sonofwhitefang:

somniare–aeternum:

Obito’s fingertips blanched as he gripped the couch tightly. His face felt flushed, reddened and throbbing with blood. He had no leverage in his legs; he was bent too far forward. He couldn’t rear back; Kakashi’s narrow frame pressed down on him as though it suddenly held a thousand times the weight. Obito was pinned in place. He was stuck. 

His chakra simmered at a pathetically low level now, nearly as far from his grasp as the godlike power he had once held in his eyes. There was no jutsu to be called upon, no surge of strength to bring to bear. There wasn’t enough air for his sore, taxed body to breathe.

“FUCK YOU–” was all he could continue to say, like a petulant child, like some small trapped spitting thing. This was subjugation at its most extreme, a humiliating level of helplessness against forces from both without and within.

He thought about death one last time: the definitive solution he’d managed to fail to reach. All that remained of that avenue was the rapidly drying, sticky patina of blood at his throat. A millimeter or two deeper, and it would have been over. Failure was becoming a theme of sorts.

Clearly, the cruel, wry voice in his head warned him, he had no clue what he actually wanted.

Case in point: Kakashi’s breath was hot on Obito’s nape again now, amazingly familiar to his body even though it had only been the once (once that never should have happened; a complete and utter aberration, deny at all costs). The sound and heat and weight sank into Obito’s bones immediately, wrapping insidious, invisible fingers around the thickening shaft between his legs. A subtle, shifting rhythm had begun to permeate their movements once more, instantly blurring the line between violent struggle and something altogether more dangerous.

He resisted. With every fraying edge of control he had, he thought wildly of any possibility of escape–not only from Kakashi’s damning grasp, but also from himself. From a body that seemed all too eager, all of a sudden, to play this mindless game.  

He tensed, then relented, then tensed again. His clear, hyper-linear thoughts eroded into a maelstrom of desire and disgust. And he felt against him, growing firmer with every pressured, panting breath, the intentions of Kakashi’s body. 

Obito wanted to touch himself.

“Do it,” Kakashi was snarling murderously, unknowingly giving Obito’s shameful drive a voice.

Obito hissed.

He would not.

Kakashi woke to a place that smelled different–savage.

It smelled like Ozone, like dry blood and sweat and the bitter edge of weapon oil. He wondered for an instant if the past few months hadn’t been some nightmare he’d endured in the depths of Kamui, that the war still raged on and he’d simply been dreaming, forgotten and bleeding to death. That would have been easier to swallow; he would have preferred the gloom, the weakness and the silence of the void to what was almost certainly real.

Terribly real.

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The kunai hit the wall with a heavy thunk that resonated loudly through the room, even jarring Obito from the burning haze that had begun to settle over his mind. In that moment of awful clarity, he was able to take full stock of his situation. He could acknowledge, first and foremost, the low, full throb between his legs. He was hard again, hard as yesterday, and all it had taken this time was Hatake Kakashi bending him over a couch and pressing his similarly rigid cock against the crack of Obito’s ass.

They were still fully dressed, the two of them, Obito disturbing the line of his robes and Kakashi almost certainly aching (good, let him ache) in the confinement of his fatigue pants. A particularly aggressive forward push from Kakashi tumbled them both onto the softer cushioned seats, and the arm of the sofa no longer bit into Obito’s thighs. Kakashi was no longer holding him down per se; his arms penned in close on either side of Obito’s body. And somehow that made it worse, knowing that escape was possible if only he had the will. The restraint was gone, but Obito remained, fixed in place as though by invisible strings. Don’t give it to him–don’t give him the satisfaction–

Kakashi’s gasps bloomed hot on the skin of his neck, a coil of steam against raised gooseflesh. They sounded helpless somehow, just as hopelessly lost. And Obito’s rational mind became a dim echo, still shrieking RUN, but so far away, trapped now behind curtain after curtain of thick, all-consuming ardor.

They had assumed a rhythm again, a clothed approximation of a far deeper embrace. Obito groaned then, low and frustrated, to realize that his mind had begun to extrapolate. To consider the rhythmic twitch of his ass against the dry drag of Kakashi’s straining pants and wonder, really wonder, how it might feel going in.

The thought only made him throb harder, made that burning need raise its voice into a shriek.

Kakashi’s mouth dragged a hot line across the back of his neck, and Obito could hear a hitching growl, this bitten-off “haaaaah” that made something low in his abdomen coil hotly.

Obito felt his face contort, felt his eyes burn with tears that would not shed. (He wasn’t a boy any longer, after all. He would not offer up that last token of weakness.) Cheek pressed against the couch–smearing with thickening blood, eyes pressed shut, he finally relented against his body’s loud insistence.

Every time he thought he had reached his absolute nadir and could fall no lower, the ground seemed to give way gamely beneath him, happy do drop him down even deeper. With one more frustrated hiss through grit teeth, Obito let his hand drift between his own legs.

The relief he felt with that first stroke tasted bitter in his mouth.