A/N: This has been written for Kinktober 2021 and today's prompts are Non-Con & Bondage ✨ Due to the nature of this challenge, I've only done the most cursory of proofreads ✌️
Content Warnings: explicit rape, heavy angst, and also just the fact that I don't actually remember these characters or this storyline all that well.
There's a black hole where his love should be.
It eats up everything it touches and leaves him devoid of everything which has driven him this far. He has no brothers left to care for and in the face of unrelenting loss he can no longer gather the will to care for the village, nor even his own honour. All of it feels pale and small, unimportant in the face of such suffering. Only this aching, gnawing emptiness remains, a bellowing cavern inside him which demands to be filled. The only person he has left to love is Hashirama, and for him he has none left to give. Wiped out, in its place is rage.
"I won't fight you, my friend."
"You still call yourself my friend? After everything you've done?"
"And what have I done that you would not, in my situation?" Hashirama's voice is heavy with regret. It makes him seethe. "Madara, if there had been any other way-"
"There is always another way."
"Izuna forced his hand-"
"Don't speak his name. Don't ever speak his name. Not to me."
"He never meant to-"
"Not him. You." Hashirama rears back as if he's been slapped. "You support his actions, do you not? My brother's blood is on your hands as much as it is his, Hashirama. You are the reason I am alone in this world." Silence falls heavy between them. Hashirama breaks it, it seems almost involuntary.
"You're not-"
"Don't." He can't bear to hear platitudes about friendship and community, not from the man who killed his brother. The man he- he cannot.
"The village-"
"I don't care about the village!" Madara shouts. His throat feels raw, a reflection of his being, frayed at all edges. Hashirama looks, for the first time, shaken. Perhaps he's blinded himself to the reality of Madara's loss, perhaps he'd thought there were no limits, between them. "I don't care about the village." He repeats amidst a heavy breath.
"Madara." Hashirama whispers.
"Don't speak."
"You don't-"
"I said don't speak."
Madara surges forward without thought, covering Hashirama's mouth with his hand hard enough he stumbles back into the wooden wall behind him. It groans under the force as he continues to push. Madara is shaking, he can't relent. Hashirama's hands come up to gently try and pull Madara's palm from his mouth, a beseeching word which might be 'please' muffled against his skin as Madara pulls him forward and slams him back again. "I said not to speak."
They stay like that for a moment, Madara panting, feeling the creak of Hashirama's bones under his fingertips where bruises bloom.
"You will fight me." Madara demands, hating the desperation laced throughout his own voice. Hashirama doesn't make a sound, but he can feel the refusal in his gaze. "You owe me that. You've taken everything from me." A wounded sound escapes against his palm and Madara feels the painful tenderness of it travel up through his bones. "You have taken everything and now you refuse to allow me even this." He drops his hand, finally. Flexes his fist as he speaks. "If you will not fight me willingly I'll force your hand."
"I cannot." Madara hates him for the pain evident in his voice. "You know I cannot. Not in the way you want." To the death, he doesn't say. Hashirama will refuse him his wish. He won't see his brothers again by his hand, all he wants for but isn't bold enough to say outright.
"You will." He promises.
Hashirama's back hits the floor with enough force that Madara hears the air leave his lungs, it isn't enough. The skin of his neck goes hot and rigid under his hands, it isn't enough. Strikes him once, twice, again and again until he loses count. Hashirama won't fight back and Madara loses sight of himself. He grips the tie of Hashirama's ropes and rips hard, fear reaches the edges of his friend's eyes and the thing in him seizes it with a ferocity that would frighten Madara if he could feel anything else at all.
Madara has always suspected their trust in each other would only lead to hurt. For one of them, that will certainly be true. He seals Hashirama's fate when he seals his chakra, this is no longer about a fight, this is about taking. They both know as much.
When he forces Hashirama over onto his stomach he feels him begin to struggle in earnest. Prolific as he is, without his chakra it's pointless.
"Please, Madara-"
"What's the matter?" Madara growls as he pins Hashirama's arms against the floor, kneeling on the back of one of his thighs to prevent him from bucking up. "Didn't you offer your life? Is this worth more?"
"This isn't you," Hashirama pleads, "this is barbaric. You're not-" Madara laughs, bitter on the edge of hysteria.
"What's left of me? You've taken it all. Tell me what I should be, what remains."
"My friend." Desperately sincere.
"No. No, we're beyond that, I think."
He uses Hashirama's belt to bind his wrists tight enough his fingers begin to discolour almost immediately and pins his thighs with his knees as he drags down his bottoms. Hashirama shudders and thrashes below him, it pains Madara to see him so reduced as the reality of the situation sinks in. It's that pain he chases as he undoes his own belt and lets his trousers fall just far enough to free himself, that pain he chases as he spreads him open and spits onto him, more indignity than courtesy. Hashirama begs, now. Truly desperate. This should be enough, he thinks. To see his friend, stripped of all dignity and composure, begging beneath him, held entirely at his mercy. It should be, yet it is not.
Madara collapses forward, crushing Hashirama to the floor with his full weight as he buries his face in his neck and slots his cock against the swell of his ass. Hashirama is whispering something into the floorboards, and when he concentrates he can make out the desperate mantra of 'not like this'. Madara buries his hand tight in his hair, holding his face down as he speaks it again and again. It's almost enough to give him pause. He can hear what Hashirama doesn't say. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Not so long ago, the confirmation of what he'd suspected between them for so long, now, would have elated him. Now, it just makes him furious. Hashirama has done what he's done, even given everything he feels.
He uses his free hand to press himself against Hashirama where he's clenched tight and slick with spit and pushes, hard. Hashirama's body gives way and the sound he makes beneath him is that of a wounded animal, trying to jerk away from him instinctively as Madara forces himself further. Hashirama shakes beneath him as he pulls back only to force himself forward again, fuelled by each guttural cry and pained plea forced out of the man below him. It doesn't feel good, Hashirama resists every push, too tight, too dry, and he thinks to himself that's how it should be. Is this not about pain? Finding refuge in returning, in part, the pain which this ruinous friendship has brought into his life?
They go on like that long enough that Madara can't tell when Hashirama stops struggling, just notices at some point he's gone still below him. He wants to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, he bites down on his neck and when Hashirama whispers out that 'It's alright, it's okay,' he freezes. He repeats himself, voice gentle, and Madara reels back and out of him, gripped by the sudden need to put distance between them for reasons he's unsure of. He watches, horror and satisfaction roiling sharp in his gut, as Hashirama pushes himself up to sit with purpled, bound hands and bood staining his bruise mottled thighs. When he faces Madara through mussed hair and tear-matted lashes Madara yearns from the emptiness of moments ago. He has no desire to feel this.
"I know you, Madara. You would not have become like this if I had not driven you to it."
It's not right, it's not right, none of this is right. Madara pitches forward, gripping his own hair to the point of pain. He cannot face the man across from him. What has he done? What does this fix? He feels frozen in place, cold all over while his chest burns with pain. The need to be sick pulls at his gut. "I'm sorry." He chokes out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The words are hollow in his throat. He could never imbue them with any meaning which comes close to what he's done, there's no reproach strong enough. Cold hands, clumsy with numbness, find his, then, uncurling them from hair with gentleness far beyond what he deserves. Hashirama pulls his hands close and presses a chaste, warm kiss into the skin of his knuckles. The warmth of his breath tears an aching sob from Madara's chest.
"What have I done to you?" The words feel as though they shred his lungs on the way out, sharp copper left on his tongue. Hashirama pulls closer, soothing him, Madara feels sick at every touch. He has forced the greatest cruelty, the greatest violation on his dearest friend and Hashirama still comforts him. "You felt you had no choice."
"There's always a choice." Bile rises in his throat, he won't allow himself the excuse. Hashirama's hands fumble to grip his and remembers himself enough to tear the bindings from his's wrists. Instinct tells him to massage the feeling back, restore him, but he's afraid to touch. He cannot trust himself.
Hashirama crawls into his lap and holds him tight to his chest, hands tight in his shirt as their strength returns. Madara's own hands hover, lost and grasping at nothing, over Hashirama's back. He can't. He can't. He can't allow himself this. Can never put his hands on the man who is all he has left, ever again. How can Hashirama still touch him with ease? How can he even stand to look at him, after what he's done?
"It's alright." Hashirama soothes, again. "Hurt is not the only thing between us." Madara's feels as though he's been flayed open for the world to see. The undeserved tenderness is unbearable. Where has the emptiness gone? "This was what you needed, was it not? Now we can fix this, my love." Another sob. "We've taken from each other things which can't be returned. Let's not live in our losses any longer." Madara allows himself to pull Hashirama close again, tries not to feel as though he's violating him anew every second.
"How can you say this? How can you call me-" He can't speak it.
"My love." Hashirama finishes. "I would love you through far worse. Do you not love me?"
"I do." His own fierceness startles him, it burns in his chest.
"And," Hashirama's voice is careful, but steady, "are your brothers not still gone? Am I not still to blame?"
Madara's voice, when it finally comes, sticks mostly in his throat. "They are. You are."
"And you love me still, just as I love you still. We'll find a way, won't we?" It's the first time Madara has caught a thread of something- a searching tone to Hashirama's voice. A desire for reassurance. Madara swallows against the sandpaper in his throat.
"Yes." He promises. "Yes, my love. We'll find a way."
A/N: I think I really need to go back to writing these first thing in the morning. It's a weird way to start the day, but I've been cutting it WAY too close getting them done in the evenings. As of this moment? 23:50. Yikes.
Anyways, I hope some of you enjoy this! I've never really gotten into this generation of characters before and don't remember them or their story particularly well. A friend convinced me to come play in her sandbox, though, and I've got to say I'm a little more curious, now.
Feel free to say hello in the comments or on tumblr at BitchBot3000 (my fic blog) or GaySasukke (my questionable Naruto sideblog) ✌️