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Hashirama knows Madara’s body like he knows how to breathe. With his eyes closed, he can map out a blueprint of each and every muscle, pinpoint where every scar is with just the tips of his fingers, label each one by date and how they were inflicted.
With his lips, he can trace the cicatrix that claimed the patch of skin upon Madara’s chest, use his tongue to memorize the ragged edges of the keloid.
He doesn’t need to hear Madara to know the way he likes to be touched. But the barely audible sighs that leave his lips are like a reward to Hashirama, and he chases those sounds like a starving man. Because to him, there is nothing more erotic than the knowledge that he knows exactly how to pleasure Madara, and the fact that he is the only one who holds this kind of power over him.
Madara doesn’t like to show vulnerability, bites his tongue to hold back moans, covers his eyes with his forearm when he comes, and pushes Hashirama’s face into the ground when he fucks him so that he can’t see how Madara looks when he’s taking everything he wants from him.
Hashirama has had to learn Madara’s body through years of practice and hard effort. He’s had to solve him like a puzzle, but to him, the reward is much sweeter when he has to truly work for it. He likes that Madara doesn’t give it up so easily, he wants to have to close his senses to the world around him and focus his energy on just Madara. Madara’s skin, Madara’s warmth, his scent, his taste, his touch.
He burrows into Madara’s chest like an excavator, cracks open his ribs to find what the man has hidden beneath, uses the palm of his hand to caress his organs, burning through his chakra just to keep him alive, until Madara looks at him with an expression that’s hardened and yet devastated. Without words, he tells him, Stop being so sweet.
Madara wants Hashirama to fuck him like he wants him dead, reach inside until his nails scrape at his guts and drive the tip of a kunai into his wound using the same rhythm that he fucks into him with his dick. In and out, back and forth, deeper, deeper. That squelching sound emits from the gash in his stomach as well as his hole that Hashirama is pounding into, because he’d came already and yet Madara wants more, more, always more and never enough.
He wants Hashirama to slit his throat and make him squirt blood until they’re both covered in it, his red vital fluid painting Hashirama’s beautiful skin. He wants Hashirama to watch the way the color drains from Madara’s face, how his breathing slows down, and Madara doesn’t want Hashirama to start healing him until he’s on the brink of collapse, until his vision blurs with the promise of death lingering in the air. When Hashirama feels so far away from him, and Madara begins to reach out with his fingers grasping the fading shape of his silhouette, angelic and blurred in the haze of his lost consciousness, only then does Hashirama start to close up the wound he created, using his chakra to heal him slowly, slowly.
Because when Madara uses his hoarse voice to tell him, Don’t stop fucking me. I don’t care if you think I’m dead. You can’t kill me that easily, Hashirama can’t say no. He never could, not when it comes to Madara. He’d kill him and then himself if Madara asked him to.
Madara wants Hashirama written into his DNA, wants his body to reorganize itself for Hashirama’s presence, wants Hashirama’s body forever molded into a shape that can only fit inside of him, that way he won’t be able to fuck anybody else without first thinking of Madara. He wants to ruin Hashirama’s perception of sex, of intimacy, of love, and he wants him to be so broken and depraved that he can’t get off any other way unless he smells Madara’s blood and feels his flesh trembling beneath his touch.
He wants Hashirama to look into the mirror and not recognize who he has become. To be unable to separate himself from Madara, to think of him when he touches himself, feel his presence even when he’s alone, even when he’s dead.
He wants Hashirama to hate himself for who he’s become and to hate Madara for who he’s turned him into.
When Madara dies, Hashirama is left empty. Not in the way one feels when they’re hungry for food, but like something is torn out of his gut, irreparable and irreplaceable.
Seeing Madara again after his own death breathes life into Hashirama that he hasn’t felt in years.
It’s inappropriate—he’s not a young man anymore, he’s been dead for decades, and he knows better. But seeing Madara’s body, the one Hashirama knows—knew—so well, leaves his fingers trembling just at the sight. He grips them into a fist, nails digging through his palm, trying hard not to give into his impulsive thoughts.
“Did you miss me?” Madara asks. And they’re close, too close for two shinobi on opposite sides of a war, and Hashirama remembers how arrogant Madara is, how beautiful he is, and how lost Hashirama had been without him.
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to, because Madara knows the answer. He only asks to watch the way Hashirama’s eyelids flutter, his breath hitch at the sound of Madara’s voice. He’s there, in front of him, and they’re both as alive as they can be, and all Hashirama wants is to touch him again. He wants to fuck him, just one last time. Smell him, taste him, fight him, then kill him all over again. He wants to. He has to.
“Did you ever think of me when you fucked her?” Madara asks him as Hashirama is grabbing his hips, his fingers slick with their blood, slippery and unable to fully pull him forward into each thrust. “Were you still able to finish, even when I wasn’t there?”
Hashirama’s eyes close and his jaw tightens, his teeth grind together, and yet again, Madara knows the answer without Hashirama having to speak. He had ruined him, body and soul, mind distorted beyond comprehension. Still, he presses him to respond.
“Tell me, Hashirama. When was the last time you fucked someone without imagining they were me? Without my name on your tongue, without having to take them from the back because you couldn’t get off to a face that’s not mine?”
Hashirama growls in response, fucking him harder, faster, forcing his fingers into his mouth just to shut him up. Madara bites them, hard enough to break the bone, and Hashirama’s movements stutter in the shape of the pain that rides through his wrist and pulses from the veins in his arm up toward his heaving chest.
“Did she fit you the way I do?” he asks him, relentless, probing eyes watching as each minuscule reaction alters Hashirama’s face. “Tell me that nobody can make you feel as badly as I do. Tell me how I’ve ruined you for everyone else you had after me. Do you wish I were dead again? Would you kill me just to escape me, Hashirama?”
“You still had a hold on me even long after your death,” Hashirama says, and his tone is flat. And you still will, even after I kill you for a second time, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud.
“Do you hate me for that?”
Hashirama shakes his head.
No, I could never hate you.
Instead, he says, “I’ve never felt this strongly about anyone except for you.”
“What feeling is that?” Madara breathes out as Hashirama fucks him faster, harder, ruthless and unforgiving. “Hashirama– tell me, now. Is it hate?”
Hashirama sighs. “There is no name for it,” he confesses. “It’s just you.”
“I’m your curse,” Madara says, and it’s not a question.
Hashirama looks at him, and it almost takes Madara’s breath away. Hashirama’s face is always sculpted perfectly, his handsome features molding in such a way that he’s able to display each emotion he feels with exact precision. He does so without even trying. And Madara can see it clearly, that love in his eyes, blackened by the Edo Tensei, mixed with such desperation and longing—a sick, disturbed feeling of mourning something before he even has the chance to lose it. Between the two of them, Hashirama has always been the yearner, and Madara has always wanted to be the only thing he’s afraid of losing. But now that he knows what it’s like to live without Madara, Madara fears that it won’t affect Hashirama as much when they inevitably will have to part ways.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Hashirama responds.
“Keep fucking me like you’re trying to kill me,” Madara demands, “like we’re both still alive.”
Hashirama doesn’t talk anymore, just nods. Yields to his command. He spreads Madara’s legs and pushes them up against his chest, pulling out almost all the way, right before he slams back in to the hilt, forcing out a rough, throaty moan from Madara’s lungs.
“That’s it,” Madara whispers, and it takes him some effort to speak, because now Hashirama is pushing down on the backs of Madara’s thighs, repositioning their angle so he’s fully pressed down on top of Madara. Hashirama’s bare chest keeps Madara folded in half, that delicious burn in his legs and the thought somewhere in the back of Madara’s mind lingers that if he was still alive he’d definitely be getting a cramp from this.
But Hashirama is greedy, possibly even more so than Madara, and he won’t stop even if Madara tells him to—although, he knows he never will.
“That’s it, Hashirama,” Madara mumbles, losing his mind now, that heady feeling he always gets when Hashirama finally lets go of his inhibitions. “Fucking me so deep. I can feel every inch of you.”
“Stop talking,” Hashirama says, and Madara looks at him with fire in his eyes.
He brings his hand up to Hashirama’s hair and pulls, hard, knowing that Hashirama doesn’t relish in the pain in the same way that Madara does. Uncaring, Madara then drags his fingernails down Hashirama’s back, feeling the skin peel off, the blood slowly seeping from the scratches and trickling down Hashirama’s toned back. He brings his fingers up to his own lips and sucks, holding eye contact with Hashirama through half-hooded lids.
“You’re an animal,” Hashirama sighs, but he fucks him faster at the sight, his eyes twinkling with something Madara can’t quite pinpoint.
“Taste yourself.”
Madara presses his blood soaked fingers to Hashirama’s lips, smearing them over his chin, forcing them inside his mouth while Hashirama looks at him like he wants him dead. Hashirama bites down on Madara’s fingers, the same way Madara did to him, except Hashirama does it hard enough so that they rip clean off, and he spits the digits out onto the ground beneath them.
Madara laughs, loudly, maniacally, while Hashirama lets a thick glob of blood drip from his mouth and onto Madara’s chest. Hashirama watches as Madara’s fingers quickly regenerate, but he doesn’t let up on his laughter, pulling Hashirama down by the back of his head and kissing him, the vibrations pouring out through Madara’s lips and down Hashirama’s spine. He bites down on Hashirama’s tongue, then licks at the wound, gently, in such a way that Hashirama hasn’t experienced in years, and certainly not from Madara.
When he pulls away, Hashirama can see the blood staining Madara’s teeth, slicked across his lips and over his chin, and he knows he looks just as sinful and debauched as the man beneath him.
“You missed me,” Madara says, and it’s no longer a question. It’s a fact. “Are you hungry, Hashirama?”
“I will kill you,” Hashirama responds, voice even and firm. “This time, I will make sure you’re dead.”
“That’s right,” Madara breathes out. “Kill me, then eat me. Who’s the animal now, Hashirama?”
Hashirama shakes his head. He lets Madara’s legs fall back down so he can press down on Madara’s throat with the back of his forearm, start fucking him violently, listening to the way Madara chokes as he tries not to moan out loud from the pleasure that he clearly feels.
“Yeah,” Madara coughs out, his voice strangled and raw. “Fuck. That’s so good. God, I missed this.”
I missed you, Hashirama thinks. I’m nothing without you. Please don’t leave me again.
“Shut your mouth,” Hashirama hisses instead, using his hand to cover Madara’s lips as his thrusts get more erratic, sloppy, and inconsistent. “I’m close.”
He quickly lets go of Madara in order to balance himself on the ground beneath them, both palms on either side of Madara’s face, gripping the rocks and soil. Hashirama tries to even out the rhythm of his thrusts, wants Madara to come first, wants to see him let go just one last time.
“Touch yourself,” Hashirama says. “I want you to come for me.”
Madara obeys, which he doesn’t usually do, and somewhere in the back of Hashirama’s mind, he’s disappointed that they won’t be able to draw this out for as long as possible. At the same time, he knows they’ll have to stop eventually, and yet he hates himself for it. He hates how good Madara’s body feels, how it’s the only thing he’s ever known so intimately, Madara’s strong thighs gripping Hashirama’s waist, the dark hair that curls below his navel, his hard cock that sits so pretty against his abdomen, all flushed and leaking. Madara is like a god, and Hashirama has only ever wanted to service him. Offer himself up to him, give him his blood, his heart, his guts like an oblation. Hoping that he’ll accept him, allow him to worship his body the way he deserves.
Madara’s long fingers wrap around himself, stroking fast, his movements desperate. He’s biting his lip to silence himself, and Hashirama isn’t having any of it.
“Let me hear you,” he says, and Madara just ignores him. Hashirama slows his thrusts, grabs Madara’s wrist and forces him to stop jerking himself. “Let me hear you, Madara,” he repeats, his voice deeper, his tone darker, and he earns a quiet curse that slips from Madara’s lips.
“Fuck, Hashirama, fuck me–” Madara spits out angrily, and Hashirama continues with the same rough pace, not allowing Madara to adjust to the change. “Just like that, god, you’re so good, fuck me so good, Hashirama. Nobody fucks me like you do, nobody could ever even try.”
Hashirama doesn’t respond, lets Madara keep rambling, allows him to stroke himself again, getting closer to his climax.
“Come inside me, make me yours just one last time before you kill me,” Madara says, and he’s not begging, but demanding. “Do it. Fill me up, mark me inside and out. I’m yours, Hashirama.”
His voice is breathy as he speaks, and Hashirama feels him start to shake beneath him, so beautiful and so fucking perfect. He’s the only one who gets to see him like this. The only one who can make him feel this way.
Hashirama wraps his fingers around Madara’s hand that he’s using to stroke himself, and helps guide it up and down, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, and they’re jerking Madara off together, and Hashirama is looking Madara in his eyes—his Rinnegan, which is so unfamiliar on that pretty face—but he’s beautiful nonetheless. They’re together, for the first time in so long, and probably for the last time, and Hashirama wants it to last forever, but he knows it can’t.
Hashirama’s hips stutter, and he fucks into Madara once, twice, three times until he’s coming inside of him, eyes closed and mouth parted around a silent moan. He realizes a bit late that he’s clenching his fingers around Madara’s cock a little too hard, but Madara clearly likes it because he throws his head back until it hits the ground with a thud, and he’s coming all over his abdomen and Hashirama’s fingers. It’s warm and wet and he’s so beautiful, because he’s Madara, and Madara is all that Hashirama has ever wanted.
“I love you,” he says, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s saying it, but Madara looks at him with an indistinguishable expression on his face.
“No you don’t,” he tells him.
Hashirama blinks. “I do.”
“You don’t,” Madara’s voice is harsher this time, rougher and slightly strained. And Hashirama is still inside him, but Madara makes no effort to push him off. “Don’t say things like that. It’ll only make it harder for you to kill me.”
“I wish I didn’t have to kill you,” he whispers.
“You’ve always been soft.”
“For you,” Hashirama says, weakly, his arms shaking and he’s ready to collapse on top of Madara, but he still holds himself up.
He pulls out, finally, his spend leaking out of Madara’s hole and onto the dirt, an obscene display, a stark reminder of where they are and what they had just done.
“I won’t say it back, Hashirama.”
Hashirama nods, closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply.
“I know,” he says. “I know. Thank you.”