hii, could you write something about madara and a female reader who is his soon to be wife? where she’s comforting him after izunas death? pls and tyy
This made me cry so much lmao. I hope you enjoy! 🫠🥹. @xoxo-vyara
( i do not own this photo)
Before The Village, Before Peace
Warnings: brace yourself for sweet 💔
Night had settled over the Uchiha encampment like a funeral shroud.Night had settled over the Uchiha encampment like a funeral shroud.Night had settled over the Uchiha encampment like a funeral shroud.Night had settled over the Uchiha encampment like a funeral shroud.
No voices rose from the larger fires. No drunken boasting from returning warriors. No children laughing somewhere beyond the tents under the watch of exhausted mothers and sisters. Even the wind seemed to know better than to speak too loudly.
Not in the way softer people grieved.
The Uchiha carried mourning like they carried blades, close to the body, hidden until drawn.
And tonight, every person in the compound knew what had happened.
His last surviving brother.
The one who had stood at his right hand through blood and winter and loss and battle after battle after battle.
The one Tobirama Senju had struck down.
The one Madara had not been able to save.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the tray in your hands as you moved through the darkened path between the clan structures, careful not to spill the untouched bowl of broth or the cloth folded beside it.
They saw your face and looked away.
Some because they pitied you.
Some because they feared what waited in the structure ahead.
Some because they knew what you were to him.
Not yet wearing the formal ties and silks of union.
Madara Uchiha had chosen you, and that meant something heavier than most marriages ever would.
It had not been a soft courtship. There had been no flowers, no sweet declarations under moonlight, no blushing confessions spoken by riverbanks. Madara was not a man made for those things.
His affection had always come like iron.
He stood too close when he wanted you safe.
He remembered every wound you hid.
He listened when you spoke, even when he pretended not to.
He had once told another man, coldly and without looking at you, “Watch your tone.”
That had been the closest thing to public tenderness he had ever shown.
And yet when your families discussed alliances, when futures were weighed in the brutal mathematics of clan survival, Madara had looked at the elders and said only:
You had belonged beside him long before anyone had written it down.
Tonight you did not know if he would let you near him at all.
You stopped outside his quarters.
No guard stood there. None would have been foolish enough to remain.
The air itself felt wrong. Heavy. Dense. Pressurized with chakra so thick it made your skin prickle. Grief and rage rolled off the structure in suffocating waves, so intense it almost felt alive.
Anyone else might have turned back.
You lifted your hand and slid the door aside.
Inside, the room was dim.
One lantern burned low near the far wall, its light trembling against the wood. Shadows cut across the floor in sharp strips. The space smelled of iron, smoke, and medicinal herbs.
Madara stood with his back to you.
His dark hair hung loose and wild around his shoulders, longer strands sticking to the side of his face and neck with dried sweat. His war fan rested against the wall, discarded rather than placed. One gauntlet lay on the floor near the low table, as though he had torn it off and simply let it fall.
He did not turn when you entered.
But the air shifted instantly.
That was what made it worse.
You closed the door behind you quietly.
You took a slow breath and set the tray down near the entrance.
This time the words came sharper, edged like broken glass.
Still, he did not face you.
His shoulders were rigid. Too rigid. His back straight with the kind of control that only existed when someone was seconds from losing it entirely.
You had seen him after battle, blood-splattered and terrible, eyes burning red as coals in the dark.
You had seen him after funerals before.
After the second brother.
Every time, another piece of him had hardened.
Izuna had not just been his brother.
Izuna had been the last tether.
The last person alive who had known Madara before grief became the language of his life.
The sight of him nearly stopped your heart.
His Sharingan was active.
Not because he meant to threaten you.
Because he had lost control of it.
Red glowed in the dark, tomoe spinning faintly in eyes that looked almost fever-bright. His face was pale beneath the blood streaked across his cheek. There was a fresh cut near his jaw, one at his brow, and his expression…
You had never seen a face look so tightly held together and so completely destroyed at once.
He stared at you like he didn’t recognize the shape of mercy anymore.
“You should not be here,” he said.
The anger in his voice had cracked.
You swallowed hard, because suddenly you understood.
He wasn’t warning you away because he didn’t want you.
He was warning you because he did.
Because if you came closer, he would not be able to keep standing the way he was.
And Madara Uchiha, son of Tajima, heir of the clan, warrior raised in endless war, had been taught that if he stopped standing, he would never rise again.
“And where else would I be?”
The grief wearing anger’s face because anger was easier to survive.
“You want to be with me now?” he bit out. “When I failed him?”
The words hit like a blade.
He laughed once, but there was no humor in it. Only disbelief, bitter and hollow.
“I was there.” His voice dropped lower. “I was there.”
His hands had curled into fists so tight you could see the tremor in them.
Not the man history would fear.
A brother who had held too many bodies and buried too many names.
“He gave me his eyes,” Madara said, and the words sounded like they had been torn out of his throat. “He was dying and he was thinking of me.”
His breathing had gone shallow.
“I should have protected him.”
The room felt too small for the size of his pain.
“I should have killed Tobirama first.” His voice turned colder, deadlier. “I should have torn through every Senju that stood between us. I should have ended it before it reached him. I should have…”
He stopped speaking as if the sound itself had betrayed him.
For a heartbeat, for two, for three, he just stood there, staring somewhere through you and through the wall and through the entire world.
“He was my little brother.”
Your vision blurred with sudden tears.
You crossed the remaining distance before he could stop you.
Every muscle in his body locked as your hands rose to his face.
For one dangerous second you thought he might pull away.
Your fingers were careful against his blood-streaked skin, thumbs brushing beneath his cheekbones. His skin was cold from the night air, but fever-warm at the temples.
“Madara,” you whispered, voice shaking, “look at me.”
There was something unbearably young in that moment, buried under the warrior’s face. Something like the boy he had once been before battlefields devoured him piece by piece.
“You did protect him,” you said.
His expression darkened instantly.
The words hit him harder than rage would have.
“He died with his brother there,” you continued softly, even as tears spilled down your own face. “He died knowing you were beside him. He died knowing you fought for him. He died knowing he mattered enough that you would burn the world before abandoning him.”
His lips parted, but no sound came out.
You stroked your thumb under one eye, just beneath the red glow.
A harsh exhale escaped him.
“No,” he said, and now his voice was barely more than a whisper. “It does not.”
“No,” you said, your own voice cracking now, “it isn’t. It will never be enough. It will never be fair. It will never stop hurting. But do not stand there and turn your love for him into proof that you failed him.”
His eyes widened slightly.
Madara was not a man people spoke to this way.
Not elders. Not clan heads. Not warriors. Not even his father had always been able to.
But you had never loved him timidly.
You stepped even closer until your body nearly touched his armor.
“Do not insult what you were to him by calling it failure.”
The lantern flame flickered.
And then, at last, Madara broke.
That would not have been him.
There was no dramatic collapse, no choking sobs, no cry torn into the night.
Instead, his face changed in the smallest, most devastating way.
The control went out of it.
His brows pulled tight. His mouth trembled once, so faintly most people would never have noticed. His breathing faltered. His shoulders, those impossible shoulders that had carried clan and war and expectation for so long, dropped by half an inch.
And suddenly he looked exhausted.
Anciently, unbearably exhausted.
Your arms slid around him, one over his shoulders, one around his waist, pulling him in despite the armor and the hardness and the blood.
For a heartbeat he stayed stiff.
Then his hands caught at your robes.
He bent over you like a man who had finally been struck somewhere fatal.
His forehead came down against your shoulder.
And there, hidden from the world, from the clan, from the ancestors, from every watching eye that expected Madara Uchiha to be unbreakable…
You held him tighter instantly.
His breath shuddered against your neck.
The terrible, violent restraint of a man refusing to make a sound.
Tears welled in your own eyes harder, because that silence was worse than sobbing ever could have been.
Your hand slid into his hair.
You stroked slowly through the dark strands, gentle, patient, careful not to disturb the tangles and dried blood.
“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”
His grip tightened again.
For a long while, neither of you moved.
The lantern hissed softly.
Outside, the wind shifted through the trees.
And in your arms, Madara stood shaking so faintly it would have been invisible to anyone who did not know him.
You pressed your cheek against his temple.
“I should have saved him,” he murmured into your shoulder.
It was not an argument this time.
A child’s impossible wish spoken through a warrior’s mouth.
Your tears slipped into his hair.
You drew back just enough to cup his face again, forcing him to see you.
His gaze flickered, unfocused.
“No,” you repeated, firmer now. “Not all.”
A tiny crease formed between his brows.
As if he could not understand what you meant.
You let one hand slide down to rest over his heart, over armor, over flesh, over the storm inside him.
Like the idea itself was incomprehensible.
As if loss had become so familiar he no longer knew how to believe in what remained.
You smiled through tears, fragile and aching.
“I do not want you seeing me like this.”
The honesty of it nearly shattered you.
Madara, stripped down to the bone of himself, admitting what pride usually buried.
You brushed his hair back from his face.
“Then you should have chosen someone else.”
For the first time that night, something flickered in his expression that wasn’t agony.
Just a ghost of the man you knew.
“I did not,” he said hoarsely.
“No,” you whispered. “You didn’t.”
Your thumb traced the line of his cheek.
“And I am not going anywhere.”
For a moment, he simply leaned into your touch.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter than you had ever heard it.
“They will expect me to act.”
The grieving who would look to him and see not a brother in mourning but the future head of the Uchiha.
The fury beneath the grief, gathering shape.
The vengeance that history would remember.
You could not take that from him.
It would have been false to try.
Madara was not a man who would forgive this. Not now. Not ever.
Canon itself would not allow it.
So you did not ask him to be better than his pain tonight.
You only asked him not to drown in it.
You rested your forehead against his.
“Then before dawn comes… before they take you back from me… sit.”
He looked as though he might refuse on instinct alone.
You gave him the look that had once made him fall silent mid-argument in front of three senior Uchiha, which remained one of your private triumphs.
Then, astonishingly, he obeyed.
You guided him down to the floor beside the low table, where the lantern cast softer light across his features. He sat heavily, like a man whose body had finally remembered it was tired.
You knelt in front of him and began undoing the remaining armor ties.
His hand caught your wrist.
For a second, his expression sharpened with instinctive resistance.
Then his gaze dropped to your face.
Piece by piece, the armor came off.
Each item made a dull, weighted sound as you set it aside.
Underneath, his dark under-robe was stained with sweat and blood. Some of it had dried stiff. Some was still fresh.
You took the cloth from the tray and dipped it in the water.
When you touched it to the cut at his brow, he flinched only slightly.
A scrape across one shoulder.
A shallow slice along his collarbone.
That somehow made it crueler.
Because all his wounds tonight were the kind no cloth could reach.
As you worked, he watched you.
Not even with his usual unreadable intensity.
As if trying to memorize something he might lose.
When you finished, you set the cloth aside and pushed the bowl of broth toward him.
Then, perhaps because the fight in him had been spent elsewhere, or perhaps because he knew you would sit there until sunrise if necessary, he took the bowl.
When he set it down, you shifted closer and sat beside him.
For a moment, you simply shared the quiet.
Then, slowly, carefully, you leaned into him.
Your shoulder against his.
Your head against the side of his arm.
Not because he disliked it.
Because gentleness still startled him, even from you.
Possessive in that unmistakable Madara way, as if even in grief some instinct in him insisted on drawing you close and keeping you there.
You exhaled shakily and tucked yourself against his side.
He stared ahead into the dim room.
A tiny smile trembled at your mouth.
“That may be the nicest thing you’ve said to me in weeks.”
A breath of something almost like a laugh left him.
“He said you looked at me like I was a feral dog no one else was brave enough to feed.”
You actually laughed then, wet and broken though it was.
“That sounds exactly like him.”
Madara’s arm tightened around you.
For a long time, neither of you spoke.
Eventually, you felt his head lower.
Until the side of his face rested against the top of your head.
If anyone else had seen it, they would never have believed it.
Madara Uchiha, who could stare down a battlefield, leaning into someone as if she were the only warm thing left in the world.
When he spoke again, his voice was so low you barely heard it.
His eyes were fixed on the dark ahead.
“It will not be a peaceful life.”
The statement was flat. Honest. Almost cruel in its realism.
You knew the boy who had dreamed impossible dreams on distant cliffs.
You knew the young man who buried brother after brother.
You knew the heir who was turning into something sharper with every death.
You knew the fury in him, the ambition, the pride, the tenderness buried so deep it looked like stone to everyone else.
You turned toward him fully and took his hand in both of yours.
His fingers were calloused, blood-warm, scarred.
“I am not marrying peace,” you said softly. “I am marrying you.”
His gaze finally dropped to yours.
No one had ever looked at you the way Madara did.
As if love were not a softness, but a vow carved into the bones.
As if choosing you was not romance.
It was war, if necessary.
He lifted his free hand and touched your face, knuckles brushing your cheek with startling care.
“You should have chosen someone easier.”
“And you should have been born in gentler times.”
Something in his eyes shifted.
The kind that only appeared when no one else was there to witness it.
Then he drew you closer, until you were half in his lap, your knees brushing his, your hands still wrapped around one of his.
His forehead rested against yours.
When he spoke, his voice was raw.
“I do not know what to do with this.”
“With a world that keeps taking from me… and still leaves you.”
Your hand rose to his cheek again.
Red still glowed faintly in them, but softer now. Tired. Human. Ruined and beautiful and alive.
The kind of promise Madara Uchiha never made lightly.
Even if the world burned.
Even if war swallowed tomorrow whole.
Even if the future had teeth.
So you stayed with him that night.
When the lantern dimmed lower, you coaxed him down onto the bedding, though he resisted once, twice, before finally allowing it. You lay beside him in the dark, still clothed, your body tucked against his chest beneath the heavy blanket.
At first he remained rigid.
Breathing like a man standing at the edge of a cliff inside his own mind.
Then your hand slid over his chest and stayed there.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, he softened beneath your palm.
His arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer until there was no space left between you.
Possessive even in sleep-starved grief.
Protective even when he was the one unraveling.
At some point in the deepest stretch of night, you felt his fingers tighten suddenly at your back.
A battlefield replaying itself behind closed eyes.
You pressed your face into his throat and whispered, half-asleep and aching:
Much later, just before dawn bled gray through the cracks in the wood, when the clan would come for him and the world would demand Madara Uchiha again, he spoke into your hair.
So quiet you might have imagined it.
“But I will bury them for this.”
It was the beginning of the man history would remember.
Your hand tightened over his heart.
And when the first light came, cold and pale and merciless, you held him for one breath longer before war took him back.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
2087
