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The first time, Obito turns the lights out. He does it deftly, between one eager touch and the next, like an afterthought.

Kakashi knows it’s more than an afterthought.

They pause, panting together in the sudden smothering blackness. Kakashi reaches out again and turns the light back on. He feels, more than hears, the unpleasant noise Obito makes at the back of his throat. Obito’s hands grab at him roughly, forcing fabric to dig and pull into his skin.

He wonders if Obito might try to kill him.

Obito reaches for the light switch and Kakashi snags his wrist in a loose grip. Obito is as tense as a cornered cat suddenly, vulnerability and violence roiling just beneath the surface.

“Let me see you,” he asks, pitching his voice low and nonthreatening.

“I haven’t—“ Obito begins, but Kakashi tugs down his own mask and kisses him then, open and pressing tongue to tongue for the first time. He grabs Obito hard, tugs him flush against him. There’s a sharp inhalation as Obito’s erection bumps low on his abdomen, once tentatively, and then again immediately, surer. Kakashi knows what he was about to say. Obito’s probably never had sex without his mask on (and he gets a sudden clear photographic Sharingan memory of a whore on her forearms and knees, blindfolded, being taken from behind, touched only by gloved hands on her rump). He takes a half-step back.

He can feel Obito’s eyes flicker over his face, rapid-fire; the turn, the dilation and contraction of the Sharingan reading it all; Kakashi’s scars, the beginnings of lines around his mouth and eyes, the curve and colour of his mouth. Obito’s searching for a lie in his eyes; for an effort to conceal revulsion. The skin beneath Obito’s eyes is thin, nearly translucent. There are shadows there that are pale and bruised. He grimaces, and the scars pull grotesquely around his face. His gaze falls to the floor, and for all his defiant carriage, Kakashi can’t miss the slight shift of his weight from foot to foot that belies a well of insecurity.

Kakashi has never wanted someone more.




Kakashi is dangerous, that much is clear.

When Kakashi rides him, eyes hawklike and unwavering in their gaze, even as his body writhes like something out of the best wet dream, that scarred-up torso (with that familiar, still-pink X-shaped scar Obito loves to kiss and suck and bite) undulating, his hips snapping sharply, Obito is hanging on for dear life. The intensity of Kakashi’s stare pins him down. The feel of his fever-hot skin beneath Obito’s palms draws the breath out of him as ragged, raw gasps. Kakashi is trained to fuck and fuck well; nearly all adult nin are. Missions sometimes require it, and Kakashi was never less than an exceptional student.

Obito missed those years of training.

Kakashi is excellent. He takes his pleasure just as much as he gives it; when Obito’s in him he clenches and bucks on him, pinning his bottom lip with his teeth, letting his head loll back. He’s muscle and sinew and intense, shameless sensuality. He makes art and sport of fucking. In these moments too, Kakashi is certain to catch Obito’s gaze, staring back with naked heat and moist, parted lips. He reads Obito perfectly. He always knows what he needs.

Obito wonders if Kakashi might try to kill him.

Sometimes, Kakashi fucks him silently, laying him belly-down over the kitchen table, or legs up on the floor, always driving into him with an assassin’s quiet—a few probing, frighteningly accurate pushes and twists with his fingertips that leave him raw and groaning in open-mouthed delirium, then his cock, thick and given just fast enough to burn. In those moments, his eyes can’t focus. He can’t read Kakashi, can’t see what is coming next. It could be a kunai across the throat, it could be another bolt of paralyzing pleasure. He really, really wouldn’t care either way.

Kakashi grabs Obito’s leg and hoists it over his shoulder, moving faster and deeper now, allowing just one low, hungry sound.

And Obito sees stars.



In Hell

Sometimes Obito goes to another place. Sometimes he takes Kakashi along for the ride.

It’s a dark place, a very cruel place. Here, Obito has one hand over Kakashi’s eyes, another hand phased through his chest in a place that would easily crush his heart, Sharingan spinning madly, and he’s rasping “Rin,” lowly, over and over. The hand through Kakashi’s ribcage almost tickles, and it rocks back and forth a little in time with their motion. It reaches all the way through like a Raikiri might; bracing them on the bed beneath, where the fingers rematerialize to twist into the sheets.

“Rin,” and Kakashi knows Obito’s eyes are not focused, that he’s not with him, not even a little bit.

“Rin, Rin, Rin…” And Kakashi knows he’s just a body to use, just a warm place. That he won’t be more. That he could be as vulnerable as this (death just a blink or a sneeze away), as open as this (can Obito feel the brush of his ribs, his blood vessels, his lungs against his bony wrists?) and it wouldn’t mean a damned thing. Part of him hopes Obito will kill him. He deserves that. He deserves this.

So he lies back, a little more pliant beneath Obito (who isn’t really there at all) and pitches his moans a little higher for him.

“Rin… my Rin.”

Kakashi’s nothing if not accommodating.

God, it hurts.



Kakashi’s smiles are fake.

For a man who’s lived most of his life behind a mask, he is surprisingly good at pretending; his eyes crinkle at the corners perfectly, and his very ordinary (kissable, fuckable) mouth pulls up into a carefree, cheerful shape. Obito is starting to see that he does it automatically.

Kakashi smiles when smiles are required. He uses these kinds of smiles to reassure, to defray tension, and sometimes for pure irony.

Obito can read it, though—there are too many muscles at play in that perfectly practiced expression. Delight and joy can’t be so carefully contrived.

He hates those smiles. They’re empty—they’re lies.


When it hurts

It hurts every day.

It hurts to walk, hurts to stand, hurts to move. Obito’s life is a study in pain, and at this point he wouldn’t know what to do without it.

Sometimes, even during sex, a flare of spasms will cause a muscle in his back to lock or twist. Decades of training have him able to push past the pain, work through the rigidity, and continue doing what needs to be done. He’s a ninja above all; death quickly finds those who are seen limping.

Nothing gets past Kakashi, though. As lazy as his hooded eyes may seem, he sees everything. So he sees the minute tightening around Obito’s eyes, the slight shudder that runs through him, even as Obito has Kakashi’s dick in his hand and is stroking him rough and hard.

And Kakashi says, “Stop.”

Obito looks at him with incredulity, glancing pointedly at Kakashi’s deeply flushed cockhead, jutting up past the circle of his palm. He’s wet at the tip, balls drawn up tight, a breath and a stroke away from coming. And still Kakashi takes a deep, shivery breath and insists, “Stop.”

Obito’s on the defensive immediately; angry, stung. “You don’t want to, now? What the hell—” He’s cursing his body, this broken patchwork husk that won’t even let him do this basic thing right.

And Kakashi sits up, sliding behind him, cock brushing a wet trail against Obito’s hip as he passes, making him shiver. He whispers “Stop,” again, hot and breathy into Obito’s ear. His hands push against Obito’s back gently, guiding him to lie down on his belly, and taking a greedy feel of his shoulders, back, and the swell of his ass in the meantime. Obito complies, lying down, but he’s frowning. He is confused.

Then warm, open palms run from the base of his spine to the spread of his shoulders, and Obito’s mouth pops open, a soft groan dragged up from the very depths of him.

Then there’s a fragrant, spicy oil, and Kakashi’s hands, big, broad and so warm, pulling and shaping his muscles into something like where they’re supposed to be. It hurts, too, but a deep, warm, ebbing hurt that ends in something very much like pleasure. And if maybe Obito spends himself all over the sheets as his shoulders are being unknotted, well, that’s okay.

And if Kakashi straddles him a little snugly, maybe drizzles some extra oil into his cleft and down over his balls, and maybe Obito hears some sheepish panting and feels firm friction between his cheeks—then a tiny hitch and a sigh—yeah, that’s definitely okay, too.






They realized on the battlefield that they could see through each other’s Sharingan. They both focus their attacks through the Sharingan, both see and strategize through it. But when they’re close, the vision overlaps. Vision, memory, thought, heart. Rin. Sensei.

And when they’re fighting each other they see each other’s strategies, their plans, their next moves. They see their own flaws, their missteps, emotions betrayed on their faces.

And when they’re fucking each other, Kakashi sees all the ways he can come undone—all the ways Obito could kill him; destroy him in every sense.

He’s starting not to mind so much.




Kakashi loves him. Obito isn’t so numb yet that he misses the signs. Love looks strange on Kakashi. It’s not pretty; it’s raw like skin scrubbed bloody; sharp like pain from an exposed nerve.

Kakashi looks at him and it’s this barrage of guilt and failure, and underneath, this strange, iron-clad devotion that must be the only reason Kakashi didn’t slice open his own wrists at age fifteen.

Kakashi touches him, and every touch is an apology, a plea, and forgiveness. It’s a promise, and he will never say it out loud. He doesn’t need to.

Obito isn’t good with love anymore.

Obito isn’t good with promises anymore.

Part of him hopes Kakashi will find it in himself to kill him. These things never, ever end well. They’ll probably be the death of each other.



They catalogue their bodies. They take a long time touching, looking, feeling, and exploring. It’s cramped in Kakashi’s shower, and not quite enough water for two grown men, but they manage.

Obito is taller. He’s always been taller, though when they were children, Kakashi was younger and short. Kakashi’s one of the more impressively tall jounin these days, and being just that bit taller still makes Obito smug.

In truth, he’s a little bigger in all senses—Kakashi was always lanky and rangy, Obito a little broader and bulkier. He’s big for an Uchiha, squarer of jaw and broader of shoulder than his cousins. Kakashi has no cousins, but he has only ever been long and lean.

Life has been hard on both of them (and their training harder); neither of them has much body fat to spare, but Obito’s prosthetics keep his body nourished and robust, while Kakashi is at the mercy of his metabolism when there isn’t enough food to keep up with the things he has to do. As a result, Obito has thicker musculature (legs and ass and taut belly that Kakashi can’t keep his hands—slightly bigger than Obito’s, with prominent knuckles—off of), and Kakashi’s bones jut out just a bit (hip bones, collar bones, hollows between the ribs and muscles of his chest that Obito bites and sucks and loves to bruise).




Obito has to learn how to suck cock.

Unsurprisingly (or surprisingly; Obito was very vague about his years spent underground), Madara had never taught him that particular lesson. Obito’s nervous—Kakashi can tell—his right face doesn’t have too much in the way of innervation; it droops and sags in strange places, is weak or spastic in others, and it’s crystal clear that Obito thinks he’ll screw it up somehow. And Kakashi would never have mentioned it—it wasn’t that important to him—except that he’d see how Obito smiled a little wistfully when Kakashi finished going down on him, or how he’d lick his lips involuntarily when Kakashi’s dick was anywhere near his face. He doesn’t think he can be blamed for the latter. It’s a very pretty dick.

Then one evening, face half-muffled by a pillow, Obito mumbles something.

Kakashi raises an eyebrow; he’s sure he heard—“Hm?”

It comes out in an embarrassed garble and Obito’s pale cheeks flush darkly. “Isaidteachmetogivehead.”

“Ah…You’re sure?”

And the defiant glare from two decades ago is back. “Fuck you, Hatake, I can do it. I bet I’ll be damn good at it.”

It takes a lot of energy to maintain a bored expression.

For all that he values his eyes (one in particular), Kakashi likes to put faith in his other senses as well; like his dogs, he trusts his ears, nose, and tongue implicitly. Obito plunges down, guided by Kakashi’s gentle words, suckling at the tip, using his hands to great effect (on his own inventiveness using a knuckle against his perineum to Kakashi’s intense delight). He has to pause here and there, once because of a muscle spasm in his cheek, and once because his jaw begins to get stiff.

It’s not the best Kakashi’s ever had, but it is pretty darn good. And he can say with some confidence that it will only get better; Obito is memorizing and recording his reactions, already predicting and changing his actions to match. Kakashi closes his eyes and leans back, allowing the appreciative noises to come up from the very core of him, rooting into the intense feeling, smelling the hint of Obito’s arousal rising in the air.

He brushes his hand through Obito’s short, thick hair, and Obito hums in the back of his throat—which feels very, very nice. Kakashi takes it as tacit permission to grab hold (Obito growls then, redoubling his efforts and bobbing harder, gripping Kakashi’s thighs hard enough to bruise) and almost before he knows it, he is arching, panting harshly—and just as Obito pulls back for a gulp of air (whatever happened to breathing through the nose), Kakashi comes.

Nobody speaks for a long moment as one of the world’s most dangerous ninja blinks slowly, suddenly with come on his lips, chin and nose—even an ambitious bit up in his hair. His expression shifts comically from shock to murderous rage and then to a sort of bemusement. “That was good for you, I take it?” he says wryly, licking tentatively at the mess on his face.

A more canine instinct takes over and Kakashi slides down to meet Obito, kissing him sloppily and cleaning the mess with his tongue. He reaches down to take Obito in hand as he does, which is met with appreciative fervor. Kakashi takes one last swipe around Obito’s slickened lips, and then licks his way inside Obito’s mouth, taking the occasional sharp pull of air through his nose, loving how the smell of his spunk is mixed with Obito’s sweat.

Obito had to learn how to suck cock, and Kakashi is grateful as hell he’s not dead-last at this.




Kakashi remembers anatomy class in a way very different from a medic-nin.

Kakashi remembers where to elicit pain. Where to stab to kill. Weak points to snap a bone. But he also remembers where the nerves go; where the major nerves control big muscles, where their smaller branches touch skin and transmit feeling. As with other things, Obito lost much of this in the cave-in. Obviously, the parts of him that were crushed entirely are replaced with the Shodai’s cells, and operate very differently from his original body on all accounts, but more interestingly, there are patches of skin near the scars that are dead and numb to all touch, and thin seams where the edges of the nerves still reach that are more sensititve than his unblemished skin.

One evening, Kakashi decides to trace patterns on Obito’s abdomen with a fingernail. At first it’s aimless, just a reason to touch him, then in a burst of inspiration he traces a small spiral. He’s on the second turn of his invisible masterpiece when Obito locks up and goes rigid, clenching his fists and shuddering violently.

Kakashi glances sharply up at Obito’s face for any sign of pain, but all he reads is surprise.

A slow, devious feeling curls in Kakashi’s stomach.


Over the next few hours, Kakashi maps these sensitive places with fingers, lips, and tongue and takes distinct pleasure in reducing the great and terrible Obito Uchiha to a gibbering, wrung-out mess.



Smile again


Kakashi’s smiles are fake. They’re empty.

Obito hates them; they curdle his good mood like lemon juice in milk. He hates a lot of things, but Kakashi’s lie of a smile is the worst.

The reality comes in the strangest of ways; cleaning up after a late Sunday meal, washing dishes shoulder to shoulder with a sink full of suds. It’s a strange domestic feeling, something neither of them have ever really had (Obito in particular; not many dishes to do when you live in a cave and don’t need to eat). It’s kind of nice.

Then there’s a bang from the window that overhangs the sink. Kakashi is brandishing a heavy skillet in an instant, and Obito has a cleaver to hand a nanosecond later. They’re ready—whatever comes through that window will be dead before it hits the ground.

For Pakkun’s sake, it’s good that the sink is much higher than the ground. The little pug leaps nimbly from the windowsill toward the (normally empty and dry) sink, realizing his error only as he is about to hit the water.

There is a yelp.

There is a splash.

Obito and Kakashi are drenched in warm, soapy water and suds. Pakkun is grumbling to himself, barking at Kakashi about his newfound actual use of the kitchen, and wouldn’t it be nice to give a dog some warning, what the hell—and Obito turns his attention from the offending pup to Kakashi.

There’s something wrong with his face.

His mouth is trembling subtly, and there are dimples—dimples!—threatening to make themselves known. Obito stares, rapt.

Kakashi bursts into hysterical, barking laughter. There are tears in the corners of his eyes. He’s laughing so hard he can hardly stay upright, and he’s smiling. Smiling in a way that Obito knows instinctively is real—Obito can’t look away. Then there’s that soft murmur in his ear, Rin Nohara’s voice that has driven him all these years; she releases him, tells him to go, to try to be happy. That this world, this reality, might still be worth the trouble.

Kakashi turns to him, chuckling, eyes bright, bringing the full force of his smile with him—and it’s as brilliant as the sun shining on Arctic snow.

Obito falls. Hard.





I won’t say it


He tells him on a Tuesday, at 2 in the afternoon. It’s a little damp out, but the sun is up and it makes the leaves glisten. They’re halfway up a huge tree, straddling the same barrel-thick branch. Obito is watching the play of sunlight through the leaves, and Kakashi is reading.

“I do, you know.” Kakashi blinks, and Obito himself looks surprised, like the words fell out on their own.

“What?” Kakashi squints at him. He was halfway through a well-loved Icha-Icha novel.

Obito presses his lips together and nods slightly, as if to himself. He plucks the book from Kakashi’s hands (to considerable protest), and sets it aside so he can sidle in closer.

He holds Kakashi’s hands in his own, leans his forehead in to touch Kakashi’s, closes his eyes and says again,  “I do”. It’s not a promise. And he’s not saying it out loud. He can’t take that chance.

There’s silence for a moment, just enough to be awkward as hell. They aren’t normal people. It was stupid to think they did love like normal people. He probably misread things. Kakashi starts to pull his hands away, and Obito can’t quite stifle the spike of hurt. He cracks an eye open, ready to backtrack and find a way out again, when he’s tackled backward, falling onto his back with a soft “oof”.

And Kakashi looks furious, and overwhelmed, and utterly adoring. His smile is weak, but completely real. Hoarsely, he mutters, “You utter, utter moron,” yanks down his mask, and kisses him fiercely.




There’s space between the sex, time between the bruising and scars. There’s time for quiet meals, raucous laughter. Walks in the twilight.

There’s space between space and time within time.

Kamui is theirs and theirs alone.

They spend days in there sometimes, amidst the cubes, in the dim half-light. Their dimension is silent and still.

There’s something like real love there.

They don’t have to be anyone else, or do anything at all.




And then


They are indeed one fine example of the trash of the ninja world.

They are the death of each other in the end.

(They are old, old men, and one gives the other the flu).