Kurta

Reconnecting with nature after hurting my own feelings. 21 ✨

[kurapikan0tsuma]

The Life That Was Hers

Shikamaru Nara x F! Reader

ೃ⁀➷ cn: Internal conflict, emotional pain, loss of self, angst, social angst, existential angst, compliance angst, idk...

Before she became Mrs. Nara, she was just a baker.

Nobody remarkable.

Nobody important.

She lived above a small bakery near the edge of Konoha.

The stairs creaked.

The roof leaked whenever it rained too hard.

The oven was older than she was.

And she loved it.

Every morning she woke before sunrise.

Every morning she kneaded dough while the village still slept.

Every morning the smell of fresh bread filled the tiny shop her parents had left behind.

It wasn't much.

But it was hers.

Some mornings were lonely.

Especially after her parents died.

There were days the silence felt unbearable.

Days she wished someone would walk through the door and stay.

Yet even then—

The life belonged to her.

That was enough.

At least, it used to be.

The first time Shikamaru Nara entered the bakery, she barely noticed.

He bought bread.

Thanked her.

Left.

A customer.

Nothing more.

The second time was stranger.

The third time was impossible to ignore.

By the tenth visit, the entire village had started talking.

"Again?"

A regular customer watched Shikamaru take his usual seat by the window.

"He comes here a lot."

She laughed nervously.

"I guess he likes the bread."

The customer stared.

Then burst out laughing.

"The bread."

Only later did she realize she was the only person in Konoha who still believed that explanation.

Everyone else had already reached a different conclusion.

Soon people started smiling whenever she passed.

The knowing kind.

The irritating kind.

The kind that made her wish she could disappear.

"You know who that is, right?"

People asked that often.

As though she might somehow forget.

Shikamaru Nara.

Clan heir.

Elite shinobi.

Chief strategist of the entire Allied Shinobi Forces.

One of the most respected men in the village.

And for reasons nobody understood—

He kept showing up at her bakery.

The gossip grew quickly.

The comparisons came even faster.

"I thought he'd marry Temari."

"So did everyone."

"Honestly, who didn't?"

People rarely lowered their voices enough.

Temari.

The sister of the Kazekage.

Powerful.

Intelligent.

Beautiful.

A woman respected throughout the Five Great Nations.

Even she couldn't deny it.

If someone asked her to imagine Shikamaru's future wife—

She probably would've imagined Temari too.

Not herself.

Never herself.

One afternoon she overheard two customers talking.

"He chose a baker."

The first sounded baffled.

The second laughed.

"Maybe he got tired of strong women."

The words stung more than they should have.

Because she knew what they meant.

Strong women.

Important women.

Women who mattered.

The conversation continued.

"I mean, look at Temari."

"Exactly."

"She's a princess."

"Practically."

Another laugh.

Then:

"If I were him, I'd choose Temari every time."

The words followed her for weeks.

Months.

Years.

Because the truth was—

She couldn't argue.

Not really.

Even she didn't understand it.

Why her?

What was so special about her?

She wasn't a shinobi.

She wasn't influential.

She didn't come from a respected clan.

Most people didn't even know her family name.

She baked bread.

That was it.

Some people were kinder.

Which somehow made it worse.

"Oh, she's lovely."

"Very sweet."

"Beautiful too."

As if they were desperately searching for an explanation.

Trying to solve a puzzle.

Trying to justify why Shikamaru Nara had chosen someone like her.

Others weren't nearly as polite.

Rumors spread.

People invented stories.

Maybe she'd charmed him.

Maybe she'd manipulated him.

Maybe she was pretending to be humble.

Maybe there was something everyone else didn't know.

Nobody considered the possibility that she was just a person.

A person who happened to be standing in the center of a story everyone else was writing.

Then one day, Shikamaru confessed.

No dramatic speech.

No grand gesture.

Just the two of them closing the bakery.

"I like you."

Simple.

Direct.

Terribly unfair.

She stared at him.

Waiting for the punchline.

None came.

The silence stretched.

Then Shikamaru sighed.

"Troublesome."

And somehow that made her laugh.

A real laugh.

The kind she hadn't expected.

The kind she wished she could hold onto.

But even then—

Even standing there—

She didn't know if she liked him.

Not the way he liked her.

She admired him.

Respected him.

Enjoyed his company.

But love?

She wasn't sure.

And unfortunately, nobody cared.

The moment the village found out, the pressure began.

"You said yes, right?"

"No."

The woman looked horrified.

"What do you mean no?"

Another person stared at her as though she'd announced plans to jump off the Hokage Monument.

"Are you insane?"

The words were meant as a joke.

She heard them anyway.

Again and again.

And again.

Until eventually she stopped trying to explain.

Because nobody listened.

Nobody wanted her answer.

They wanted the answer.

The one they had already decided on.

The lucky baker.

The brilliant clan heir.

The perfect love story.

All she had to do was say yes.

And eventually—

She did.

Years later, sitting inside the vast Nara estate, she sometimes thought about that bakery.

The creaking stairs.

The leaking roof.

The smell of bread before sunrise.

She missed it.

Not because it was better.

Not because she was unhappy.

That would've been easier.

She missed it because it belonged to her.

And on the nights she couldn't sleep, a question always returned.

Quiet.

Persistent.

Impossible to answer.

If nobody had told her how lucky she was—

——

Would she still have married him?

[kurapikan0tsuma]

Where the Rain Leaves No Name

Itachi X reader—⁠☆｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

ೃ⁀➷ cn: Angst, Bittersweet angst, Itachi’s pov

The world was still broken when I walked again. Mountains scarred, forests silent where once birds had sung, rivers carrying ash instead of life — I moved through it all, a shadow that no longer belonged. Every step was a lesson in endurance, every breath a negotiation with the weight of survival.

I had carried her in my mind through every battle. In the flash of steel, in the agony of wounds, in the hunger that gnawed like teeth, it was her face I saw. Her laughter, her calm, the way she had tilted her head when she disagreed with me, the soft curl of her hair against her neck — all of it kept me from becoming nothing.

There were nights I spoke to her silently, whispering apologies for the time I could not spend with her, for the distance I had allowed to grow, for every moment she had suffered without knowing why. And always, I would touch the photograph I kept in the folds of my pack, tracing her eyes with a finger. One day, I promised myself, I would see her again.

The war had ended. Others celebrated. I wandered. Villages I once knew were filled with faces I did not recognize. Children laughed in streets I could not enter. Friends and family had moved on or died. And yet, through it all, the pull of her remained — invisible, relentless, haunting.

I crossed rivers swollen with spring melt, scaled mountains in storms, and slept under the stars, wrapped in nothing but my cloak and memory. Every wound I carried, every scar that ached in the night, was softened only by the thought of returning to her, of seeing her smile again, of simply knowing she was alive.

The first drops fell as I reached the edge of the village.

At first, it was only a drizzle — a quiet tapping on the leaves — but soon the rain deepened, steady and cold, painting the world in shades of silver. Mist gathered low over the roofs, and the scent of wet earth filled the air.

I walked slowly, the rain sliding down my cloak, each step heavier than the one before. When the road curved, I saw it — a small house painted in soft blue, light trembling faintly behind its windows.

I stopped.

The sound of the rain swelled around me, a curtain between the present and everything I had left behind. I hadn’t meant to stop. I hadn’t meant to find this place again. Yet my feet refused to move.

My hand lifted, hesitated — inches from the door I had memorized in another life.

For years I had taught my heart to be still, to endure silence and war. But at that moment, as thunder rolled faintly in the distance, it betrayed me with a tremor I could not suppress.

I knocked.

The door opened slowly, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed suspended. Her eyes — wide, uncomprehending — met mine. Time itself seemed uncertain, stretching and bending around that one moment.

“…Itachi?” Her voice trembled, soft, almost fragile.

I bowed my head, the words I had prepared dissolving in my throat.

“…It’s been a long time.”

The rain whispered between us, filling the silence that followed. Then, perhaps out of habit or mercy, she stepped aside.

“Come in. You’ll catch cold.”

The faint scent of herbs and bread lingered, and the walls were lined with photographs: a man smiling beside her, a small child laughing with her eyes. My chest constricted. Years of survival, of solitude, of bearing the weight of the world alone, pressed down on me.

I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. My eyes lingered on it longer than I meant to.

She noticed. “He’s three,” she said quietly. Her voice trembled, but she tried to steady it with a smile. “He likes painting on the walls....”

She looked down, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “...Come sit down."

Then silence again. Only the rain against the roof.

For a while we spoke of small things—the weather, the village, how peaceful it had become. Each word was a bridge built and burned in the same breath.

Silence. Then my eyes caught the window—the faint outline of the garden outside. Overgrown, but alive. Hydrangeas, the kind she once told me reminded her of summer rain.

My voice came before thought. “You kept the garden.”

She turned to the window too. “I couldn’t let it die,” she said. Then quieter: “It felt like if I did, I’d lose the last part of you.”

And then there was nothing left to say. Only the rain dared to speak. Every glance carried the absence of years, the spaces between us filled with all the things we could not say.

I studied her hands as she lifted a cup of tea, noticing the slight tremor in her fingers. The faint curve of her lips when she thought no one was watching. The way her shoulders bore the quiet strength of someone who had carried life without me. I wanted to speak, to reach across the impossible chasm, to tell her everything I had endured, everything I had survived for her—but the words lodged in my throat.

Minutes passed in careful silence. The rain outside drummed steadily against the windows, a soft, insistent reminder of the world beyond. I could feel my chest tighten with each heartbeat, each memory that threatened to spill over.

When at last the tea grew cold, I stood. “I should go,” I said, though my voice didn’t sound like my own.

She didn’t move. Only followed me to the door.

The rain had thinned into a mist, soft and unhurried. I stood beneath the eaves for a moment, unsure what to do with my hands. The garden stretched out before me, trembling with raindrops, every leaf glinting faintly under the gray light.

I wanted to remember it like this—alive, tended, breathing in a way I no longer could.

I stepped onto the path. The gravel crunched beneath my sandals, each sound carrying farther than it should. I did not look back.

But I heard it—the sound of her voice cutting through the rain.

“Itachi!”

I turned.

She was running toward me, barefoot, the rain catching in her hair, her hands trembling as she reached for me. And before I could say anything, she collided into me—her arms around me, her face pressed against my chest, sobbing as if the world had waited for this sound.

I froze, but she didn’t falter. The rain poured over us, soaking our clothes, plastering our hair to our heads.

“They told me I was crazy!” she cried, her voice trembling, raw. “They said you were gone! They said I had to move on! But I never… I never believed them! I knew… I always knew you were alive!”

I closed my eyes, the rain seeping through my clothes, her voice breaking in pieces against me.

“I waited,” she said. “For so long. But they told me I had to let you go. That you were gone.”

I held her tightly, letting the rain cloak our silence. Her sobs pressed against my chest, and in them, I felt every lost year, every lonely night, every scar I had carried alone.

I wanted to speak. To tell her that I had thought of her in every moment between battle and breath—that the memory of her laughter had been the only thing that kept me human when I was drowning in blood and silence. But the words caught somewhere deep, too full to pass my throat.

Instead, I reached up and rested my hand against her hair, the way I used to.

“It’s all right,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to explain.”

She shook her head, tears mixing with the rain. “I can’t just let you go again. Not now. Not after—”

Her voice broke. The world was unbearably still.

Her hands gripped my robesI wanted to tell her that I would stay. That I could find a way to belong again. But in her eyes I saw the life she had built—the home, the warmth, the small hand that would reach for her at dawn. That life did not belong to me.

She buried her face against me, shaking her head. “Please—don’t do this... don't leave me again."

For a moment, I let myself hold her. The rain fell harder, blurring the world around us until only the sound of our hearts remained.

Her pulse was frantic against mine—alive, stubborn, human. Everything I had once fought to protect.

I wanted to tell her I still loved her, that every road I took had led me here, to this impossible moment. But what right did I have to steal back the peace she’d earned from the ashes I left behind?

So instead, I whispered, voice breaking around the words:

“You built something beautiful… something I could never give you. Don’t let it fall apart because of me.”

She looked up at me through her tears, eyes wide, searching—as if she could find a way for the world to bend and make space for us again.

I brushed my thumb against her cheek, memorizing the warmth there.

“The life you have now—it’s what I always wanted for you,” I said softly. “A world that keeps you safe, even when I can’t.”

The words tasted like blood and rain. I forced a small smile—the kind meant only to hide what it costs to walk away.

“Don’t lose it. Not for me.”

She broke against me, her sobs muffled by the rain, her hands gripping my cloak like she could keep me there through sheer will.

For a heartbeat, I let her. I let the years collapse between us, just once.

Then she stumbled—her knees giving way beneath the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

I caught her before she fell. Her body was trembling, soaked through, small in my arms.

“It’s all right,” I whispered, though nothing about it was.

Carefully, I lifted her—she was lighter than I remembered—and carried her back toward the house.

The rain softened around us, as if even the storm itself was holding its breath.

The path was slick, the garden alive with the scent of earth and hydrangea. I remembered when we planted them together, how she said blue was the color of quiet hope. Now they bowed under the rain, their petals heavy and glistening.

When I reached the porch, I paused. The door was still open, warm light spilling out into the dusk.

She stirred faintly in my arms, whispering my name.

“Itachi…”

I looked at her one last time. Her lashes clung to her cheeks, her lips parted as if another word might save us.

There was nothing left to say.

I stepped inside just far enough to set her down on the couch. Her hand slid from my sleeve as I stood.

For a moment, I let myself look around—the soft blue walls, the photographs, the life I had never lived. The smell of tea still lingered, faint and familiar.

And then I turned toward the door.

I didn’t look back as I stepped into the rain.

The world outside was dim and endless. My cloak clung heavy to my shoulders, the path already washing clean behind me.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled—low and distant, like a promise too old to keep.

I walked until the house disappeared, until even the memory of her voice dissolved into the sound of falling rain.

━⁠━⁠━⁠━⁠━⁠☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ━⁠━⁠━⁠━⁠━⁠━⁠

[urlocalsabito]

Me when the only fics of my fav character are smuts..or there just isn’t any fics

[ur-daily-inspiration]

[kurapikan0tsuma]

🦆

[kurapikan0tsuma]

HUNTERXHUNTER IS BACK!