☆HashiMada OneShots☆

Concentration

Hashirama is no sensor, but he couldn’t miss the telltale chakra approaching if he tried.

“Don’t mind me,” Madara says when one eye pops open. He makes himself at home in the space on the ground at Hashirama’s side. “Just keep your focus.”

Hashirama gives him a small, confused smile before letting his eyes drift closed again. His mind is just beginning to clear when he feels the hand that settles lightly on his thigh. It starts to move, slowly, up and down his leg, and Hashirama doesn’t need his eyes open to see Madara’s glee at having caused this slip in focus. His eyebrows scrunch together; his previously relaxed posture tenses.

After a while of this, Hashirama opens an eye. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I said not to mind me,” Madara doesn’t move his hand. “Go on, close your eyes.”

Hashirama eyes him warily but obeys nevertheless. He lets the sound of waves lapping at the riverbank erase every thought in his brain. Nature chakra drifts lazily in the air around him, but he doesn’t gather it to himself. He lets his own breath and chakra mingle with it, simply allowing his senses to perceive without interfering.

He’s almost able to forget that he isn’t alone—until he feels the hot breath that ghosts across the back of his neck. Madara’s lips follow, and he kisses around the side of Hashirama’s neck, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. Hashirama can feel his lips, curved into a smile, as he mouths teasingly at his tingling skin.

It’s terrible for Hashirama’s concentration. Madara can apparently sense this, as he murmurs into the hokage’s ear, “Concentrate, Hashirama.”

Then, to make Hashirama’s task even more difficult, Madara’s hand snakes its way underneath Hashirama’s bent arm. He rubs up and down his side with teasingly light caresses, eventually letting his hand drift to Hashirama’s chest, resting just above a heart that is thumping much harder than it should be in a meditative state. It rabbits away still faster in his chest as Madara’s hand moves lower, carving a winding path over his pecs and down his belly. Hashirama’s breath catches when it lands on his rapidly hardening dick and squeezes.

Hot under the collar and unable to take anymore teasing, Hashirama turns his head abruptly. He whines when Madara pulls away before he can capture his lips with his own, which just makes Madara’s smirk grow wider. Undeterred, Hashirama catches his arm by the wrist and tugs until he falls into Hashirama’s lap. Winding his arms around his neck, Madara allows Hashirama to kiss him this time, but only briefly.

He pulls away and opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted when Hashirama tries to pull him back down by his mantle. Hashirama’s hands are demanding on his hips, on his sides, at the nape of his neck—anywhere and everywhere they can reach. Both of them are wearing entirely too much clothing for Hashirama’s tastes, so he reaches to unfasten the cloth around Madara’s waist. Madara catches his hand and gently pulls it away, frustrating Hashirama to no end.

“Why do you torture me?” he complains.

Madara just smiles. He leans in until his lips are a hair's breadth away from Hashirama’s. “The daimyo is here.”

It takes a while for Hashirama’s brain to process the words. “But we didn’t expect him until…”

“He arrived early. I volunteered to fetch you myself.”

Hashirama groans. “He can wait a little longer then.”

“No.” Madara’s back arches and pops as he stands. He extends a hand to Hashirama, who reluctantly allows himself to be helped onto his feet. “Come on, you’ve dallied long enough.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Madara isn’t quite able to hide his sly smile as he leads the way back to the village.