10.
"There is nowhere in the world I'd rather be right now," Hashirama is saying. "I mean it."
It is early evening and they are sitting together in Hashirama's courtyard, watching the sun sink towards the horizon. The weather has been surprisingly mild—curious, for early winter—but Madara isn't complaining, especially because it's his day off and he's smoking his pipe with his head resting in Hashirama's lap, and Hashirama is stroking his hair and holding his hand.
Madara blows a smoke ring. "Me too."
"I'm so glad you're here," Hashirama says, stroking Madara's hand with his thumb. Madara looks up at him. He knows that voice. Sure enough, the beginnings of tears are glistening in Hashirama's eyes. Madara sets his pipe down and reaches for Hashirama's shoulders and they kiss softly; Hashirama's hair is falling into his face and Madara laughs against Hashirama's lips and tucks it behind his ear for him.
They come apart, and Madara settles back into Hashirama's lap, marveling at the soft warmth of Hashirama's hand. Peace is strange, he thinks. He remembers all the battles they had—this very hand, the one holding his own, has made countless handsigns and swung countless swords into flesh; this hand held the kunai that he nearly plunged into his own abdomen—Madara shivers slightly. It is not an unpleasant shiver. All of these things he remembers with acute clearness—Hashirama is still that same person he used to battle for months at a time, back then. And yet, now that they're at peace—
"I miss it, though," Hashirama says abruptly, "sparring with you."
Madara's heart pounds. Hashirama has always had the uncanny ability to voice exactly what Madara is thinking. "So do I," he says.
They adjust, look at each other very seriously. Their hands are still touching.
"We could," Hashirama says, "do it again. Here. If—if you wanted to."
Madara stands up, adjusting his robes. "Yes," he says, "I would." He can feel hot anticipation snaking down his spine, curling up in his midriff.
"Okay!" says Hashirama, standing up as well. He crosses his arms. "You want to right now?"
There is a split second of hesitation, and then Madara responds by dashing towards him with his fist raised. Hashirama dodges it easily, just as Madara expected him to, and responds with a swinging fist of his own. Madara catches it between his forearms, twists Hashirama's arm around until he has to duck out of the way and straighten up again. His fluttering hair catches the evening sunlight as it settles down across his back, and Madara forgets what he's doing for a moment as he watches in awe.
"If I didn't know better," Hashirama laughs, "I'd say you're trying to flirt with me."
Madara grins his lopsided grin. "Maybe I am," he says, and he bends over backwards and kicks Hashirama in the face. He hears a snap; he's broken Hashirama's nose, and Hashirama pinches it absentmindedly between two fingers, lunging forward with his free arm—saplings are sprouting out of his sleeve, new leaves curling outward as he moves. Madara swerves, dives into a crouch, and comes up panting and grinning.
"Sorry," he says, but Hashirama, maddeningly serene, has already effortlessly healed himself; they run at each other again and this time green mokuton tendrils brush Madara's wrist and he has to flip backwards to avoid becoming ensnared. He rushes at Hashirama again with a shout of frustration. Hashirama has the size advantage; he always has, but Madara is clever and agile and quick and his timing is unparalleled; Hashirama has said so himself, countless times. And yet—a hand meets his forearm, a shoulder slams into his foot—Hashirama is blocking him, always infuriatingly in the way—three more times they clash and then Hashirama counters with a powerful kick and Madara skids back, lands on all fours with his chest heaving. Hashirama is strong. He forgets just how strong sometimes—well, he can never fully forget—but seeing him in peacetime, laughing and drinking and relaxing and tending to the village, is nothing compared to watching him fight.
Madara pops his shoulder back into alignment, gathers his chakra in his lungs, and then blows flickering hot ash from his mouth, shrouding them both in an explosion of smoke and sparks. He has to be careful not to ruin Hashirama's courtyard, he thinks, but half the floor is already destroyed from Hashirama's own mokuton, so he reasons a bit of grime can't hurt. He can just barely see Hashirama shielding his face before he disappears into the ash, but his chakra is there, pulsing slightly. He's grown a wooden shield, that quick, clever bastard; he's going to wait for Madara to come to him.
Hashirama does not have to wait long. Madara approaches from the side and vines very nearly wrap around his legs; he leaps into the air and Hashirama reaches up while he's overbalanced and seizes his ankle, neatly dodging a volley of shuriken. Madara curses, and then concentrates, reflects the shuriken back towards them both; Hashirama is not expecting this, and one grazes his cheek, leaving a red line on his skin. He does not, however, let go of Madara's ankle.
Hashirama swings him around and heaves him bodily aside; Madara's stomach lurches and the wind rushes out of his lungs as he hits the wall, his shoulder smarting beautifully. Hashirama is running at him, his hair streaming behind him like a long dark banner, and his eyes are alight with mischievous excitement—Madara raises his own hands in defense this time and Hashirama grabs his wrists and forces them down—they're both pinned against the courtyard wall, clouds of ash settling around them, the mokuton receding slowly.
They're straining, both breathing hard, Hashirama's clenched fists locked around Madara's forearms. Hashirama's hair flutters in front of his face as he attempts to catch his breath. The cut on his cheek is already gone. Madara grins breathlessly, eyes wild, muscles tensed, ready to spring. Their faces are inches apart. Hashirama leans in closer, exhaling audibly. His eyes slide slowly closed—Madara makes a small questioning sound in his throat as Hashirama's grip loosens slightly—and then their lips connect.
It takes a moment for Madara to process the fact that he's being kissed. The courtyard is dissolving and time is grinding to a complete halt and the only sensation he knows is the perplexing feeling of Hashirama's smooth lips brushing against his.
Kissing him—Hashirama is kissing him—
And Madara's mouth falls open slightly and there's tongue now, pressing hotly against his own; Madara isn't expecting this and he makes a muffled sound of surprise. Hashirama lets him move, lets him reach up and cup his face and not-so-gently pull him closer to return the kiss properly. His sharingan is throbbing—when did he activate his sharingan?—and within the span of an instant, he's infinitely more aware of every sensation in his body—the blood racing under his skin, the quickening thud of his heartbeat, his stinging shoulder, his burning hot midriff, the chakra buzzing madly in the back of his skull. Time passes, or maybe it doesn't, and all he can think about is the unspeakable heat of Hashirama's soft lips, the closeness of their colliding mouths, the taste of ash and the desperate way in which Hashirama is breathing Madara's air. He can feel Hashirama's fingers twisting between his shoulderblades, clenching on the fabric of his robes. He aches with a sort of inexpressible deep longing that manifests itself as a small weak noise as they come apart. He's— "Oh fuck," he whispers as he realizes—he's hard and he's breathless and Hashirama blinks up at him rather coyly with his damnably dark lovely eyes. Madara can feel himself turning crimson. He glances down at the waistband of his robes, then looks back up, blushing even harder.
"Is this all right?" Hashirama says, chakra billowing around him in dazzling hot waves. "Can I kiss you?"
"Yes," Madara rasps, "please—"
Hashirama moves in again, kissing him fiercely—Madara's hands wrap around his broad back and he can feel his muscles shifting and he moans softly into Hashirama's mouth. They're pressed together, hips and chests and tangled arms, and Madara breaks off the kiss to gasp wordlessly because Hashirama's erection is grinding against his own. Hashirama groans and kisses Madara's jaw, down his throat.
"Hmm—mmh—" Madara actually whimpers and his hips snap forwards to press firmly against Hashirama's. Damn these layers of clothes, damn Hashirama's soft hands and his warm shoulders and his beautiful face—
"All right?" Hashirama murmurs gently, and his voice alone sends a pleasant shiver down Madara's back. "Do you want to keep—?"
"Ohhh," Madara moans, weak-kneed, "yes," which is the most coherent thing he can come up with, because Hashirama begins kissing the area between his jaw and throat in a way that renders him completely useless. They sink down to the floor together, Madara's hair snagging against the wall, his elbow scraping against the wood. Hashirama touches two glowing fingers to Madara's shoulder and the soreness lessens, until he's left with a gentle tingling feeling that spreads to his chest and his throat as they keep going. The space around them both is completely saturated with chakra and Madara is breathing from the top of his lungs, unable to draw enough air. Something about their closeness, and the transition from fighting to kissing like this, is almost more than he can take—Hashirama's chakra is overpowering, and Madara feels like he's drowning in it as each new pulse rolls over his body, electrifying his skin, lifting his hair back from his face until it's floating in billowing clouds around his head—and then he abruptly realizes that he's actually suffocating.
"Stop," Madara chokes out with difficulty. "Stop—I can't breathe."
Hashirama draws back immediately, taking his chakra with him. Madara gasps and coughs, feeling the last remnants of Hashirama's scalding chakra recede, and he immediately feels empty and hollow without it. He knows his cheeks are burning scarlet—and not just from embarrassment; he's still painfully hard—and he curls up against the wall, breathing as deeply as he can. He can feel Hashirama's wary eyes on him.
"I'm sorry," Madara manages, glancing up at Hashirama, who looks just as embarrassed as Madara feels. "I don't—" He laughs, still catching his breath. "I'm not sure what happened."
"You're a powerful sensor," Hashirama says quietly. "I may have...overdone things." He sighs. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I got so—well—my chakra is—" He coughs. "We can stop, if you want," he finishes quickly, turning a deep shade of pink.
"No!" Madara shouts, perhaps more harshly than he had intended. "I mean—I don't want to stop," he says, staring at his lap. His dick is throbbing. "I've wanted to do this for," he falters slightly, blushing even harder than before, "a long time, and—this should be easy," he bursts out, frustrated.
Hashirama laughs, not unkindly. "When has anything we've ever done been easy?" he says. Madara smiles weakly. He's pretty sure this is the most turned on he's ever been in his life. He leans forward, puts his arms around Hashirama's neck, rests his chin on Hashirama's shoulder. His chakra is not so overwhelming now, and it buzzes pleasantly against Madara's skin, as if he's being kissed by thousands of tiny stars.
"Just tell me what you want me to do," Hashirama murmurs.
"Right," Madara says. He crawls into Hashirama's lap. Good—he's still hard. Hashirama makes a soft sound of pleasure and jerks his hips forward slightly. His chakra flares bright and hot, but the feeling is manageable this time, and Madara allows it to sweep over him, spreading from his chest to his fingertips in a way that makes him giddy with longing. There is a deep, devastating ache between his pelvis and the small of his back, and he practically melts into Hashirama's chest, burying his face comfortably in the crook of his neck (they fit together perfectly, some more rational part of him notes), and moving his hips in a widening circle against Hashirama's own. "Let's just—do this," he manages, breathless again already.
Hashirama moves back, and the friction is painfully good. Madara is grateful that he doesn't have to make eye contact, glad Hashirama can't see his face contorted with pleasure like this—not yet, not yet—although the sounds he's making, low and continuous and desperate, should be indication enough of how turned on he is. Minutes pass, and Hashirama's hands move tentatively from where they have been resting on Madara's hips. He runs his hands up Madara's sides, down his chest; Hashirama's fingers make circles on his belly through the fabric of his robes; he puts his thumbs in the hollows above Madara's hips and Madara bites back a strangled moan because Hashirama's hands are so close to his dick.
"I changed my mind," Madara says, shocked at how wrecked his voice sounds. "Kiss me."
They're still grinding on each other, fully clothed, and Hashirama obliges with vigor. He bites Madara's lower lip, carefully at first, until Madara makes a muffled sound of encouragement and Hashirama bites him harder, sucking on his lip, and Madara can just feel him smirking gently against his skin. Madara's back arches and his joints pop and he clings to Hashirama's shoulders with a sound that is nearly a whimper. Oh but Hashirama is good at this.
"Can I touch you?" Madara says, breathless at his own audacity.
"Yes," Hashirama groans immediately, "You can touch me wherever you'd like," and Madara shudders from arousal and tentatively places his hand in Hashirama's lap. There are far too many layers of clothing concealing his erection for Madara's liking, but it's definitely there and he feels Hashirama's dick twitch slightly at the contact. It's—ah. It's quite large. Hashirama is leaning back with his eyes closed and his face blissful and desperate and Madara loves him like this, loves seeing him gradually losing his composure. Emboldened, Madara kisses Hashirama's neck again, stroking him softly through the fabric of his kimono pants.
Hashirama opens the front of Madara's robe with warm nimble fingers and presses a trail of messy kisses down Madara's collar. His hair slides across Madara's shoulders, down his his front, tickles his chest. It's slippery—Madara's scrabbling for purchase, eventually wrapping his arms around Hashirama's neck and holding on as tightly as he can, and then he throws his head back and it hits the wall and he doesn't even care, because Hashirama knows exactly where to kiss his chest to drive him mad.
"Are you all right?" Hashirama says, pausing to cup Madara's face in his hands.
Their eyes meet. "Yes," Madara gasps. Now their foreheads are touching, and Hashirama has one knee resting firmly between Madara's thighs. Madara squirms and spreads his legs—spreads his legs for Hashirama!— and Hashirama eases him down until his back is flat on the courtyard floor and kisses all the way down his chest, untying his robes as he moves. Hashirama's tongue is hot and quick and as he carefully brushes his lips against the long pale scar on Madara's ribcage, Madara thinks he's seconds away from coming, but even as the thought crosses his mind Hashirama draws back.
"You're sure about this," Hashirama says, his lips inches from Madara's abdomen. "You definitely want me to do this."
Madara's chest is heaving and his hair is in his eyes. He hooks one leg around Hashirama's shoulder. "Yes, oh, fuck, Hashirama, I definitely want you to do this," he says, and he's babbling like an idiot, he can't stop, "now fucking—fucking hurry up, Hashirama, please—"
Hashirama pulls his trousers down and in the split second before he does, Madara remembers he's not wearing anything underneath them. Hashirama raises a questioning eyebrow at him. His eyes are lighting up with a barely concealed smile. Normally Madara would be embarrassed, but right now he's genuinely too turned on to care.
Hashirama's chakra hums, powerful and fervent and hot. He takes a breath. Then his lips—his lovely soft lips—gently touch to the head of Madara's dick and stay there and the feeling of sheer unrelenting pleasure is almost painful.
"Oh fuck," Madara is whispering, over and over, with increasing urgency. Hashirama slides down and takes him all the way in and before Madara can stop himself he emits a desperate keening whine, thrusting his hips up into Hashirama's face—Hashirama is not letting go, he's not taking his mouth off Madara's dick and somehow, with miraculous ease, he hollows out his cheeks and swirls his tongue around the base. Madara shouts aloud, completely involuntarily, and thrusts again, harder this time.
"Hashirama," he's gasping, hands in Hashirama's hair, fingers digging into his scalp. Hashirama's mouth is unbelievably hot. He's still down, one hand on the underside of Madara's thigh, supporting his leg. Madara's robes are up around his waist, fabric rubbing pleasantly against his skin—but this is nothing compared to the power of Hashirama's skilled and agile tongue; as he gradually takes Madara apart Hashirama casts a blazing glance up at him, his mouth pressed flat against the clenched skin of Madara's abdomen, and it's all smouldering heat and relentless, blinding love and fiery respect bordering on utter reverence.
Madara shivers. His spine, his lower back, his hips are on fire, working back and forth with Hashirama's ministrations. And then Hashirama moans around his dick and the vibration is—is—The helpless sound that escapes Madara's throat would have mortified him if he had even an ounce of doubt left in him. "Fuck, Hashirama," he rasps instead, and Hashirama responds with another muffled moan and that is it, Madara shouts something totally incomprehensible and his back pops off the floor and he comes so hard his vision goes white.
It is all he can do to gasp wordlessly for what feels like several minutes afterwards. The reality of what has just happened is slowly sinking in—Hashirama sucked his dick and it was amazing—and he makes a small, wrecked sound as Hashirama surfaces, chuckling softly, and gently takes his hand out from under Madara's thigh.
"Here," Madara says, once he can find the volition to sit up. It is as if all the bones have suddenly disappeared from his body. He feels his mouth go dry as he stares down at Hashirama's erection. He's really about to do this. "Let me..."
"It won't take a lot," Hashirama murmurs reassuringly, and Madara puts his arms around Hashirama again and rests his head in the crook of his neck like before. He reaches down and trails his fingers across Hashirama's lap and Hashirama shudders and undoes his sash and guides Madara's hand in the right direction. Madara curls his fingers around Hashirama's dick—fuck, Hashirama's dick—and Hashirama gives an unabashedly loud sound of encouragement. He puts his hand on top of Madara's, and now they're both stroking as Madara covers Hashirama's neck in tiny kisses.
"Oh," Hashirama gasps. He's trembling now, and his eyes squeeze shut. Then, urgently: "Madara I'm going to—"
Madara doesn't hear the rest because a wave of blindingly strong chakra knocks him flat on his back just as the nearest window—which happens to be the one to Hashirama's kitchen—shatters, scattering shards of glass across the courtyard. There is a strong whiff of ozone.
"Oh fuck," Hashirama says weakly, as if from far away. Madara assembles his limbs into a sitting position, groaning. There are streaks like scorch marks radiating across the floor with Hashirama at their center, but instead of charred and blackened wood each one is vibrant and green, covered in tiny star-shaped moss. Madara inspects this new development, curious. He has the distinct impression that Hashirama was not expecting this either.
"Well," Madara says at last. His voice is completely hoarse. "Well."
Hashirama hasn't caught his breath yet either. "...Yes," he says, with difficulty.
The sun is still resolutely setting.
"We should definitely spar more often," Madara says, after a long pause.
"Yes."
"Preferably soon." He deliberates for a moment. "Tomorrow."
Hashirama nods vigorously. "I agree."
They're both so solemn, so serious; Madara isn't sure which one of them breaks composure first but within an instant they're both laughing so hard that they can't stop. They collapse onto the floor in a messy pile of sweaty loose clothing and tangled hair, and Madara can't remember the last time he actually held his stomach to laugh but he's doing it now. Hashirama has tears in his eyes, and he doesn't even bother wiping them away.
"I'll cancel my meeting," Hashirama says, his eyes twinkling, and Madara gives a shout of laughter because he knows Hashirama is entirely, deadly serious.