Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sheets were still warm from when they stumbled into bed, half-drunk on sake and the lazy afterglow of laughter, wine, and the candlelit haze of the overpriced restaurant Hashirama had insisted on for celebrating their fifth anniversary together. Now the room was dim, the only light coming from the streetlamp casting a pale wash through the window blinds. Madara lay stretched out next to him, shirt wide open, hair messy in that way Hashirama always found unfairly distracting like he hadn't even tried. His skin, pale and flawless, carried the fresh redness of healing ink.

Hashirama was still trying to process it. Not the fact that Madara had gotten a tattoo—no, Madara had always been impulsive in the most devastating ways—but what he had tattooed. A perfect, bold rendering of Hashirama’s face. On his chest. Over his heart, of course. Eyes soft but intense, almost as if it was looking back at him.

Madara’s fingers drummed absently on his stomach as he looked over. “So?” he asked, voice low, threaded with something volatile. “You’re quiet.”

Hashirama smiled carefully. “I like it.”

“You like it,” Madara repeated, tone flat, unreadable. He turned to face him fully, half-rising on an elbow, dark eyes narrowed. “That’s all?”

“I do,” Hashirama said again, reaching out to brush a finger along the edge of the tattoo. The skin was a little raised, and Madara flinched, but didn’t move away. “It’s... unexpected.”

Madara snorted. “You can say it’s weird.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.” Madara's mouth twisted, half smirk, half snarl. “Come on, it’s your face. You’re on me . Isn’t that what you want?”

“Madara—”

“Izuna gets a fucking flower for Tobirama,” he snapped, sitting up fully now, hair falling around his shoulders. “A flower , just a little thing on his wrist. And Tobirama, that smug bastard , looks at me like—like I couldn’t commit to shit. He told me I wouldn’t dare doing something like this for you. So what, huh? I went bigger. Bolder. Fucking permanent.” His voice cracked with defiance, something that coiled just beneath the surface like a whip waiting to lash. “And you’re just sitting there like I brought you a plate of steamed rice.”

Hashirama watched him, trying not to let the corners of his mouth twitch. “I didn’t say that.”

Madara glared. “You’re thinking it.”

“Maybe,” he admitted quietly, sitting up to match him. He reached out again, fingers splayed over the ink. “But I still like the thought behind it. That’s what matters.”

Madara stilled, chest rising under Hashirama’s palm. For a second, he looked thrown off, like something had landed somewhere it wasn’t supposed to.

“I didn’t do it for them,” he said, voice lower now. “I did it for you.”

“I know,” Hashirama murmured. His hand trailed down slowly, lingering on the lines of the tattoo, over the shape of his own likeness etched into flesh. “And I do like it. Not because it’s me. But because now everyone will know.”

Madara blinked, expression shifting. “Know what?”

“That you’re mine.” Hashirama leaned in, voice a breath against his skin. “You walk around with my face over your heart. You belong to me, now more than ever. And I fucking love that.”

Rage, possessiveness, vulnerability: all of this flickered in Madara’s eyes, all tangled into something messier. Darker. He grabbed the back of Hashirama’s neck, pulled him close like he was drowning and Hashirama was the only anchor that mattered.

“Say that again,” he growled.

“You’re mine.”

It landed somewhere in Madara’s spine, made his whole body tighten. The kiss that followed wasn’t soft. Teeth clacked. Tongues clashed. Madara’s hands were everywhere—sharp, desperate, like he needed to prove something, like the tattoo alone wasn’t enough of a declaration.

Hashirama let himself be pushed back, fingers tangling in ink-black hair as Madara hovered over him, breathing hard. The room swelled with heat, the air thick and buzzing. He glanced down with his own face stared back at him, inked and perfect, now stretched slightly with the movement of Madara’s chest.

It should have been absurd. It was absurd. But it turned him on in a way he hadn’t expected. Because this fucked-up, obsessive act—it was so Madara . Passionate. Reckless. A little unhinged.

“You’re insane,” Hashirama whispered against his lips, breathless.

“Only for you,” Madara whispered back, voice raw.

And then, Hashirama stopped thinking.

He grabbed the edge of Madara’s open shirt and yanked it off completely, tossing it somewhere across the room without looking. He didn’t give Madara time to protest before pushing him down flat on the mattress, hard enough that the headboard creaked. Madara’s hair spread out in a wild fan against the sheets, a halo of black silk, and for a heartbeat, he looked stunned: flushed, panting, pupils blown wide. Beautiful.

Madara reached for him instinctively, but Hashirama caught both wrists and pressed them down beside his head. He leaned in close, nose brushing Madara’s cheek, and growled against his skin, “Stay.”

Madara bucked a little beneath him, not in protest but in need, eyes glittering. “You’re getting possessive.”

“I am possessive,” Hashirama muttered, releasing one wrist just to drag his fingers down the line of Madara’s jaw, rough and hungry. “You made sure of it.”

Then he was kissing him again, harsh and deep, teeth scraping. His mouth moved down to Madara’s jawline, biting just below the ear—where it would bruise, where no collar could hide it. Madara gasped, fingers knotting in the sheets now, letting him. Hashirama kept going, down the line of his throat, biting just hard enough to leave marks, to make Madara arch and hiss.

His lips trailed further, down the sternum, wet and open-mouthed, until he reached the tattoo again: his own face staring back at him, freshly healed and a little too real in the low light. Hashirama’s breath stuttered. Something dark coiled inside him, possessive and starved.

He flattened his palm over it, slow and reverent, and then dragged his mouth over the ink, kissing it like it was holy.

Madara whimpered.

“You’re so fucked up,” Hashirama murmured against the tattoo, licking along the line of it, tongue catching on the ridges of healing skin. “Do you know what this does to me?”

“Tell me,” Madara rasped, voice wrecked. “Tell me, or I’ll go crazy.”

Hashirama didn’t speak. He let his hand trail lower instead, down the taut planes of Madara’s abdomen, over the deep dip of his navel, until he reached the waistband of his pants. He pressed the heel of his hand against the Uchiha’s crotch: slow, hard, deliberate.

Madara gasped, hips jerking upward, already half-hard under the fabric. His hands fisted in the sheets again, knuckles white.

“This,” Hashirama said finally, voice a rough whisper, “makes me want to ruin you. Over and over. Until everyone who sees this tattoo knows what it means.”

Madara trembled under him, eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in something between a moan and a curse. “Then do it,” he whispered. “Ruin me.” The Senju pressed down harder, grinding the heel of his palm against Madara’s clothed cock with maddening slowness. The Uchiha let out a strangled sound, half-growl, half-plea, his hips stuttering up again, desperate for more friction, more touch, more anything. Hashirama didn’t give it to him.

Instead, he lifted his hand just enough to deny him pressure, fingers dancing along the edge of the waistband, teasing the skin beneath with barely-there touches. Madara cursed under his breath, chest heaving.

“Do something,” he panted, voice thick and dark with lust.

Hashirama smiled, slow and wicked. “Say that again.”

Madara glared at him, but the fire behind his eyes was faltering fast, eaten away by the heat building in his body. Hashirama saw it: that sharp edge starting to melt under want. Good .

“I like it when you ask nicely,” Hashirama murmured, dragging his mouth along the crease where hip met thigh, his breath hot. “When you beg.”

Madara groaned and turned his face into the pillow. “Fuck you.”

“You’re trying so hard to act like you’re in control,” Hashirama said, chuckling low. He leaned up again, hovering just above Madara’s crotch, face inches away, lips parted like a promise. Then he wrapped one hand firmly around Madara’s throat, not squeezing, just enough to make him still, to make his pulse spike beneath his fingers.

Madara’s eyes flew open. He made a choked sound that wasn’t fear, wasn’t anger—it was need . His cock twitched visibly through the fabric, achingly hard, straining for contact.

“Still pretending you don’t want to beg?” The Senju whispered, brushing his lips against the side of Madara’s neck. “Because I’m not doing anything until you do.”

Madara swallowed hard. For a moment, he held on, silent, stubborn, breathing fast. And then he cracked.

“Hashirama—please,” he breathed out, voice cracking, breathless and filthy and far too sweet on his tongue. “Please touch me. I need it. I need you—fuck, I need you, I can’t—”

“That’s it,” Hashirama purred, finally satisfied. He kissed him again, hot and deep, with tongue and teeth and the kind of ownership that made Madara moan into his mouth.

Then he pulled back and hooked his fingers into Madara’s pants and boxers, dragging them down in one smooth motion, tossing them aside like they meant nothing. Madara’s cock sprang free, flushed, leaking, desperate, and Hashirama just looked at it for a second, eyes half-lidded, hunger bleeding through his expression.

He reached out, slow and deliberate, cupping Madara’s balls gently in one hand, massaging them with a touch that was soft but possessive, worshipful. The Uchiha’s cock twitched violently, precum beading at the tip.

“Gods,” Madara gasped, head falling back against the pillow. “You’re— you’re killing me—”

Hashirama only smiled. “Not yet.”

He went lower, dragging his lips down Madara’s thigh with excruciating patience. When his mouth finally closed around the head of Madara’s cock, he sucked so slow it felt like time itself stopped in the room, suspended in the humid tension and the sound of Madara’s gasp shattering the stillness.

Hashirama worked him deeper, inch by inch, letting his tongue swirl under the tip before bobbing down further, then pulling back to lick a long, deliberate stripe from the base all the way up to the leaking crown. He did it again, slower, wetter, holding the other’s hips down when they bucked under him.

Madara whimpered high, breathy, helpless. His fingers curled in the sheets, then uncurled, reaching to tangle in Hashirama’s hair, as if needing something solid to hold on to. He looked down, and the sight just broke him—Hashirama between his thighs, his mouth red and wet, eyes heavy with intent, long dark hair falling around his shoulders in silken waves that caught the moonlight like ink. Beautiful. Cruel. His.

“Oh fuck— fuck —Hashirama,” Madara moaned, voice cracking around the edges. “You’re—gods, you’re so fucking good—”

Hashirama hummed around him in answer, sending a sharp jolt through his spine. He picked up the pace, head moving faster, sloppier now, his lips stretched wide around Madara’s cock. Occasionally he’d stop just to tease: tongue flicking over the head, then licking up from the balls to the tip in one long motion that made the Uchiha sob his name.

Madara could barely think. The world narrowed down to the wet heat of Hashirama’s mouth, the soft drag of hair over his thighs, and the unbearable need rising inside him like a tide.

“I want you,” he choked out. “Please—fuck, please , I want you inside—”

Hashirama didn’t respond with words. He pulled back slightly, letting the tip of the cock fall from his mouth with a soft pop. Then he spit into his hand, slick and lazy, his eyes never leaving Madara’s as he reached down and rubbed it over the other’s entrance, already twitching and sensitive from being edged so close.

One finger. Then two. Then three. He worked them in with an obscene sound, curling them just right while he went back to sucking Madara’s cock, messy and relentless.

Madara was falling apart: legs shaking, voice gone hoarse from begging, his cock twitching and leaking with every slow thrust of Hashirama’s fingers.

He was close. Too close.

And just when he thought he’d break, just when he was about to cum, Hashirama stopped everything.

The Uchiha cried out, the sudden absence making his whole body convulse. “ Why —!?”

But Hashirama was already climbing onto the bed, calm and controlled, and laying back as he unbuttoned his pants. He pulled them off with his boxers in one smooth, practiced movement, his cock flushed and hard, standing proud against his stomach. He was so fucking composed, and so fucking cruel about it.

Madara’s breath hitched. He knew that look. That silence. That invitation.

He sat up on shaking legs, eyes locked on the Senju like a man possessed. Then, without a word, he swung one leg over him, straddling him the other way around, his back to Hashirama’s chest, hands braced on the other’s thighs.

Reverse cowboy.

Hashirama exhaled. It was almost a laugh, but not quite. “Greedy.”

Madara looked over his shoulder, flushed and trembling and desperate. “Only for you.”

Madara sank down slowly, taking Hashirama in inch by inch, lips parted in a breathless gasp as he adjusted to the stretch. His thighs quivered, muscles tense, and his hands gripped Hashirama’s knees like he needed the anchor. The Senju watched, transfixed, every second carved into him like a brand: the way Madara moved with shameful grace, how his spine arched as he bottomed out, how his breath stuttered with the first full thrust.

“Fuck,” Hashirama groaned, head tipping back. “You feel—gods, you feel incredible .”

Madara didn’t answer, too busy riding him with slow, rolling movements that were obscene in their intent: hips grinding down, back flexing, hair sticking to his flushed skin in sweat-slick strands. His moans came in short, breathless bursts, broken up by whimpers as he bounced on Hashirama’s cock, chasing the rhythm, riding him with no shame.

Hashirama’s hands slid along Madara’s waist, reverent and tight. He couldn’t stop looking at the way Madara’s back bowed, the curve of his spine, the perfect swell of his ass every time he rose and fell. The sight drove him mad, heat building fast, brutal and consuming.

“Look at you,” Hashirama muttered, almost in awe. “You’re— fuck —you’re unreal.”

Madara shuddered and picked up the pace, movements more desperate now, less graceful. His rhythm faltered slightly, thighs shaking. And that was when Hashirama grabbed his hips hard and took control.

He slammed up into him, hard and fast, setting a punishing rhythm that made Madara cry out, the sound bouncing off the walls like something feral. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, matched only by Madara’s frantic moans.

“Ah—Hashirama— Hashirama , gods—!”

Another sharp thrust, perfectly aimed, and the Uchiha screamed as he came, spilling over Hashirama’s legs, body convulsing around him.

Hashirama grinned, chest heaving. “That was fast,” he said, voice low and teasing. “You couldn’t even hold back. So desperate for me.”

Madara barely had time to catch his breath before Hashirama pulled him up and off his cock. He flipped Madara forward with startling ease, pushing him down onto all fours. Madara moaned in protest, overstimulated and dazed, but he didn’t resist.

Hashirama sat up behind him, lined himself up again, and without waiting, he pushed inside all the way, deep and fast, drawing another loud cry from Madara’s throat.

“Too much—” He gasped, but the words died off in a moan as Hashirama started thrusting, no mercy in his pace now. Just hunger.

Madara’s limbs trembled, shoulders shaking as Hashirama drove into him, relentless and hard. Each thrust knocked the breath out of him, his fingers clawing into the mattress.

Hashirama leaned over him, one hand grabbing a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back. “You can take it,” he growled into his ear, voice rough and ragged. “You love taking it. For me.”

Madara’s only answer was a shattered moan as his body obeyed, folding under the weight of it all. Overwhelmed. Devoted. His .

Hashirama kept thrusting, fierce and unrelenting, the rhythm brutal and perfect, hips slamming against Madara’s ass with wet, obscene sounds that filled the room like a litany of lust. The Uchiha’s moans were growing louder, messier, slurred with pleasure until they barely resembled words at all: just broken cries torn from his throat as his body trembled under the onslaught.

And the way he sounded , like he was being ruined, like he wanted to be ruined, pushed Hashirama over the edge of restraint.

“Say my name,” Hashirama ordered, his voice low and rough, just beside Madara’s ear. “Say it while I fuck you like this.”

Madara whined, eyes squeezed shut, the pleasure too much, but he obeyed.

“Hashirama—” he gasped out, the syllables catching on his breath, dripping from his mouth like a prayer. “Hashirama—fuck—please— Hashirama —”

The way he said it, slutty, breathless, like it was the only thing he remembered, made Hashirama groan deep in his chest. He grabbed Madara’s hips tighter, pulling him back onto each thrust, using his body like he owned it. Because he did .

“You’re such a fucking slut,” Hashirama growled. “Only for me. Forever and always.”

Madara cried out, his voice trembling, high and close to breaking.

“Say it.”

“Yes—” Madara gasped. “Only for you. Forever and always, fuck—always— only you —”

That was all Hashirama needed. He reached forward, fisting Madara’s hair harsher now, yanking his head back again so he could hear every broken word fall from the Uchiha’s lips.

“I want everyone to know,” Hashirama hissed. “You hear me? You belong to me , Madara. Mine. Always.”

Madara nodded frantically, lost in it, completely undone. “Yours— yours —please, just don’t stop—”

And Hashirama didn’t. Not until Madara’s voice was wrecked and his body trembling beneath him, held together only by Hashirama’s hands and the weight of everything they were.

He kept going until he felt he was close. The pressure was coiling tighter with every thrust, heat burning up his spine, but he didn’t want it to end like this, not without seeing him. Not without looking at him.

He stilled inside Madara with a groan, chest heaving. “Get on your knees,” he said, voice rough, urgent.

Madara shivered, blinking through the haze. He obeyed without question, moving with shaky limbs as Hashirama pulled out and stepped back, standing at the edge of the bed.

Madara knelt in front of him, flushed and raw, lips parted, eyes glassy as they looked up. And then, slowly and reverently, he took Hashirama into his mouth.

Hashirama’s fingers threaded through Madara’s hair as he looked down at him, heart pounding. The sight was too much. Madara . Beautiful and wrecked, mouth working eagerly, hands gripping his hips for support, looked up at him like worship.

Hashirama couldn’t hold back. He took control by grabbing the Uchiha’s hair, guiding the rhythm, hips rolling forward as Madara’s eyes fluttered and his breath caught. Every movement was messy, needy, perfect .

The moonlight lit up Madara’s skin like silver, catching on strands of hair, on the curve of his cheek, on the sheen of sweat and the glint in his eyes. It was that sight that undid him.

The Senju pulled him back, just enough to look at him one more time, to burn the image into memory. With one hand still in Madara’s hair, he pulled the Uchiha’s mouth away from his cock and he moved it for making the other to look at his face. With the other hand, Hashirama took his dick and he started to move it up and down, until he let go with a choked breath. As the peak of pleasure was reached, the Senju’s cum spilled all over Madara’s face and hair, marking the end of that wildfire that possessed them until that moment.

It was over and Madara’s face was a masterpiece: streaked, shining, ruined in a way that made Hashirama’s chest ache with possession. He said nothing at first, only stared, heart loud in his ears.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost in disbelief. “So fucking beautiful.”

Madara exhaled, trembling with aftershocks, his lashes fluttering. When Hashirama collapsed backward onto the bed, spent and breathless, Madara followed. He crawled onto the mattress, settling beside him, skin still warm and flushed, and rested his cheek on Hashirama’s chest.

Hashirama wrapped an arm around him without thinking, fingers brushing gently through tangled black hair. The tattoo glowed faintly in the dim light— his face, forever etched over Madara’s heart. The ink was still fresh, still healing. But already it felt eternal.

Madara shifted, seeking the comfort of touch, and Hashirama pulled him closer, protective, proud, and utterly claimed.

He brushed a lock of hair from Madara’s cheek. “Mine,” he whispered again, this time not as a command, but as a promise.

And Madara, eyes half-lidded, smiled against his skin.

Silence settled around them, soft and thick as velvet. The only sound was their breathing, slow now, steady. Madara’s body rose and fell with the rhythm of Hashirama’s chest beneath him, as if syncing to a beat he didn’t need to think about anymore.

His fingers curled over the curve of Hashirama’s ribcage, barely gripping, like he was afraid the man beneath him might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. His breath was warm against Hashirama’s skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he was quiet. Truly quiet.

The Senju didn’t say anything. He just kept his arm around Madara’s shoulders, thumb brushing along the edge of his collarbone, slow and sure. Like he was still memorizing him. Like he never wanted to stop.

The tattoo between them, his face etched above Madara’s heart, seemed to throb in the stillness, not from pain, but meaning. Claim. A mark that even time wouldn’t wash away.

Madara shifted, just slightly, his lips brushing against Hashirama’s chest. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath. “I did it so you’d stay.”

Hashirama’s fingers paused for a moment, then resumed. Slower now.

“I know,” he said.

Madara didn’t look up. “I always think… if I don’t hold you tight enough, you’ll disappear.”

Hashirama’s heart clenched. Not because he hadn’t heard this before in other ways, in fights, in silence, in the reckless edge of Madara’s desire, but because this time, it came as a whisper into his skin, when there was nothing left between them to hide behind.

“I’m still here,” Hashirama murmured, brushing his lips to Madara’s temple.

“But you could go,” Madara said, voice barely audible. “If you wanted.”

Hashirama didn’t answer. He just turned slightly, pulling Madara into his arms more tightly, his chin resting in the tangle of ink-black hair. He kissed the top of his head, reverent.

“I won’t,” he said.

Madara’s fingers dug just a little deeper into his side at that.

A pause.

Then, softly, like a confession: “You make me feel like I’m not broken.”

Hashirama smiled, slow, wistful, possessive.

“You’re not,” he said. “You’re mine.”

Outside, the city hummed. The moonlight spilled across the bed like a blessing, catching in Madara’s ruined hair, across the lines of the tattoo still healing on his skin, and the quiet, wrecked contentment in his eyes.

Hashirama watched him as he drifted—fragile in his silence, strong in his need—and thought, not for the first time, that this was love. A bit dark and twisted, yes. But his.

Always.

And he’d never let go.