Romance on the Battlefield
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. This is a free work of fiction written for personal amusement.
Warning: Morbid Content and Language.
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The blank slate of the sky was filled with a magnificent colour of pale pink streaks. This was now just a decaying ground covered with a drape of dry Sakura flowers. Their season was at an end. There was such Romance in the ideal of love: Love for Nation and love for the sake of fleeting love.
A wispy love that made the heart throb and created a faint ripple . . . and then, a delicious spasm travelled the length of the hot, willing body. It was a trick of flesh, an illusion for the hungry spirit. Hers was crafted to house the shaft and bleed there at the junction upon first contact, with the keen primal-blade he was born to wield. The rapture was a primal thrill. How truly attuned it was to the sensation? She was not prepared for the violent assault.
Out came the blade, and a weak beam ran along the organic, taut tip. Just one stroke and it ripped her open . . . that oddly fashioned rod of creation. It went inside, prying open the tender flesh's edges, tearing through and caring little of the consequences. So he plunged and pushed, creating room and filling it as though it was made by the gods to fit neatly inside her womb—fill it up with the seed of creation.
And further and further it went, breaking bones, tearing muscle like the eager claws of an innocent predator abandoned by its mother, and this was its first hunt. So full of hunger and thirst it was that its inexperienced claws had just tasted the first real kill.
It was not her Romance but a pageantry of her dreams. Shudders ran down her legs and so did her blood. She was a chaste virgin no more. His black steel had ruined her womb forever. The ground was inwrought with red; she was now a woman on the battlefield. He had taken her to rapture and back, red and white agleam in wild fervour.
And so the feisty blond slipped in a clumsy manner, and the cold Uchiha spectator looked on. Light faded and blood would not stop coming. The maiden had been bled dry upon the field: her offspring were but the final memories of the last battle upon these grounds . . .
Long blood-stilling sound of denials lapsed into a silence. It was an eternity to the onlookers, eyes watching runnels of red pour out and fall down upon the ground. It was soaked in her blood and the blood of innocents, muddy just beneath the body dangling like a cheap piece of meat in air from the sturdy shaft that would not let go, and her body had moulded so deliciously, so willingly to its shuddering form as though a tight and wet cunnie.
A strong radiance shone from her eyes, and her moan was long and low. The odd blade was pulled out from the depths of her womb, and she collapsed to the ground, her body coming apart. It just crumpled there, legs going one way and arms another. It did not move. It did not shudder. The pleasure of another sensation was pinning it down with its immeasurable weight, and she knew it would not leave here without her ghost.
The sweet pain was immense; it crunched her bones into dust, but did not; tore out her flesh into a child's favourite confetti, but did not; it rent her asunder, but did not; it splayed the pink and tender flesh from head to toe, but did not—a ghastly show-and-tell only the eyes of the nameless could see. She felt it all but saw nothing but the dimming sky and a sensation of it oozing out of her hole as if it was a bleeding cunt.
They all thought she would take to screaming, but she had taken it in like a good little girl and endured the stone-crushing thrust like a cheap little harlot. Just a little grunt was all they heard—just a little frown upon the brow was all they saw. And she had pumped a silly promise into her head in the heat of the moment; sapped now was her body and spirit. Dirty. Dry. Dying.
And he did not even deign an apology, his eyes two wild flames of hell. The brute. Coldly and silently he watched the last moments of her eternal farewell—her eternal demise. No words of love were spoken, and the sky did not say anything back to her pleas. Gone were the days of chasing after lust and gone was the future to embrace it.
All she saw was a final red sheen on the silk spreading across the sky that would be lost to these eyes forever. No songs would be sung by the lips she loved. He had not even returned her beseeching gaze, and within the heavy haze of bewilderment and a fleeting sense of pain quickly leaving her body, everything just became an unattainable and unending dream. It floated out of her cold breast right before her eyes and ceased to exist, and the blond's shrill scream became silence in the distance; and still, she heard nothing from his uncaring lips.
And such was the romance on the battlefield: it was soft and painful, silly and elusive, ugly and divine. It ruled the hearts of fools and youngins, whilst the rest pondered its fleeting promises and deceiving tales. It, surely, was an odd sort of affair . . .
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The End