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Obito rarely got hurt. He rarely got hit; his mastery of Kamui meant that in order to land a blow his enemy must either have impeccable timing or the ability to survive five minutes in combat with him where he’d be pushed into staying intangible the entire time. Not conditions that were met very often.
And even if they did manage to get lucky, his body was capable of healing all but very major injuries thanks to the power of Senju Hashirama’s cells. Cuts and bruises hadn’t been part of his life since he was thirteen years old.
Madara’s early resurrection had changed that.
His reputation as the strongest ninja Obito’s clan had ever produced was not exaggerated by time, or by the nostalgia of an old man bending reality to his will while he trained Obito as his successor within immersive genjutsu. It did not need to be.
Being struck by the Fifth Hokage or her apprentice would be more physically devastating, but by no means was Madara’s taijutsu lacking; taking a punch from him felt like being charged by a bull elephant. And aside from his old sensei, Obito had never faced anyone who could move so quickly.
The upshot of it was this: in the sparring matches the older Uchiha instigated between them whenever he felt bored enough, Madara frequently kicked Obito’s ass.
Not that Obito made it easy for him; by the time they were done, he wouldn’t be the only one left with fading bruises and bloodied teeth. Madara’s mouth would taste of smoke and metal when Obito pulled him into a kiss, and the adrenaline high in their blood prompted their matches to take on a more…horizontal aspect.
Not that he emerged unscathed from those either, Obito mused, tracing his fingertips over the ring of raw pink hickies Madara had marked him with. But when it came to leaving bruises, he made sure to give as good as he got.