A/N: I don't know, man. This relationship is so twisted. Should probably be read as Mito/Hashirama Proxy, Madara/Hashirama's House, The Kyuubi/Mito/Madara, or most accurately just MADARA/MITO/NEUROSIS.
Warnings: Sex, adultery, manipulations.
In the spring Hashirama had built himself a house and a wife, the latter of which now stands before Madara in festival makeup calculatedly undoing her own architectures. Her hairpieces, the first to be removed, she lays atop a teakwood tray she brought from her home, an array like surgical instruments: the same sterility, the same utilitarian metal. Her brocaded jacket is worked with a pattern of golden birches and the underrobe is red, a bride's garment with a stand collar. When Madara's hands take her hips the cold fingertips burn all the way through the fabric—she expects to look down and see singed silk.
Still shameless. Your position has dignity, it should be respected.
You are correct. It should.
Summer nights in the Fire Country are made for lovers' minutiae. With the longest evenings on the longitude comes the heady scent from incense burners every man lights outside his bedroom window, their veil of pearly smoke obscuring whatever happens inside. These twilights are made not for quick encounters but slow, heady, honeyed lust, not slaked or fulfilled but simply simmering, a prolonged revel. The rice fields blush with teenager skin. On the tops of old hanamido discarded clothing, jackets, kosode, fluttering small sails aloft in a sea of desire. The land is sultry with liquid heat and the triangle of skin at Hashirama's open collar is damp and inviting. Every night she watches his lips as he cools his tea and the kyubi grows restless prowling beneath the hot bubble of her conscious mind.
Get yourself big with his child, it says, voice dripping with hunger, he'll spend the nights with you then. I have known men like that since the beginning of the world, they want madonnas for their hearthfires, not greedy little girls.
Why should you care if I bear him a child?
Leave what I want, it tells her think about yourself and your greed and she does and Madara—Madara sucking his fingers wet one at a time, ever meticulous—how can he not know it. It's the eighth or ninth time and still her hands are shaking so much the lantern she lights nearly crashes to the ground. From his study Hashirama calls, "Are you well?" and she calls back an assent and as if the familiar voice is an impetus Madara hisses and slips the knot of her underrobe loose. She thinks about her husband's hands on furniture. As do many large men he has the habit of dwarfing whatever has his focus at the time; during their wedding it had been the back of her chair, his palms swallowing up the lacquered mahogany, building their house it was fingers closed almost obscenely around a long table leg and the swell of the join, weighing cupping measuring and during truce it had been Madara's white fingers, now two knuckles deep inside her.
His hand scrapes over the clean, pretty dressing table and he doesn't move, just stalls her there, supported against the scaffolding of his hips and her husband's woodwork, impaled on white fingers.
Did he make this?
He made this.
He kisses her against her bedposts, the table, the edge of the frame like teenagers who can't possibly make it two steps and they're terrible kisses—mechanical, too regular—but the same qualities render the hand under her robe consummately skilled if slow; he is fastidious, metronomic, following wet nautilus spirals to an aching center. The compartment over the dressing table rocks and clacks quietly as she strains against it and Madara narrows his eyes, his other hand flexing next to her temple with the dirgelike rhythm of the swinging door. She snatches at his wrist. Inside the cabinet two bronze headpieces clacking together jolting against the way they fit how she has stacked them, the sound is steady, abrasive like sparks striking. Two fingers stroking slower and slower drawing it out; this is a summer evening, she will spin herself out if she wants, her desire a thing that sparkles black where the kyuubi churns. Indistinguishable from demon chakra.
Hashirama built the house from a single plank of wood. She had waited to see what he chose but it was just ordinary cedar, taken from the firewood pile as he had done for all the village houses. When he ran out of firewood he made more. All the planes of the new house glistened like rippled muscles, were buttery yellow as corncobs and she wanted to make love to him on every surface he'd smoothed out, engrave the wooden grain of his boards like a fingerprint into her skin. Herself a living signpost: you will not take him, he has become part of me to whom she hadn't realized until she had come upon Madara waiting in her room on one of those nights, one finger making the sign for silence and the other drawing the shoji door shut. She can imagine the motion her shoulders might have made a press, press, press as Madara is doing now, driving his free hand so hard onto the pillar of her bedpost it might crack under the strain.
Don't touch me hisses Madara but she has a hand on the scar on his chest anyway and approximates a forward thrust with the heel of her palm. Just over the heart. Her aim is as good as her husband's.
There is a glow about a boy in love the same as a person on the verge of sickness. A too-bright intensity, symptom of its own convalescence; she can feel his illness still coursing about in the blood. She hauls him up slowly onto the bed still tensing against the too-long too-slow too-sweet strokes of his fingers. Underneath their bodies Hashirama's sheets are suffused with warmth for the first time she can remember; it is exactly like and nothing similar to a sickbed. The ponderous heat. You think this will help you take the kyubi back?
You can't imagine where I've been. What I've learned. Her hand slips lower and he stills it. Don't touch me.
A marking of his territory, then.
His territory? He smiles and his two fingers make the motion of plucking a harpstring. Chords shudder inside her. His teeth tug at her lip with the particular tenderness found only at the moment of viciousness and, yes—I would be better off taking his desk, or his dishes, if that were what I wanted. Still throttling Hashirama's bedposts desparate for a splinter, a splash of paint, anything—this is the only person in the world who can say this to her.
She casts her hand against the bedpost, finds anchor, pushes. The sheets are damp now under her legs and she hooks them up onto the sharp bones at his hips. The underrobe's panels thrown shamelessly open and Finish now. You have taken long enough.
—who is at fault there—Uchiha-dono—?
The jibe doesn't cut him but he takes his fingers out of her and pushes her up half onto the bedposts, the sheets an incoherent tangle around their legs and now she feels him, the warm skin of him, dead or alive or something else or maybe just a force, something white-hot sublimated into this envelope of sweat and hammering heartbeat. His hair traces smooth brushstrokes up her breasts, whirlpool on whirlpool on whirlpool. She garlands him with her arms tugs and snatches at whatever she can reach, gets his hair between her nails, his tongue between her teeth. Greedy, purrs the kyubi, greedy, greedy— and the lantern sputters and hisses fire sparking towards fire as he situates himself inside her. Her body knows what to do if his never does immediately and she is sure it wouldn't matter anyway, his hands are braced against the wooden wall behind the bed and shoulders buckling, a dull glittering hotat the base of her stomach and the pulse friction of their hips, the body-warm sheets and the night sky outside, violet lit with summer—
She has filled every space between her bones with the skimmings of her time. All the way down to her toes now curling and recurling in vengeful joy she has grown herself out from a single slip of a girl to a woman with hair ornaments, brocade clothes, the embodiment of Konoha and a flawless addition to her husband's buttercream house. Like the scribes of old she has secreted away demons and boys who loved too much and cold, cold hearts with all the other mundane tragedies of their age. She is a living altar of penitence, a shrine to what the men she knows could not sacrifice; the fact that her own hands have piled on the bricks and laid the mortar means nothing. She has fed the demon, glutted it on hatred with her own desires, her memories and her wishes. What was it they said—to serve as a vessel, something had to be empty. Something had to be incomplete. She closes her eyes and snatches something real to fill her, claims it, and it claims her whole. Madara's hands could be anyone's on the small of her back and with that she is undone.
She comes in ascendances—flights—a child in whirlpool country making her first discovery of the slow tumultuous suck and crash of slow water. Her nipples are hard, her spine pulling taut and curved like a bow leveling arrows of ecstasy straight down her back into the pillows and towards the ceiling and the cedar grain; her vision is absolute white. He gives her his finger to bite and she twines her fingers in their mingling hair, tugs with one hand and loses all sensation. Their limbs full, tangled, incoherent in ecstasy as he bears her down into her husband's bed.