WARNING: Non-con.
A/N: If you have read Poetic Injustice, you will notice a similar theme here. This chapter not as graphic as my other work. I've left out the bulk of the nastiness, but I still caution the squeamish. If non-con material upsets you, do not read this. I have no desire to make anyone uncomfortable. If you happen to fancy messed up Uchihas, then by all means enjoy the ride.
The night was warm, even for summer. A breeze would have been a welcomed reprieve. To open the windows and let it roll through and permeate. Dispel the sullied, stale air that was choking her, condensing into a fog of filth and infecting her with its poison.
No, it wasn't condensing into anything tangible. That was an exaggeration. This night was different from no other night, from a bystander's point of view.
For her, it was a night like no other. She would suffer in the humidity, and the wicked scent it strengthened. The aroma that drifted from her skin like cruel incense, and made her sick to her stomach. The sweat had dried long ago, she'd been sitting there so long, but it felt like minutes. A couple slow blinks and a few breaths...but the fire of the setting sun had been snuffed into dense night in between them. Where had the time gone?
"Mito-sama?" A young voice questioned her from the other side of the door. Louder this time, with a hint of urgency, and a soft tapping on the wood.
She started, fingers curling into a loose fist and back straightening as if she meant to move, but she only turned her head. A swath of loose crimson tickled her shoulder. Pensive eyes considered the door in silence. It would not open without her permission, and so she would take her time collecting her thoughts, at the expense of her apprentice's rattled nerves. The girl could wait.
Inching down the door, she caught sight of the river of earthen green in the dim light. Snaking and twisting its way across the floor towards her, as if reaching. The long obi she liked to wear with her plain, creamy kimono.
"Where is he?" His voice was deep and unsettling. The shift of fabric and metal was loud in the still room. The door did not need to be shut. He was too close.
Fingers searched for the fallen sleeve in the crook of her elbow. The soft cloth rose up her bare back, once more hiding the sharp lines of her shoulder blades, and the tender red welts between them. Her gaze focused and turned away from the obi. Ears honing in on the shrill chorus of crickets outside the closed window. If it would keep his voice out of her head, then...
The tapping came again, and Mito made a small noise that might have been a sigh. Something sad and tired. "Everything is fine." She called to the tensely huddled girl on the other side, whose ear was held close to the door in anticipation of any voice or ruffle of movement. It was soft and calm enough to loosen the girl's aching shoulders, and she pulled away from the door, relieved.
"I must retire for the night. We will resume tomorrow." Fingers wrapping around ribbons of red, a flutter of paper drifted to the floor next to her, decorated in sharp strokes of black ink. Slowly, her hair was wound up into the bun it unraveled from earlier, to match the other still intact. The thin pins were retrieved one by one from the entanglement of her kimono and the floor, and then the paper tag would be returned to dangle on its string from her bun.
A flash of gold blazed across the mane of black as he passed the window. The setting sun highlighted the hardened expression on his face. A strong hand gripped her by the hair, pulling free a pin. The first time he ever touched her. A piece of armor bit into her thigh, a link joining the red plates he should no longer need to wear. She wished it would disappear, but when it did, she wished it would return. The armor had been cool. Now his leg was warm between hers. What was this feeling? Fear?
"Mito-sama..." The young girl persisted tentatively. The voice of one who was ignorant of the events that had just transpired, but suspected something was wrong. "Can I bring you anything before I leave? Would you—"
"Everything is fine." She repeated herself, interrupting the girl with a tone that was a little coarser than it was meant to be. Uncharacteristic for the woman who had become known to the budding Fire Country for her steadfast strength, yet patient and gentle demeanor.
The muffled steps backed away from the door as her apprentice relented. "Goodnight, Mito-sama." It was hesitant, regretful, but she disappeared. Leaving her mentor alone in the dark, as she demanded. Blissfully ignorant she would remain. This burden did not need to touch her.
The green fabric adjusted around her neck and smoothed over her collar bone, concealing a bruise. She rose from the floor, leaving the obi in its place. There was no need to redress completely. Everything would be removed soon.
She could smell him. The perfume of summer clinging to his clothes, traces of sweat behind his ears, down his neck. His hair was thick and long like hers, yet he never pulled it back. It was a wonder he didn't sweat more. A little smoke fading away, something spicy...barbequed meat for dinner, perhaps. Something human—masculine, specifically—in his hair, on his skin, through his clothing, reaching for her. Touching her hair, her skin, pressing her clothing. Layers of kimono that now felt like rice paper. There was too little between them.
Her eyes betrayed nothing. The fear confined within a cage inside of her. She wouldn't let him see. The dark hazel met his without a challenge. Mindful of the grip in her hair, the hard edge of a table pressing into her lower back, her palms bracing its surface. The pulse pounding its quickened rhythm up the slope of her neck intractable. She chose to ignore it, but it was there, and he saw. Its flutter waxed and waned in time with her heartbeat in the harsh light casting angles through her room. Beams of fire through the dusky shadows.
She felt the prickle of something wicked crawling under her skin, afflicted by his eyes, and following the path they took over her.
"Are you afraid of me?" He asked quietly. Voice absent of the passion she knew was brimming under his reserved, tempered surface. There was proof enough in his hands, in his intimate proximity. But this passion was not meant for her. She was simply in the way. A victim of circumstance, in the wrong place at the wrong time, though this was still his choice.
He could have left, once he realized he would not find what he searched for, but he didn't. He cornered her instead.
The tepid water filled the air with the scented oils she added. Full and serene before her, inviting her into its liquid cocoon. The spoiled kimono shed in a pile at her heels. One by one, she removed each pin that was methodically placed within her hair, until the buns unfurled into a wave down her naked back. Hands dropped to her sides, pins held loosely in one, paper tags in the other. She stared at the bath without seeing it.
"I am afraid for you, Madara-sama."
The prickle under her skin faded. His eyes met hers, curious.
"How far you have fallen. How far you may fall still..."
He searched her, curiosity peeking briefly, then falling to indifference. She half-expected anger, resentment, scorn, anything... He did not care.
The mild sting in her scalp ebbed away. His fingers released her, another pin falling loose. A distant click as it hit the floor. She never knew how large his hands were until he touched her face. A palm cupping her cheek tenderly, his finger grazing her ear. A touch only her husband was meant to give.
"Don't fear for me, Mito-san." He drew closer. She stiffened. Her fingertips flexed into the table behind her.
"I will not be the one to fall." His breath tickled her cheek, his lips grazing her. She opened her eyes and met one of his. Purposeful, calculating, earnest. This was a conscious decision. He was here for a reason, but she was not his target. She was a part of another's punishment now. Ensnared into a web that was never meant for her, but accepting of her all the same. She could see it buried within him, within the way he watched her without seeing her. The way his desire only trickled through his restraint, when it was capable of something much more vehement.
He was holding himself back. Sparing her the heart of his retribution. His true intent was not to hurt her...but he would, inevitably. She could see that, as well. Her only crime was her union with Hashirama, but it was enough.
Washing her hair had not been part of the plan. Troublesome to dry, with how long it was. But she changed her mind. It's scent was no longer hers, and that was unforgivable. Any evidence of his offense would be destroyed.
The oils cleansed her skin. Purifying her, or so she wanted to believe. The red locks fanned in the water, stretching into a massive halo that tricked the eye into witnessing a pool of blood diffuse around her. A tragedy that her memories could not diffuse with it.
Her fingers raked over her body. Scrubbing, picking, rubbing. Nothing was clean. His breath still teased her skin. Saliva left its traces in places he was never meant to see. The intimate contours of his bare chest burned into her, and his hips flush with her own. Eyes roamed every inch of flesh she sought to keep from him, their effect still prickling her skin. Nothing was left unmolested. He had taken everything from her, and with great care. Treating her like he would a battlefield, meant only to be conquered and abandoned.
To think, she had once respected him.
A quick fight. The table shifting with a short hum. An unfinished scroll thumping to the floor. A fraction of a second too late, she almost struck him. He was faster, but she knew that... As it stood now, her husband was the only shinobi in the village that could match him. Perhaps the only shinobi in the world.
Short breaths beat into air, her cheek pressed into the surface of the table. Hands trapped in his, tight and twisted and painful into her lower back.
"What will you do, Mito-san?" A whisper filtered through her hair, loose and unwinding from its position. Sinking slowly over her face to mask her. "Will you let your home be destroyed in your effort to stop me? Will you rouse the village to fight me? Put their safety in jeopardy, for your own sake?"
She could move. She wasn't helpless. But she waited. Listened. Ignoring the pain in her wrists, compliant as she felt him move behind her. His thighs pressing to hers while he leaned over her.
"How much noise will you make before your apprentice comes for you?"
"You would become an enemy of the very village you helped to build, betray your promise of peace, for me..." Lamenting softly, a calm, resigning gaze peered through the red veil in front of her. His tongue was clever, threatening the people she swore to protect. He could be lying, but her intuition implored her not to test him. He was different now.
If this was his ambition, she could not stop him. A battle between them could last beyond her wildest dreams, or perhaps much shorter...but it would be fruitless She would be a fool to draw attention. She would suffer his wrath alone, if it meant sparing the innocent.
"Konoha has already decided my fate for me, as well as its own. My own clan has turned against me. Hashirama saw to that. Our alliance was my greatest mistake." The ice in his voice chilled her, but still she did not move.
Arguing was as fruitless as fighting. He was wrong, but he would not listen to her. His ego deafened him to reason, and blinded him from truth. His greatness sabotaged by untamed self-righteousness. Pity was all she had left for him...and pity for her husband, who held him in such high regard, and perhaps even loved him.
The pressure in her belly was brief, and then the obi was sliding from her. Slipping and tumbling like her hair. He whisked it into the room, where it danced in the air and fluttered down to the floor. The green and white collar parted at his guidance. It gaped loosely, freeing the back of her neck. Then melting over her shoulders, exposing her back. The shorter layers of his hair touched her there, making her shiver.
Her wrists fell, freed from him in confidence. She would not resist. The prickling of her spine let her feel every movement of his complacent eyes as he searched the exposed flesh below him.
A clink of metal and quick rustle of fabric startled her. The pale shoulders tensed under him. He paused. A palm pressed her, smoothing between her bare shoulder blades and finding its grip up her neck, into her hair. A touch meant to console. His lips moved to her ear, breath hot and full of spice. "I won't hurt you."
"No, Madara-sama...you won't." Her whisper agreed, reaching him faintly. "You will only hurt yourself."
He considered her, thoughtful but stoic. A finger curled through her hair. Pulling the locks out of her eyes, and revealing for her the harsh red and orange glow igniting the room as the sun drifted lower. A kiss grazed her cheek, so gentle she was almost convinced he meant what he said, but it would not fool her.
The layers of cloth bunched against his arm, rising and wandering behind her. Exposing her thighs as he traced them lazily. The body beneath him did not react. Not a twitch, nor a shift. It would have surprised him, but she was too still. Unnaturally rigid. A deceitful sturdiness hiding fragility.
When he pressed into her again, her body was warmer than before. Her eyes were closed, a creamy complexion that was peaceful enough to pass for sleep, but he knew better. She could not hide forever.
"Has he touched you yet?" The question assaulted her. A flicker of defensive hostility creasing her brow, and then it was gone. She didn't like that.
"Tell me, or I will find out."
Silence answered him.
He flipped her over easily, but gently. The defined lines of her collar bone peeking at him as the kimono parted open. A ribbon of hair fell across her lips. Her knees were bent back, forcing the lean calves and thighs from their modest confines, back flush against the table with his hips between her legs. He was still clothed, but she knew how quickly that could change.
Deft fingers shocked her with their vulgar touch, pulling aside the delicate undergarment she wore and invading her in one rapid plunge. Her skin was like living silk, hot and soft in his hand. Two of them buried between her lips, the rest cupping her. Her eyes flew open, a sharp gasp ripped from her, stirring his loins as he looked down at her.
"So he has...but not much." He concluded quietly, satisfied in what he felt within her. A tight grip enveloped his fingers. Her sensitive skin was yielding and pliable for him, but snug. The apathy he displayed suggested he would not have cared either way, that a different result would not have stopped him.
His eyes passed down her chest. The rise and fall of her breasts came quicker, deeper. Still concealed by fabric, but generous in their shape. He could finish stripping her with the slightest effort, but he watched instead. Patient enough only to prolong her torment.
This was a false victory, and he knew it. A temporary appeasement that would only leave him more frustrated once it was over, but he couldn't stop.
"You keep the fear out of your voice." His murmur was deep. The wall of black above her lifted, over his head and down his arms. His shirt was dropped to the side, a bare chest that endured years of ruthless training left in its place.
"You shield it from your eyes. But I see it..." He bent forward. A fist in her hair. A wet grip on her hip, nestled beneath her kimono. His lips found her throat.
"I see it in your pulse. I smell it on your skin." He kissed her, licked her, nipped her with his teeth.
"I hear it in your breath. Your fear..."
"Madara-s—" Back arching and muscles tight, she was clutching him tensely when his name burst from her. The wet hand left her hip and tugged the kimono away, revealing her breasts. They grazed his chest, small pink buds stiff though the air between them was stifling.
He paused, but only briefly. A hand caught under her knee, forcing her wide open and sending her heart racing. Weight falling, smothering into her and caging her in his embrace. He listened to her panic. Shaky pants tickled his shoulder.
"What is it you fear?" He asked in a hushed whisper, causing her to still and listen.
"It's not pain." His tongue found her nipple as he moved lower. Traveling down her body to explore her thoroughly. A small noise enticed him, dying in her throat before it could mature into the passion he wanted to hear. She refused to give him the satisfaction.
"Is it pleasure? You fear what I will do to you...don't you, Mito-san... The humiliation, when I take you, and you enjoy—"
Her eyes closed. Anger flickered within her, but then she cast it away. The bath was dark as the night itself, but not dark enough. Not even with her eyes shut, but it was all she had. The voice was like a brand to her eardrums. She couldn't be rid of him. He was inside her. Between her legs, echoing in her ears, burned into her vision, searing her nose. She could not escape him even now, while she tried to cleanse herself of his filth.
The things he said disgusted her. Perversions she never imagined she would hear, not from him nor anyone. The web of sickening corruption his tongue weaved grew thicker and more vile the longer he spoke, and she would relive no more of it.
The physical positions he put her in... On the table, against the wall, down to the floor. On her back, her stomach, wrapped around him or bent over. He played with her, and indeed humiliated her, but nothing he did was worse than the lustful, vengeful poison he dripped into her ears.
She inhaled deeply, and slowly, she sank further into the scented water. Letting it fill her ears, cover her eyes, and lap over the top of her head. Drowning herself in an effort to drown him. At least, until she ran out of air. It was futile, but there was nothing left to do.
He was still too close...