Genres: Smut – Drama – Hurt / One-Shot

Rating: +18

Summary: Kakashi’s life ultimately revolved around one person.

Happy reading!

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FUCK

A brutal embrace that might have been awkward were it not for the fact that these were two trained shinobi, concealed behind masks.

Sukea smiled as the uneven surface of the wall irritated his bare skin, the roughness threatening to tear off his wig.

The moonbeams seemed to make his overly pale skin glow as he tightened his grip on the body still clothed in his lover of the hour.

He could only see the orange spirals of a mask, but he hadn’t chosen them for their face anyway and was perfectly satisfied with it so far.

A gloved hand suddenly left his hips and snaked up to his pale throat, digging its fingertips in as if to test its elasticity, before suddenly closing, slowly compressing the trench, as muffled gasps and moans jostled in his half-open mouth, his neck arched in search of air.

All his instincts, painstakingly honed by training and experience, stood on end, his muscles tensing, ready to defend himself against this attempt at strangulation.

But Sukea was not there to fight, and when his arm rose in turn, it was to press his own hand over the one around his throat, in a blessing to go harder, which seemed to please him.

Between his thighs, the rhythm had not slowed, and he tightened the grip of his crossed legs, pulling them even closer, broken sounds rising beneath the ever-increasing pain that grew beneath the attentions of this stranger who had quickly understood that he was not made of glass.

If only he could have been satisfied with a henge! He could have felt that strong hand pulling his hair, completing the orgasm he felt slowly building.

He sank his sharp teeth into his lower lip, as much to stifle a louder, too loud sound as for the sting of pain and the slight taste of blood that seemed to amplify everything he was already feeling, as if his senses were sharpened by that single drop with its coppery taste.

Their other hand, still on his hip, dug into his tender skin, as if searching for bone, to break it with their fingers, while their thrusts quickened and the burning sensation of his back scraping against the wall intensified.

He was close to finally coming…

This was surely what the shinobi must have understood as they abandoned his bruised hip in favour of his penis, suddenly squeezing it, eliciting a groan from his as the shock ran through his like an electric current, straightening his up, his eyes wide enough to lose his contact lenses, before jerking his off vigorously, breaking the rhythm, while the pleasure increased quickly, too quickly.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, despite himself, washing away the purple paint on his cheeks, a broken smile revealing his crooked teeth in the moonlight.

He could have screamed his pleasure to the moon, if the iron grip on his throat hadn’t cut off his breath and if it hadn’t attracted unwanted attention to them both.

No matter, Sukea had no intention of sharing.

MARRY

— That’s all for today, Uchiha-san!

The new recruit almost choked on her saliva as her colleague jabbed her in the ribs with her elbow, but it was too late.

Opposite them, Kakashi didn’t even glance at them, contenting himself with putting on his clothes, his movements restricted by his injuries and the treatment he had received.

He could hear them, of course, even as he walked out of sight, the younger one repeating that it was the name marked in his file, while the older one would surely point out the line indicating that he still went by his birth name.

What did it matter, really?

On his way, he bought some dango, deliberately ignoring the saleswoman’s attempts at conversation, then continued on his way, turning off before the Uchiha compound in favour of their cemetery.

Most of the gravestones were covered with weeds and vines, except for those of Fugaku, Mikoto… and Obito.

Sasuke was still too young, too weak, to maintain the graves of more Uchiha.

And him… there was only that one that mattered to him.

He picked up the almost decomposed skewers, replacing them with new treats whose sugar had melted slightly during transport.

In the privacy of the place, Kakashi allowed himself to sit down, while he spoke in a low voice about the latest events since his previous visit.

The rest of the time, the memorial stone was enough for him, the almost faded name surrounded by all the others they had known or not, but when returning from missions, he preferred the actual grave, even if there was only a pair of ugly broken orange goggles inside.

Then, when he had covered all the topics he had planned to discuss, he would get up, salute the immutable stone, and go spend the night in what should have been their bedroom, but where there was now only dust, Obito’s belongings, and…

The stupid shiromuku borrowed in a hurry from one of the clan’s wives, never to be returned, hung on one of those kimono hangers, the pale colour and satin finish of the fabric shining in the darkness like a menacing ghost.

The rest of the time, he would have gone back to his flat, but that went with visiting Obito’s real grave: an exception he repeated from time to time.

And there, in the stifling silence of an enclosure full of empty houses, staring with a moist Sharingan at the outfit he had had to wear for the sake of a posthumous ceremony, he counted the hours of his insomnia, visited by ghosts and his guilt.

He was truly a terrible husband. A horrible wife.

Uchiha Kakashi.

KILL

The difficulty of fighting someone you know, or have known, is that even in a real life-or-death situation, your muscle memory knows how to parry movements that have been repeated a thousand times. Or, on the contrary, it misleads you and you come very close to taking a bad blow.

Or even death.

Kakashi breathed heavily, panting, as the adrenaline slowly left his veins and his reason gradually returned.

The pain hit him right after that, as he discovered the thorn piercing him through and through, but it was nothing compared to the pain he felt when he realised what he had done.

What he had done again.

The blood on his skin, his clothes. The smell of burnt flesh saturating his nose despite the mask. The muscles struggling against the walls cauterised by lightning, pressing against his arm.

Their bodies pressed against each other, closer than they had ever been in their entire lives.

Their breaths ragged, their hearts pounding…

Did he even have one left?

Another realisation struck him, following this fleeting thought.

He had killed Obito.

Again.

Anxiety swept away everything in its path as he sat up, struggling between removing his arm from the gaping hole where the organ was supposed to be and leaving it there to stem the obvious haemorrhage…

It was his opponent who decided for him, as he stumbled backwards, dispelling the spear he had summoned earlier to pierce him, too.

Avoiding the vital points within reach that every genin knew.

Despite himself, he felt a spark of hope at this conclusion.

All was not lost.

Then Obito looked at him, with the same hateful grimace as before, but even more so with the enormous hole caused by his personal jutsu, like an accusation.

Twice, he had used the Chidori against those he had sworn to protect thanks to it.

Twice, he had pierced their bodies with his armed arm, almost embracing them, stained with their blood and flesh, the warmth of their lives slipping through his fingers.

But Obito was not resolved to die like this. He wasn’t done with himself, with the world. He still intended to fight, to scream at the world all the good he thought of it, the hell he had gone through.

But it wasn’t enough.

And so, with his heart in pieces and his spirit broken, Kakashi watched him die, over and over again.

It was more than he felt he could bear, and when his mind came to retrieve the Sharingan, he hoped that it wasn’t goodbye.

Because he didn’t feel capable of abandoning him once again, of having to visit an empty grave, a name on a stone that was too big and too full. Because he still needed him to move forward in life, as a moral compass.

After all, he had defied death more times than he could count, so he could do it again, couldn’t he?

Couldn’t he?

No.