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Posttraumatic stress disorder is a mental disorder that can develop after a person is exposed to a traumatic event, such as sexual assault, warfare, traffic collisions, or other threats on a person's life.


Naruto can never remember what triggers the fissures in his mind—only that the copious amounts of panic tinge his lips blue, making it difficult to breathe and to think. He’s a motionless, meaningless mess by the time the filth’s spread, parting his legs; his hand palms the growing bulge in his pants with a trembling urgency.

The whole thing is so routine now that he’s learned to mask his wheezing with a startling finesse.

“Haa...aah…

It’s an interesting fix, the sensation of asphyxiating on his own helplessness. Soon it became a crippling obsession not even anti-depressants and a fuck ton of weed could fix. With a stuttering breath, Naruto shoves a hand into his boxer briefs and tugs at his cock, impatient. The anxiety makes him harder as he pathetically latches onto the feeling, rubbing himself against his already dampening pajama pants, beads of sweat soaking his shirt and sticking the material to his skin.

He’s glad he doesn’t have a roommate.

When he pulls his hand away, he can’t help but stare at the precum between his fingers, face split into a nasty, weakened grin. He’s pathetic. Naruto knows he looks pathetic. His hair is matted with sweat, and his other hand lies buried in his boyfriend’s shirt, fisting it tightly—uncaring if he wrinkles the tee that Sasuke’s always labeled his ‘favorite’.

Because he’s frustrated, and he deserves to be.

At three in the morning he can’t even get himself off to the musky, familiar scent of the person that he loves, conscripted to simply stare at the ceiling; begrudgingly recalling events that are insignificant to him or his beloved climax.

He sees flashes of a paltry girth, slipping inside him, intolerable in a mouth whose tongue was often the perpetrator of sharp quips and smooth commands, and completely unwelcome against the backdrop of tentative whimpers for a shrewd, childhood friend. The memory of that day loathsomely cocoons him like a piss-stained blanket, so he tries to displace the memory. Muddle it up.

Naruto’s in a different position now, moving to slide back under the covers on his stomach. He brings the fabric of Sasuke’s shirt up to his nose and deeply inhales.

Symptoms may include disturbing thoughts,


For a brief moment, Naruto stops seeing the outlines of anomalous, moving bodies against the lid of his eyes.

He stops hearing the rough slap of skin against skin in his ears.

Guttural, animalistic murmurs of ‘right there’ and ‘don’t you like that,’ were almost immersed in white noise, and all Naruto can feel, with unwelcome difficulty, is Sasuke.

His fingers tentatively brush against his length and it twitches.

I love you.

Naruto licks the palm of his hand, rolling it languidly against his sack.

He loves him too.

He’s never loved anyone in his life this fucking much before.

The soft squelch of his frazzled jerks, working his organ into hardness, feels deafening against his ears. Naruto ungenerously swallows as much air as he can before his lips are sheathed around one finger. Two. The salacious sound’s assault him as his wet tongue accommodates the intrusion with lascivious purpose and melting enthusiasm.

Haa…” He strokes himself one handedly. Sloppily. Urgently. He joyfully pumps himself with praise for the convivial workings of his mind. “Ha.. S’uke…

Naruto gyrates his hips, the moan he lets out is neither authentic nor compulsory as he tries to imagine Sasuke’s pale lips smoothing over the nape of his neck, and Sasuke’s coarse hands insistently kneading his cheeks instead of theirs.

feelings, or dreams, related to the event...


Sasuke’s chest would heave, exceptionally hard, as he’d run his hands through Naruto’s hair. Tugging on it. Worshiping it. Burying his nose in his hair and smirking in that endearing, bastard-sort-of-way, that showed him he was just as obsessed with Naruto as he was with him.

They were so in love.

Then he would pull down his pants.

Naruto arches his back at the thought.

Sasuke would free his cock and it would swell red. It throbs like Naruto's hands after a long, onerous basketball practice. It grows against his backside, drips like honey onto the sheets--and he would turn around to gorge himself on the other, greedily swallowing him whole.

Naruto would take Sasuke’s throbbing prick into the back of his throat until he’s choking on it; until the only thing he can taste and smell anymore is Sasuke’s spunk.

“Nnn...hh- fuck…” Naruto’s mouth hangs open as he pants. Sasuke was now positioning himself at his entrance, the head inching its way inside with excruciating slowness. He pushes his hips back, allowing blunt nails to dig into his skin.

He wants Sasuke to bruise him. To squeeze. To wrap his fingers around his throat and choke him until he’s dazed and heaving. Naruto keens, high pitched, miserable as a finger hovers over his entrance, and he imagines Sasuke’s girth, cruelly, uncharacteristically, shoving himself inside.

   mental or physical distress to trauma-related cues, alterations in how a person thinks and feels

 
A thick cock slams into his tight threshold with an unbearable fullness until—

It’s no longer Sasuke inside of him.

"Bitch."

-and increased arousal.


Naruto’s breath hitches. His heart stutters violently in his chest. He shakes as his fingernails scrape at his insides, clawing and thrashing against his twitching walls, desperately wishing he could just stop but he’s too far gone.

Just remembering the harsh smack of flesh against his own, the lewd sounds of disgusting, ragged breaths and an accompanying sneer has his hips moving back against the intrusion. Reluctantly. Naruto grits his teeth, gasping with a sob.

He wishes he were dead.

Naruto buries three of his digits in himself, down to the knuckle.

He can easily do it.

Kill himself.

He can cut open his wrists.

He can hang himself in his closet.

He knows he can do it.

It doesn’t look hard.

Naruto clenches his teeth.

It hurts so much, but he can’t shake the warped fantasy, not even when his eyes grow moist and his heart clenches painfully in his chest, threatening to tear itself apart from the pressurized disgust.


“You liked that didn’t you, you fucking slut?”

When it happens, it’s as ugly as he feels.

Naruto cums on cue like he’s contrived for it. He half-yelps as his hand persistently presses flat against the mattress, hips arching off the comforter. His entire frame shakes with the will to explode. With the will to waste away until there was nothing left of him—

       Many sexual abuse survivors rely on negative fantasies in order to achieve an orgasm during sex. 


Liquid fire drips down his cheeks.

He can do it. He can end this.

It is not their fault.

 " You wanted this. You wanted all of this didn’t you?”




Naruto curses softly, his fingernails digging into open palms, leaving crescent like moons on his reddening flesh.

 It is not their fault.

His semen is thick, and sticky.

It is not their fault.


He throws up five times that morning. 

It is not their fault.

It is not their fault.

  It is not their fault.

He screams.

It is.


 

                                                                                                                            
The next day, Sasuke doesn’t have to look up from his laptop to know it’s bad when Naruto slinks into his dorm room, all smiles and simulated zest.

His blond hair is tousled mess of barbed wire and waves. His shoulders, strong and cut from years of arduous workouts, are losing definition from weight loss. Regardless, what remains pulls taut under an orange cardigan, showcasing the muscles that were there. Naruto fishes out his reading glasses from his denim pockets, pulling them over his eyes. Sasuke sees that they’re puffy and red, hidden well behind unruly bangs and excited posturing.

Naruto had been absent from class today.

Sasuke’s stomach churns.

“I knew you’d be here,” Naruto smiles, standing by the door, and it’s absolutely depressing. “I, uh, over slept. Alarm didn’t go off so fuck me, huh?”

Sasuke frowns.

He wants to hold him.

He wants to tell him that it’ll be okay.

He shuts his laptop and mutely opens up his arms, atypical for most, but for them it’s routine. Naruto only looks at the gesture—the one that’s gotten him through days and months of panic attacks—with only the faintest hint of longing before trouncing up towards the bed, sitting beside Sasuke instead. His blue eyes, restless like the ocean after a great tsunami, flit over Sasuke, once. Twice. He looks like he wants to say something but instead, he leans in for a kiss.

Sasuke indulges him, and it’s chaste and sweet. 

“You missed a quiz,” Sasuke tells him, and Naruto rests his head on his shoulder with a sigh. “Hatake will let you take it again. I told him you were sick.”

“Good, ‘cause I didn’t study anyway.”

“Figures. That’s why I took notes for you, dumbass,” Sasuke gestures at his laptop. Naruto’s eyes light up in thanks. Then he receives a text. His laugh is a semi-high trill, the acoustics are always pleasing—infectious. Sasuke glances over, looks into Naruto’s soft, soft eyes, and he’s struck as he always is by pure, unyielding love.

“Sakura texted me.”

“Hn.”

Naruto shrugs, offers a sly smile. “She says Ino sucked some professor off at Northeastern,” he snorts, showing him his phone. “She kills me, I swear. What is this, the second balding fat-ass she’s fucked for a grade?”

“You mean her fourth,” Sasuke helpfully supplies with a roll of his eyes, and Naruto raises an eyebrow.

“Remember Mr. Burns and Mr. Clark?”

“You mean Mr. Buns and Mr. Cock?” Naruto snickers, imitating Ino’s voice, all annoying and high pitched. “They were TA’s.”

Sasuke’s about to cover his mouth—a habit he’s inherited from years of conditioning, suppressing—before quickly letting his hand drop to his side.

He laughs.

Naruto’s smile brightens at the sound.

“Same thing.”

“It’s not!” Naruto insists. “Anyways, what page did they cover during lecture? Three-hundred and two?” Naruto sees the folded corner in Sasuke’s booklet to the right of him, reaching over. Sasuke hands it to him, and then it’s quiet for a while. They sit together, knee’s touching, and arm’s pressed as Naruto leans against him, snaring his bottom lip between his teeth.

Sasuke can, and has, watched him for hours like this, ever since they were small. Watching the wrinkle in Naruto’s brow when he concentrates. Watching him softly cuss when he sees a word he doesn’t understand—

The dobe’s always been terrible at studying.

“I hate this class.”

Sasuke wants to marry him. 

“You’re responsible, you know?” Naruto accuses, continuing to stare only at the textbook, his lips a playful lilt. “I would go to your place and wake you up with a good morning kiss like a good boyfriend. You should’ve gotten me up, bastard.”

He's had the ring for a few months now.

It's in his desk drawer, tucked under his chemistry homework.

“I figured you needed the sleep.”

Naruto’s smile wanes.

Sasuke, instantly, sees him tense. Before he can address it, tell him that he’s sorry—he knows the reason for Naruto’s insomnia, he’s known for a while—he’s stopped before he can open his mouth. Naruto’s voice is quiet, almost subdued when he closes the book, drawing his knees up to his chest. Sasuke doesn’t say anything when Naruto turns to him, and his lips are quivering but his face is hard.

“I think it’s my fault,” Naruto murmurs, his voice visibly cracking.

Sasuke hates it.

Hates them.

He's thought about it before.

Tracking them down.

Killing them.

Torturing them and flaying them, layer by layer, muscle by  muscle, until they regretted everything.

“We’ve been together for what, two years? And we still haven’t done anything because I’m…” Naruto trails off, looking down at his toes uneasy. Wiggling them. Fidgety. “I’m not ready. It’s so dumb. I’m not sure when I’ll ever be fucking ready and it’s not fair. I want you, y’know? Bad. You shouldn’t have to wait. They’re plenty of people you could have… Heh, even I know that I'm...”

Sasuke pulls Naruto close.

Naruto relaxes into him, as he always does, his cheek pressing against Sasuke’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

They stay like that for a long time.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Sasuke, it does.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Sasuke, it is,” Naruto chews on his bottom lip. “If I’d only been paying attention. If I’d been stronger I could have-”

Sasuke presses their foreheads together, and his hands find Naruto’s, intertwining fingers.

Feeling his pulse points.

“It’s not your fault,” he says again, tenderly. Determinedly.

Naruto’s breath hitches.

He cusses.

Then he’s crying—and it’s okay.

Naruto folds into him, crumples like a wad of paper in his arms, hands bunched in his shirt as he shakes and shakes.

“It’s not your fault,” Sasuke repeats, patiently, pressing a kiss to Naruto’s temple. And then another.

And then another.

Naruto squeezes his hand, and slowly raises his head.


Post traumatic stress disorder is a mental disorder that can develop after a person is exposed to a traumatic event
Symptoms may include disturbing thoughts, feelings, or dreams related to the event mental or physical distress to trauma-related cues,
alterations in how a person thinks and feels, and increased arousal. 
Many sexual abuse survivors rely on negative fantasies in order to achieve an orgasm during sex.

 

It’s not their fault.

“It’s not my fault,” Naruto says.

And this time, Sasuke hopes he really believes it