Author's note: just wanted to write some happy Obito/Rin fluff :) In my head this is in the same universe as "A Long Way Home" but you don't have to have read that to read these drabbles. Spoilers for chapter 600.
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1.
The light in Takigakure is a thin one, trickling through the canopy of leaves and washing over rocks and large turrets of animal bones. Perpetually overcast, the sky is a patchwork of cold white fog and dishwater clouds, which is reflected on the slate gray mountains that loom over the landscape. Rin doesn't like this place, where everything seems lifeless and devoid of color, but it is the only place they can stay, the only place that's safe. Quietly, Obito touches a hand to her shoulder, and Rin smiles up at him, touching his hand.
xXx
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2.
The years of his unnatural life - anger, hurt, despair - flash and dissipate, until there is nothing but the answering rhythm of her body to his thrusts, her arms twining around his back, as the layers of memory sloughs off like caked on sand.
"Obito." The word is half gasped as he sweeps her hair back, kissing her neck. She's panting softly against his ear, body arched, as he kisses her neck and collarbone. Around them, moonlight spills like milk, edging the shapes in the room with streaks of silver as he kisses her on the mouth, free hands tangling in her hair.
"Are you sure?" he says. He feels her take his hand, twining her fingers and squeezing, hard. He looks her in the eyes. "Rin?"
Her face blooms into a smile. "Yes," Rin says. She reaches to cup the side of his face. "Yes, yes."
It's not enough to be inside her. He wants to be part of her, around her, wants the crush of their ribs to open and lock, a tangle of bright sweat and desperate touches, red marks scored on pale skin.
xXx
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3.
He is a hard man to know; his eyes are inscrutable and his actions carefully guarded, and every word, every gesture, is a calculated one. But when he's with her, his eyes are soft. Unguarded. He smiles rarely but smiles with his eyes.
She smooths back the creases of his forehead with one hand before cupping his face. He smiles at her this time, and not just with his eyes.
She kisses his face. Small, careful kisses, up and down the raised edges of scars, mapping each patch of skin so that no part is unkissed. She kisses his mouth and feels him smile against her lips there, kisses the corner of his mouth and the side of his jaw while letting her hand rest on the side of his cheek, one thumb gently stroking his skin.
His body is fascinating to her. Lying on his chest, Rin carefully examines him, turning over his body the way a child would examine a new toy. There is an odd amalgamation of skin and grafted parts, pale, almost translucent patches abutting warm unblemished skin. Hashirama's cells are pale and etiolated like the film of a runny egg, and Rin can trace the fine blue-green network of veins and tendons beneath his skin.
But it is more than that. The strangeness of the artificial limb, the place where it oozed and bled white fluid, foreign and alien, does not pique her interest: instead she concentrates on the lean muscle of his chest and stomach, tracing the broadness of his shoulders and the crests of hipbones and ribs. There is a strange beauty to all Uchiha men, a fragile paleness that is underrun with wired steel, and Obito is no exception. Dark eyes, mop of tangled curls against pale skin, he has that same aquiline beauty that makes her go breathless.
And to think that this man was Uchiha Obito, last-picked bundle of nervous energy, boggles her mind.
"What is it?" Obito says, and the timbre of his voice jars her thoughts. Rin bites her lip, then grins.
"You're really good-looking, you know that?"
"What?"
She plants a chaste kiss against the side of his mouth, then settles against his chest, letting her fingers splay outward.
"So," Rin begins, conversationally. "Late bloomer, huh?"
Obito glares, but the look he gives her is completely at odds with the blush that cracks across his face, and Rin laughs warmly, bumping her head against his chest and laughing with slow-gathering sound.
xXx
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4.
This is what he's seen:
Broken bodies. Limbs cracked and sticking at odd angles. Pools of blood seeping into the ground.
He has seen the machinations of war, dismantled it, used it for his own ends. Even now, he can close his eyes and trace the patterns that rise and fall and repeat itself, nations breathing, expanding. Burning out like falling stars.
But it doesn't matter. He sees her smile at him through shadowed moonlight - rising tendrils of wispy smoke, warm silence and one slender body curled into the hollow spaces of his - and thinks to himself that this is peace.
end.