He should have never met her, for she was the end of him.

Sublime, perfect, divine creature – she couldn't be the human female; no, it was another trick of his constantly bleeding eyes – she couldn't exist in the same universe that reconciled with his corrupted self and suffered from his antics. Too perfect, too incredibly slim, and quiet, and reserved and thoughtful – of course she never ever looked his way.

That was when Madara met his first best friend – jealousy. Hashirama was nothing like him if not the complete opposite – kind and open, tanned and tall, all so generous and using his wood jutsu to construct and create, while he, the vile Madara of the Uchiha clan, was only capable of destruction.

So it came as no surprise that angel of a woman chose the praised Hashirama over Madara. Or more likely, they were destined to be together from the very beginning of the world, it was just Madara's sick imagination that made him believe he could ever be worthy her presence. As if he could ever be allowed to follow her footsteps and kiss the dusty ground on where she'd just passed.

Never on Earth – to her, he was the enemy, the epitome of evil, the one who nearly killed her beloved Hashirama using that kyuubi demon she had to seal within herself to save the Shodaime. Indeed she was a courageous woman, an unyielding one – but only when it came to her sworn enemies. To Madara.

Her greatest wish was to have kids and live happily with her husband. Yet Madara made her greatest wish to kill him, slash his throat open and soak her dainty pristine hands in his no doubt poisonous blood. Mito licked her lips – he caused so much trouble by his simple existence – and damn him he was strong so she definitely couldn't face him on her own… If only…

…If only her husband never learnt about that. She wasn't the Uzumaki heiress for nothing, as well as Shodaime's wife. She was also desperate to finish this sick stalking Madara seemed to enjoy. For it really was beyond annoying, seeing traces of his chakra all around their house, the village, places she visited the most – never catching a glimpse of him, yet sensing him everywhere.

Truth to be told, Madara just couldn't face her. He, the mighty and lethal head of the Uchiha clan, was afraid of a mortal woman. He was well aware of the hatred she saved solely for him. He tried to find it entertaining but failed. He was lamenting at Izuna's lap, crying out for things he wasn't sure he really needed – such as vengeance, justice, love…

Izuna just smiled and caressed Madara's sharp mane of hair, his eyes long ago sacrificed for the well-being of his aniki, and it was not long before his death. Izuna hated how even with his eyes Madara still remained weak. No one knew, except for him, but this knowledge was enough to brew hatred within the both of them – Izuna – for feeling that torment and unable to stop it; Madara – for appearing so weak in front of his beloved otouto.

And he couldn't do a thing against the red-haired demoness that haunted his dreams. He was well aware he was guilty for the sealing of the kyuubi ritual they performed to save their pathetic village – and it didn't bring him consolation to know that he could still at least try and release the kyuubi out of Mito again to feast upon the destruction.

Madara knew the extraction would lead to the death of his sick dream, and he couldn't live with it. Neither could he leave without her. Vicious circle, bloody tears running from Izuna's eyes down Madara's cheeks – he knew she searched for him to play her avenging role. As if he'd ever let her do that…

Yet he complied and let her find him - somewhere in the thick forests outside the newly built Konoha, where each and every building screamed at him Hashirama's name and jutsu. Madara came to hate the trees for that sole reason, and wastelands were his realm, but for Mito, he could go anywhere.

And there she was – spitting curses at him, all a shining goddess of welcomed death herself, clad in the armor of seals that bore torments and nightmares – but they were sweet rose petals compared to the torments he already faced each sleepless night he tried to push her ghost away – or catch it and ravish to infinity, only to find himself naked and wallowing on the cold floor, welcomed by the mocking moonlight.

No, he wouldn't fight her now – but neither was he going to let her hurt him anymore than she already had.

Wanna throw the kunai at me? – Do it, and the shurikens are welcomed and all these little slashes from your explosive tags and wounds from encountering your seals – are like a caress for me, Madara thought, licking blood from his lips, listening to her accusations, seeing the beautiful whirlpool of her own chakra mingling with the demon inside her.

The demon, his fault – but right now Madara felt somewhat proud – of tainting this goddess of a woman with his filthy, atrocious summoning, making her bear it inside her, like she would never bear his children.

Madara couldn't help but smirk at the thought which only enraged Mito more. He willingly let her straddle him and slash his armor with kunai – the feeling of her body even clad in so many garments, riding his own – was very much divine to endure without any response.

And though he promised himself he wouldn't use his sharingan on Mito – the frictions of her frame above him, punching and hitting and scratching – he wanted more so desperately the sharingan activated on his own, immediately drawing Mito into his crazed realm…

… And Madara momentarily knew that was the mistake he would regret to the rest of his days. She was entirely his, now, sitting weak and calm upon him, her lifeless body only keeping the vertical stance by the power of his sharingan, her blank eyes devoid of everything that made her Mito he knew and worshipped.

However there was no way Madara could let her go now – feeling her sweetest fragrance all around him, her limp body in his strong hand, absent-mindedly scratching his cheek with a kunai, a thin string of drool falling from her delicate lips – she was the ideal of an angel who fell on Earth and lost her memories of Heavens.

And Madara was sure he would make her enjoy her stay in this damned world of his. Even if it wasn't the Mito he desired, and only the shell of hers. He tried to shake the feeling of artificial victory away from him and just damn enjoy the blasphemy he was going to commit to his own goddess.

So much fun to order her and see her obeying. Smearing the blood from his body with her own undergown, then slowly ripping it apart with her own kunai. How strange it feels to order her caress him instead of seeing her harming him (or rather – trying to be harmful, since it's really difficult to damage Madara… Or it looks like that on the outside.) – and feel her once innocent fingers stroking the scars on his chest and abdomen; and imagine how she's stroking the damned Hashirama with these very soft and long fingers.

How odd it is to see her almost fully naked, slowly removing his battle armor, quietly, with a sort of almost divine appreciation in her blank and otherwise empty eyes – as if Madara was her only hero, as if her heart belonged to him, as if it was him she now sucked and bit and caressed and roamed her hands all over his body…

As if this was a dream, only this was too real which made Madara feel even worse than he initially hoped – but she obeyed without any weak objections, kneeling down before him, taking him in her mouth, all the while stroking and caressing as if he really was her lover.

The feeling was very much bordering insanity, Madara tried to muse in his groggy state – the mind was trying to control the genjutsu while the body was growing frenzied with the overwhelming necessity to react to Mito's slow and accurate ministrations, gentle breaths and occasional teeth, sweet sweat drops running down her temples as Madara kneeled in front of her to lick the sweat off her angelic face.

He didn't want to order her anything but if he was mute - then she simply stood silent in front of him, in her gorgeous nakedness, lips lush and sore from his bites (in desperate attempt to provoke any reaction from her), nipples perked and hard rather to the cold breeze surrounding them other than his licks and bites and attempts to please his hypnotized goddess.

Her skin tasted like his dreams were coming true – and her blood was so warm and salty running down her chin as he accidentally bit her full lips too deep – and her limbs were pliant and ready for him to do whatever he pleased, as he ordered her to spread her legs like eagle's wings – she showed absolutely no reaction of displeasure and simply laid in the grass, and mud and rocks for him to hover over her and cry.

Cry out for her irresponsive state, his ugly stupid sharingan and the genjutsu that allowed him to own her in every possible way – but never ever own her soul. To please her body, hug, smother and ravish, to suck and caress, and smear her blood across her neck, to lick and make her lick him in return – but never get at least a single action on her own volition.

But his body was in no state to control his remnant of thoughts as sheer instincts prevailed the ratio – he entered, and he moved, back and forth, and ordered her to shout his name and grip him, and wail, and mewl, and cry for air – each and every action on the order and another spin of mangekyo's wheels.

As he was rocking Mito's body, riding her faster and harder, trying to rush after that blessed oblivion he so wished for, he felt the blood from Izuna's eyes increasing its fall down his face and right upon Mito's frail forms, mixing with her sweat, tainting her, maiming her with his poisonous being.

It was unbearable as he rode her, thinking of how Hashirama did the same and how she responded – how loudly she should be screaming and how deep the gashes from her nails must be on Hashirama's back. Madara could never achieve those gashes and they were of more importance to him that all the battle scars combined.

As he was feeling the treacherous body coming undone he knew he wouldn't endure the genjutsu anymore and this was, perhaps, the end of him.

Even though Mito's body was technically responding… Even though she was losing her breath for real as he growled in her lips and bit her clavicles, even though her inner walls started cramping by their own divine rhythm Madara could never control with any genjutsu…

…He screamed 'Release' as he came and it was rather ironical, truth to be told – he could have released it without unnecessary words – and yet he wanted to scream them – as if admitting that could bring him back from his madness to the light and real, living Mito.

She screamed awakening from a horrible, ugly dream she was having all the while – being ravished by the enemy of her clan and village, by the rival of her husband – she had to escape that dream- and now she found herself finally conscious and warm and secure and pleasantly wet and full to the brim, and a mane of hair surrounding her, protecting her from her evil dreams.

Mito was satisfied it was only a dream (yet a dream so intense it made her peak nonetheless) and she was safe finally. Safe and breathing, and alive – she whispered Hashirama's name to make sure she wasn't sleeping. Indeed she could hear her own voice – yet no one answered her, and the man hugging her was trembling and silent.

Mito realized something was off with the situation – it was most probably the rocks she felt under her back and the unusually sharp and untamed raven's black hair around her – Hashirama's tresses were even softer than her own hair and these were like spikes. To further the resemblance, these spikes were mostly covered with blood and its metallic smell hung in the moist air.

Mito swallowed harshly to find her throat completely dry and to cause the man to stir inside her and finally dare look her in the eyes.

Darkened with lust and madness, and anger and vengeance and what was that – defeat? – Madara's (okay, Izuna's) sharingans were spinning slowly and menacingly, staring into her vine eyes, that were finally back to life.

Her whole being was back into her body he's just had dubious joy of possessing. Though it hardly appeared to be joy, rather a feeling of some masochistic contentment – and anticipation of her further (probably violent) actions.

Mito didn't make him wait for long. She snarled. And kicked him in the groin, and all the other body parts she could reach, to kick him away from her body. Next she stopped, however, seeing that Madara didn't interrupt her punching. As if he even enjoyed them. Mito abruptly sat up to feel a pool of various liquids forming beneath her.

So the bastard got her under his genjutsu and really raped her. So it wasn't her dream. So it was real. Surprising Madara, Mito laughed and drew a kunai. And slashed her abdomen enough to cause some serious bleeding. Madara felt he was losing consciousness – his angel was committing suicide right in front of him? But that's impossible, she's stronger than that!

Indeed Mito was stronger than even him. She needed the blood to perform just another of her sealing jutsus to prevent his fluids cause any damage (say – pregnancy) to her body. Her body belonged to Hashirama alone, no matter how many sharingan-eyed freaks thought and acted otherwise.

She herself belonged to Hashirama, and Madara had to understand that now. He expected shock, hatred, resuming the fight – everything but not the cold smug expression his angel prepared for him, slowly performing the seals and healing the bite marks he left on her. The kyuubi chakra helped her to return her skin to the non maimed state in a matter of minutes whilst Madara laid there, all naked and tangled mess of hair and their blood, unable to draw his eyes away from his goddess.

No more shame she showed, no more fear or hate for him – just pure, rough disdain. Madara knew he deserved her contempt – as well as he knew he could go for another round this time without a genjutsu, this time maiming her more severely, and provoking her for real emotion. Even if it was hatred – still it was better, thousands time better than disdain.

Yet he knew he would win nothing. More bruises to heal – but she's nearly immune to them with the demon's chakra – only she forgot to thank Madara for this gift he gave her. More defiance, scratches and scars – but none of them as bleeding and sore as his own organ which once upon a time was called heart.

Madara was unsure anything remained of it now other than a bloody pulp – but where was all this pain coming from seeing as Mito carefully dressed herself and left the place without a single parting glance at him.

Madara prayed for rain to wash away all his pain and dirt – but his life was no movie, and only cold wind blew into his face and helped drying the blood.

Some fights aren't fought with weapons.

Some fights are never to be won.