In which Kakashi Hatake is widowed at age 12. Somehow of a father at age 14. Clan head of two dying Clans at 20. And haunted by the ghost of his rival/best friend and anchor.
𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓
✯𝕿. 𝕾𝖍𝖎𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖐𝖎ᴴᶜ
✯𝕷.𝕺.𝖁ᴴᶜ
✯𝕴. 𝕸𝖎𝖉𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖞𝖆ᴴᶜ
✯𝕿. 𝕿𝖔𝖉𝖔𝖗𝖔𝖐𝖎ᴴᶜ
𝖗𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙'𝖘
✯𝕾𝖎𝖑𝖈𝖔
✯ᴺˢᶠᵂ
✯ 𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔟𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰
♡shout out to ma besti @pill0wc4se for giving me so many great ideas in the weirdest times and being my beta reader and omega♡
—summary.He's 12 right now and has way more responsibilities than anyone his age should have to bear.
—content warning. typical Naruto stuff
—word count. 6,2k
—azia‘s notes. I've posted it on Ao3 but now it's also here
Part 1↞ ↠Part 3 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖍𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝕱𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖍.
The first month in Obito's house was measured in small victories. Kakashi learned which floorboards creaked and which ones held firm. He figured out that the stove needed exactly seven minutes to heat properly before cooking. He discovered that the garden's tomato plants produced best when watered in the evening rather than the morning, a piece of wisdom that felt almost like receiving a message from beyond.
But the nights remained the hardest.
Sleep did not come easily to Kakashi. It never had, not since the day his father had been found in that quiet room with blood on the floor and silence where a heartbeat should have been. But here, in Obito's bed, surrounded by Obito's walls and Obito's memories and the faint smell of him, sleep felt like a betrayal. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw rocks falling. Every time he dreamed, he heard Obito's voice calling his name.
Kakashi. Kakashi. Take my eye. Take my eye and live.
He would wake up gasping, his left eye burning with phantom pain, the Sharingan spinning of its own accord. His hands would shake. His heart would pound. And he would lie there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was what it meant to be a shinobi. Wondering if every mission left scars that never fully healed. Wondering if he would ever feel whole again.
The anxiety lived in his chest like a second heart. It beats in time he is left alone with his fears, his doubts, with the endless list of things that could go wrong. He was twelve years old and he was the head of a dying clan. He was twelve years old and he was married to a ghost. He was twelve years old and he had killed more people than most adults would ever meet.
He could not afford to break. Shinobi did not break. They had to bend to their village's will. But bending took its toll, and Kakashi was beginning have a faint understanding that survival was not the same thing as living.
It was Obito's grandmother who noticed first.
Her name was Chiyo Uchiha, though everyone called her Obā-chan. She was eighty seven years old, small and wizened as a dried tomato, with hands that trembled slightly and eyes that had seen two great wars and seemingly the foundation of the village itself. Her Sharingan had faded with age, the tomoe growing cloudy and indistinct, but her vision of people remained sharper than any blade.
She appeared at Kakashi's doorstep three weeks after he moved in, carrying a basket of persimmons and a long wooden box. She did not knock. She simply slid open the door, stepped inside, and looked around Obito's living room with an expression that made Kakashi's chest ache.
"You have not been sleeping," she said. Not a question.
Kakashi stood in the kitchen doorway, frozen like a rabbit sensing a predator. He had met Chiyo only once before, at the formal acknowledgment of the marriage bond. She had sat in the front row of the Uchiha shrine, her ancient face unreadable, and she had not spoken a single word. He had assumed she hated him. Most of the Uchiha elders did, or at least resented him. But Chiyo's eyes held something different.
"I sleep enough," he said.
"You sleep too little and you eat even less. I can see your ribs through that shirt, boy. Don't think I can't." She set the basket on the low table and opened the wooden box, revealing neat rows of thread, needles, fabric scraps, and a pair of small scissors. "Sit down. We have work to do."
Kakashi did not move. "What work?"
"Sewing. You are going to learn how to mend your own clothes instead of throwing them away and buying new ones like some rich merchant's spoiled son. I've taught him, and Obito's grandfather taught me, and now I am teaching you." She settled onto a cushion with the careful grace of an old woman who knew exactly how to make her body cooperate. "Sit."
He sat. Not because she commanded it, but because something in her voice reminded him of his own imagination of what his grandmother could have been, the one who had died before he was born. The one whose name he had never learned because his father could not speak of her without weeping.
Chiyo handed him a square of fabric and a needle threaded with dark blue cotton. "Watch my hands."
She demonstrated a simple running stitch, her fingers moving with surprising precision despite the tremor. The needle slid through the fabric in even, measured movements, creating a line of small, identical stitches that looked almost like a row of tiny soldiers standing at attention.
"Now you."
Kakashi looked down at the fabric in his hands. It felt foreign, wrong. His fingers were made for kunai and shuriken, for hand seals and sword grips. They had never held a needle, never been asked to create something instead of destroying it. He tried to mimic her movements. The needle went in at a crooked angle. The thread tangled. The stitch came out lopsided and ugly.
"Again," Chiyo said.
He tried again. Better, but still uneven.
"Again."
Ten more stitches. Twenty. The fabric began to pucker where his tension pulled too tight. His hands were sweating. His jaw was clenched. This was harder than any jutsu he had ever learned, harder than any mission he had ever completed, because there was no enemy to fight and no goal to achieve and no way to measure success except by the slow, patient repetition of something that felt utterly pointless.
"Why are you teaching me this?" he asked finally, not looking up from his work.
"Because you need something to do with your hands that is not holding a weapon. And it’s somewhat of a tradition in our house."
"I am a shinobi. My hands are always holding weapons."
"Your hands are holding a needle right now." Chiyo reached over and gently corrected his grip, loosening the tension in his fingers. "Your heart is racing. Did you know that? I can hear it from here. It sounds like a drum. Like you are preparing for battle."
Kakashi's breath caught. "I am not preparing for battle."
"You are always preparing for battle. That is the problem." She set down her own fabric and folded her hands in her lap. "My grandson was the same way, you know. Before he died. Always moving, always fighting, always afraid that if he stopped for even a moment, something terrible would happen. And then something terrible did happen, and he was not moving at all."
The needle slipped in Kakashi's hand. He watched a drop of blood well up from his fingertip, bright red against the pale fabric.
"Obito told me once that you were the most anxious person he had ever met," Chiyo continued, her voice gentle. "He said you hid it behind rules and missions and pretending not to care. But he saw through it. He always saw through it."
Kakashi's throat felt tight. "He never said anything."
"Of course he did. He just said it in his own way. He argued with you. Challenged you. Refused to let you retreat into your silence. That was his language, Kakashi. That was how he said I see you and I am not going anywhere."
The drop of blood fell onto the fabric, spreading into a small crimson circle. Kakashi stared at it, at the evidence of his own fragility, and felt something crack open in his chest.
"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to live in his house and wear his clothes and be his... his widow. I don't know how to be anything except a shinobi."
Chiyo reached out and took his hands in hers. Her skin was papery thin, spotted with age, but her grip was surprisingly strong.
"Then we will learn together," she said.
Kakashi looked up. Her eyes were wet, but she was not crying. Uchiha did not cry in front of others, not even ancient grandmothers who had earned the right to any emotion they pleased.
"I miss him too," she said. "Every day. Every hour. But he is gone, and we are here, and the only way to honor his memory is to keep living. So. Sew. Again."
Kakashi picked up the needle. His hands still trembled, but less than before. He made another stitch. Then another. The fabric began to take shape under his fingers, still imperfect but slowly improving.
Chiyo talked as he worked. She told him about the history of the Transfer of the Eyes, about the Uchiha who had first performed the rite centuries ago, a warrior named Ren who had given his eyes to his dying wife so she could survive and protect their children. She told him about the great wars, when the bond had been used to unite warring clans, to forge alliances that lasted generations. She told him about the ones who had come before, the widows and widowers who had carried their spouses' eyes into battle and lived to tell the tale.
"You are not the first," she said. "And you will not be the last. The burden feels impossible now, but it will become lighter because you grow stronger around it."
Kakashi finished his row of stitches. It was still crooked. Still uneven. But it held.
"Better," Chiyo said. "Tomorrow, we try again."
She came every day after that. Sometimes they sewed. Sometimes she taught him to darn socks or patch holes or replace buttons. Sometimes they simply sat together in silence, drinking tea and watching the garden grow. Kakashi found that he did not mind the silence. It was a different kind of silence than the one he carried in his chest. It was peaceful. Shared. It reminded him that he was not alone, even when he felt like the last person left in the world.
The anxiety did not disappear. It curled in his stomach during missions, tightened his throat when he walked through the Uchiha compound, made his hands shake when he woke from nightmares. But the sewing helped. The mundane repetition of needle and thread gave his mind something to focus on besides fear. He learned to breathe through the panic, to feel the fabric between his fingers, to anchor himself in the simple physicality of creation.
Chiyo noticed the improvement. She said nothing, because she did not need to. But sometimes, when Kakashi finished a particularly difficult patch or completed an entire row of even stitches, she would nod once, sharply, and the corner of her mouth would twitch upward. That was approval. That was pride. That was more than Kakashi had received from any adult in a very long time.
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Three months into his residence in the Uchiha compound, Kakashi began to make changes to the house.
Small changes at first. He added a shelf in the living room for his books, the ones he had kept hidden in a box under his bed in his old apartment. These were not mission reports or training manuals. They were stories. Tales of adventure and romance and impossible quests, the kind of fiction that his father had read to him before bed when he was very small. Kakashi had not opened them in years, too ashamed of the softness they represented. But Chiyo had asked him once what he did for fun, and he had not been able to answer, and the look on her face had shamed him more than any question.
So he unpacked the books. He set them on the shelf in no particular order, their spines colorful and worn from repeated reading. Some of them had his father's name written inside the cover, a gift inscription in careful calligraphy. Some of them had Obito's name instead, pressed into the pages where the books had been borrowed and never returned.
Kakashi ran his fingers over the spines and felt something settle in his chest. This was his house now. His books. His life, slowly growing around the shape of Obito's absence.
Next came the games. A shogi board that Minato had given him for his birthday two years ago, still in its box. A set of carved wooden animals that Kushina had made herself, each one painted in bright colors. A deck of cards with illustrations of the tailed beasts, the kind of cheap novelty item sold at festival stalls. Kakashi set them on the low table in the living room, arranged them neatly, and tried to imagine a world where he had someone to play with.
The children's weapons came later. Small wooden kunai, blunted practice shuriken, a miniature tanto that was more toy than tool. Kakashi had found them in a shop near the Academy, tucked between the real weapons and the training supplies, and he had bought them without entirely understanding why. They sat in a bamboo basket by the door, waiting for small hands to pick them up.
Itachi was four years old when he first noticed them.
He had been coming to Kakashi's house for months by then, dropped off by Mikoto whenever she needed to attend clan business or simply wanted a break. At first, Itachi had been a passive child, content to sit in Kakashi's lap and watch the ninken play in the garden. But as he grew older, he became more curious, more active, more interested in the world around him.
Kakashi found himself collecting things for Itachi without really thinking about it. A smooth stone from the riverbank. A feather that one of his ninken had found. A book of children's stories that he had read so many times the pages were soft as fabric. These objects accumulated in the corners of the house, turning Obito's quiet shrine into something more lived in.
Itachi loved the wooden weapons. He picked up the miniature tanto with solemn reverence, turning it over in his small hands, examining the grain of the wood and the shape of the blade.
"It's not sharp," Kakashi said, sitting cross legged on the floor across from him. "It's for practice. For learning the Katas."
"I know," Itachi said. His voice was soft, thoughtful, nothing like the loud exuberance that most four year olds possessed. "It feels like it wants to be used."
Kakashi blinked. "Weapons don't want things."
"Everything wants something. The river wants to flow. The wind wants to move. This knife wants to cut." Itachi looked up, his dark eyes meeting Kakashi's mismatched ones. "What do you want, Kakashi-san?"
The question hung in the air between them. Kakashi opened his mouth to give a standard answer, a shinobi answer, something about duty and mission and serving the village. But the words would not come. Not with Itachi looking at him like that, like he actually wanted to know.
"I want to be useful," he said finally. "I want to protect the people I care about. I want to make sure no one else dies because I was too slow or too weak or too stupid to save them."
Itachi considered this. "That is a lot of wants."
"Yes. It is."
"Maybe you should want smaller things." Itachi set down the wooden tanto and picked up a practice shuriken instead. "My mother says you are very serious. She says you need to play more."
"Your mother is very wise."
"My mother is very bossy. But she is usually right." Itachi threw the practice shuriken across the room. It wobbled in the air, spinning crookedly, and landed on its side with a soft thunk. "I missed."
"You are four years old. You are not supposed to hit the target yet."
"Obito-niisan could hit the target when he was four. My father told me."
Kakashi felt the familiar ache in his chest at Obito's name. But it was different now. It felt more like pressure on a bruise than a wound. "Obito was exceptional. And also he lied constantly about his abilities. He probably told everyone he could hit the target at four, but I guarantee you he could not."
Itachi's eyes widened. "He lied?"
"All the time. About everything. He once told Rin that he could speak fluent Kumogakure dialect, and then a traveling merchant asked him a question in that language and Obito just stared at him like a deer in headlights."
Itachi giggled. It was a small sound, barely audible, but it was the first time Kakashi had ever heard him laugh. The sound made something warm bloom in Kakashi's chest, something he had not felt since before the Kanabi Bridge.
"Tell me another story," Itachi said, abandoning the practice weapons entirely and crawling into Kakashi's lap. "Tell me about Obito-niisan being silly."
So Kakashi did. He told Itachi about the time Obito had tried to cook dinner for the team and had set the kitchen on fire. About the time Obito had challenged a cat to a staring contest and lost. About the time Obito had gotten lost on a straight road and refused to admit it for three hours. Each story made Itachi laugh more, and each laugh made Kakashi feel lighter, like he was sharing something precious instead of hoarding it alone.
When Mikoto came to pick up Itachi that evening, she found them both asleep on the floor, Kakashi's back against the wall and Itachi curled up on his chest like a small, dark haired cat. The practice weapons were scattered around them, and the remains of a half eaten plate of rice balls sat on the low table.
Mikoto did not wake them. She simply covered them with a blanket, pressed a kiss to her son's forehead, and left a note thanking Kakashi for everything.
That was the night Kakashi realized he was finally finding himself a new place he could call home.
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Helping at the orphanage had been Obito's idea.
Kakashi remembered the argument clearly. They had been ten and twelve, standing on opposite sides of a training ground, arguing about the purpose of shinobi power. Obito had insisted that strength meant nothing if it was not used to help others. Kakashi had insisted that rules and missions were the only reliable framework for service. They had screamed at each other until Minato had separated them and sent them both home with detention.
But Obito had been right. Kakashi knew that now. He knew it every time he walked past the Konoha Orphanage and heard the children laughing inside, every time he saw the elderly veterans sitting alone on their porches with no one to visit them, every time he thought about all the things Obito would have done if he had lived long enough to do them.
So Kakashi started showing up.
He volunteered at the orphanage twice a week, helping with meals and chores and the endless task of keeping small children from injuring themselves. He was awkward at first, too stiff, too formal, too used to giving orders instead of playing games. But the children did not care about his awkwardness. They cared about the ninken who followed him everywhere, about the Sharingan that spun in his left eye, about the fact that he could play hide and seek with all of them simultaneously.
Within a month, he was the most popular volunteer the orphanage had ever seen.
"You have a gift," the head matron told him, watching him chase a group of toddlers through the garden. "Most shinobi are too hardened for this work. But you... you are still soft enough to matter."
Kakashi did not feel soft. He felt like a blade that had been sharpened too many times, thin and brittle and ready to snap. But the children did not see that. They saw someone who showed up, someone who listened, someone who held them when they cried and taught them how to throw a punch and never, ever made them feel worthless or outcasted.
That last part was important. Kakashi knew what it felt like to be told he was not good enough. His father's shame had been a lesson in worthlessness. The village's whispers had been a constant reminder that he would never escape the shadow of the White Fang's disgrace. He would not let these children feel that way. Not if he could help it.
The elderly were harder. They did not warm up to him quickly, did not trust the strange Uchiha widow with the mismatched eyes who came to their homes and asked if they needed help with shopping or cleaning or simply someone to talk to. But Kakashi was patient. He had learned patience from Chiyo, from the slow rhythm of needle and thread, from the way the garden grew whether he watched it or not.
He started with small things. Carrying groceries. Sweeping porches. Reading aloud to those whose eyes had failed. He listened to their stories, their complaints, their memories of wars that had ended before he was born. He learned their names and their preferences and the small details that made them individuals instead of burdens.
Slowly, grudgingly, they began to accept him.
"Hm, You are not what I expected," said old Yamamoto, a retired shinobi who had lost his leg in the Second War. He sat on his porch every afternoon, watching the world go by, and he had refused to speak to Kakashi for the first three visits. "I expected more like the other Uchiha."
"I am not an Uchiha," Kakashi said, sweeping the porch with steady, even strokes.
"No. But you wear their clothes and live in their compound and carry one of their eyes. That makes you more Uchiha than most of them, in my opinion." Yamamoto spat over the railing, a gesture of casual disrespect that would have horrified the clan elders. "Obito was a good boy. You honor him good."
Kakashi did not know what to say to that. He simply kept sweeping, letting the rhythm of the task soothe him, and when he finished, he sat on the porch steps and listened to Yamamoto talk about the war and the friends he had lost and the wife who had died before she could see the village grow.
By the time Kakashi left, the sun was setting and his heart was full of other people's grief. But it did not feel heavy. It felt like company.
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The change in the Uchiha compound's attitude toward Kakashi was gradual, almost imperceptible. Children stopped asking to see his Sharingan every time he walked past. Adults began to nod at him in greeting instead of staring. Shopkeepers stopped overcharging him for vegetables. He was becoming ordinary, familiar, a part of the landscape rather than an intrusion.
Mikoto noticed it first, of course. She noticed everything.
"You are becoming accepted," she said one afternoon, watching Kakashi play shogi with Fugaku in the main house. Itachi sat on her lap, his dark eyes tracking the movement of the pieces with an intensity that was almost unsettling in a child his age. "The whispers have changed. They used to say 'that Hatake boy' with suspicion. Now they say 'Obito's Kakashi' with something like fondness."
Kakashi moved his gold general forward, a defensive maneuver that made Fugaku's eyebrows rise. "I am not sure I want to be anyone's anything."
"That is not your choice to make. People will claim you whether you like it or not." Mikoto shifted Itachi in her lap. "You are the perfect balance, you know. Between Obito and a standard Uchiha. You have his warmth, his willingness to help, his stubborn refusal to give up on people. But you also have the proper Uchiha reserve. The discretion. The ability to keep your mouth shut when silence is required."
"I learned silence from my father."
"I know." Mikoto's voice was gentle. "That is not a criticism. Obito talked too much. He felt everything too loudly, expressed everything too openly. It was exhausting, honestly. But you... you feel just as deeply, I think. You simply do not show it. That is a gift, Kakashi. It is why the clan is beginning to trust you."
Kakashi moved another piece. Fugaku countered immediately, trapping Kakashi's bishop in an inescapable position. The game was slipping away from him, but he did not mind. He had never cared about winning. He cared about understanding the patterns, the strategies, the way each piece moved in relation to the others.
Fugaku was a difficult man to read. He sat across the shogi board with the same expression he wore to clan meetings and diplomatic functions, a mask of calm authority that revealed nothing. But Kakashi had learned to watch the small things. The way Fugaku's fingers tapped against the table when he was thinking. The way his eyes flickered to Itachi every few minutes, checking on his son even when he seemed completely absorbed in the game.
"You are improving," Fugaku said as Kakashi made another move. "Your defense is still weak, but your offense is becoming creative."
"Chiyo-obāchan has been teaching me strategy. She says I think too much like a shinobi and not enough like a general."
"Chiyo is wise. She has outlived three husbands and every enemy she ever faced." Fugaku captured one of Kakashi's pawns and set it aside. "She speaks highly of you. That is not nothing. She does not speak highly of anyone."
Kakashi felt warmth spread through his chest. Chiyo had never told him that. She expressed her approval in other ways, through patience and presence and the small, meaningful gifts she left on his doorstep. But hearing Fugaku confirm it made it real somehow. Made it matter.
Itachi squirmed on Mikoto's lap, reaching for the shogi board with grabby hands. "I want to play."
"You are too young," Fugaku said, but his voice was softer than usual. "You do not know the rules yet."
"Then teach me."
Itachi's tone was imperious, demanding, nothing like the quiet child Kakashi usually saw. It reminded him of Obito, suddenly. That same stubborn insistence, that same refusal to accept limitations. He glanced at Mikoto, who was smiling like she had just won a bet.
Fugaku sighed. "Fine. But you will sit still and listen."
He began to explain the rules of shogi, moving pieces to demonstrate each concept. Itachi watched with the same intensity he brought to everything, his small brow furrowed in concentration. When Fugaku asked a question about movement patterns, Itachi answered correctly every time.
"Prodigy," Mikoto murmured to Kakashi, not without pride. "He gets it from me."
"He gets the intelligence from you. He gets the stubbornness from his father."
"And the darkness from the Uchiha bloodline. We all carry it, you know. That capacity for deep feeling. For obsession. For love that destroys everything in its path." Mikoto's hand found Kakashi's, squeezing gently. "You carry it too now. Obito's love lives in you, whether you wanted it or not."
Kakashi looked down at their joined hands. He thought about Obito's voice, loud and obnoxious, arguing about the importance of friends and the meaning of heroism. He thought about the way Obito had looked at him in the cave, bloody and broken and still smiling, still believing, still choosing to give Kakashi the most precious thing he owned.
"I am learning to carry it," he said. "It is getting lighter."
Mikoto's smile was like sunrise. "That is all any of us can do."
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The grocery trips with Chiyo became a ritual.
Every Thursday morning, Kakashi would walk to Chiyo's house and help her down the steps, supporting her elbow as they made the slow journey through the Uchiha compound to the market. She moved like a woman who had once been tall and proud, now folded by age into something smaller but no less dignified. Her cane tapped against the stone pathways in a steady rhythm that matched the beat of Kakashi's heart.
"Good morning, Chiyo-san," said the fishmonger, a burly man with kind eyes and a booming voice. "And who is this young man with you?"
"This is Kakashi," Chiyo said, not slowing her pace. "Obito's widower."
"Ah. The loud mouth's boy." The fishmonger nodded, not with pity or suspicion, but with simple acknowledgment. "He used to come here every day, you know. Would not shut up about his missions. Drove me crazy. But he always bought the ugliest fish, the ones no one else wanted. Said they needed love too."
Kakashi looked at the fish on display, at the bright silver scales and the clear eyes. He tried to imagine Obito standing in this spot, arguing with the fishmonger about prices, gesturing wildly with his hands, laughing at his own jokes. The image was so vivid it almost hurt.
They bought fish, vegetables and rice, moving from stall to stall with the practiced efficiency of people who had been shopping together for decades. At each stop, Chiyo introduced Kakashi the same way. "Obito's widower." Sometimes the merchants would nod. Sometimes they would tell a story about Obito, a small memory that Kakashi filed away in his heart like precious stones. Sometimes they would simply look at him with something that might have been respect and might have been grief and might have been both.
By the time they returned to Kakashi's house, the sun was high and his arms were full of groceries and his heart was full of stories.
"Thank you," he said as he helped Chiyo settle onto a cushion in the living room. "For taking me with you."
"It is not charity, boy. It is family." Chiyo accepted the cup of tea he offered, wrapping her gnarled hands around its warmth. "You are Obito's. That makes you mine. And I take care of what is mine."
Kakashi sat across from her, his own tea cooling in his hands. "I am not sure I know how to be taken care of."
"Then you will learn. Just like you learned to sew. Just like you learned to garden. Just like you learned to sit still and breathe." She smiled, and her face transformed into something beautiful, something that held echoes of the young woman she had once been. "You are learning to live, Kakashi. It is the hardest thing any of us ever does. But you are doing it. Every day. Even when it hurts."
The tears came without warning. Kakashi tried to blink them back, tried to maintain the composure that had been drilled into him since birth, but they fell anyway. Hot and silent, tracking down his cheeks, dripping onto his folded hands.
Chiyo did not say anything. She did not offer comfort or advice or the kind of empty platitudes that adults usually gave to crying children. She simply sat with him, drinking her tea, waiting for the storm to pass.
When it did, Kakashi wiped his face with his sleeve and looked at her with red rimmed eyes. "I am sorry. I did not mean to."
"Do not apologize for feeling. That is the first rule of being human. The shinobi world tries to take that from you. Do not let it." She set down her teacup and leaned forward, her ancient eyes holding his. "Obito cried. Did you know that? He cried when his parents died. He cried when his friends were hurt. He cried when you pushed him away, which you did often. He was not ashamed of his tears. Neither should you be."
Kakashi nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Good. Now finish your tea. We have sewing to do, and you are still terrible at hemming."
The laugh that escaped Kakashi was wet and wobbly and utterly undignified. But it was real. It was the first real laugh he had managed since before the Kanabi Bridge. And it felt, against all odds, like hope.
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The dango making happened on a rainy afternoon.
Itachi was four years old, though Kakashi had stopped counting the months because it made him feel old. The boy had grown from a silent infant into a thoughtful child with a startling capacity for observation and an even more startling capacity for silence. But he was not silent today. Today he was perched on a stool in Kakashi's kitchen, his small hands covered in rice flour, his face smeared with red bean paste, and he was talking.
Not about anything important. Just the new leaf that had sprouted on the tomato plant. And the way Pakkun's tail wagged when he was happy. But he was talking, and Kakashi was listening, and the kitchen was filled with the sweet smell of dango and the soft sound of rain against the roof.
"You have to roll them evenly," Kakashi said, demonstrating with a smooth, practiced motion. "Otherwise they will cook unevenly and some will be hard and some will be mushy."
"Like Obito-niisan's cooking?"
Kakashi paused. "How do you know about Obito-niisan's cooking?"
"Mama told me. She said he once set fire to a frying pan and the smoke alarm went off for an hour."
"That is not the only thing he set on fire." Kakashi rolled another dango, placed it on the tray. "He set fire to a training dummy once. And a tree. And Minato-sensei's cloak. And his own sleeve."
Itachi giggled, the sound bright and unfiltered. "How did he set his own sleeve on fire?"
"He was trying to learn the Fireball Jutsu. He was... not very good at it at first. The fire came out of his mouth sideways and caught his sleeve instead of the target."
"That is silly."
"Obito was silly. He was the silliest person I have ever known." Kakashi's voice caught slightly on the past tense, but he pushed through. "He was also brave and kind and stubborn and loud. Very loud. He never stopped talking. It drove me crazy."
Itachi considered this, his small hands still working the dough into imperfect balls. "Do you miss him?"
The question was simple, the kind of question only a child could ask without flinching. Kakashi looked at Itachi's earnest face, at the dark Uchiha eyes that held so much understanding for someone so young, and decided to tell the truth.
"Every day," he said. "Every single day. I miss him so much that sometimes I cannot breathe. But I am learning to live with the missing."
Itachi nodded slowly, like he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe all children of shinobi understood loss in ways that civilians never could. "Mama says you are family now. She says we take care of family."
"We do."
"So I am going to take care of you." Itachi held up his misshapen dango, his expression solemn. "Starting with these. They are ugly, but they will taste good. I made them with love."
Kakashi's eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, blaming the steam from the cooking pot. "Thank you, Itachi. That means more than you know."
They cooked the dango together, dipping them in sweet soy glaze and arranging them on a plate. Some were lumpy. Some were lopsided. Some had fallen apart completely and had to be reformed into shapes that were not quite round. But they were beautiful, every single one of them, because they had been made by small, loving hands.
When Mikoto came to pick up Itachi that evening, she found them in the living room, the plate of dango half eaten between them. Itachi was curled against Kakashi's side, his eyes heavy with approaching sleep, and Kakashi was reading aloud from one of his childhood storybooks. His voice was soft, rhythmic, the same voice his father had used to read to him when the world had been simpler and kinder.
Mikoto stood in the doorway and watched for a long moment. Then she smiled, turned around, and went home alone. Itachi could stay the night. Kakashi needed him more than she did right now.
The next morning, Fugaku came to collect his son personally. He stood in the doorway of Obito's small house, looking at the scene before him. Kakashi was making breakfast while Itachi sat at the table, still in his sleeping clothes, feeding pieces of fish to the ninken who had gathered around his feet.
"He has never slept anywhere but home before," Fugaku said. His voice was neutral, but his eyes were not.
Kakashi tensed, expecting criticism, expecting the cold formality that usually characterized his interactions with the Uchiha clan head. "I am sorry. I should have sent him back last night. I just thought-"
"He talks about you constantly." Fugaku stepped inside, sliding the door closed behind him. "Itachi. He does not talk about many people. He says you make him feel safe."
Kakashi did not know what to say. He didn't expect Fugaku saying so much, directed to him. He stood at the stove, spatula in hand, feeling strangely exposed.
"Itachi is... different," Fugaku continued, moving to sit at the table across from his son. "He is gifted. More gifted than any child his age has a right to be. Most people treat him like he is already an adult, like he does not need patience or guidance or the freedom to fail. But you treat him like a child. You let him be four years old." There was an edge of tiredness in the adult's voice as he looked at his carefree son.
"He is four years old."
"Yes. And you are the only person besides his mother who seems to remember that." Fugaku reached out and ruffled Itachi's hair, a gesture of such casual affection that Kakashi felt his heart twist. "You are good for him. I want you to continue babysitting. As often as you are willing."
Kakashi nodded.
"Also." Fugaku paused, his hand still resting on Itachi's head. "The clan elders have stopped pushing for the annulment. They still do not like that you have the Sharingan. But they have stopped trying to take it back."
Kakashi turned back to the stove, hiding his face. "I just did what Obito would have done."
"Hm." Fugaku stood, lifting Itachi onto his hip. "Thank you for taking care of my son. You are welcome in the main house anytime."
He left without waiting for a response. Kakashi stood in the kitchen, listening to the rain and the sound of his own heartbeat.
He was becoming someone Obito would have been proud of.
That afternoon, Kakashi found Chiyo in her garden, pruning the chrysanthemums that had been her husband's pride. He sat down beside her without speaking, picked up a pair of shears, and began to trim the dead blooms.
They worked in silence for a long time. Then Chiyo spoke.
"You are staying."
It was not a question.
"Yes," Kakashi said. "I think I am."
"Good." She snipped a branch, examined it, set it aside. "The house needs someone who will keep the garden alive. Obito would hate it if the tomatoes died."
"He would hate it if any of it died." Kakashi paused, the shears hovering over a cluster of wilting flowers. "I am not sure I know how to keep things alive. I have spent my whole life learning how to end them."
Chiyo looked at him, really looked at him, and her ancient eyes held something that might have been wisdom and might have been love and might have been both. "Then you will learn. Just like you learned to sew. Just like you learned to garden. Just like you learned to sit still and breathe and exist without a mission objective."
"That is what you said before."
"Because it is true. And because you need to hear it again." She reached over and took his hand, her skin papery thin against his.
"Thank you," he said. "Obā-chan."
Chiyo's smile was like sunrise after a long night. She squeezed his hand once, firmly, and returned to her pruning.
They worked until the sun went down, grandmother and grandson, connected by grief and hope. And when Kakashi finally went home, his hands smelled like earth and flowers and something that might have been peace.
He slept through the night for the first time in months.
—summary. He's 12 right now and has way more responsibilities than anyone his age should have to bear.
—content warning. death, eye transplantation and typical Naruto stuff
—word count. 6,2k
—azia‘s notes. I've posted it on Ao3 but now it's also here
↠Part 2 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖍𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝕱𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖍.
The Kanabi Bridge still smoldered in Kakashi's memory like a wound that refused to close. Three weeks had passed since the mission, since the cave-in, since Obito had looked at him with that one remaining eye. Bloody, determined, impossibly alive even as his body crumbled and said the words that would bind them forever across a line Kakashi had never understood until it was too late.
"Take my eye, Kakashi. And live. Let me see t-the world with yo-. Keep Rin safe-"
He hadn't known. How could he have known? At twelve years old, the intricacies of Uchiha marriage rites were not exactly standard curriculum at the Academy. He had memorized every jutsu in the academy books and clan scrolls by age eight, could recite the names of every Kage and their greatest achievements backward and forward, had mastered three nature transformations before most children his age could properly throw a kunai. But no one had ever taught him what it meant when an Uchiha offered their eyes.
No one except the Uchiha elders themselves, three days after he'd woken up in the Konoha hospital with bandages wrapped around his left eye and a strange, tingling warmth behind the new Sharingan that now lived there.
"The Transfer of the Eyes is the highest form of marriage bond," Elder Koharu had said, her voice flat and cold as winter steel. She sat across from his hospital bed like an executioner reviewing charges. Beside her, Elder Homura nodded grimly. "It predates the village itself. An Uchiha may only offer their eyes to their intended spouse, or to their spouse already bound. To accept is to accept the bond."
Kakashi had stared at them dumbfounded, his small frame barely making a dent in the hospital mattress. The bandages made his face look even younger than it was, and he knew, he knew that he appeared every inch the frightened child he refused to be. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"I didn't know."
"Ignorance is not grounds for annulment," Homura had said, and there was something almost pitiful in his ancient eyes. "The rites were performed. The eye was offered freely and accepted freely. By our laws, by the traditions that existed before the villages were even a dream in Hashirama's mind, you are bound to Obito Uchiha in marriage."
Marriage.
The word had hit Kakashi like a physical blow. He was twelve years old. Obito was, had been fourteen and will stay fourteen. He had never held anyone's hand, never thought about romance, never imagined a future that included anything other than missions and duty and the quiet, desperate hope that one day he might become worthy of a legacy that will surely die with him. And now he was a husband.
A widowed husband.
"Obito is dead," Kakashi had said, and his voice cracked in a way he would hate himself for later. "How can I be married to a dead person?"
Koharu had exchanged a glance with Homura. "The bond persists beyond death. It is... not unprecedented. The widow or widower may choose to remarry after appropriate mourning, but the initial bond remains recorded. You are, for all legal and ceremonial purposes, Obito's surviving spouse."
That night, alone in the hospital room with the moonlight cutting silver patterns across his bandages, Kakashi had pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his face against them and not cried. He was Hatake Kakashi. He did not cry. Shinobi Rule #25 states that a ninja must never show their tears during a mission. He had not cried when his father died, had not cried when he learned of his mothers tragic death, had not cried when the rocks had fallen and Obito had…
But his shoulders had shaken anyway, silent and violent, until the nurses came to check on him.
The Lord Third had not been pleased.
Hiruzen sat behind his massive desk in the Hokage's office, his pipe sending lazy spirals of smoke toward the ceiling, and he looked every one of his years as he listened to the Uchiha delegation make their case. Minato stood beside Kakashi like a shield, one hand resting lightly on the boy's shoulder, and Kakashi felt obscurely grateful for the warmth of that touch even as he kept his eyes fixed on a point just above the Hokage's head.
"The boy is twelve years old," Hiruzen said finally, when the elders had finished their recitation of tradition and law and sacred obligation. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. "I understand the weight of your customs, but surely there must be some provision-"
"There is not," Elder Tekka interrupted. He was a severe man with a face like carved stone and Sharingan eyes that gleamed red in the afternoon light. "The transfer is absolute. To deny it is to deny the very foundation of our clan's history. Would you have us abandon our traditions for the convenience of one orphan child?"
Minato's hand tightened on Kakashi's shoulder. "With all due respect, Elder Tekka, Kakashi is not an orphan. He has me. He has the village."
"He has a Sharingan that does not belong to him," Tekka snickered, and there was an edge of menace beneath the polite words. "An eye that was given in sacred bond. If that bond is not honored, we will demand the eye's return. By whatever means necessary."
The silence that followed was deafening. Kakashi could hear the tick of the clock on the Hokage's wall, could hear the distant shouts of children playing in the streets below, could hear the soft rasp of Minato's breathing beside him. He thought of Obito's face in the moment before the rocks fell. He didn't look at him with anger, though he couldn't fulfil his dream. The soft peace that had settled over his features when he'd looked at Kakashi one last time sent chills every time he thought of that moment.
Don't take his eye from me. He quietly thinks while digging his nails in his palm to not elicit any reaction nor show his frustration at the possibility of not keeping his promise.
Live.
"Fine," Kakashi reluctantly agrees.
Everyone turned to look at him. Minato's hand fell away from his shoulder. Hiruzen's pipe stopped mid-journey to his lips. The Uchiha elders exchanged glances that might have been surprise or might have been satisfaction. It was impossible to tell with faces that old and practiced.
"I'll do it," Kakashi continued, and his voice was steady even though his hands were trembling where he'd hidden them in his pockets. "I'll honor the bond. Whatever that means. But I have conditions."
Hiruzen leaned forward, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. "Name them."
"First, I remain Hatake. I am the head of my clan, and I will not take the Uchiha name. The bond is recognized, but I do not become one of them."
Elder Tekka's jaw tightened, but Koharu nodded slowly. "Acceptable. The bond is between individuals, not clans. Obito's spouse need not forfeit their own heritage."
"Second," Kakashi said, and he had to force the next words out past the lump in his throat, "I want to still be able to pursue being a Shinobi."
That caused murmuring among the elders. Homura held up her hand in silence. "We also have some additional conditions. As his surviving spouse, you have legal claim to Obito's house. You would live in the Uchiha compound for the time being so we can monitor the sharingan while being surrounded by our people to check on the healing"
"According to you, I'm married to one of your people. Where else would I live?"
Something flickered across Tekka's face, respect, perhaps, or the closest thing an Uchiha elder could manage to it. "The house is small. Modest. It has not been maintained since Obito's death."
"I don't care."
"And the rest of our traditions? You will wear our colors? Participate in our ceremonies?"
Kakashi thought of Obito's voice, loud and obnoxious, complaining about how boring the Uchiha festivals were, how he'd rather be training or eat some Ramen with Kushina-nee or literally anything else. He thought of Obito's grin, wide and crooked and full of life.
"I'll wear what's appropriate," he said carefully. "I'll show respect for your customs. But I'm a shinobi first. The village comes before the clan."
The elders looked at each other. Some invisible communication passed between them, four ancient men and women who had outlived their children and their children's children, who had seen the founding of the village and nearly every war since.
"Agreed," Tekka said finally. "The bond will be recorded. The arrangements will be made. You will move into the compound within the week."
When the elders filed out, their sandals clicking against the wooden floor, Hiruzen let out a long breath and sank back into his chair. Minato's hand returned to Kakashi's shoulder, squeezing once, firmly.
"You didn't have to do that, Kakashi."
"Yes, I did."
"Obito wouldn't have wanted-"
"Obito is dead." Kakashi's voice was flat, hollow, the voice he used on missions when there was no room for emotion. "What he would have wanted doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that the Uchiha are angry and they're looking for reasons to resent the village and if this-" he touched the bandages over his left eye, "-can help keep the peace, then I'll do it."
Hiruzen and Minato exchanged a look that Kakashi couldn't quite interpret. Adults did that a lot around him, he'd noticed. Exchanging looks. Having conversations in silence that he wasn't privy to.
"Minato," Hiruzen said quietly, "walk him home. We'll talk more tomorrow."
The Hatakes apartment consisted of a barren room with little to no personal items which would not suggest that a child lives here. A child stopped being one when they became a genin. That's how they lived. Since he was 5, that means shortly after his fathers death he didn't live at the orphanage. Instead he had his own place, had learned to cook for himself and patch his own clothes and sleep with one eye open in the silence that followed the White Fang's disgrace since 5 years of age.
His ninken were the only company he'd ever wanted.
Pakkun lay curled at the foot of his bed, snoring softly, while the others sprawled across the floor in various states of canine disarray. Bull had claimed the entire bed. Akino had wedged himself behind the bookshelf and was refusing to come out. Urushi and Shiba were engaged in a complex wrestling match that involved a surprising amount of furniture rearrangement.
And Kakashi sat in the middle of it all, cross-legged on the worn tatami mats, and tried to figure out how to pack for a life he'd never asked for.
"You're really going through with this?" Pakkun asked without opening his eyes. His voice was gruff, sleepy, but there was an edge of worry underneath. "Moving in with the Uchiha?"
"It's not 'moving in with the Uchiha,'" Kakashi said, folding his father's old haori with careful precision. The white fabric was stained now, a little threadbare at the edges, but it smelled like home that he can't deny no matter how much he hated that man. "It's moving into Obito's house. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Kakashi paused, the haori half-folded in his hands. "There has to be."
The truth was more complicated, and Kakashi knew it. Obito's house was in the heart of the Uchiha compound, surrounded by Uchiha neighbors and Uchiha shops and Uchiha children playing Uchiha games in the streets. He would be watched constantly, evaluated constantly, judged for every action and every word. The elders would be looking for reasons to declare the bond invalid or worse, to declare that Kakashi had somehow stolen the Sharingan through dishonorable means.
And underneath all of that, underneath the politics and the suspicion and the endless calculation, there was the simple, devastating fact that he was moving into the home of a dead boy he had never quite understood how to love.
Pakkun hopped off the bed and trotted over to sit at Kakashi's knee. "I'm coming with you."
"You're all coming with me. That was my third condition."
"Third condition?"
Kakashi nodded, finally setting the folded haori aside. "I told them I wouldn't move into the compound without my ninken. They... weren't thrilled. But Minato-sensei backed me up."
Pakkun snorted. "I bet they weren't thrilled. Dogs and cats, you know."
"We're not cats."
"Tell that to the Uchiha. They probably think having dogs in the compound will disturb their refined sensibilities." Pakkun's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Too bad. They're getting eight of us."
Kakashi almost smiled. Almost. "Nine, actually. I'm not leaving Bisuke behind just because he chewed through Elder Tekka's sandal."
"That was an accident."
"It was a statement."
Pakkun's tail wagged once, twice. "He's a good boy."
"He's a menace."
"The best kind of good boy."
Moving day arrived faster than Kakashi was prepared for.
Minato helped him carry his belongings, which, tragically, fit into two bags and a single scroll, through the streets of Konoha and into the Uchiha compound. The transition was immediate and jarring. One moment they were walking through familiar market streets, and the next they had passed through the great wooden gates and into a world that felt simultaneously foreign and ancient.
The Uchiha compound was beautiful, Kakashi had to admit that much. Polished wooden buildings with curved roofs, stone lanterns lining immaculate pathways, a central plaza with a fountain that caught the morning light and scattered it into rainbows. Cherry trees lined the main avenue, their blossoms falling in soft pink drifts. It was peaceful. Serene. A place that had been cultivated over generations into something almost holy.
It also felt like walking into a den of wild cats.
Every window held a watcher. Every doorway framed a silent observer. Kakashi could feel the Sharingan eyes tracking his progress, could feel the weight of generations of suspicion pressing down on his shoulders. He was an outsider. An intruder. A Hatake who had somehow stolen one of their own and now dared to walk among them in stolen colors.
He had changed into Uchiha-style clothing that morning at Minato's gentle insistence. Dark blue pants and a high-collared shirt with the Uchiha fan embroidered over the heart with the Hatake symbol behind it, overlaid with a short haori in the same deep navy. It felt wrong. It felt like wearing Obito's skin.
"You look..." Minato began, then stopped.
"Like I'm playing dress-up?"
"I was going to say 'like you belong.' But if you want to be dramatic about it."
Kakashi glanced up at his sensei. His teacher, his commander, the closest thing to family he had left and saw the worry hidden behind Minato's easy smile like a father sending his son off. "I don't belong here."
"Maybe not yet. But you might, someday." Minato stopped walking and turned to face Kakashi fully, his blue eyes serious. "Listen to me. The Uchiha are proud and they are private and they don't trust easily. But they are also your family now, whether you want them or not. Obito's family. His grandmother still lives in the main house. His cousins will be at every festival. His name is tied to yours now, and that means something."
"It means I have to prove I'm worthy of an eye I never asked for."
"It means you have a chance to build something new." Minato knelt down so he was at eye level with Kakashi, and for a moment he looked less like the legendary Yellow Flash and more like a young man trying very hard to be a good teacher and not break down in the middle of the street. "Obito believed in you, Kakashi. From the very beginning, he believed in you. Maybe that was just his nature, he believed in everyone. But he believed in you the most. Don't let that belief be wasted."
Kakashi looked away. "He hated me."
"No. He was jealous of you, and frustrated by you, and occasionally wanted to throw you off a cliff. But he never hated you." Minato stood up, ruffled Kakashi's hair in a gesture so paternal it made something ache in the boy's chest for more, however in the same instance to just run away to that cave. "Come on. Let's go see your new home."
Obito's house was small.
Kakashi had expected that. The Uchiha compound was largely composed of multi-generational houses, sprawling estates where dozens of family members lived under one roof. But Obito had been an orphan like Kakashi, the last of his immediate line, and the property his parents had left him reflected that solitude.
It was a single-story building with a traditional design. Sliding paper doors, a small engawa porch that wrapped around the southern side, a garden that had once been carefully tended but was now overgrown with weeds. The roof tiles were slightly faded, and one of the shutters hung at a crooked angle, but the bones of the house were solid. It had been loved, once. It had been home.
Pakkun sniffed at the threshold and sneezed. "Dusty."
"We can clean."
"There's probably mice."
"We can catch them."
"There's definitely spiders. Big ones. Uchiha spiders."
Kakashi didn't entertain these remarks any more and slid open the front door and stepped inside.
The entryway opened into a small living space with worn tatami mats and a low wooden table that had been pushed against the wall. A vase sat in the corner, empty now but still holding the ghost of dried flowers. Photographs lined the walls, not the formal portraits that decorated the main Uchiha houses, but candid snapshots of a boy growing up. Obito at five, holding up a fish he'd caught. Obito at seven, covered in mud and grinning. Obito at ten, standing beside an older couple who must have been his grandparents, all of them laughing at something just out of frame.
Kakashi stopped in front of that last photograph and couldn't move.
He had never seen Obito's family before. Obito had mentioned them sometimes, in the way that orphans do, casually, carefully, skirting around the edges of grief. My grandmother used to make the best dumplings. My grandfather taught me the Fireball Jutsu before I even was in the academy. They would have liked you, Bakashi. They would have thought you were funny with your small comment. They would probably though you were the Uchiha of the two of us.
Funny. Obito would never have thought he was funny. Its only his grieve imagining scenarios for comfort.
"I'll start on the garden," Minato said quietly from behind him. "The weeds are pretty bad, but I think there's some vegetables still growing under there. Tomatoes, maybe. And some herbs."
Kakashi nodded without turning around.
"And the ninken can explore the grounds. Get familiar with the territory. Pakkun, you're in charge."
"You got it, boss."
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The door slid shut, and then Kakashi was alone.
He walked through the house like a ghost visiting his own funeral. The kitchen was small but functional, with a wood-burning stove and a sink that still had a pot soaking in it. Obito must have been making tea before the Kanabi Bridge mission, must have planned to come home and finish whatever meal he'd started. The bedroom was at the back of the house, a single room with a futon that still smelled faintly of Obito's cheap soap he'd used.
Kakashi sat down on the edge of that futon and pressed his hands flat against his thighs and tried very hard to breathe.
This is Obito's room.
This is Obito's bed.
This is Obito's house, and I'm supposed to live here now, and I'm supposed to wear his clan's colors and honor his clan's traditions and call myself his.
His husband.
The word tasted like ash in his mouth.
It wasn't that the idea was repulsive. That would have been easier, somehow. If Kakashi had hated Obito, if the thought of being bound to him for eternity made his skin crawl, then this would be a simple burden to bear. A duty. A mission. He could have locked his heart away and gone through the motions and counted the days until some political shift freed him from this obligation.
But the truth was worse.
The truth was that somewhere in the months before the Kanabi Bridge, somewhere between the arguments and the competitions and the grudging respect that grew despite everything, Kakashi had started to see Obito differently. Had started to notice the way the sun caught his dark hair, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he never gave up on anyone no matter how hopeless they seemed. Had started to want things that he couldn't name and didn't understand and would never have acted on even if the world had been kinder.
And now Obito was dead, and Kakashi was his widow, and he would carry Obito's eye in his skull for the rest of his life as proof of a bond that had only become real to him when it was too late to matter.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty room. "I'm sorry I didn't- I'm sorry I never-"
He couldn't finish the sentence. The words wouldn't come. They lodged in his throat like stones, like the rocks that had fallen on Obito, like all the things he should have said when there was still time to say them.
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The first weeks were the hardest.
Kakashi woke every morning in Obito's bed, surrounded by Obito's things, and felt like an intruder in a shrine he had no right to visit. He cleaned the house methodically, not because it was dirty but because he needed something to do with his hands. He tended the garden with Minato's help, pulling weeds and pruning back the overgrown bushes until the small yard began to look like something Obito might have recognized.
The Uchiha left him alone, mostly. They watched from a distance, and they whispered behind their hands, and occasionally one of the younger children would approach him with wide eyes and ask to see the Sharingan. Kakashi always obliged, opening his left eye to reveal the single tomoe that had already begun to spin there, and the children would gasp and run away to tell their friends about the strange Hatake boy with Obito-niisan's eye.
The adults were more complicated.
Mikoto Uchiha came to call on his third day in the compound. She was beautiful and elegant and carried herself with a grace that made Kakashi feel clumsy and small in comparison. She also carried a basket of food,; rice balls, pickled vegetables, and a flask of tea that was still warm.
"Elder Koharu mentioned that you might not have learned to cook for yourself," she said, setting the basket on the low table in the living room. "I remember what it was like, being young and alone in this compound. My husband was away on missions constantly in those days. I survived on convenience store food for six months before I admitted I needed help."
Kakashi stared at her. "I can cook."
"Can you? Or do you think you can cook because you've never had anyone tell you otherwise?"
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. His diet for the past year had consisted largely of tasteless rice, military rations, and whatever Pakkun could catch in the woods outside the Hatake compound. He hadn't owned a vegetable that wasn't pickled in over a year with how frequently he was on missions.
"That's what I thought." Mikoto smiled, and it transformed her face from merely beautiful to genuinely warm. "I'll come by three times a week. We'll cook together. It's not charity. Fugaku is always complaining that I make too much food, and my boy is too young to appreciate a proper meal. You'll be doing me a favor."
Kakashi didn't believe that for a second, but he was too tired to argue. "Thank you, Mikoto-san."
"Just Mikoto or Mikoto-chan or nee. We're family now, after all."
Family. There was that word again, settling over his shoulders like a weight he hadn't asked for. "Mikoto, then."
She taught him how to make Uchiha-style miso soup that first day, standing beside him in Obito's small kitchen and guiding his hands through the proper knife techniques. She didn't flinch when his ninken wandered through, didn't comment on the dust or the faded photographs or the futon that still smelled like a dead boy. She simply cooked with him, and ate with him, and talked about her son. Little Itachi, was barely four years old but already showing signs of prodigious talent.
"You'll babysit sometimes," she said as she was leaving. It wasn't a question. "Itachi needs to be around older children. And you need to be around people who aren't shinobi."
"I'm not-"
"You're twelve years old, Kakashi. You should be playing games and making friends and worrying about homework. Not..." She gestured vaguely at the house, at the Uchiha compound, at the whole impossible situation. "Not this."
"I'm a shinobi," he said quietly. "I stopped being a child a long time ago."
Mikoto's eyes glistened, just for a moment. "That's what Obito used to say, too. Right before he did something childish and wonderful that reminded everyone how young he really was." She reached out and touched his cheek, a gesture so maternal it made his chest ache. "Don't lose that, Kakashi. The childish part. It's more important than you think."
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Kushina came two days later, barging through the front door without knocking and filling Obito's small house with her overwhelming presence.
"KAKASHI!" she shouted, sweeping him into a hug that lifted him completely off the ground. "You look terrible! Have you been eating? Minato said you've been eating, but Minato doesn't know what eating actually means, he thinks soldier pills count as a meal-"
"I can't breathe, Kushina-san."
"Call me Kushina-nee! And of course you can breathe, I'm not squeezing that hard." She set him down but kept her hands on his shoulders, looking him over with sharp violet eyes. "You're too thin. And you're pale. And you have bags under your eyes that could fit my entire wardrobe. When's the last time you slept through the night?"
Kakashi considered lying. He was very good at lying. But something about Kushina's blunt, caring aggression made dishonesty feel impossible. "I don't remember."
"That's what I thought." She pulled a wrapped package from her bag and thrust it into his hands. "Homemade dumplings. Minatos recipe, but I added more pork because you need the protein. Eat all of them. Don't share with the dogs."
"Kushina-nee, I don't-"
"You don't what? Deserve kindness? Need help? Want to be taken care of?" Her expression softened, and for a moment she looked less like the fearsome Red Hot Habanero and more like a young woman who had lost her own family and knew exactly what that emptiness felt like; and feels the need to fill such gaping holes for the ones she cares for. "You're a child, Kakashi. Minato's student, Obito's... Obito's person. That means I get to mother you whether you like it or not. And you do like it, even if you won't admit it."
She was right. He hated that she was right.
He ate the dumplings.
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The first time Kakashi babysat Itachi, he was terrified.
The toddler was tiny, barely four years old, with dark hair that stuck up in soft spikes and huge black eyes that seemed to see straight through to Kakashi's soul. Mikoto had handed him over with the casual confidence of a woman who had no idea that she was placing the future of the Uchiha clan in the hands of a twelve-year-old who had never looked after a child in his life.
"What if I forget him?" Kakashi had asked, his voice coming out higher than usual.
"You won't."
"What if he cries and I can't make him stop?"
"He won't cry. He likes you."
"How do you know he likes me? He's practically a baby. He doesn't know anything."
Mikoto had smiled that mysterious Uchiha smile and swept out the door, leaving Kakashi alone with a child and his ninken and absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do.
For the first ten minutes, Itachi simply stared at him. Kakashi stared back. It was, objectively, the longest staring contest of his life, and he was fairly certain the child was winning.
"You're supposed to do something," Pakkun said from his spot on the sofa. "Make faces or something. Children like faces."
"I'm making a face."
"You're making your face. That's not the same thing."
Kakashi looked down at Itachi, and Itachi looked up at him, and something in the childs expression shifted. His tiny mouth curved into something that might have been a smile or might have been a mischievous idea, Kakashi wasn't sure; and he made a soft laughing sound that melted something hard and cold in Kakashi's chest.
"Okay," Kakashi whispered. "Okay. We can do this."
He spent the next three hours walking Itachi around Obito's small garden, pointing out the tomatoes that were finally starting to ripen and the herbs that had survived the winter and the tiny flowers that had bloomed along the fence. Itachi watched everything with those enormous eyes, making small noises of what Kakashi chose to interpret as approval, and when he finally fell asleep against Kakashi's shoulder, his tiny fist curled around a handful of Kakashi's shirt, the feeling was so overwhelming that Kakashi had to sit down very suddenly on the engawa porch.
"I'm not crying," he told Pakkun, who had followed him outside.
"I didn't say anything."
"Good."
"It's okay if you're crying, though. Children make people emotional. It's a biological thing."
"I'm not crying."
Pakkun sighed the deep, long-suffering sigh of a dog who had accepted his fate long ago. "Of course you're not."
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The political maneuvering never stopped.
Lord Third had accepted the marriage bond reluctantly, but he had also quietly begun to step back from active governance, allowing Minato to take on more and more responsibility. Everyone could see what was coming, the Yellow Flash would be the Fourth Hokage, and soon. But the transition had to be handled carefully, especially with the Uchiha situation so delicate.
"Kakashi is a bridge," Minato explained one evening, sitting cross-legged on Obito's engawa with a cup of tea. The ninken were scattered around the garden, some dozing, some playing, all of them keeping watch with their sensitive ears. "The Uchiha wanted their traditions honored. The village wanted to prevent a coup. Kakashi sitting in the middle of both sides. Hatake by blood, Uchiha by bond, gives everyone a reason to keep talking instead of fighting."
"So I'm a political tool," Kakashi said flatly.
"You're a person who happens to be useful. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Minato set down his tea and turned to face Kakashi directly. "The Uchiha are angry. They've been angry for years, decades, since the founding of the village. They feel isolated, unappreciated, suspected of crimes they haven't committed. And some of them, not all, but some, are starting to think that the only solution is to overthrow the current government and install their own leader."
"That's treason."
"Yes. And if they decide to act on it, people will die. Lots of people. People you know. People I love." Minato's expression was grave. "But as long as the bond between you and Obito is honored, as long as the Uchiha see that the village is willing to respect their traditions, there's a chance to defuse the situation before it explodes. You're not just a political tool, Kakashi. You're a peace offering."
"I'm a twelve-year-old boy living in a dead teenager's house, wearing his clan's clothes, raising his vegetables in his garden, surrounded by his family." Kakashi's voice was barely a whisper. "How is any of that a peace offering?"
"Because you could have refused. You could have fought the marriage bond, demanded an annulment, taken your chances with the Sharingan. You could have retreated to the Hatake compound and refused to engage with the Uchiha at all. But you didn't. You chose to honor Obito's memory. You chose to live here, in this house, among people who have every reason to resent you. And that choice, that choice, is a greater feat in keeping peace than any supposedly politically mature person I've seen in the council could have made."
Kakashi stared at his hands. They were small hands, still a child's hands, scarred from training and calloused from missions. Obito's hands had been bigger. Warmer. Always reaching out, always trying to connect, even when Kakashi had pushed him away.
"I wish..." he started, then stopped.
"What do you wish?"
"I wish I had understood sooner. What the bond meant. What Obito was trying to tell me." He touched his left eye, felt the Sharingan pulse in response to his chakra. "I wish I had said something. Anything. Before it was too late."
Minato was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached over and took Kakashi's small, scarred hand in his own larger, warmer one.
"Obito knew," he said softly. "I don't know if he knew about the marriage bond, probably not, he was terrible at remembering traditional stuff but he knew you. He knew the person you were underneath all the walls and the rules and the pain. And he chose you anyway. He gave you his eye anyway. He believed in you anyway. I mean he could have given it to Rin but didn't."
"That doesn't make it better."
"No. But it might make it bearable, someday." Minato squeezed his hand and let go. "Now come inside. Kushina sent more food, and if we don't eat it, Pakkun will."
"That dog can't even reach the counter."
"Pakkun is a genius and also a menace. He'll find a way."
That night, alone in Obito's room, Kakashi sat in front of the small family shrine that had been tucked into the corner. Photographs of Obito, a lock of hair from his grandfather, a small wooden box containing, what? Kakashi didn't know. He hadn't opened it. It felt like a violation, like reading someone else's diary.
But he lit a stick of incense anyway, the way Mikoto had shown him, and he pressed his palms together, and he tried to find words for everything he couldn't say.
"I'll take care of the house," he whispered to the empty room. "And the garden. And your name, as much as they'll let me. I'll wear your clan's colors and honor your traditions and protect your family if I can. I'll be your... whatever I am now. Your widow. Your... your husband. Your bestfriend?"
The incense smoke curled toward the ceiling, thin and grey, carrying his words to somewhere they might be heard.
"I never told you. I never knew how to tell anyone anything, but especially you. You were so loud, Obito. You were so alive. And I was just... quiet. In my head. In my heart. Too quiet to say the things that mattered."
He closed his eyes, both of them, the grey and the red and for a moment he could almost feel Obito's presence in the room. The ghost of a laugh. The echo of an argument. The warmth of a body that had never been close enough for long enough.
"I wish you were here. I wish you could see the tomatoes. They're almost ready to pick. You would have been insufferable about it, I know you would have. 'Look, Kakashi, I told you I had a green thumb! Look at these perfect vegetables! Admit I'm amazing!'"
A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. He didn't wipe them away.
"I admit it," he whispered. "You were amazing. You were always amazing. And I was too stupid and too scared and too young to see it until it was too late."
The incense burned down to nothing. The room grew dark. And somewhere in the space between what was and what could have been, Kakashi Hatake, widow at twelve, husband to a ghost, keeper of a Sharingan that had been given in love and accepted in ignorance, finally allowed himself to grieve.
In the morning, he would wake up and tend the garden. He would make breakfast for himself and his ninken, and he would eat it at the low table in Obito's living room, surrounded by Obito's photographs. He would put on the Uchiha clothes that still felt wrong on his body, and he would go to training with Minato, and he would come home to a house that was slowly becoming his own.
He would babysit Itachi again next week, and Mikoto would teach him another recipe, and Kushina would visit with more food and more loud, aggressive affection. The Uchiha elders would watch him from the corners of their eyes, and the children would ask to see the Sharingan, and the compound would slowly, grudgingly, begin to accept the strange Hatake boy who had somehow become one of their own.
The rites had been performed. The traditions had been honored. And somewhere in the pure lands he hoped Obito was watching over him and would be proud.
❝Took you long enough to notice me,❞ Obito said. His voice was the same. Loud, insistent, edged with the arrogance that had driven Kakashi crazy during their years on the same team. ❝I have been standing here for ten minutes. Ten minutes, Kakashi. I waved my hand in front of your face. Nothing. I thought you were supposed to be a prodigy.❞
Guyyssbs so I’ve heard y’all’s prayers and the easter holidays are approaching , so I’ve plenty of time writing everything down and here’s some ideas:
- stoner!Jabber and Y/N just chilling and getting high together. Jabber gets horny and one thing leads to another.
- housewife!Nanami looks after his caring husband. After the dinner and wine Y/N wants to thank Nanami ofc
- oldman!Price who just loves his boyfriend working around their shared home. While Y/N was chopping wood, his wood rose 😏 just looking at all these muscles and imagining in what positions they could manhandle him
- hero!Aizawa who gets captured by villain!Y/N and the integrated till he is dumb from pleasure
- quiet!König who doesn’t make a sound while doing him till a certain point. After finally getting his self conciseness plowed away he’s a moaning and whining mass. Clawing at your back and pulling you down to him.
(If y’all have any more ideas just write me. And add it’s a one shot idea or Drabble w/ twt-links
—summary. finally they can indulge in what they want
—content warning. obv knife play
—word count. 2,25k
—azia‘s notes. guys bear with me I had 1 bottle of wine while writing this and IK that naruto fanfic are not as populare as other fandoms (eg. cod; jjk) I will still write them
𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯-𝔏𝔦𝔰𝔱
The hideout was quiet, save for the occasional drip of water echoing through the damp stone halls. Most of Orochimaru’s followers had retired for the night, leaving only the faint flicker of torchlight to carve shadows into the walls.
Sasuke lay still, his head resting against Y/N’s chest, listening. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was a quiet, grounding force—proof that at least one person he cared about was still alive. Still here.
Y/N’s fingers lazily combed through Sasuke’s dark hair, his breathing slow and even as he teetered on the edge of sleep. He didn’t mind these nights, when Sasuke sought him out like this. They had always been close, even before the massacre. Back then, when the Uchiha compound was still full of life, Y/N had been the one to drag Sasuke out of his shell—sneaking him sweets from the market, sparring with him until the sun dipped below the horizon, laughing when Sasuke would scowl at his terrible jokes.
Now, in the suffocating darkness of Orochimaru’s world, Y/N was the only warmth Sasuke allowed himself.
A kunai glinted in Sasuke’s hand, its edge cold and precise. He dragged the tip lightly over Y/N’s forearm, watching as a thin red line bloomed in its wake. Just enough to break the skin—just enough to feel something.
Y/N barely reacted, only exhaling softly as his eyelids fluttered. “You’re gonna scar me up one of these days,” he murmured, voice thick with drowsiness.
Sasuke didn’t answer. Instead, he pressed his ear harder against Y/N’s chest, as if he could memorize the sound of his pulse. The blood welled up in tiny beads, and Sasuke traced another line beside the first, slow and deliberate.
“Mm… ‘s cold,” Y/N mumbled, but he didn’t pull away. He never did.
Sasuke’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. He let the kunai drop to the mattress and instead pressed his fingers against Y/N’s arm, smearing the blood slightly. The warmth of it was real. Alive.
A memory flickered in his mind—Y/N, years younger, grinning as he wiped blood from Sasuke’s split lip after a training session gone too far. "You’re too reckless," Y/N had scolded, but there was no real anger in his voice. Just concern. Just care.
Sasuke’s fingers tightened imperceptibly against Y/N’s skin.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Y/N muttered, cracking one eye open. Even half-asleep, he could read Sasuke like an open book.
“Shut up,” Sasuke replied, but there was no bite to it.
Y/N chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Sasuke’s bones. “Make me.”
Y/N’s lips curled into a lazy smirk as he felt Sasuke tense slightly against him. Even now, after all these years, he couldn’t resist poking at that Uchiha pride.
"Make me,"he had said—and oh, he knew what those words did to Sasuke.
A beat of silence passed. Then another.
Y/N cracked one eye open again, just in time to see Sasuke’s dark gaze flicker up to meet his. There was something dangerous in those onyx eyes—something that sent a thrill down Y/N’s spine as if he was a second away from activating his sharingan.
“Tch. You’re insufferable,” Sasuke muttered, but his voice was low, rough around the edges in a way that had nothing to do with annoyance.
Y/N grinned. “And yet here you are. In my bed. Again.”
Sasuke’s jaw twitched.
Y/N opened his mouth to tease him further—maybe something about how clingy he’d gotten, or how he was definitely the small spoon, no matter what Sasuke claimed—but the words never made it out.
Because in one sharp, fluid motion, Sasuke pushed himself up and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was all teeth and desperation, a silent shut up pressed between their lips. Y/N’s breath hitched, his fingers tangling instinctively in Sasuke’s hair as he kissed back just as fiercely.
When they finally broke apart, Sasuke’s cheeks were faintly flushed, his breathing uneven. Y/N’s smirk returned, wider now.
“That’s how you shut me up?” he breathed, thumb brushing over Sasuke’s lower lip. “Could’ve just asked.”
Sasuke glared, but there was no real heat behind it. “You talk too much.”
“And you like it.”
Sasuke didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned back down, his lips ghosting over Y/N’s ear.
“Maybe,” he murmured, voice dripping with quiet challenge. “But I think like this even more.”
And then he was kissing him again, slower this time, deeper
like he was mapping out every inch of Y/N’s mouth, committing it to memory. Y/N melted into it, his earlier teasing forgotten and replaced by an open dam of years long repressed feelings.
Sasuke's hands made their way up Y/N’s arm, smearing blood on their way and firmly securing them besides the other’s head.
The kisses and touches grew more desperate as time went on. Y/N’s knee bent as his back arched, yearning more.
No, needing more.
After having repressed his feelings for so long, being able to be close to Sasuke in such a way ignites a firework in Y/N’S belly. Redness starts to appear at the tip of his ears as he gets excited by the second, that even his loose pants start to get uncomfortable.
With every second their bodies are pressed together he prayed to every god that Sasuke wouldn’t notice his sudden excitement. But he knew Sasuke was the type to notice every little detail. And if the thing is about Y/N, he is even more attentive.
Not long after the thought crossed Y/N’s mind he felt Sasuke pressing himself against him. He didn’t even realise he closed his eyes, when he opened them again he was met with red eyes.
To every other person this would seem scary or downright horrific, with the Uchiha holding his once discarded kunai but to Y/N he seemed angelic.
How the moon illuminated the room and his silhouette being between Y/N’s thighs. He could make a smile out in the dimly lit room and a bulge that made his mind reel with thousand thoughts per second about what could happen next.
Sasuke let go of the others hands and let his own hands roam freely the new territory he is now allowed to, pulling new sounds out of his life long friend or should he say lover now? The only thought in Sasuke's mind right now is to never let go, to never forget this moment, how their bodies feel against each other as he slowly starts to trust his hips against the other’s front, eliciting pornographical moans, as if he got touched for the first time.
Y/N tries to conceal his craving sounds by biting his lip but then he feels a kiss to his collarbone and Sasuke murmurs, “Don’t hide it. I want to remember every little reaction you make. Every whimper or shudder” finishing it by kissing a spot that even surprised Y/N that he would be so sensitive there. Sasuke sucked on the skin till he got satisfied and saw a purplish bruise forming on the once unblemished skin.
Then he continues to move his hips, pressing their two bulges against each other ,craving friction but fearing going too far and the other rejecting them.
Y/N could already feel how all the precum staining his bottoms got downright uncomfortable. So he let his hand wander more south till he got hold of his clothes shaft and his hand started to move. Sasuke sat back and watched while Y/N got more wild with every stroke.
One hand was pinching his nipple and the other finally made itself inside his bottoms, gripping on his hot member while his half lidded eyes looked at Sasuke with such hunger that it made the other slowly undress himself so he was exposed to Y/N with all his glory.
He made his way back between Y/N’s legs while stroking himself lazily while still looking down at the other with his Sharingan still ablazed. “Let me help you there” Sasuke said and got a whine as a response as he swatted the hand of the other boy from his own member and replaced it by his cold hand which held a kunai mere seconds ago. Then he starts to move them in sync as he observes every slight twitch and move from the other while chasing for more.
And when he heard whimpers of more and faster and a pit ignited inside of him as he let go of Y/N to reach the drawer. Y/N looked up at him with a questioning look while frowning because the stimulation suddenly disappeared. Then one could see a ceramic container.
Sasuke opened it and coated his fingers with the substance and he had a surprisingly sweet smile on his usually frowning face. Y/N wished he could look like that everyday. But when you think about it, being the only person to ever see it makes a warm feeling wash over your body.
“This will probably be a bit uncomfortable” he said as he kissed the corner of your mouth as he loosened your pants a bit more and his one made its way between your legs, circling your puckered thigh hole.
His index finger didn’t directly force itself in. He waited till you didn’t quiver as much and become a bit looser. It slowly sinked in and Sasuke was delirious at the warm feeling around his index, he couldn’t anticipate Y/N finally taking him. The warm feeling, the tightness. The thought alone motivated him enough to prep his darling more so he would take him with the same pleasure he was feeling, even if he had to deprive himself for the time being.
While his finger curled itself in his friend he went and started to mark him. Not only his neck but his abdomen and chest.
He realized that Y/N is quite sensitive there so he starts to suck on them with more vigor to elicit more of the others' moans that sound like music to his ears. Not long after he realized that another finger fits in, so he started to pump into Y/N and curl his finger making Y/N still for a short minute. Then a drawn out moan was pulled out of him as his back arched and his fingers started to pull on Sasuke's hair. “R-righter Sasuke”
The third finger got in and Sasuke pulled his fingers out and stroked his cock a bit, coating it in precum and some lubricant. His tip kissed Y/N entrance and eased itself slowly in, looking out for any hint of discomfort. When there wasn't any he started to move more confidently in a steady rhyme. Occasionally bending down to kiss his partner.
Low mantras of each other's names were heard but then a high pitched Sasuke was heard as he angled his hips a bit differently. After hearing this, Sasuke's mind was set. His arms supported him as he drove into Y/N with relentless thrusts that he secretly wished it would take. Even if the logical part of his brain knew it was impossible, if he asked Orochimaru he would probably find a way.
His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of nails gripping his back till he felt some beads of blood flowing down. He frowned and looked down again at his Y/N and took hold of one of his kunai again, the other hand gripped one of the bottoms legs as the urge to crave in who he belonged to grew too much, so he did the same thing as before it escalated that much. His kunai scraped of the outer layer of the back thigh skin just so the Uchiha cress was slightly recognizable,
It let the Uchihas restlessness about their loved thing dim a bit but not completely. “Stay mine” Sasuke suddenly said while his trust got faster. At that point Y/N’s mind was too far gone to process any more words and the only responses were various levels of whines and whimpers.
“Why didn’t we do it earlier ?” Sasuke asked himself more than to the other as he got closer to his orgasm by the thrust. Just as he was about to climax Y/N suddenly heightens and cums. The milky substance lands mostly on Sasuke as he tries to progress what just happens as Y/N get impossibly thigh.
Just as he was about to pull out he came and as if all energy got sucked out of him and he collapsed on Y/N, who was now a bloody and cum filled mess.
While laying there he felt like not letting going off the warmth wrapped around his dick so before he lost consciousness from his first mindblowing/lifealtering orgasm, he laid to his side wrapping his friend in his arms while letting his dick rest inside the others warmth who got drowsy after cumming.
Sasuke cherished that moment of bonding, wishing for more happening after getting a slight taste of the forbidden fruit. However the answer to that he would get tomorrow after Y/N wakes up from the deep slumber he already is in.
So for now outside, the hideout remained silent. The torches flickered. The shadows stretched.
And for once, Sasuke wasn’t listening for a heartbeat but hoping for future experiences.
—summary. Just some old sweet time with our favourite Captain after an exhausting fun time together
—content warning. none I think? just some fluff for today<3 and internalized homophobia
—word count. 1,22k
—azia‘s notes. hihi just some nice stuff
𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯-𝔏𝔦𝔰𝔱
The silence in the room was a living, breathing thing, thick with the scent of sweat, spent passion, and the lingering ghost of gunpowder that always seemed to cling to you two. The heavy blankets were a tangled heap at the foot of the bed, the cool air of the safehouse a welcome relief on overheated fkushed skin.
Price lays on his back, one heavily muscled arm thrown over his eyes, his broad chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted rhythms. Every muscle, every bone, every old wound sang a chorus of protest. He felt… thoroughly used. In the best way possible.
A soft, warm weight shifted beside him. Your lips, impossibly gentle, found the dense, coarse hair of his chest. They traced a slow, meandering path over the landscape of him, over the hard plane of his pectoral, the ridge of a faded scar along his ribs, the steady, thudding beat of his heart beneath his sternum. Till you found an still unmarked stop and began to gently suck on it, till a new bruise formed under the now wet patch.
Price let out a low, rumbling groan that was part pleasure, part profound ache. He lowered his arm, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, now soft and hazy with fatigue, finding your face.
“Bloody hell, lad,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp textured by his accent and years of shouting orders over gunfire. “Where do you get the energy? Feels like I’ve been run over by a tank. Twice.”
Y/N smiled against his skin, the sensation sending a fresh, delicate shiver through Price’s spent body. “Just good genes, I guess,” you replied with a smoother voice, a lighter counterpoint to Price’s rumble. He propped himself up on an elbow, his gaze fond. “My body doesn’t hurt as much. It’s a blessing, really. So let me take care of you.”
The words, so simple and earnest, struck a chord deep in Price’s chest, somewhere beneath the armour and the command. A blessing. He’d called you a ‘lad’, a term of affection that belied your similar age, but in moments like this, your youthful vigour, your resilience, felt like a gift bestowed upon him. A precious, unexpected gift he hardly felt he deserved.
Y/N’s fingers trailed down Price’s abdomen. “You want another round or perhaps something to eat? I could scrounge something up. Maybe some eggs. Toast?”
The domesticity of the question was a lance through Price’s heart, so sharp and sweet it was almost painful. This. This right here. The quiet concern, the offer of sustenance, the feeling of being… pampered. Looked after. It was a foreign country to him, a territory far more dangerous and complex than any warzone he’d ever navigated.
A deep, unsettling dread coiled in his gut, right beside the warmth you had ignited and tended all night. He dreaded the inevitable call from Laswell, the mission brief, the gritty reality of the field. He would miss this. God, he would miss this.
Miss YOU
The soft sheets, the quiet, the feeling of your bare skin against his with a physical ache that would be a distraction he couldn’t afford.
The warmth began to curdle, twisted by a familiar, insidious voice in the back of his mind. This comfort, this tenderness with another man… It was wrong, wasn’t it? Something to be hidden, a shameful secret and fleeting.
A lifetime of ingrained expectation, of a certain kind of masculine pride, reared its head. He was a soldier, a leader of men. This… this made him weak. Vulnerable. He felt a coldness seep into his limbs, a spiral beginning to form, pulling him down into a dark place of self-recrimination.
The bed dipped. The smell of fresh, hot coffee cut through the musky air of the room.
Price’s eyes, which had begun to cloud over, focused. You were back, holding a steaming mug. He hadn’t even heard you leave. You set the coffee on the nightstand, its rich, earthy scent an anchor.
Then you lean over him, your bare body for him on display even if his mind tells him to avert his gaze of such a beautiful god like sight. Your warm shadow blocking out the grim thoughts and memories of your times together just moments ago flooded his mind again as blood started to pool south again even when his body protested when he wanted to sit down.
You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to. You could read the tension in Price’s jaw, the slight distance in his gaze. You simply cradled Price’s bearded face in your hands, your touch impossibly tender, and bent down.
The kiss was not one of fire and hunger, not like before. It was slow. Lingering. A sensual promise and a quiet absolution all at once. Your lips were rough but swollen and warm, moving against his with a patient certainty that left no room for doubt or shame. It tasted of coffee and care and a love so steadfast it could silence armies, let alone one man’s internal demons.
When you pulled back, your eyes were dark with understanding. “Drink your coffee, John,” you said softly, your thumb stroking the rough line of Price’s jaw. “It’s going to get cold or want me help you with your growing problem” You joked as one hand loosely wrapped itself on the base of Prices growing erection and squeeze slightly, making the man beneath you whine from the overstimulation, not knowing if he wants to buckle in or pull away.
The spiral stopped. The cold receded, burned away by that single, sensual kiss and hand wrapped around him. The dread for the future was still there, but it was muted, overshadowed by the profound mind numbing pleasure.
Price reached up, his large, calloused hand covering yours where it rested on his cheek. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into your palm, a silent thank you, a surrender.
He took the mug with one shaky hand as yours started to move at an agonisingly slow speed. The coffee was hot and strong, just how he liked it. And as he took that first sip, you settled back down on the floor like earlier that day, your fingers drawing idle, tingling circles on his thighs, making the muscles contract under your fingertips.
You planted a kiss on his thigh. Your hands found themself on John's hips as he gulped his hot coffee. Slowly the kisses got higher till it reached his pumping heart. It was a reminder that you two were still alive and together.
Your head rests on his chest as the other’s hand made its way to your hair, playing with some strands while enjoying his coffee in the silence of your bodies.
—summary. somefun after work with a villain never harmed anyone hihi
—content warning. shibari, hero x villain
—word count. 1,66k
—azia‘s notes. Guys eat up
𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯-𝔏𝔦𝔰𝔱
The night air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement as Eraserhead trudged down the dimly lit alley, his capture weapon coiled loosely around his shoulders. His patrol had been long, uneventful in the way that still left him exhausted—no major villains, just petty criminals and the usual drunks. His body ached, his eyes were dry from overuse of his Quirk, and all he wanted was to collapse into bed.
But fate, as always, had other plans for him.
Just as he entered his beloved home, the hair on his neck went up. A familiar presence prickled at the edge of his awareness, and Aizawa didn’t even need to turn his head to know who was lurking in the shadows behind him. The faintest shift of fabric, the quietest exhale; too controlled to be accidental. His fingers tightened around his scarf.
"Come out," he muttered, voice rough with fatigue. "I don’t have the patience for games tonight."
A low chuckle echoed against the brick walls before a figure stepped into the dim glow of a flickering streetlight.
Even after all these years, the sight of you sent a sharp pang through Aizawa’s chest. You looked different now.
Older, sharper, with a smirk that carried far more edge than the one he remembered from your school days. But your eyes were the same.
That was the worst part.
"Shota," Y/N sighed, as if his name was something sweet on his tongue. "You look exhausted. Long night?"
Aizawa’s jaw clenched. "V/N," he answered coldly, refusing to acknowledge the familiarity.
Y/N rolled his eyes, stepping closer. "Still on that? It’s been years. You can’t even say my name once?"
"I can," Aizawa said flatly. "I choose not to."
Y/N’s grin widened, undeterred. "You always were and still are stubborn."
Aizawa didn’t respond. Instead, his capture scarf lashed out in one fluid motion, wrapping around Y/N’s torso with practiced precision. He barely had time to yelp before the fabric tightened, hoisting him off the ground.
"Wha—hey!" Y/N squirmed as the binds adjusted, coiling around his limbs in intricate loops, securing his arms against his sides and lifting his legs until they were nearly upside down, suspended in midair like a fly caught in a spider’s web. The position was embarrassingly restrictive—one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched slightly, his back arched just enough to make Aizawa's breath hitch at the sliver of skin that was exposed.
Aizawa tilted his head, observing his handiwork with detached satisfaction.
Y/N twisted, testing the binds, but the more he moved, the more the scarf seemed to tighten in response. His face flushed, part frustration, part something else. "Really, Shota?" he huffed, voice strained from the awkward angle. "Shibari? I didn’t take you for the kinky type. And then with an open door? Man-"
Aizawa’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers twitched slightly around the scarf. "It’s efficient." He knew Y/N didn’t mean it that way but the long day of work made him really irritated by their game.
Y/N barked out a laugh. "Efficient? Or are you just showing off?" He wriggled again, the movement causing the scarf to shift against sensitive skin, and he bit his lip. "You know, if you wanted me tied up, you could’ve just asked politely."
Aizawa’s eye twitched. "Shut up."
"Make me," Y/N challenged, his grin turning downright sinful despite his predicament.
For a moment, Aizawa just stared at him, suspended in his scarf, flushed and breathless, still so damn infuriating. And then, before he could stop himself, he closed the distance between them, grabbed the front of Y/N’s shirt, and crushed their lips together in a searing kiss.
Y/N made a muffled sound of surprise, his body tensing in the binds. The angle was awkward, his head tilted back from the way he hung, but Aizawa didn’t care. The kiss was rough, desperate, years of frustration and longing poured into it with a sliver of guilt that will be forgotten, just for this moment.
When he finally pulled away, Y/N’s breath came in short, uneven gasps. His lips were red, their eyes wide.
Aizawa exhaled sharply, his own pulse hammering in his ears. "Come back," he muttered, voice low and raw.
Y/N’s expression flickered, something vulnerable breaking through their usual mask of amusement. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a tired smile.
They stayed silent.
Aizawa’s grip on their shirt tightened before he forced himself to let go. He stepped back, releasing the scarf just enough to let Y/N drop unceremoniously onto his feet.
"Get out of here," he said, turning away before Y/N could see the hurt in his eyes. "Before I change my mind."
“Shota, please just this once. You want it, I want it so what is stopping us?” Y/N murmured while stepping back till his hand found the door, and closing it behind himself. “No one has to know-“
“What if they will?” Aizawa went more into his apartment, not caring if Y/N was following him or not. “Come on just let me help you relax this once” Purred as he moved Aizawa's scarf aside to plant a light kiss on the tense muscles, making Aizawa sigh.
“Just don’t get overboard. I’ve work tomorrow” Aizawa huffed and took his scarf off. Slowly but surely he took one layer after another off, holding Y/N in a trance as his back muscles flexed with every move.
“Let me take the lead,” Y/N said over Aizawa's shoulder as his arms snaked around the other's waist and down to the hem of his pants.
Some bandages started to float as they took hold of one of the Ravenette's arm, making him look suspiciously back at his former friend. “Trust me I’m gonna make you feel good” He purred and guided Aizawa's other arm back and bound it alongside the other.
He led Aizawa to his bed and made the other man kneel down. Looking down he could make a gradually forming tent on Aizawa's pants. “Getting excited, are we?” The rest of the capture weapon made its way and snaked itself around the kneeling man’s legs and neck, brushing lightly against his bulge while binding him more tightly, making him groan out and buckle his hips up to chase the slight spark of pleasure.
“You look so beautiful from this position” Y/N’s hand started to grip Stota's neck, adding some pressure on the other's Adam's apple, feeling the pulse under his thumb quicken. His leg positioned itself between Shota's leg, taunting the other man with the occasional nudge, never quite enough just so he keeps anticipating something more.
Suddenly Aizawa's body shifted up. He yelped as his face reddened more by the second as he came face-to-face with the perpetrator “Y/N, stop playing around” Shota said as he tried to wiggle out again, making the skin under the capture weapon irritated by his hopeless struggle.
Not long after his underwear got wiggled off, letting him hang in the air exposed. His legs tried to push themself more together. He was so concentrated on that task, that he forgot that the other male was still there, till he felt a kiss on his strained thigh, making it tense under the pair of soft lips.
“Cat got your tongue or why are you so quiet suddenly?” Y/N joked as his hands started to roam Shota's muscular body, stopping at his round ass, spreading them to get a good at the puckered hole. Letting a slight blow out, Aizawa arched his back in the binds and shuddered as his hole winked at Y/N.
Under his breath, he commented cute as his face drove into the defenseless hero.
First, he liked a stripe, wanting to test the waters. Shortly after Stota tried to move more back to deepen the feeling. So Y/N starts circling the entrance with more pressure, till the tip of his tongue breaches it without much resistance.
While doing that one of his hands is roaming the other man's lower back while the other is keeping him still while he drove more in, pulling delicious sounds from the other. His tongue twisted around till Shota's body completely tensed up and his breath quickened.
The rough hand that was on the other's back slowly made itself to the front, feeling all the slick already weeping from the hero's dick. With only some pumps Aizawa let a whimper out and he was finally able to move his legs more. On first instinct, his legs closed around the Villain's head, as his tongue started to assault his g-spot. “Y-Y/N pleeasee-” he breathed out.
Y/N pulled slightly off "Imagine your friends see you like this, begging for a villain” he mocked but then drove back in, pistolling his tongue in and out, aiming every time for that one spot that naked Aizawa's back arched and his eyes hazy with the look he so liked.
Just as Shota was about to scold his friend to let go of him, his peak was reached and pearly cum started to dribble down Y/N’s hand and his hole felt even more tight. With one last trust, Y/N pulled off and went off the bed, to admire his handy work.
Shota Aizawa hanging and spend was a sight to behold. Onyx eyes tried to focus on the other but failed miserably as they closed moments after and the man laid limp in his own weapon.
“Seems like you didn't lie about being tired. Huh” Y/N talked more to himself than to the now passed out man. Realizing how long he has been there, he let go of Shota and put a blanket over him, disappearing as if nothing ever happened like always.
While getting excited for the next time they can go at it all the way.
—summary. They arrived at the inn but there’s only one room and too much time. Y/N for sure wouldn’t mind if Tobi messes with some more Or Obito and (Y/N) have a fun night while being alone
—content warning. Sounding, somewhat dubcon
—word count. ~ 2,55k
—azia's notes. Guys please tell me if I forgot to add a warning and if y’all continued read just a warning k?
𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯-𝔏𝔦𝔰𝔱
The two of you, Tobi and (Y/N), sat in a small inn along the outskirts of a quiet village, far from the chaos of your current mission. The night air was cool, and the soft glow from the single lantern hanging in the room cast shadows on the wooden walls. You were tired after a long day of travelling, but Tobi, as always, seemed to have boundless energy. You could feel his gaze on you, even from behind that ridiculous mask.
“Tobi is a good boy!” he chirped, bouncing onto the bed next to you, completely disregarding your need for personal space. His voice was loud and high-pitched, instantly shattering any hopes of peace for the evening.
You groaned, leaning back against the headboard. “Tobi, can you give me a break? We’ve been running around all day, and I just want to rest for a bit.”
But, of course, Tobi wasn’t having it. He scooted closer, practically glued to your side, and leaned in until his masked face was inches from yours. “But (Y/N)-senpai, Tobi wants to make sure you’re having fun! Isn’t it better to relax with some company?”
You blinked, immediately suspicious of his behaviour. Sure, Tobi was always weird, but lately, his antics have been… different. He seemed to invade your personal space more than usual, always finding excuses to be close. And the mask — the way he always gave you little peeks from behind it, almost as if he was trying to see your reaction.
He leaned closer again, and though you couldn’t see his face through the mask, you could feel his eyes on you. “Wanna see Tobi’s face? Just a little peek, (Y/N)-senpai?” he teased, his voice light and playful.
You swore you saw him shift the mask slightly, giving you just the tiniest glimpse of his face beneath. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it either. It was like some sort of strange game for him — always pulling you in close, always teasing with that mask of his.
You narrowed your eyes, uncomfortable but also curious. “Tobi, what is it with you and that mask? You’re always showing me little peeks. It’s… weird.”
Tobi tilted his head, giving a mock gasp of surprise. “Weird? Senpai, why would you say that? Tobi just likes being close to you!” He leaned even closer, and you could feel his breath through the small opening in the mask. “Tobi thinks you’re special.”
There it was again — that bizarre, almost too-close interaction. And every time, it sent your mind racing with questions. Was Tobi… flirting with you? Or was it just another one of his insane jokes? You couldn’t tell. He was always so unpredictable.
“Okay, okay, seriously.” You shifted uncomfortably, pushing him away slightly. “You’re acting really… I don’t know, kind of gay? You’re always leaning in close, giving me little peeks. It’s weird.”
Tobi let out a playful laugh, completely unfazed by your comment. “Gay? Silly (Y/N)-senpai! Tobi just wants you to have fun! Isn’t that what friends do?”
You weren’t sure how to respond. Tobi, with his unpredictable nature, was impossible to figure out. Every move he made, every strange comment, left you wondering if he was messing with you or if there was something more going on in that chaotic brain of his.
But then, as if to prove your point, he suddenly leaned in again and pressed his mask softly against your cheek, as close to a kiss as he could manage with that thing on. It lasted only a second before he pulled away, giggling like a child who had just played the most harmless prank.
Your face heated, and you glared at him. “What the hell was that?”
“Tobi is just being affectionate!” he said in a sing-song voice. “It’s how friends show they care, right? Right, (Y/N)-senpai?”
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. Maybe it was just Tobi being Tobi, or maybe… you didn’t even want to think about it. “Whatever, just… go to bed.”
Tobi laughed again but finally backed off, hopping into the other side of the bed with a carefree hum. “Good night, (Y/N)-senpai!” he chirped, as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
You rolled your eyes and pulled the blanket over yourself, trying not to dwell too much on how close Tobi had gotten. Just as you were about to drift to the sweet promise of rest, you felt Tobi‘s presence getting closer to you. Nearly caging you between the wall and him.
You tried to ignore the closeness and drifted off.
It was well past midnight when you finally stirred, groggy and half-asleep, only to feel an unexpected warmth pressed against your back. For a moment, you thought it was a dream—until you realised, very quickly, that it was anything but…
Tobi.
Your eyes shot open as the weight of his arm draped lazily across your waist, registered. The soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing was right behind your ear, way too close for comfort. His bare face, mask discarded somewhere in the room, was resting lightly against the back of your neck. He was hugging you or more like spooning you, really.
“Seriously?” you muttered under your breath, the irritation building as you fully woke up.
You shifted slightly, trying to break free from his hold without waking him up, but his grip only tightened in response. His breath hit your skin again, warmer than it had any right to be at this hour.
“Tobi…” you hissed, trying to wriggle out of the awkward position. “What the hell are you doing?”
But there was no answer. Of course there wasn’t. He was fast asleep, and judging by the way his body was pressed so intimately against yours, he didn’t have a care in the world.
A leg of his was positioned between your legs, you realised after trying to wiggle out again and the leg pressed more up, making you grind on it involuntarily. A strange tightness formed in the pit of your stomach.
How had you even ended up in this situation? Sharing a double bed with Tobi of all people. There was only one room left at the inn, and it came with one bed—one damn bed—and of course, he had convinced you that it’d be “fine” and that “Tobi is a good boy!” It was ridiculous, and now here you were, trapped in his ridiculous, clingy embrace.
You sighed, more out of frustration than anything else. His hold on you was surprisingly firm for someone who looked like a child in an adult’s body. His arm wrapped securely around your midsection, keeping you pulled against him like he was some over-affectionate pet. His hair—without the mask in the way—brushed against your neck, tickling you enough to make your skin crawl.
You grumbled under your breath, feeling a mix of annoyance and confusion. Why was he always like this? He invaded your space, poked and teased, and now—he was hugging you like you were some sort of stuffed toy.
“Is this guy serious…?” you muttered to yourself, trying to gently pry his arm off you without waking him.
But, as if sensing your attempt to escape, Tobi shifted in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible and burying his face even deeper against the back of your neck. You could feel his breath tickling your skin, sending an unwanted shiver down your spine.
“This is so gay…” you muttered again, heat rising to your face as you realised how close his lips were to your neck.
Normally, you'd expect this kind of behaviour from him during the day when he was wide awake and playing his usual irritating games, but this? Hugging you from behind, face-to-face contact—without his mask? That was a whole new level of weird.
You groaned, shifting more aggressively now, hoping to wake him up in the process. Anything to get out of this awkward position. “Tobi, seriously, get off me.”
But Tobi, even in his sleep, was relentless. His grip tightened slightly as he shifted his body, now pressing even closer, his grown erection prominent in that position, like he was trying to get into your back. It was maddening.
You could feel your patience thinning with each passing second. The softness of his breathing, the warmth of his body against yours, the fact that he was clinging to you and being apparently turned on by whatever fucked up dream he aparently had, made you feel like some sort of pillow—it was too much.
“Tobi…” you growled, voice low but seething. “Wake up.”
A sleepy mumble escaped his lips as he finally stirred, his body twitching slightly as if he was coming out of a deep dream. "Mmm… Senpai?" he mumbled drowsily, his voice softer and way more deeper than you’d ever heard it, which would have caught you off guard in any normal setting.
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, if you ‘senpai me ’ one time.” You growled when he didn't go completely off.
He finally blinked his eyes open, still half-asleep, and you felt him register what was happening. Slowly, as if the reality of his position hit him, he let go and shifted back, pulling away just enough to give you some breathing room. But his voice still carried that playful, oblivious tone as he chuckled softly.
“Aww, (Y/N)-senpai... Tobi just wanted to stay warm,” he mumbled, not even fully awake yet.
You turned over to face him, which quickly failed with Tobis hand securing your position to not see his face. You resorted to glaring in the dim light of the room.
"Stay warm somewhere else," you grumbled, rubbing your face in exasperation. "You're practically suffocating me."
You rolled your eyes, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, as far away from him as you could humanely get. “Just... stay on your side, Tobi. And if you hug me again, I’m throwing you out the window.”
Tobi had a big smile on his lips and suddenly felt energised. “You sure you don't want some help with that problem from your beloved one and only Tobi?”He whispered behind your ear and grazed your neck slightly. Your reaction made him regret not activating his kamui.
You had flipped him over on the bed and straddled his hips and pinning his hands besides his black locks. That was the first time you saw his face, his pale complexion had you stare at his half scarred face. And his eyes, they were hypnotising you with their depth. They held so much admiration, that it slightly even creeped you out and at the same time appreciated in a twisted sense.
You just stayed like that for a minute, then you felt something grabbing your waist. With a panicked look down you only got a mischiefly grin as an answer.
A dark woody cold thing grabbed and tightened around your waist, going under your shirt.
“Tobi, just be normal for once” you snared slightly, too occupied to notice that Obito had something in his mind all that time and that he wasn’t even really listening right now. His sole focus was on how the moon was illuminating you in such a beautiful hue and how your eyes looked ethereal from that position.
He moved his arms to knock you out of balance and clashing on his half scarred lips. Obito enjoyed the moment, the wood wrapped around you tightens when you tried to pull up from the surprisingly soft kiss.
One branch snaked itself around one peck, letting Tobi feel your ragged heartbeat through the branch.
“Let me fucking go” You hissed against scared lip. Contradictory to your words your hips rutted back on the others bulge, getting a drawn out sigh of your name with a shudder from Tobi.
After one last push from you, you pulled yourself up with all the strength you could muster and clamped your hand on Obitos lower face. “Don’t even think about mentioning this to the others or you will end up dead” you threatened with a slightly trembling voice. Then his hand went from circling your thigh to your forming erection.
Your hips involuntarily pushed forward to meet with Obito’s lazy strokes as the vines started to travel under your undergarments, making you gasp as it grips your dick firmly. You leaned back, quivering but yearning more.
“Just lean back” Obito’s smooth voice could be heard but your mind was too occupied by the vine circling your tripping tip, making you spasm.
At first it was uncomfortable. The vine trying to wiggle in made you want to break out of the hold but Obito’s arms holding you there, didn't leave you any room to argue as tears pathetically were about to fall out at any given moment.
However after the small rod finally breached the ring, you felt invigorating for a small moment like it’s meant to be there inside of you.
Just soon after your world came crashing down with the gentle pressure he added. The unfamiliar but somewhat familiar feeling lets you relax into Obitos lap more and huff a bit for not feeling the imagined pleasure that was promised indirectly to you.
Just as you were about to protest a gasp was heared and you came undone. The resistance felt like a firework in your core as one of the vines nudges your prostate in a new way, you didn’t know was possible. Precum was lazyly dribbling from the stuffed hole and with one final push the pressure got too much.
You pushed your pants down, letting the white substance dribble into Obitos torso.
Black was already foaming on the edges of your vision and you began to lean down on Obito but just as sleep took you, you mustered out the rarely quiet voice of Tobi. “You look so beautiful like this” he reached out.
Obito had a tired but amused smile, stretching slightly before settling back onto his side of the bed however not really completely going to his side with you in his arms. “Sleep well...”
His face bare for once, looked almost innocent, even if his actions were far from it.
Obito’s laugh was soft, and somehow, even without the mask, he still managed to annoy your half asleep self. "Tobi will try to be gentler next time, senpai!"
You sighed, closing your eyes again, doing your best to ignore the lingering heat from where his body had been pressed against yours just moments ago. You just had to make it through the night. Only one night...
So, the other day, when I was discussing AO3's policy on solicitation, a tumblr user came at me saying that AO3's "no monetization/solicitation" rules were "bullshit" because nexus mods allows fan created mods to get paid.
Look at me.
Look at me right now.
AO3 protects you.
AO3 protects you and your works.
It protects your works from copyright strikes and DCMA takedowns.
It protects your work from advertisers.
It protects your work from overzealous legal challenges.
It protects your right to post adult content.
AO3 is non-profit and AO3 will never try to use you or your work to make a profit for themselves and AO3 will go to bat for you if someone tries to legally challenge you or your works.
—summary. just some winding down after working all day and then being a muse for Mel is quite exhaustin
—content warning. smut
—word count. 2,7k
—azia‘s notes. i miss the citrus scale bcs this is kind a lime and lemon hybrid and guys bear with me that's the first lesbian fanfic i ever wrote
The grand halls of Piltover’s Academia were always quiet at this hour, the golden light of dusk filtering through stained-glass windows, painting the marble floors in hues of amber and violet. Mel moved through them with practiced grace, her heels clicking softly against the stone, her mind adrift in thoughts she rarely allowed herself to indulge in her personal melody.
Y/N.
The name echoed in her thoughts like a whispered secret. A loyal friend, a steadfast presence amidst the politically agitated and delicate situation for Piltover’s elite. Y/N was different—earnest where others were calculating, genuine where others wore masks. And yet, it was more than that. Not only did her personality attract, but also her look.
Every time seeing each other made Mel grave those plush lips. Every time Y/N smiled made her nearly snap or when she got close to Viktor while they thought no one was looking, she just wanted to take her with her and show her what real beauty and admiration looks like.
Mel’s fingers traced the edge of a gilded railing as she paused by a window, watching the city below. She shouldn’t be thinking like this. Emotions were distractions, attachments were vulnerabilities. And yet…
A warmth crept into her cheeks, unbidden. The memory of Y/N’s laughter, the way her eyes lit up when discussing some new invention, the quiet moments when they’d sit together in the library, shoulders brushing—each recollection sent a flutter through her chest just thinking how happy Y/N looked every time Mel wanted to know about her new inventions.
This is foolish.
She exhaled sharply, straightening her posture. But the thought lingered, insistent. What if she visited her now? Y/N was likely in her lab, tinkering with some project or another. The idea of seeing her, of watching her work, of hearing her voice, sent a thrill through Mel.
Before she could second-guess herself, Mel turned on her heel, her strides purposeful as she made her way toward the research wing. The corridors grew narrower here, lined with humming hextech devices and the faint scent of oil and ozone. Her pulse quickened as she approached Y/N’s door.
She hesitated, hand hovering over the handle. What would she even say? ‘I was just passing by?’ or ‘I wanted to see you?’ Too transparent. Too revealing.
But the yearning won out.
With a slow breath, she knocked.
The door slid open, and there she was
Y/N had her sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled, a smudge of grease on her cheek. Her face brightened slightly upon seeing the familiar shadow behind her.
“Mel?”
That smile.
That warm, unguarded smile made Mel’s heart stutter.
“I… thought I’d check on your progress,” she said smoothly, though her voice was softer than she intended.
Y/N chuckled, stepping aside to let her in. “Liar. You just missed me.”
Mel’s lips curved despite herself. Perhaps she wasn’t as subtle as she wished she were.
And as she stepped into the lab, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the presence of the one person who made her feel something real, she allowed herself, just this once, to savor the feeling.
Maybe, just maybe, some vulnerabilities were worth keeping.
Mel stepped inside, her sharp eyes taking in every detail—the scattered tools, the scribbled equations on the chalkboard, the faint glow of an unstable energy core pulsing in the corner.
Y/N wiped her hands on a cloth, grinning. "So, what do you think?"
Mel arched a brow, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "I think you’ve been busy." She glided further into the room, her fingers trailing along the edge of a workbench, deliberately slow. "Tell me about this new project of yours."
Y/N’s enthusiasm was immediate, herwords tumbling out in an eager rush. "It’s a refinement of Piltover’s defensive artillery—more precise, less collateral damage. The targeting matrix uses a modified-"
Mel to be fair wasn’t really listening.
Instead, she watched the way Y/N’s hands moved as she spoke, the way her eyes sparkled with passion. It was endearing. Adorable, even. And so very… tempting, to see how much Y/N would need to endure to shut her up.
Mel’s stance changed pretty often during Y/N’s ramble about how they could combine hextech to her project to get an energy source that wouldn’t cause as much harm as others and what not.
With effortless grace, Mel closed the distance between them, her fingers brushing lightly over Y/N’s shoulders. Y/N stiffened slightly, her words faltering and became quieter.
"You always get so… animated when you talk about your work," Mel murmured, her voice low, amused. Her hands slid down Y/N arms, slowly in a teasing manner, feeling the tension beneath her sleeves.
Y/N swallowed. "I—uh. Well. It’s important."
"Is it?" Mel tilted her head, her lips hovering just beside their ear. “Besides it’s kinda cute but is it more important than this?"
A shiver ran through Y/N’s body, her breath hitching as Mel’s touch wandered—down her sides, over her waist, teasingly light. Y/N’s face was burning now, her pulse fluttering and a hand came up to stop further action, to compose herself.
Mel smiled, pleased with the reaction. She let her lips ghost over the curve of her neck, not quite kissing, just enough to make Y/N shudder, giving her enough time to pull away or protest.
Mel let a cool breath out around Y/N’s burning neck, making her shudder and threatening to give a sound out.
Then, just as suddenly, Mel pulled back, her fingers lingering for one last tantalizing second before she stepped away.
"Wanna continue?" she asked, her voice a velvet challenge wanting to see how their play would go out.
Y/N’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked utterly wrecked—flushed, breathless, eyes wide with want so suddenly.
Mel chuckled, turning toward the door with teasing slowness. "Think about it," she purred. "I’ll be in my chamber. You know where it is right?."
And with that, she left—leaving Y/N standing there, heart racing, mind spinning, and the distinct understanding that Mel Medarda played games she was only just beginning to learn.
But oh, what a delicious game it was.
A tempting offer.
But first she needs to finish her project. Then she will allow herself to cave into her desires.
While handling the unstable blue energy core her thoughts began to wander off to the councilors beautiful frame that was hugging her and teasing her just minutes ago. Y/N’s brows frowned as her imagination went wild, knowing what Mel will do to her.
She tried to finish her project fast but precisely. Putting the blue orb into the energy holder with shaky hands she let out a breath she didn’t even know that she was holding.
“Should I go to her now?” Y/N murmured as she wiped some of the machine oil from her face.
The question hung in the air, unanswered. But her feet were already moving before her mind could protest.
┈━═☆
Mel’s private chambers were as immaculate as she was—elegant, refined, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. When Y/N entered, she found Mel seated by the window, a sketchbook resting in her lap, her fingers moving with effortless grace over the parchment.
She looked… breathtaking
Ethereal even
The way the light caught the curve of her neck, the slight furrow of her brow as she focused, the way her lips pursed ever so slightly, her golden ornaments.
Y/N could have watched her forever.
Then Mel spoke, not even looking up.
"Something is missing here."
Y/N blinked. "Huh?"
Mel finally lifted her gaze, golden eyes locking onto e/c eyes with a smirk. "You."
Y/N’s face burned. "Wh—what?"
Mel set the sketchbook aside and rose, crossing the room with the predatory grace of a woman who knew exactly the effect she had. "Look. Lay there."
Before Y/N could process the command, Mel’s hands were on her, guiding her toward the plush lounge by the window, pushing her down with a firmness that left no room for protest but she knew Mel would never hurt her, so her mind and body was at ease.
And then—
A kiss.
Soft, fleeting, but enough to steal Y/N’s breath. Mel pulled back just as quickly, her smirk deepening at the dazed look on Y/N’s face.
"Better," she murmured, returning to her sketch.
Y/N lay there, stunned, pulse roaring in her ears. Her lips still tingled from the contact, her skin hyper aware of every brush of Mel’s fingers against the parchment and the sharp gaze locked on her.
She tried to focus on the ceiling, the art, anything,
but her traitorous mind kept circling back to Mel’s touch, the way she had guided Y/N so easily, the way her lips had felt-
What else could she do?
The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
Mel’s voice cut through her haze. "You’re thinking too loudly."
Y/N swallowed. "S-sorry."
Mel chuckled, low and knowing the effect she has on Y/N. "I know how to shut them up."
And just like that, Y/N was lost all over again.
One second Mel was sitting some feet away, the next she was on top of Y/N.
Her hand snaked itself just barely under Y/N’s shirt, feeling the hot skin of the other. Y/N’s hand shot up and tangled her fingers around some loose curls from the other and with a small hum she pushed Mel completely down with her, making Mel support herself on her lower arms.
“A warning would have been nice” Mel breathed against Y/N’s lips. “Now I’ve to punish you” She mumbled and made their lips connect softly.
Y/N moaned out Mel’s name as she felt the hand finally cupping her chest and finally touching her properly. Mel could feel the erratic heart beat under her fingertips and decided to shuffle one of her legs between the others.
Not long after, Y/N began to rut her hips against the exposed skin. A whine escaped their kiss every once in a while, not quite satisfied by the light pleasure.
Just as Y/N wanted to tell Mel to go on, she inhaled sharply and threw her head back as waves of pleasure made her draw a moan out of her throat as Mel's other digit circled Y/N’s bundle of nerves in small sensual circles.
Mel then pulled completely off and stood up, making Y/N open her eyes confused but before she could protest, she shut her mouth before saying anything admiring Mel’s figure.
It just looked so perfect and pure. The golden light shining into the room only amplified her ethereal looks. When Mel got back to the bed she had a sinister smile on her face and a small device in her hand.
“Just be a good girl and stay here. I will get back to drawing” She said as she positioned a vibrator directly on Y/N’s clit.
Y/N didn't get that much time to catch her breath. Only moments after Mel stood up the vibrator shot waves of pleasure thru Y/N’s spine, making it hard not to squirm on Mel’s bed.
Just moments after her toes already began to curl and her back arched off the bed and with a high pitched moan everything came crashing down.
Y/N began becoming drowsy as she slowly drifted to a slumber as her hips continued to spasm.
Mel looked with surprise down at her not expecting it to happen so fast but at lest Y/N wasn’t moving as much so painting her would be easier.
The soft glow of twilight had long faded into the deep indigo of night, the only light in Mel’s chambers now coming from the flickering candles and the pale moonlight spilling through the window. Y/N lay sprawled across the plush lounge, her breathing slow and even, her body still twitching occasionally with the aftershocks of pleasure.
Mel watched her with quiet fascination, her golden eyes tracing the curve of Y/N’s parted lips, the way her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. She hadn’t expected her to succumb to exhaustion so quickly. The thought brought a satisfied smirk to her lips.
With a graceful motion, Mel rose from her seat and retrieved her sketchbook once more. She settled back into the window nook, charcoal in hand, and began to draw.
The lines came easily—the slope of Y/N’s shoulder, the way her fingers curled loosely against the cushions, the peaceful expression on her face. Mel found herself lingering on the details, capturing the way the moonlight caught the faint sheen of sweat still on Y/N’s skin, the tousled state of her hair. It was… intimate. More intimate than she usually allowed herself to be.
When the sketch was finished, Mel set the book aside and stretched, her own body humming with a pleasant tiredness. She crossed the room and carefully lifted Y/N’s limp form, adjusting her so they could both fit comfortably on the lounge. Y/N made a soft, incoherent noise, instinctively curling into Mel’s warmth as she settled beside her.
Mel wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. Y/N sighed, nuzzling into the crook of Mel’s neck, her breath warm against her skin.
This is dangerous, Mel thought idly.
But for once, she didn’t care.
┈━═☆
Morning came gently, the first rays of sunlight painting the room in soft gold. Mel woke to the feeling of Y/N clinging to her like a vine, her face buried in Mel’s chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist.
“Mmm… no,” Y/N mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “Don’t wanna move.”
Mel chuckled, running her fingers through Y/N’s hair. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it,” Y/N accused, her words slurred. “I felt you judging me.”
Mel’s laughter was low, warm. “And what exactly am I judging?”
Y/N finally lifted her head, blinking blearily up at her. “My life choices.”
“Which ones?”
“All of them.”
Mel smirked. “Regrets?”
Y/N’s face flushed, but she didn’t look away. “Not a single one.”
The sincerity in her voice made something in Mel’s chest tighten. She studied Y/N’s face—the sleep-softened edges of her expression, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. It would be so easy to let this become something more. To stop pretending this was just a game.
Just friendship
Before she could overthink it, Mel reached for her sketchbook and handed it to Y/N.
Y/N took it, confused, until she saw the drawing. Her breath hitched.
It was her—sleeping, serene, beautiful in a way she’d never seen herself before. The lines were tender, almost reverent, every stroke capturing not just her form but something deeper, something raw and unfiltered.
“Mel,” Y/N whispered, her voice trembling.
Mel watched her, her own pulse betraying her calm exterior. “Do you like it?”
Y/N’s face was burning now, her fingers tracing the edges of the paper. “It’s… it’s me.”
“Yes,” Mel said simply.
“But—you made me look—”
“Even more beautiful?” Mel supplied.
Y/N swallowed hard, nodding.
Mel leaned in, her lips brushing against Y/N’s ear. “That’s because you are.”
Y/N shivered, her grip tightening on the sketchbook. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Mel pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, her expression unreadable. “Or,” she said slowly, “I could just be yours.”
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning.
Y/N’s breath caught. “Are you…are you saying-”
Mel kissed her, slow and deep, her fingers tangling in Y/N’s hair. When she pulled away, her smirk was back, but there was something softer in it now. “Figure it out.”
Y/N groaned, dropping her forehead against Mel’s shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
Mel hummed, pleased. “And yet, here you are. And you love me for it”
Here she was.
And for the first time, Mel found herself hoping she’d stay without a care of the world.
