Their lower bodies rub fervently against one another, and Madara’s breath becomes ragged and washes over Hashirama’s cheek in hot whiffs as the man brings his face closer to Madara’s, his eyes clouded with fierce determination. Sharp. Hateful. Strong. Or is it simply Madara’s wishful thinking? He would rather have the hated Senju hate him back, for the alternative is friendship and to him, it could be his undoing.
It is more than he is willing to pay for losing himself.
(Seeing Izuna in a coffin, so cold, repulsively white, his empty eye sockets covered with a piece of featureless cloth, breaks Madara’s heart. He stands over him, staring in no particular direction, until a clansman of his approaches, with a letter in his hand.
The Senju call for a truce.
The Uchiha are inclined to accept it.
“My brother has not died for nothing!” Madara hisses venomously as his hand signs the papers and his mind plots revenge.)
Hashirama rises over him, his legs spread on both sides of Madara, and impales himself on Madara, gasping at the forced intrusion. He moves jerkily a few times, hurting himself even more, but a small smile glimmers in the corner of his mouth. Madara arches his back, feeling suddenly powerless before the damp heat that encases him. He should be the one in control but he doesn’t feel that he is.
Hashirama simply does what he does best: he takes charge. He sets the rhythm and the pace, and all Madara can do is watch his resolved, focused countenance melt gradually as he slides up and down.
Madara reaches out and cups Hashirama’s length again. Scissors it between his fingers, strokes and caresses it frantically. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to have Hashirama as his subordinate. In his rightful place, beneath him. But that could never happen. Most likely, Madara would not have acknowledged him at all if Hashirama hadn’t been his equal. Knowing that they are perfectly equal, balanced even, drives him into ecstasy.
Hashirama spasms around him, tearing him out of his ruminations, and Madara bucks inadvertently, boring deeper, and he is rewarded with a harsh outcry. Hashirama presses his palm flat against Madara’s chest for support, and both of them attempt to outrun each other yet again, falling in and out of their intrinsic rhythms. Madara digs his fingers into Hashirama’s thigh, the rough fabric of his trousers stretching to the extreme. They avoid nudity at all costs; it makes them too vulnerable, too much like others, and somehow Madara knows that underneath it all Senju looks appallingly wholesome.
Hashirama leans into him and parts his lips against his, nipping at his skin demandingly. Madara opens his mouth reluctantly and sucks him into a hungry parody of a kiss as, together, they hit the climax. It is the only moment they can waste on kissing. One brief, forceful pressure of mouth to mouth, their tongues dancing over each other, their teeth gnashing.
For a split second, Hashirama’s eyelids droop. If this isn’t the sign of weakness, then what is?
* * *
The overcast sky hangs low overhead. It seems that if he stands high enough, Madara will be able to touch the clouds. They churn up there like some thick rotten grounds.
“The Forest Clan appears to have returned,” his brother murmurs thoughtfully. They stand shoulder to shoulder on a small plateau overlooking the valley where the Senju remove the remains of their campsite.
“Must have smelt the blood,” Madara smirks. “Dogs.”
Izuna cocks his head in solemn pensiveness. “Do you think we should throw a welcoming party?”
His lips are tinged with a shade of a smile. Madara skews his eyes upon him, uncertain if it is a piquing remark addressed to him, or a sudden burst of brutality. To his knowledge, Izuna has never been fond of needless battles.
Whatever his intentions truly are, Madara has no need to justify himself. He does what he does at his own discretion and he stands above all explanations.
“I already have,” he whispers. The lack of reaction coming from Izuna pleases him.
(Madara’s eyes are lifeless and open wide when Hashirama leans into him and brushes his lips against Madara’s. Just like those nights, the one kiss that dragged on through each of them.
Madara’s bones are broken in several vital points. A sword pierces his belly, yet he tries persistently to keep on his feet. Hashirama’s fist is caught in his hair. He pulls away, that bare suggestion of intimacy gone like a passing breath of wind, and the Shodai lets go. Madara falls.
“I’m sorry,” Hashirama whispers in a hoarse, grief-stricken voice.
On the brink of death, Madara finds the strength to believe that his grief is genuine - and he hates him even more for it.
A feeble spark of chakra blazes brighter. It is now that there is finally nothing but hate between them. And he will live on because it is him, Uchiha Madara, who is truly unbeatable. He will live on to watch the Senju fall.)
January 27-29, 2009