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Madara returns to Hashirama in a fit of nostalgia and triumph. The power of the rinnegan burns in his eyes, the juubi caged inside his body. He has ascended to godhood, the God Tree set to bloom behind him any second as soon as he looks up at the swollen moon . Everything around them is dust and ruin except the God Tree rising like a bloody spear into the sky, its enormous roots pulsing across the land. The last of the laughable shinobi alliance is engaged with the white zetsus, ready to topple in the face of unending waves of enemies.
Madara is on the cusp of victory…
And yet he returns to Hashirama there on the rocky, barren battlefield.
Hashirama, still pinned to the ground with dozens of black receivers impaled in his body.
“Madara, please!”
“Shh,” Madara touches down in front of him, silent as the grave. He reaches for Hashirama’s cracked face and cups his undead cheeks, willing him to silence.
He goes quiet, but not for long. Achingly familiar brown eyes offset by deep, unsettling black sclera scan his face. “Why are you here?” Hashirama asks as Madara continues to pet his face.
It’s a question he can’t help but ask himself. Why is he here? Decades of work and sacrifice are set to be complete. There’s only so long the remaining zetsus can stall the pests. He should be focused on ending the cycle of hatred once and for all, not standing around with Hashirama.
“Do you remember the old times?” Madara asks, one hand trailing down Hashirama’s strong neck, the other brushing over his plump bottom lip. His eyes widen and hesitantly he nods. “Do you miss them?” Madara pushes his thumb past Hashirama’s lips.
He does nothing. Doesn’t suck, doesn’t spit it out. Only watches intently.
Madara knows why he’s here now. What the strange burning beneath his skin is–lust. It’s ridiculous. He is a god now and yet it’s this that he craves after so long.
“Do you want it too?” He presses his thumb down on Hashirama’s tongue and watches how his eyelids flutter and he leans towards Madara despite being pinned in place.
“There’s still time to stop this, you don’t have–” Hashirama’s voice comes out muffled and slurred, but each time his tongue is about to push Madara’s thumb out, he sucks it back in.
“We can have this one last time,” Madara interrupts. Hashirama’s eyes dart towards where his comrades are no doubt trying, and struggling, to keep up with the zetsu clones. “You can tell them I beat you, I forced you, whatever you wish, but you will tell me the truth of whether you want this.” It doesn’t occur to him to say they’ll be together in the dream, that his comrades will never know of this battlefield tryst. All he has to do is look up and then he can have Hashirama forever. Why doesn’t he look up?
“I will always want you, Madara,” Hashirama whispers around his thumb.
And that is enough to send him spiraling into madness.
Madara steps forward in the grit and gravel, removing his thumb along with a few of the rods holding Hashirama down. He glares, warning him about any attempt to escape, but Hashirama remains in place. He is still kneeling when Madara unfastens his robe and frees his dick. He strokes it once, twice until it is hard and fully erect. The base is the same unearthly white as the rest of his body once he ascended, but the head is red and flushed like any mortal man’s.
Hashirama reaches out to grip Madara’s thighs, all ten fingers biting into flesh. He leans forward to kiss the tip and smears pre-come across his lips as he begins to lick and suck gently at the head. Madara fists his hands in Hashirama’s silky hair. His movements are still limited, but once Madara has ahold of his hair, he doesn’t hesitate to start swallowing.
Inch by inch disappears into his mouth in one long, steady slide. It’s different now than before. Madara is a god, Hashirama an undead monstrosity. There is no warmth in Hashirama’s mouth, on his tongue, but Madara burns enough for both of them and the wetness more than makes up for it.
Hashirama had no gag reflex when he lived, but now he needs no breath at all as he reaches the root and stays locked in place.
Madara shudders at the tightness of his throat, vibration wracking his body as Hashirama starts to hum around him. His grip shifts, hands climbing and clawing to grab at Madara’s ass so he can press himself as close as possible with the restricting rods. Hashirama’s nose is buried in pubic hair, his mouth split wide open, drool and pre-come dripping down his chin that Madara can feel against his skin. His dark eyes flick up to meet Madara’s.
Even now, Hashirama will meet his eyes. Foolish. And yet, traitorous affection worms its way into Madara’s heart, so immense it makes him ache.
He tightens his hands in Hashirama’s hair and pulls him off. Or he tries. Hashirama resists, fighting to press closer to him instead.
“Hashirama,” Madara groans, curling over him. It’s heady to have him in this position, so willing and desperate to keep Madara’s dick in his mouth, but there needs to be movement . “I won’t pull you off completely, greedy bastard.”
Hashirama hums harder, but when Madara yanks on his hair again, he reluctantly slides off. He’s barely pulled off two inches before Madara rocks his hips forward and Hashirama rushes to plunge back to the root. They do this old, familiar dance until Madara’s heart is pounding in his chest. It’s a battle of a different kind but one where he’s with Hashirama instead of against him. The thought makes him falter, makes him remember what he’s supposed to be doing instead. Hashirama takes advantage and sinks fully down, distracting him again. They are old lovers and it’s easy to give in and give Hashirama what he wants. Madara can give him this fleeting pleasure and then forever in the Infinite Tsukuyomi, he’ll see. They’ll all see. Madara holds him tightly in place, thrusting as deep into Hashirama’s throat as he can.
Hashirama moans and starts to suck and swallow around him. More drool leaks out of his mouth, wetting Madara’s dick, and smearing Hashirama’s lips and chin slick and shiny. Madara can’t see it now, of course, but he can imagine it well enough. Only in undeath can Hashirama do this properly without choking, though it never stopped him from trying in life. So many times he’d try to take Madara to the root and hold him there, but he’d always pull back, spluttering and red-faced with a hoarse voice but determined to try again. More than once they’d devolve into wrestling mid-coitus and Madara was left in the absurd position of trying to keep Hashirama’s mouth off his dick so they could both come within the hour.
The memory brings a bittersweet smile to his lips.
“You’re not going to come like this,” Madara whispers and drags his hand through Hashirama’s mussed hair, untangling the knots he caused by gripping and pulling. Hashirama strokes his palms down Madara’s thighs. A reassurance that he can and will. It’s not enough. Madara raises his hands and forms a simple snake seal behind Hashirama’s head. “You know, I’ve always wanted to use this on you.”
Small mokuton vines burst up from the dead ground, wrapping around Hashirama’s legs. He’s still kneeling, so they effectively do nothing, but isn’t it a sight to watch the flexible green wood obey Madara for a change. Hashirama startles at the jutsu but relaxes just as quickly even as the vines thicken and start to spread, creeping quickly up his thighs.
“Are you excited, Hashirama?” Madara whispers, nearly breathless as the vines reach the waistline of his pants.
Hashirama groans around his dick, fingers digging into Madara’s ass.
“I always knew you had some passing connection to the mokuton but this…” It’s a strange sensation, one Madara hadn’t been actively focusing on with his larger uses of the mokuton before. Touch is the most similar sense it resembles; he gets disconnected feedback of pressure and texture–alien yet incredibly sensitive–as the vines slip into Hashirama’s pants. What he doesn’t expect is a sort of primitive sight. It would be incorrect to say the vines are capable of seeing but they are visually aware of their surroundings.
What did Hashirama feel when he killed people with the mokuton? Madara muses absently.
It’s no matter now. Madara’s mastery of the jutsu is Hashirama’s, his cells and senjutsu allow Madara to command the mokuton with precision. The vines split, the thinnest to slip into Hashirama’s pants and wind around the twisted bands of Hashirama’s fundoshi before spreading out across the skin of his stomach and inner thighs, under his armor and shirt. They give him some pleasure through pressure and touch, but nothing compared to the two thicker vines. One curls inside his fundoshi around his erect dick, the tapered end teasing his dripping slit, while the other slides between his cheeks to circle his puckered entrance.
Hashirama had been chuckling at his comment, but as the thick vines find their places, it trails off in a high-pitched whine.
“Oh, I think I like this very much,” Madara purrs as he runs his hands through Hashirama’s hair again before reaching down to grab the back of his waistband. He tugs at it and more vines split off the thin one to grow outward to keep it open. It’s a delicious sight, to watch the vine tease Hashirama’s ass with his own two eyes. It also forces the fabric at the front of his pants to strain against his heavy bulge. That one may be limited to the vines’ senses and Madara’s imagination, but it’s still enough to make his heart race, excitement coursing through his veins.
“Are you ready?” He lifts one hand to trace Hashirama’s throat, trailing his knuckles up to his extended cheeks. He feels warm now, almost human from keeping Madara’s burning flesh inside him for so long.
In response, Hashirama widens his knees as much as he can.
Madara grins and grabs his hair again, pulling Hashirama flush with his groin. At the same time, the vine wrapped around Hashirama’s dick starts to squeeze and the vine against his entrance begins to push in.
Hashirama whimpers. He rakes his nails over Madara’s ass, body trembling as he tries to go in three different directions at once. Madara grins and brushes Hashirama’s long hair out, tilting his head so their eyes meet. It forces him to slide down Madara’s dick. Hashirama whines and gives him a half-hearted glare. He can’t even muster it up for a few seconds before his eyelids start to flutter with pleasure from the vines.
With an absent thought, Madara encourages the vine in his ass to swell and double in size. The width of two fingers now instead of one, pushing in and out, opening him up.
Only because he’s watching closely does Madara notice the flick of discomfort across Hashirama’s cracked face.
“Too dry?” The edo bodies don’t feel pain like a mortal but there was still sensation and the capacity for pleasure and discomfort both. Hashirama nods as best he can but still tries to sink back on the vine, even as it costs him a precious inch of dick.
He doesn’t want to stop. More unwelcome fondness swirls in Madara’s heart. He’s missed Hashirama. He always knew he did but this…
The vine shrinks and a pink bell-shaped flower buds and blooms further up where the thin vine’s body nestles on the small of Hashirama’s back. Thick, viscous syrup drips down his supple ass as the petals unfurl. More flowers bud with Madara’s nudge of chakra until it becomes a slow, steady .
The vine slips out of Hashirama’s hole to coat itself in the glistening fluid before sliding back in. It’s still thin, but Madara guides it deeper until the tip brushes over Hashirama’s prostate and he shudders, clenching tight. The vine pulls out again, gathering more sap from the flowers’ steady pour. It doesn’t stop. The excess liquid slicks down his skin to his perineum until it slides along his balls and seeps into his fundoshi. Out of all the mokuton’s many applications, this was the one Madara was most familiar with. He knew the taste of the sap by heart and could distinguish what season it was based on how the subtle notes changed as the mokuton and Hashirama both were influenced by the physical world. He’d insisted, preferred it over all traditional oils and Hashirama was all too happy to indulge him.
“Better?” Madara asks and Hashirama winks up at him. “Good.” The thin vine pulls out of his ass, only to thicken and thrust back in as Madara rocks his hips forward and buries himself deep in Hashirama’s mouth again.
Hashirama moans, a deep guttural sound pulled up from his chest. Madara’s dick throbs in response and he barely stops himself from coming then and there.
“Hashirama…” His voice sounds no better, broken with want. Madara starts to fuck him in earnest. The vine in Hashirama’s ass picks up speed—in and out, in and out—as it opens him open and grows thicker with every pass. The vine around his dick spreads pre-come up and down the length before it starts to twist, rubbing over him.
Hashirama makes another delightful sound, but one of his hands drops from Madara’s scratched and bruised ass to reach down towards his dick.”
"No. Hands on me.” Madara tugs sharply on Hashirama’s hair. Erotic as it would be to see Hashirama pull his dick out and wrap his hand around the heavy length coiled with a mokuton vine, Madara knows how he wants to end this. Hashirama’s hand pauses and then he reaches both up toward Madara. Higher this time, with Hashirama’s elbows resting against his hipbones and his hands up above the small of Madara’s back. He can’t see it, but he can feel Hashirama’s hands make a seal, and sense the burst of chakra. His own mokuton wood binds his wrists tightly together. Hashirama goes lax against him, nuzzling the junction of his hip and thigh as Madara is struck with a sudden, heady thrill. The God of Shinobi, surpassed by none, so willing to listen and give Madara control.
He wants to see Hashirama come. Needs it. Madara shudders and pulls Hashirama as close as he can until his nose and chin are pressed tight to Madara’s pubic bone. He keeps Hashirama locked in place and nudges the vines along.
The one around his dick starts to move faster, the tapered end teasing his slit while new growths branch off to wrap around his balls and gently squeeze. The vine in his ass grows again, as long and wide as Madara’s dick now, and starts picking up pace. It thrusts in to the hilt, pulls out completely, gathers more syrup from the flowers, and buries itself deep again. It’s not as good as feeling Hashirama’s walls clench around his own dick, but Hashirama’s desperate noises make up for it. Muffled whines and moans, little grunts and pleasurable sighs. It turns into another high whimper as the thin vines that spread across his chest continue their final creep upward and brush against his nipples.
With so much stimulation, Hashirama is a mess. Writhing back and forth, trying to thrust into the vine around his dick and back onto the one in his ass at the same time. But they’re short, halting motions. When it borders on the edge of too much—as the smallest vines rub roughly over his nipples and pinch—Hashirama surges upward. There’s none of Madara’s dick left for him to sink onto. With every noise, sound, and swallow he’s doing all he can to stimulate Madara in his current position.
“Come for me, Hashirama.” The vines writhe—moving faster, growing bigger, tightening around him.
Hashirama’s body seizes up, his bound hands flexing just enough to scratch furrows into Madara’s back and he comes with a full-body convulsion. Even if it wasn’t so obvious, the vines’ sensation of being flooded with come would have tipped him off. Madara runs a hand through Hashirama’s hair, helping him through the aftershocks as the vines slow and pull off and out of him.
But he’s still hard and aching in Hashirama’s mouth.
Hashirama readjusts and Madara’s hips stutter forward on instinct and a small, desperate plea slips out. Hashirama chuckles and pulls off as much as he can with his arms still locked behind Madara’s back. He sinks back down as he did before and keeps fucking himself on Madara’s dick without him moving an inch.
It’s another heady sight. Madara is so swollen and aroused, he can feel his orgasm starting to build in his core and creep up his thighs. And then Hashirama pulls back as far as he can and traces one of the pulsing veins on the underside of his cock with his tongue. He looks up, eyes meeting Madara’s. Open. Trusting.
It’s too much.
Hashirama’s cheeks are flushed now from the heat, the cracked lines and black of his eyes almost invisible to Madara. Hashirama never cried during sex, but his eyes always took on a shimmering sheen when he came. Madara sees it now, the same as in his memories. Perfectly preserved with the sharingan, he replayed them endlessly in the cave when he was attached to the gedo statue. They were the only things that kept him sane.
Madara’s orgasm builds and he only has a second to choke out “Has— ” before his come is spilling down Hashirama’s throat. Hashirama doesn’t choke. He breaks the mokuton cuff and pulls back until his mouth is wrapped around the head of Madara’s dick so he can swallow easier.
Once Madara has spent himself he half collapses on top of Hashirama, bracing his elbows on Hashirama’s shoulders. His knees are too weak and feeble for a god’s now, and the satisfaction and sated lust in his gut is all mortal pleasure.
“Madara,” Hashirama whispers, voice rough and broken.
Madara wants to kiss him. He wants to taste himself on Hashirama’s tongue, to sink next to him in the dust and dirt and never let him go. But it’s an old wish, one that’s burned in his chest nearly as long as he’s known Hashirama, that’s followed him from life to death to undeath and rebirth. Madara pushes it down and ignores the part of him that screams. He’s fulfilled his selfish craving and now–
He looks up at the red moon, rinnegan swirling as his third eye opens.
He’s won.