Pull me down hard (drown me in love)
Relationship: Obito Uchiha/Minato Namikaze, Minato Namikaze/Kushina Uzumaki, various background romances
Genre: Alternate Universe, Romance, PWP
Length: 5.6k
[Warnings: Unfinished, no neat chapter ending. Teacher/student relationship, but everyone involved is in their 20s at least. AU where everybody lives/nobody dies. Polyamory as this is set in a “Konoha is the Vegas of the ninja world” AU and everyone accidentally/drunk/for-a-mission marries their teammates on the regular]
Minato is happy to be there for his students’ weddings, no matter how strange or inebriated the ceremony, and if they happened to be unattached when they walked into the bar and planned the whole thing between drinks, well– the more amusing it will be in the morning when they realize what they’ve done.
He does draw the line at letting Obito go home with his new wife, when he can herd the man into his own apartment instead with far less bloodshed; Mikoto is merciless when crossed, and Kushina is where all her lines in the sand are drawn.
No need to invite such difficulties into his life, since as Hokage it will escalate to his problem sooner rather than later– especially considering his relationship to the vixen, the murderess, and the deceased.
“Come on, Obito,” Minato cajoles easily, “Just one more street. You can make it.”
“But Sensei,” Obito whines, head lolling on Minato’s shoulder, and nevermind that it’s been half a decade since he was their teacher.
He’s warm and languid from drink, though not anywhere near drunk enough to marry Kushina without some element of planning involved. He doesn’t want to know– really. He didn’t survive this far in life by borrowing trouble.
Minato has one arm around Obito’s waist, and one of Obito’s around his neck. They set an easy pace in the mostly-sleeping village, the hot and humid night pressing damp against their skin.
“Air conditioning. Hot water. A nice, comfortable couch,” Minato pulls no punches, listing once more the virtues of his apartment.
Obito wrinkles his nose.
“Why would I want a hot shower? It’s hot out here.”
Minato indulges him, much less drunk than he appears or no.
“A nice night for a wedding,” He teases, though teases on the nights-of usually bounce off the newlyweds. “Not as nice as Kakashi and Rin’s, though.”
That gets him a belly-laugh, deep and sincere. Obito doesn’t stumble, though.
“Sage, their faces,” He manages, when he’s down to just giggles.
Minato hums, pointedly not bringing up the obvious.
“Flower blossoms everywhere,” He agrees instead, smiling in remembrance. “Romantic, lovely, enough to make women in the capital jealous. A fairytale wedding.”
“Wasted,” Obito snorts.
“Anko certainly thought it was hilarious,” Minato reminds.
“Yeah, because she was giving her wife away to Bakashi!”
Minato has been to four weddings between Obito and Kakashi, but gently bites his tongue on the urge to point that out.
“Anko made a lovely father-of-the-bride,” Minato says diplomatically. His apartment is just up ahead, large and well-secured despite not being his primary residence.
“‘Who gives this woman away?’” Obito mocks, grinning, only to answer himself a moment later in an inaccurate falsetto: “‘The Hokage and I, her wife, do.’”
“She,” Obito has to stop to laugh. “She threw you under the bus, sensei. Made you be second witness. Rin and Bakashi didn’t talk to you for a whole week after they saw the certificate.”
“Ah, peace and quiet,” Minato laments, tossing his chin for dramatic effect. Obito laughs again, delighted. The smile tugs up the scars on one side of his face, and the expression is still rare enough to make Minato pause to appreciate it.
His smiles have been smaller things, more precious and zealously guarded, since the war and all it took.
Obito is warm and leaning his weight– almost certainly unnecessarily– into him, though, so it’s hard to think about losses; not when his team is whole and drunkenly proposing to each other twice a month, when he could have– and very nearly did– lose them all.
He pulls Obito in closer at the thought. It helps them squeeze up the thin stairwell better, anyway. The most scarred and very-completely-and oh-so-convincingly-drunk member of Team 7 acts like dead weight the whole time, leaning completely on him and barely shuffling his feet.
Minato has half a mind to drop him. Instead, a quarter of the way up, he sighs and turns to his student, letting go of the wrist draped around his shoulders. It’s the work of a moment to sweep Obito’s legs out from under him, arm hitting the back of his knees and lifting so cleanly his head never had a chance to move from Minato’s shoulder.
It does earn him a high-pitched yelp of surprise or dismay; even odds on either.
“Sensei!” Obito yells, smacking at the shoulder his cheek isn’t pressed to.
“I haven’t been your teacher in years, Obito,” Minato tries without much hope. It never works. The princess carry is a lot easier to manage, and he turns to take the steps better. His hands are full this way, none free to go for a weapon without dropping an armful of inevitably offended grown-ass adult, who could nevertheless– like all his genin team– whine for weeks.
He’s not too worried. There are seven ANBU on the rooftops, hidden in shadows, and one in civilian guise on the other end of the street. More importantly, should an attack come in the heart of the village, Minato is fairly certain he could throw his armful of pissy jonin at the problem, and let the assailant deal with a sudden very, very bad day.
He grins wryly to himself.
“You say that like you ever stopped nagging us,” Obito mutters, petulant.
Minato nods to his guards as he jostles Obito to get the door open. He could teleport to any number of seals inside, but using Hiraishin to avoid opening a door speaks to Kakashi levels of laziness, and he does so hate to encourage bad habits in the boy.
“You were my genin team. It’s my job to nag you.” He explains. “I’ll be nagging you about your questionable life choices until either you or I are dead and buried, and even then, protocol says I should nag you to make better decisions in my will.”
Obito grumbles something he can’t make out, so Minato cheerfully adds,
“You’ll understand when you get a genin team of your own one day,” —
Just for the look of horror on Obito’s face. Belatedly, Minato remembers he’s the one with the power to make that happen, but that just makes the reaction more entertaining.
He gets them through the doorway before Obito can recover.
Technically, he could have teleported directly from the bar, but Kushina is fiercer than her wife when crossed and she’d clearly had a plan in mind; a bright yellow flash as the Hokage kidnapped the groom mere moments after the improvised reception seemed like the kind of plan-ruining distraction that would get him tortured for months.
It’s bad for morale when the Hokage is drug around by the ear in front of half the village and all its forces.
Obito groans like he’s dying when the cold air hits them. It’s nice, cool and dry inside; a direct counterpoint to the muggy and oppressive heat they just came in from. He sighs, and his toes, hanging straight in the air, wiggle happily.
“Do you think they bought it?” Minato asks in a stage-whisper, setting Obito down without much fanfare.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Obito sniffs, straightening his black shirt. It’s sleeveless. He’s forgone the flak jacket for his night off, and exchanged taped fatigues for grey cargo pants.
Overall very tame for ninja casual wear. If you didn’t know him, or disregarded the scars and biceps, you could almost think he wasn’t a trained killer.
Like all of Team 7, though, he could be naked as the day he was born and still tear an army apart.
Minato gives him a droll look, then lets it die. He’s absolutely certain he’ll find out the details of Kushina’s shenanigans within the week, likely by the chaos and paperwork that will doubtless follow.
“Make yourself at home,” He says instead, noting absently that Obito has already taken off his shoes and set them by the door.
It’s late, closer to morning than midnight, and if tomorrow weren’t one of Minato’s infrequent “off” days, he would cry to be awake and about.
As it is, he watches Obito get settled and contemplates some sake of his own.
Obito takes the couch he’ll be sleeping on with easy familiarity. All of his team have taken it for their own at one point or another, to say nothing of team movie nights. Rin and Obito frog march Kakashi into the apartment and don’t let him leave for days, giving Minato hostile looks until he agrees to keep Kakashi off the mission rosters for some much needed R&R.
It’s not often all of Team 7 is needed for a single mission, even in ANBU. Even one of them added to a normal team is often overkill. He schedules their breaks gratefully, if only because forcing them to take down-time for their own selves literally never works.
“I’m fine,” From a bleeding, exhausted brat has been the hallmark of Minato’s mental breakdowns for years now.
Fortunately, all that obstinance goes away if any two spot the third in the same condition. It’s like magic.
So Obito is familiar with his couch and falls onto it readily, stretching out without a care in the world. A sigh falls from his lips and his shirt creeps up, revealing a crescent moon sliver of skin, but he makes no move to fix it. A moment later, his arms are falling limp above his head, too lazy to bring them back down. He lets a forearm cover his eyes, languid as a cat and taking up as much room as possible.
For once, he doesn’t have to share, one teammate shoving his knees off the opposite end of the couch and the other coming in elbows first to make room for herself.
Obito sighs, all contentedness, as the air wafts over him. There’s pink dusting his cheeks, still, ruddy color trailing up and a touch of moisture at his temples.
He looks comfortable, so relaxed that Minato actually pauses a bit at the door, helplessly fond.
“Goodnight, Obito,” He says, rolling his eyes as he goes to collect his notes from the coffee table. He’d planned on getting some recreational work in, for once; tackling a stubborn section of a new seal, or maybe just lounging across that same couch with a book—though not one of Jiraiya’s, no matter how much he begged—and letting work’s tension seep out of him.
Having his home open to his team—having them comfortable here—is just as valuable to him as free time.
Before he can do more than pick up a reference scroll, Obito has scrambled up. Minato stops in some surprise, certain the younger man had been bound for a nap at the very least.
“Don’t leave,” Obito blurts, eyes painted wide from the hurried maneuver.
“Okay?” Minato can’t keep the questioning lilt from tipping his response, certainly willing—if bewildered.
Obito had thrown himself into a sprawl, one hand on the arm of the couch to balance as he jerked into a sitting position, the other stretched out toward Minato as if to stop him from leaving.
It’s this hand he lowers, slightly sheepish, only to reach up and scratch at the hair at his nape. He folds his legs up under him and then, unsatisfied, shuffles to tuck his knees up under his chin, arms wrapped loosely around them.
His mouth is pressed into a knee and Minato chuckles a little, earning a glare. Black eyes burn no less brightly for his mouth being hidden, turned on Minato with unwavering attention.
Obito, unlike his other former students, has always had an unnerving intensity to him. When he was younger it was pure optimism; now it’s something else, dark and heady. To be the only object of his focus—the kind of attention that doesn’t flicker or ebb, the determination that burns battlefields and the single-mindedness that makes Obito terrifying at one-on-one combat, even when he’s reduced to only taijutsu, even when he’s blinded or bleeding—is a dangerous thing.
Minato feels it even as he knows his student is docile, here, tipsy and relaxed and gentle with his comrades. Hell, even Kakashi gets cold sweats when Obito looks at him plotting mischievous retribution for one prank or another.
Obito smiles, all amusement, and with his mouth hidden it’s a shy thing; because it’s Obito, it’s also a wry thing.
“Stay,” Obito repeats. “I don’t want to be alone.”
His tone is pure, casual honesty, the kind that Obito often throws around, not tainted with even a little bit of sadness, nor carrying any hint of the lingering dark thoughts all shinobi are plagued by, at one time or another, but Minato doesn’t trust him not to hide real pain in sardonic jokes.
Besides, even if it is a genuine request for amiable companionship, Obito’s not bad company. As loud as he was as a kid, he’s a quiet house guest, prone to long periods of introspection. A remnant of living alone, probably—the thought makes him want to give out hugs like Jiraiya gives out unsolicited romantic life tips: often, and without warning.
“And on your wedding night, at that.” He says, genuinely unable to help himself.
Obito scowls at him, brows drawing together, and Minato laughs. It’s closer to Kushina’s cackle than he usually gets.
Still, he leaves the cluster on the table alone and stands straight, resolved to spend the evening entertaining.
“What did you have in mind?” Minato asks, and it must be a trick of the light that makes Obito look more flushed than he did a second ago; it’s plenty cool in here. He walks to the thermostat to check the temperature.
“We could, uh, watch a movie?” Obito volunteers.
“And let me catch the grief from your team? Movies are for movie night.” Rin’s face if he announced they’d seen a flick—just he and Obito, mind, without the rest of the group—
Actually, she’d probably be delighted that they spent time together.
But not that they’d left the rest of the family out.
“So, what, we’re not allowed to ever watch movies outside of movie night, for the rest of our lives?” Obito bitches, falling on the chance without hesitation. He’s very volatile, never missing an opportunity to finish a fight, if not start one.
“We’re not allowed to watch movies on the movie-watching couch in the movie-watching house without inviting them,” Minato corrects. “Or, well, we might be, but do you want to take the chance?”
Rin might even take it as them trying to get out of team bonding night, which would necessitate more forced team bonding, and Minato has precious little free time as it is.
Not that any time spent with his team would be wasted.
All of team 7 are volatile, dramatic creatures, and making them think they’d been intentionally snubbed is just—no.
Obito shudders.
“No, I don’t want to invite them over,” He concedes, scowling.
Obito runs a hand through his hair, catching thick-soft strands on nimble fingers. The contrast is interesting.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Minato offers, half distracted. He spares one fleeting glance at his books. He should at least put them away properly, sort through his notes.
Obito stands up, apparently restless.
Minato pays him little mind, debating on how confident he is that he won’t lose the train of thought he was on for the project, whether or not he wants to leave a reminder to himself in his–
Movement. Obito had decided to walk over, but instead of brushing by Minato on his way to the kitchen or the bathroom, idle ideas in Minato’s head, he’d instead stopped right in front of him.
“What–” Minato starts to ask, taking in bright dark eyes and flushed cheeks, only to be interrupted.
Obito is entirely too close, yet moves closer still, lifting his chin and pressing his lips softly to Minato’s.
Oddly enough, Minato’s first thought is: he must be lifting up a little on his toes as well, to reach.
It’s– a kiss. Clearly a kiss. A nice kiss, even, and Minato’s brain might be skipping like an old CD but his body responds to years of training, a hand raising to fall palm-first on Obito’s hip. The gentle press of lips to lips. A first kiss. No hesitance to it, in typical Obito fashion.
The meaning behind the kiss finally jiggs, awareness beyond the closeness of a warm body finally returning to him, and it sweeps over him like a breath of cool air.
Minato brings his right hand up to Obito’s face, leaves the left one where it is, and uses a bit of pressure to separate them. The unblemished side of his face is soft, smooth. Minato’s thumb brushes his cheekbone. It seems for a moment they’re suspended like that, immune to outside gravity and the cradle of the earth, bare millimeters away from each other.
Obito’s breath fans out over Minato’s lips, shaky and warm.
“Obito,” Minato forces himself to say. He’d like to say he has a plan for words beyond that– he doesn’t know, something with wisdom and authority and firmness. Instead he’s just deeply surprised, the foundation of his world shifting some few degrees and making everything off center, new.
“Minato,” Obito breathes, a word and a challenge. The look in his eyes is all bold determination burying fear, something desperate in his expression belayed by the crooked smile he offers, a man capable of humor and levity no matter how grim the situation.
It reminds Minato of a similar expression, plastered over crushing grief, a broken attempt at a reassuring smile while Minato did his level best to bleed out in his arms, the village burning around them.
Obito had only been eighteen, then, a scarred teen with the weight of the world on his shoulders and the voice of a madman in his ears. Since then he’s grown, excised most of his demons, and though the scars remain they remind Minato of how breathlessly glad he’d been to see Obito that night, how overwhelmingly relieved that he was alive.
Minato had survived that night, though he’s got his own scars to show for it– having a god impale you will do that– and learned something about regrets, opportunities and making the most out of life, miraculous second chances or no.
He leans in and kisses Obito slowly, lets his eyes slip closed. He strokes his thumb over the same cheekbone, slow this time.
Obito makes a sound like he’s dying; not like Shisui’s melodramatic moans, but a little ragged inhale, a shocked noise like he’s been punched in the gut.
It turns into a groan that Minato can taste, a bold pair of hands finding either side of his jaw and holding on.
“Please,” Obito says into the kiss, breaking it but only as a wave breaks, over and over again against the shore, a dozen quick kisses being born if one is.
It breaks something important in Minato’s brain, the hand on Obito’s hip sliding around his back as he returns each kiss, each desperate press of lips on lips, the frantic tide like Obito thinks there’s a universe where he’d be able or crazy enough to resist this.
Minato lets go of his cheek, chases the wordless cry of complaint back into Obito’s mouth, gets his freed hand on Obito’s thigh. He holds fast with the bracing arm around Obito’s waist and pulls, hoisting the brazen Uchiha up.
He goes easily enough. Later, Minato will think back on this as a small miracle; any of his team doing something without at least token recalcitrance is noteworthy.
“Oh my god,” Obito breathes, breaking the kiss to pant harshly, eyes thrown wide.
‘He’s so pretty,’ Minato thinks, tries to reboot his brain to any other thought and fails a solid half-dozen times, makes up for each failure with a kiss to those tempting lips.
Obito’s hands slip from his jaw, slide around to tangle in the hair at the back of his neck. Minato shivers and feels Obito’s legs tighten around him, all thick muscle and strength.
He shifts a little, desperately banishing the memory of shifting his toddler on his hip, and when he’s sure Obito is balanced, Minato drags the arm he’s had around him down to his ass, barely lingering in favor of trailing across his leg, the defined muscles hot and hard against his palm.
Obito has nice thighs, strong and thick, and he can’t reach behind himself to stroke calves but he wants to, gets quick and fleeting images of spreading Obito out on a bed with the same ankles currently crossed behind him thrown over his shoulders instead, the strong thigh under his hand quivering under his lips as he kisses down it.
“Fuck,” Obito swears, low and impassioned. His hands pull tighter at Minato’s hair as he buries his forehead in Minato’s neck, inhales and lets it out as damp warmth, the sound escaping all consonants.
The hair-pulling sends little thrills of want straight to down his spine. It’s one of Kushina’s favorite ways to make him crazy and one of Mikoto’s favorite ways to torture him; having Obito do it now because he’s so turned on his hands clench and his eyes squeeze shut is–
Minato might be having an out of body experience.
It certainly feels like it, except for how it doesn’t at all, how he’s so grounded in his body right now it feels like he can feel every cell, every synapse firing, like every iota of him is fiercely alive.
His groin is hot and warm from the contact, both of them putting out heat, and he’s half hard in his pants just from the kisses and the sight of Obito like this, all kissed-bitten lips and features screwing up in pleasure.
Minato lets his wandering hand travel back up, following the seam in his– former– student’s civilian pants, all soft and unarmored. Obito is never caught without some sort of fatigues, seems downright naked with just two layers of fragile fabric at most between him and the open air, and it’s not even like he wears it like a challenge– though admittedly Minato hadn’t seen him when he first emerged from his house looking like this, and his shoulders might have been up to his chin with reckless defensiveness for all Minato knows.
Minato had seen him at the bar, though, drinking bright-colored martinis with Kushina, and he’d been wearing the outfit looking soft and approachable, with a softer smile as he laughed at her exuberance.
Then, Minato had paused, staring, jaw slacking and fit to catch flies.
Now, it’s easy enough to imagine that this is for him, thin fabric and–
Ease of access.
Minato takes a breath that morphs into a sharp inhalation without his consent; he can’t figure out if it’s from the thought or the way Obito had started kissing his neck, nuzzling and drawing his lips against skin, leaving trails of cold fire– hot kisses and cool air when he leaves one patch of skin for another, and Minato’s hands tighten around his thighs.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise when Obito rolls his hips in response, a sensuous wave that starts with his chest pressed close and distracting to Minato’s and ends with his back arched like a cat’s. Minato’s forced to appreciate how lovely and small he is, despite the muscle tone, how he fits so well held against Minato this way, all long straight lines and curved, sexy ones.
The brief press of Obito’s groin to his steals his breath and sets off fireworks under Minato’s skin, minor explosions that disrupt his attempts to reason like a few characters can disrupt an entire sealing array, ruining the whole thing– like Minato is now ruined, aesthetic appreciation and wonder giving in to the rushing tide of pleasure as his greedy, goblin brain reminds him this is sex, visceral and sweaty and soon they’ll be undressed.
Minato isn’t the most single-minded bed partner. Or maybe he is– his goals just aren’t very big picture, devoting himself to each task with problematic single-mindedness.
If he’s kissed Kushina once, appreciated her form without thought for his dick or where it could go, he’s done a thousand times, done it for hours, only to be shocked out of the motions with extreme surprise as he’s hit or punched or elbowed by a beautiful woman who has had “enough foreplay, pretty boy, at least touch my tits.”
Obito doesn’t let go of his hair, but does brace his wrists on Minato’s shoulders. He rolls his hips again, achingly slow, and tips his head back to watch Minato’s face as it happens, eyes half-lidded and breathing quicker than he was a moment ago.
“Like this?” Obito wonders, voice catching as his dick presses close through their clothes.
Minato can’t parse whether it’s a ‘do you’ or ‘should I’ question, feels higher thought leave him for fleeting seconds of blinding pleasure, the weight of Obito pressed close to him and undulating tantalizing in its own right.
“Yes,” He says into Obito’s mouth, stealing a kiss that surprises the other man, makes him press close and use his grip in Minato’s hair to pull Minato in, arches his back like he’s not even thinking about it, just wanting to get closer.
The catch and drag of their cocks together is molten pleasure, burning distraction, so hot Minato can hardly stand it. He wants Obito in bed, again, only this time under him– wants to rub them together, take their cocks in one hand and rub those together, too, watch Obito claw at the sheets or fist them or scream as he can’t take anymore.
Minato pulls back to pant, feels something in his chest seize at Obito’s whine, unhappy and high on the back of his tongue. It shifts halfway into an annoyed groan, becomes another kiss as Obito won’t be denied and follows him, slurs something like his name into his mouth in complaint.
Minato breaks the kiss again, wanting air and maybe some room to think about something other than now and more, but since Obito isn’t having any of it and Minato doesn’t really want to stop kissing him, he’s got to–
Two hands on the back of Obito’s thighs and it’s only now that he uses the grip for something, holds Obito in place to press his own hips forward. He immediately loses his train of thought as Obito shakes for him, tosses back his head and cries out, releases his hair to hold on to his shoulders like he needs the support.
It’s the hottest fucking thing Minato has ever seen, and he’s seen Kushina thrust a fake cock into Mikoto’s ass until the other woman, usually so confident and unshakeable, came screaming.
“Do you want to go to the bedroom,” Minato asks, because the two women had been on a bed at the time, even if they’d had him sit still and watch on a nearby chair, and the reminder that surfaces exist purely to allow people to get horizontal is a stunning one.
“I– fuck,” Obito laughs, and his voice is deeper than usual, a touch breathless. For one blind moment Minato can’t think around the rasp of it, caught for those few heartbeats in the grip of crushing desire so thoroughly it’s like the hand of an erotic god wrapped around him and squeezed.
“I had a plan,” Obito says, high with lack of air and the promise of laughter, the words snapping Minato out of it. His voice is no less arousing, nor is his entire face, but Minato is a grown man. He can handle this. Probably. He holds Obito up and leans in to the junction of neck and shoulder, tips his head to kiss the soft skin of his throat.
The way he smells is distracting in and of itself. He can’t resist a nuzzle, a kiss, briefly touching his teeth to sensitive flesh– he does that last a few more times, solely for the way it makes Obito’s breath hitch.
Hands clench in his hair again, tightening when Minato bites lightly, paying equal attention to various places. After not nearly long enough, Minato forces himself back. Everything is hot and oversensitized with the promise of sex, his nerves alive.
Under his fingertips, the rough fabric of Obito’s pants.
“Minato!” Obito gripes, squirming.
Minato groans, lets his forehead rest against a shoulder so he doesn’t look, so he isn’t tempted beyond reason.
It’s not very successful.
Still, “You had a plan?” He manages.
Obito twists, exactly as agile and graceful as a man who dodges thrown knives for a living, but is lightheaded with want. In seconds he’s on his knees and as they hit the floor of his living room, the sound is like the knell of a very large, very foreboding bell. At a church of Jashin. In Iwa.
Minato is doomed.
Dark eyes look up at him, sultry instead of shy, and Minato feels a sweat break out along his palms. There’s a very playful grin curling up one side of Obito’s mouth and without really thinking, Minato’s thumb is tracing it, aweing in the way Obito tilts his head into the touch, the way his palm brushes ridged scars.
It’s a little like cupping a maelstrom in his palm– Kushina– and like getting closer than one should ever get to a patient but venomous spider– Mikoto– and something else, something that’s just Obito, all dark sardonic smiles and bad jokes while decimating a battlefield as only a Team Seven calibre shinobi can.
Holding Obito like this is like staring Death in the face, except Death is handsome beyond description and there’s the sexy bite of steel pressed to your jugular. It’s like standing on a precipice so high all the chakra in your body couldn’t break your fall.
(The first and only time Minato has stared Death in the face, it was with horror and blood on his tongue, grief and a god’s tail stabbing through him, and Obito flew in and punched both the god and the Shinigami itself in the face. There have been more amazing moments, probably, but Minato can’t think of anything better than Obito, alive, holding his newborn son.)
Obito smiles against Minato’s skin and then tilts his chin back to pant, pretty red lips falling open, face flushed.
Sentimentality has a way of distracting Minato sometimes, especially when it’s such a monumental sentiment as Obito evokes with all his miracles, but this– he’s forced to push past it because there’s young wide eyes staring up at him and hot breath fanning out onto his cock, warmth just a tease through the layers.
He slides his fingers shakily into Obito’s hair, pressing lightly along the way to watch him shiver. This hasn’t even happened yet and Minato is ridiculously into it.
Obito reaches up Minato’s shirt, the soft slide of fingers going up and– Minato hitches out a gasp– teasing nails going down. They stop at his waistband. Minato isn’t dressed like a civilian, is only wearing fatigues and the soft undershirt that goes under his flak vest and haori, both on the hook by the door.
The hands pause. Obito looks up at him, something like a question in his eyes behind all that confidence, and that’s–
Minato grips him by the hair, pushes on the back of his head until Obito lets out a startled sound, turns his face by habit and suddenly his unscarred cheek is pressed into Minato’s tented pants. The noise melts into a gasp, so Minato drags his cheek along the very definite shape of his erection, none-too-gently.
Obito moans, low and obscene; for a second Minato presses his hips forward, trapping Obito between unyielding hand tight in his hair and hard cock. Noise warbles out of his throat.
“Oh my god.” He says, when Minato slackens his grip– but doesn’t let go– and lets his head fall back.
“Mm.” Minato unwinds his fingers only to thread them a little ways up, pull Obito just a little closer. He rubs the front of his pants into a mouth that drops open willingly enough, head of his dick hitting chin through the layers.
Obito’s hands clutch at his hips while he tries to get back enough to mouth at it, only mostly succeeds. A wet tongue flexes against him, desperate and off center– he’s not giving Obito that much room to maneuver– and it’s mostly pressure through so much fabric but–
“Suck,” Minato says and then the pressure is better, warm-almost-damp to the left of his dick because Obito hadn’t even tried moving for a better angle, had only obeyed. Forget absently complying without a fight, that’s the true shocker of the night.
(Team Seven is recalcitrant to the point of legend, as a general rule, and if Minato weren’t so enamored with the way he can thrust against a hot open mouth and drag his cockhead against wet fabric, he might take better note of the oddity.)
He wrenches Obito’s head back– another grunt– by the hair just to see his pretty neck flex around a swallow, arched and pale and perfect (Minato wonders what his cock looks like).
It’s tempting to free himself and let Obito get on with what is obviously a very planned out blowjob, but it’s also so easy to make the flush spread up his neck when he keeps Obito’s head right where it is with one hand and uses the other to grab one of Obito’s, pry it off his hip, and grind, fully dressed, into his palm.
Obito swallows heavily, eyes drawn to the sight.
Minato lets himself fuck slow and dirty and shallow against his palm, avoiding fingers and anything like a grip. Teasing.