Timeline: Konoha construction
Summary: Pure animalistic hate is what Madara reserves for Senju Tobirama. [Madara/Tobirama; implied Madara/Hashirama; PWP-ish] Please R&R!
Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Kishimoto Masashi. Title from Reckoner by Radiohead.
A/N: This… uhm… no idea what this is. But I secretly blame it on heltja because yes.
It starts in the rain. Drizzling, wet days like this are not so rare on these plains. When rain goes tapping on the unfinished roof of his house, Madara wishes nothing more than to kill Senju for choosing this swampy hole to raise the village.
“Ragged cat,” Tobirama mouths, lips twisting up in that despicable smirk of his.
Madara’s hair mats in the rain and all but frizzes, turning into tow. He does look like a stray cat when he bristles at the obnoxious Senju, wishing he could send the blasted alliance to hell and show the brat his place.
“Scavenger,” Tobirama taunts.
He enjoys the rain. Water is his element. He dances, armed with jets of water, the sheer embodiment of elegance that Madara finds in fire. Water and fire can never connect. They are destined to battle each other.
Senju Tobirama sets his teeth on edge. Madara refuses to give way to his temper, under whatever provocation. While Hashirama is out settling his business with the Daimyou, his fuck-up of a brother is the authorized head of the Senju clan. Which makes every punch Madara might throw politically significant. Well, fuck.
Tobirama enjoys every second of it. Walking around like a goddamn…
“Peacock!” Madara spits contemptuously. Someone needs to cut him down to size.
But Madara’s hands are tied. All he can do is bark until his teeth begin to hurt, but never bite. Tobirama considers that – and takes advantage of it.
Madara’s fury sizzles like raindrops hitting an incandescent rock.
“I know you’ve been stealing missions from my clan ever since the conclusion of this pitiful alliance.”
It’s hard not to get political, and Madara would rather convince himself that politics is what it’s really about, rather than his personal contempt for this man.
“I know you’ve been stealing booze from my stash,” Tobirama parries impertinently.
Word for word, it swells, rises like a tidal wave and crashes down on them. In the rain. In the venom of their insults.
“Your clan is pathetic.” Emotions inflate and splatter like water. Madara chokes on them. “No wonder,” Senju adds, “what with the leader like you.”
“Worthless son of a whore!”
“Red-eyed spawn of a demon!”
An arc of fire blazes red in the air and descends upon Tobirama. He forms a seal, lashing out against Madara with a whip of water. Madara’s eyes flare red, but he changes his mind and deactivates the Sharingan. No; jutsu are uncalled for. This is something they both want each other to feel. Fists grinding into the flesh. Physical, down to earth. Dirty.
Tobirama catches his breath.
“Just because you’re my brother’s bitch, it doesn’t mean you can–.”
Madara’s laughter comes out in ragged gasps. What is it that he detects, a hint of jealousy? He might as well teach the brash little Senju a lesson. Show him who the bitch is.
He pushes Tobirama against a tree and forces a kiss out of him. Tobirama bites back. Teeth capture Madara’s lips, drawing blood. Madara pulls back, spits into his face; red sprays all over it. Tobirama wipes it off with his sleeve.
“Fuck you, Uchiha!” he says breathlessly.
Fists clench around Madara’s shoulders, fingers digging into the flesh through the heavy shirt. Rain lashes out hard, electrifying the air.
Madara pushes Tobirama’s legs apart with his knee, latches onto his mouth greedily, teeth, tongues colliding against each other.
“Bitch’s breed!” Tobirama hisses, rubbing against Madara’s knee in a needy, violent fashion.
Madara rips his trousers open, and Senju swings backwards, and pulls Madara down on the ground.
“Slut,” he whispers hoarsely. Impertinent brat! Madara wishes he could tear out his shameless tongue, but Hashirama would hardly approve of such extreme methods of solving conflicts. For some reason, Hashirama’s opinion matters.
Tobirama, with his shaggy grey hair and his amber eyes and his attitude, is nothing like his brother. He claws and he bites and he swears like a drunken docker – and it incites Madara.
Hate mingled with respect mingled with something akin to adoration, painful, searing, primal is what he feels for Hashirama.
Pure animalistic hatred is what he reserves for the other Senju.
“Admit it, my brother owns you,” Tobirama scoffs. “You’re cheap. You’re pathetic.”
“Will you shut up about your brother? What are you, in love with him?”
Madara bites his shoulder, claws at Tobirama’s hips, encases himself in the moist heat of Tobirama’s loins. Tobirama’s body is marked with more scars than that of his brother, but the skin is still too smooth for a shinobi.
He tastes differently. He leaves no aftertaste of a forest, just boundless, deep waters; pounding into him, Madara feels as if he is drowning. Water washes all over him, and swallows his fire. Rain dances all around them, droplets ricocheting off of their bodies like kunai on the rebound.
It feels like drowning. Suffocating under the weight of cold water, with Tobirama’s bloody smirk like a beacon overhead that he doesn’t want to reach.
For one sharp moment pain and pleasure mingle so terribly that it’s impossible to tell them apart. But they are both warriors, they have long since grown accustomed to pain.
Air returns little by little, tearing through the thick film of humidity. Madara withdraws and looks at Senju who watches him from the ground, not one iota less audacious. Water bubbles around him.
Madara smirks. He will break him yet. He just needs time.
After all, what the elder Senju doesn’t know, will not hurt him. Neither of them.