"I'm not giving up, I'm just giving in."
A wry, self-effacing smile blooms and fades. These are Kakashi’s last focused words before his eyes slide shut.
Obito watches him, how he is laid out on the bed like a sacrifice. He observes the smooth inhale and sharp staccato exhale that precede those hooded lids lifting once more. He wakes, in a way, and he is different now. A seismic shift has taken place. A mountain has crumbled, eroded, collapsed into the sea.
Obito watches, and he catalogues the increments with which Kakashi surrenders himself to the scene. His chest heaves, his abdomen flexes, and he begins to drift, borne on some invisible current, rolling in the undertow. His surrender is simple, artful in its artlessness, his arousal climbing as his awareness clarifies.
“Obito,” is whispered, clear as daybreak over an expanse of water. A need vibrates in that whisper, tugging at Obito like a riptide on the shoreline.
Obito has only to glance at him for those mismatched eyes to latch onto his, rapt and hungry like a babe on mother’s breast. His mouth latches, too, to the thumb that skims his lower lip. He sucks, shallowly at first, but deeper with every subsequent pull. His nipples pebble, tense in spite of the rising heat.
“Have you been good?” Obito asks him, and delights to see the wave of goosebumps rise and spread across Kakashi’s pale, pale flesh. Kakashi’s eyes are wide in response, honest as he seldom is outside of these moments. Those lips—and those wicked teeth—detach from his thumb on a plume of warm breath.
“…Yes…”
It is lovely, simple. His language has been reduced to “yes,” said softly like an eager sigh. To “no”, said shyly, with a fear of misspeaking. To Obito’s name, over and over a thousand thousand ways, like a prayer, a blessing and an oath.
In this, his guilt is absolved.
In this, he can please Obito, satisfy Obito’s requests. The betrayal he fears is unthinkable, impossible. And he is grateful to Obito, who has removed the chance for him to fail. Obito revels in the gratitude. He nurtures it, crafts it to perfection.
"Then I’ll make you feel good,” Obito murmurs, sliding between Kakashi’s legs at the nadir of his hips’ subtle wave. Kakashi coos nonsense as Obito begins to explore his nexus with his head tilted in gentle scrutiny. It’s with the joy of absolution that Kakashi opens to Obito’s hand, accepts his trespass like a sacrament, willingly drawing him in. Happy to be offered such a gift.
All he asks is—
(Never let me go)
Obito will be his anchor as he drifts; he will hold him down with hands and lips and words. He will render him transparent from seabed to surface, and see all there is to see of him. There is a savage beauty in him that must be revealed, then cared for, nurtured, fed.
It’s mere moments before his fingers aren’t enough, for Kakashi to begin to voice his desire the only way he will permit himself: Obito’s name again, said lowly, and eager shifts of his hips, begging for friction, purchase—purpose.
“Take yourself in hand,” Obito instructs, and it comes out raspy, near-parched with the thirst he feels for this. Kakashi complies, fluid as quicksliver, stroking slow enough that he could last almost indefinitely. He’ll hold out as long as necessary, Obito knows. It’s beautiful, this level of discipline. Kakashi is ready.
Obito pins him, sheathing himself with smooth, inexorable force. Kakashi gasps, gripping the sheets—his hands blanch at the knuckles. Obito is buried deep and only wishes he could go deeper, could dissolve inextricably into Kakashi until they are free of boundaries altogether.
They crash together, deep and sweet, tossed like waves in a storm. The bed can’t hold them, nor the walls, nor the ground. There’s a vastness to their coupling that spans earth and sky. Kakashi’s hand pumps quickly, with mounting desperation. Obito’s spine bows fervently, bows so he can mouth at Kakashi’s flesh.
Kakashi’s sweat is dew and rainwater; salt like ocean spray seasoning his febrile skin. Obito tastes it on his jaw and neck as that silver head falls back to allow him unfettered access.
“Good boy,” Obito says, and he can feel each syllable ripple through the man, a killer turned kitten by a few well-placed words. “Tell me who you belong to, and then you may.”
“Yours,” Kakashi gasps, slowly dredging language up from dark and murky depths, “I’m yours.”
And he is, taught as a bowstring, mouth open in rapturous bliss under Obito’s careful care. His pleasure is spent in seafoam and pearls, rocking seamlessly under Obito’s onslaught, and they are splashing, flexing, breaking, crashing—
Amidst the white noise that claims Obito, that shrill hum that sets him floating like mist, there is a tranquility that flows into him from below. He looks down at Kakashi.
And their waters are calm, his ocean still as glass. Connected as they are, Obito can all but hear the singular chime of a bell, clear and pure, vibrating from Kakashi’s center and out to the vast reaches of the sea.
They drift ashore together, slowly.