post-canonish

continuation of chapter 58 of dance


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"what's the point," hashirama opened and closed her palm, a little rod protruding from its middle, "of embedding me with these...?"

"what's the point of asking," his chin landed on her shoulder, arms circling her waist in a mocking affection, "if you never even tried to fight them?"

she glanced down, on his pale silvery hair cascading past her body. his grip tightened while he buried himself deeper into her, but she felt nothing within.

madara was long dead, and this is nothing but a ghost of his.