(This is my first ever post, I usually never write as my thoughts get tangled but I thought I’d give it a shot. This might be ooc as I’ve never actually written before..)
The early mornings of your (almost) peaceful life consist of you waking to the bright sunlight shining on your face. The sheets are warm and silky as you bask contentedly in them. You can smell the notes of your husband’s cologne. It’s a mix of sage and some kind of pine scent. You can’t describe how much you adore it.
You’re left in bed with the warm remnants of where Madara slept, but as per usual, he’s not there. Of course he isn’t, he’s far too “strong” to stay in bed for too long. At least he’d like to put it that way. The morning dew had settled on the grass about an hour prior, you knew he was probably off training…again. It’s only the….fifth time this week?
Regardless, you got up and stretched, you began to get ready. As you stepped out of your room you saw a few other clan members doing whatever they did…you didn’t concern yourself with it because one, it didn’t seem worth the time. Two, Madara said you shouldn’t. So you listened…mostly. It wouldn’t be a good morning if you didn’t take the chance to annoy at least someone, most likely Madara because he was far too easy to get a reaction from.
Now, come on. You didn’t have a death wish…but you still chose to stay on the edge of the line, especially when it comes to his patience because you can’t resist being a tease (you’d pay for that one later.)
So you scanned through the compound trying to find your husband. You eventually found him on the clan’s training grounds, training relentlessly. It honestly baffled you that he didn’t believe in taking breaks, he didn’t want to. So like every other morning you tried to persuade him to at least come enjoy breakfast. He stopped for a moment, sighing quietly.
“Yes, y/n?.”
“You should come eat, you’ll feel more motivated to train..just saying.”
“Oh will I now?”
“Mhmmm.”
Your conversation consisted of a very thorough back and forth, you being more persistent each time. That’s what really ticked him off, you were a stubborn brat. Though, after a few minutes he finally gave in because he had learned when you were kids, you never backed down from an argument…you were so…annoying in his eyes. While he doesn’t think that much anymore, I feel he has the thoughts occasionally when you test his patience.
I mean what could I say. It’s fun irritating your husband at the ripe time of 8 AM.
(I might try Kabuto or orochimaru next time but I need more practice so that might take a while-👀)
i wanted to write a kemonomimi reader x uchiha boys fanfic but i lost the spark for it so it's a nothingburger. but i did make this doodle and in the end i decided i wanna share what i have because it has the wholesome funnies :D
messy wall of text below cut.
since it went nowhere, idk i'm just gonna leave the general idea behind the character and his kemonomimi girl's first meeting because this fic haunted me for a month. it was going to be a two parter. 1) first meeting. 2) subsequent romance section of fluff and headcanons.
also bonus: excerpts from the few paragraphs that i have written that i thought were nice.
sasuke is going through the hoard of scrolls in orochi's hideout. finds a really cool and beautifully engraved scroll. intrigued by it, he summons. the smoke twirls in more colors than is usual, it's unique, it's brimming with power, power that would be enough to strike fear into hearts of weaklings. he feels himself getting excited. what is it going to be? is he going to summon a cool beast of destruction, cooler than orochi's snakes? a hydra with 9 heads? no. long ears and a fluffed tail; it's a bunnygirl. sasuke is incredulous. bunnygirl insists that she's now his guardian, as the scroll actually summons your guardian spirit and takes the shape of an animal closest to your soul (yes i do like harry potter). he's pissy that he got a bunny instead of something cool and threatens that if anyone needs 'protection' it's her as she's literally a prey animal in a den of snakes. following that, as he's lowkey offended that she implied that he's spiritually a bunny, he's kinda mean towards bunnygirl. bunnygirl, aware of the insecurity motivated tantrum that her idiot summoner is throwing, softens him up as the ficie progresses. being sweet and lovable nets her repeated summons as sasuke only pretends he doesn't like her company. in reality he's incredibly lonely and cherishes every second spent with her and summons her on quiet evenings after training. grumpy x sunshine my beloved.
itachi meets deergirl when he and kisame take a little breather in an abandoned outpost surrounded by forest. kisame leaves to scout ahead. itachi sits on the veranda of the building. he's grateful that kisame agreed to rest a bit, considering that itachi's frail health means that he wouldn't have been able to keep up with him for long. as much as he appreciates the other man, he doesn't exactly... trust him. so he sends one crow to tail kisame, to ensure that he doesn't stir any trouble on the off-chance that they're not alone. soon after, he senses deergirl watching him intently, pretty eyes peeking from the bushes. says that he can see her. seeing as his soft tone and gentle demeanor mean no harm, deergirl steps out and warily approaches him. itachi recalls something about how this land used to belong to the nara clan before they assimilated into konoha, so finding deer here isn't all that surprising. deergirls on the other hand... he asks about her, she responds that she's here to guard the land and he's an intruder. itachi apologizes and is about to move but she stops him and tells him that she doesn't actually sense malice on him, so he can stay. [insert a sweet and melancholic scene here as itachi is surprised she can't sense darkness in him considering what he's done, deergirl tells him that he just feels really... sad]. kisame comes back. deergirl immediately takes on a defensive stance, terrified of him. kisame doesn't bother with words and grips samehada's handle. itachi steps in front of deergirl and warns kisame to back off, as she's not an enemy. kisame groans but relents (and here he was already itching for a fight, smh...). deergirl, to show gratitude, tells itachi to stay as the sun is already hiding beneath the horizon and the outpost is a good shelter. itachi tells her that he can't. so instead of that, deergirl tags along with the two of them until they're out of the area. after all, this land is hers to watch over and so are the people inside of it. [insert a wholesome scene of deergirl helping itachi recover at a campfire later that night before they part ways come morning.] a sort of pink among the grey dynamic with deergirl being the splash of pink in itachi's otherwise very grey life.
little known fact, the time madara unleashes kurama on konoha isn't actually his first attempt at it. the first time he tries to do it, he summons... a foxgirl. close enough.
he stands atop a precipice. powerful. grand. chakra surges all around him before it's contained within his palm and he presses it to the scroll and roars kurama's name. this is it. the air stills as if it's a moment of calm before the storm. soon it's to be a moment of absolute dominance as madara will bend the nine tails to his will, a perfect weapon of destruction. massive smoke erupts at his summon, but as it disperses, so does the overwhelming power of kurama's chakra. it feels as though madara just barely touched upon something that feels like kurama, but isn't. madara sneers; in kurama's place sits a girl. definitely not the beast of destruction he was hoping for. fluffy white-tipped tail swishes mischievously, and a fox ear flicks. and from the very first flick... it pisses madara off. he pushes her aside and tries again. pop! the same foxgirl is in front of him again. she teases him about how doing the same thing over and over again will make him go insane, though as he's trying to summon kurama, he's probably a bit cuckoo already. he begins to suspect it's a genjutsu trick, his sharingan spins wildly, but he can detect no deception. so he demands foxgirl to tell him what happened. he is sure he sealed kurama into the scroll, so where is the nine tails?! foxgirl muses that it's not that simple to seal a tailed beast and that kurama slipped from his grasp at the last second, and was replaced by her. madara attempts to control her with his sharingan to force her to help him with summoning kurama, but she swiftly slips past him, tail caressing his hand as he hears her voice from behind. she says that she knows how where to find kurama, that she wasn't particularly happy about kurama using her as a substitution, and that she likes powerful men. so. it's his lucky day. she's going to help him. but he's gotta play nice and listen to her. see, foxgirl is smart. foxgirl drags madara through several inns, restaurants and other high-end places on a one-week adventure across several nations [aka the part where i would've written the fluff and madara's bitter ass getting a taste of fun but alas]. and only then foxgirl would've led madara to the location kurama manifested. oopsies, helped the villain. happens. anger-issues tsundere madara x his ragebaiter.
here's your cute forest critter, sasuke.
here's your cute forest critter, itachi.
here's your cute forest critter, madara.
and here's your magical fucking dragon, special snowflake princess obito.
i've shared a mini excerpt of obito's portion of the ficie some time before. this is the scenario for which i wrote the most and had the clearest idea for what i wanted out of it, but still couldn't complete it fml 🤣💔
tobi and deidara seek out a relic that will help them gather the tailed beasts. deidara thinks it's just pain being into woowoo shit. pain has the personality for it so nobody's surprised. i mean whatever, a job's a job. however, the idea is obito's, as he hopes that the powerful relic will help him not just with gathering the tailed beasts but to remove the curse seal madara had placed inside of him. the two of them wander through a cavern, an instance not complete without tobi trying to piss deidara off at every step. eventually they find a stone statue of a dragon at its dead end. deidara notices an offering bowl and tells tobi that the artefact probably needs an offering to work. but obito decides he can make it work through brute force and channels chakra into the statue. it awakens. but the powerful entity isn't exactly an inanimate artefact, it's a dragongirl. she stares at obito, essentially her summoner. despite his silly demeanor, she can immediately feel that something is wrong with this man. a powerfully dark, intense, overwhelming chakra signature emanated from him as he called to awaken her, and though it's subdued now, it's faint but still there. no weak person could summon a dragon to begin with. there's more to this masked man than meets the eye. she mentions it, but he stays in-character as tobi, feigning ignorance and calling her a 'crazy lizard trying to attack poor tobi' or smth ridonkulous like that. so she confronts him directly about it, demanding that he either reveals who he is or they'll be receiving no help from her. realizing that she's cut through the facade, obito caves. first, she asks for his name. he only gives it once deidara is out of earshot. she finds him interesting, all wise beings are drawn to gathering knowledge of the peculiar, so they form a summoning pact; she helps him and he keeps her around. while she doesn't have the power to undo the curse seal, she can pinpoint where the tailed beasts are, so they spend quite a bit of time together. time that obito would've otherwise spent brooding. of course, eventually she asks to see his face, to learn more about him, to understand what sort of person he is. [insert a thousand bonding scenes with obito relearning what it's like to feel like you matter to someone :')]. wise dragoness x edgy dumbass (dragoness is such an enabler lmao).
Back on my uchiha shit after 6 years because my life is just a circle. Throw me some fic recs, I will fuck literally any of them except Sasuke (Itachi's my personal fav tho)
summary: madara being madara, which is to say arrogant, terrifying, politically questionable, and somehow still acting like he’s the reasonable one
word count: 1,728
content: madara x gn!reader, possessive behaviour, controlling/protective tendencies, power imbalance, references to grief and war trauma
a/n: once again i have placed a morally catastrophic man under a romance microscope and unfortunately he got hotter. please don't send me to the shinobi ethics committee
To be loved by Madara Uchiha is to be permitted past walls built before either of you had names for peace. It is not soft in the beginning; it arrives as scrutiny, challenge, and the heavy awareness of his attention settling upon you and refusing to move. Madara loves as he does most things: deliberately, severely, and with enough force to alter the very landscape around him. Yet beneath all that power lies the old terror that strength may still fail to preserve what matters. His devotion is therefore both crown and armour, a promise held in blood-warm hands—the world has taken enough from him, and it will not take you easily.
Madara must respect you before he can truly love you. Beauty may catch his eye and kindness may briefly intrigue him, but neither of those things will hold him without conviction beneath it. He watches how you behave when frightened, contradicted, injured, or placed under pressure, because Madara believes strain reveals the truth of a person more reliably than any peaceful conversation. You do not need to rival him in raw power, an absurd requirement for anyone, but you must possess something he cannot dismiss, be that intelligence, courage, political instinct, moral certainty, or an indomitable refusal to become smaller in his presence. The moment you oppose him despite knowing precisely what he could do to you is likely the moment fascination begins. He may find you infuriating for weeks before admitting, even privately, that he has started seeking out your resistance.
His courtship is unnervingly direct once he decides that he wants you. Madara has little patience for coy games or manufactured uncertainty, and he certainly does not stammer through a confession like an academy student discovering their first crush. He tells you what he has observed, what he values in you, and what he intends with the composure of a man presenting battle terms. There is something almost insulting about how confidently he assumes his interest will be taken seriously, though he does not necessarily assume it will be returned. Your refusal would anger or intrigue him depending upon its reasoning, but genuine consent matters because a frightened surrender offers him nothing worth possessing. Madara wants to be chosen by someone strong enough to deny and defy him. Anything less would feel hollow, and he has spent enough of his life surrounded by false loyalties.
Madara shows love by making danger account for his existence before it ever reaches you. His protection is rarely reactive; by the time you notice a potential threat, he has already evaluated its alliances, weaknesses, motives, and likely method of attack. Guards have been repositioned, routes altered, spies identified, and escape plans rendered entirely unnecessary because he intends to destroy the problem at its root. This can become suffocating when his instinct to protect slides into his instinct to control, and you will need to remind him that loving you does not make your life another battlefield for him to command. He may bristle at the correction, but he respects a boundary defended with conviction. Over time, he learns the difficult distinction between standing between you and a blade and closing his fist so tightly around you that no blade is required.
Arguments become one of your most intimate forms of communication. Madara does not want a partner who agrees just to preserve harmony in the relationship. Agreement born through fear is useless to him and empty praise becomes irritating almost immediately. He might deliberately press against your beliefs, dismantle your reasoning, or offer the cruellest version of an opposing argument just to discover whether your convictions survive examination. These exchanges can grow heated, particularly when his cynicism collides with your hope, but they are also among the rare moments in which he grants another person his complete attention. When you prove him wrong, he may spend an infuriating length of time testing the conclusion before conceding, but the concession will be real. Madara’s respect is never decorative; if you change his mind, even slightly, he remembers it.
His physical affection is deliberate, possessive, and far more restrained than his intensity suggests. Madara does not touch you absent-mindedly in the early stages of your relationship. Every contact feels chosen. His palm settling against the small of your back as he guides you through a crowded room, fingers lifting your chin when he wants your full attention, his hand closing around your wrist to check a pulse after battle. In public, these gestures often communicate allegiance as much as tenderness. In private, that control begins to loosen. He may draw you against his chest while reviewing reports, rest his forehead briefly against yours after a dangerous absence, or allow your fingers into his long hair with the grave tolerance of a man pretending the sensation does not reduce his thoughts to warm static. He is not naturally demonstrative, but once touch becomes familiar, he develops a private expectation of your nearness.
Madara is certainly territorial, but his jealousy is cold rather than theatrical. He does not argue with every stranger who admires you, nor does he need public displays to reassure himself that he is desirable. His pride is far too established for that. What disturbs him is not harmless attention but the suggestion that someone else believes they possess a claim upon your loyalty, intimacy, or future. His expression may barely shift when another person oversteps, yet the atmosphere develops the oppressive weight that usually precedes large-scale destruction. Madara expects you to enforce your own boundaries first because he respects your agency. However, should the offender ignore you, he intervenes with terrifying finality. Afterwards, he may insist that he was merely correcting an insult, though the hand resting firmly at your waist tells a less dignified story.
He cares for you by demanding that you become harder for the world to harm. Madara offers training more readily than reassurance, strategic advice more readily than sympathy, and a weapon before an embrace. If you are injured, his anger often appears as ruthless instruction. Where did your defence fail? Which instinct betrayed you? How can that same enemy be dismantled next time? This can sound merciless when you are exhausted and aching, and he must learn that improvement is not the only need a wounded person possesses. Still, he never asks you to rise while walking away. He remains, tends to injuries he knows how to treat, and sits nearby until your strength returns. Madara may say, “Stand,” rather than, “You are safe,” but his presence beneath those words means that you will not stand alone.
Receiving care from you unsettles him more deeply than giving it. Madara understands protection when he is the shield, but he has little language for being guarded without being diminished. If you tend his wounds, insist that he rest, or notice pain he intended to conceal, his first response may be irritation sharpened by embarrassment. He does not want pity, and any suggestion that he is fragile will close him off at once. What reaches him is practical tenderness offered without ceremony such as cleaning blood from his armour, setting food beside him during a night of planning, loosening the ties from his hair when his shoulders have begun to ache. Eventually, he stops treating every kindness as an attempt to expose weakness and the first time he leans into your hands rather than simply tolerating them feels more intimate than any spoken declaration.
His grief enters the relationship slowly, through doors he rarely opens twice. Madara does not speak casually about Izuna, and he will despise any attempt to drag the confession from him as proof of trust. You learn instead through fragments. A name spoken with unusual care, the abrupt chill that follows a careless reference to the Senju, the way his gaze lingers on brothers training together. When he finally tells you something of Izuna that history did not preserve, maybe an old argument or a ridiculous childhood habit, the memory is not an invitation to pity him; it is an heirloom placed in your hands. Your task is not to persuade him that loss made him secretly gentle, nor to absolve what grief later made him do. It is only to remember alongside him. Madara has spent much of his life believing the dead survive only through the ferocity of those who refuse to release them, so allowing you to carry one memory with him is an extraordinary act of trust.
Domestic life with Madara feels less like taming a warlord and more like discovering that warlords also require breakfast. He remains commanding, severe, and faintly offended by every minor inconvenience, but shared life exposes habits no battlefield chronicle could ever preserve. He wakes early even when there is nowhere to march, maintains his weapons with ritual precision, dislikes clutter that is not his own, and occupies an unreasonable amount of sleeping space for someone who lies almost perfectly still. He might criticise your technique while helping prepare food, rearrange a room because its defensive weaknesses irritate him, or claim he is not waiting when you return late despite having remained awake with an untouched cup beside him. These moments do not make him harmless but their tenderness comes from the contrast of him—hands capable of breaking armies fastening your armour, pouring your tea, or drawing a blanket over you with a level of care that betrays him.
Once Madara gives you his commitment, he treats the relationship as something built to survive history. He does not enter love expecting it to remain light, convenient, or temporary. You become woven into his plans, his loyalties, his understanding of the future, and eventually the guarded territory he considers family. This devotion is immense, but it also carries the weight of his oldest flaw. Madara likely believes that preserving your shared future justifies choosing what it should look like alone. Loving him means refusing to let devotion become dictatorship, however beautifully he argues its necessity. In his healthiest moments, he learns to plan with you rather than for you. He still speaks of your future with formidable certainty, but he begins to ask what you want included within it. For Madara, that question is no small compromise. It is proof that he trusts something beyond his own power to keep your love alive.
All rights reserved. Please do not repost, copy, translate, plagiarise, or feed my work into AI. Reblogs are deeply appreciated; reposts are not permitted.
"Ouch, watch what you're doing," a rude woman sneers.
You immediately put on your most apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry."
She mutters something under her breath and brushes past you, none the wiser. A tiny droplet of blood clings to the sliver of broken glass you'd so carelessly dragged across her skin. Mission accomplished. You weave back through the gathering until you reach Hidan, who's lounging against a nearby wall as though he's merely waiting for a friend. The moment he spots you, he grins.
"That makes seven," you say, placing the bloodstained shard into his palm.
He fans them out between his fingers.
Seven nearly identical pieces of glass. Seven strangers. Delicious~!
"Hm." He inspects them one by one. "That should be enough to make things interesting."
He decides on the one with the least amount of blood. It's a sacrifice still too humble to be considered worthy of Jashin, and he needs to fix that. He drags the shard across his tongue before handing you a short dagger.
"Go ahead." He lifts his shirt without another word, giving you a devious smirk. "Anywhere you want."
You consider the offer for a moment, eyes wandering over the places you could choose. You've plunged the same blade into him so many times, yet his body looks pristine. You think, it doesn't really matter where you do it. Finally, you settle on his abdomen. The blade sinks into squishy guts and Hidan's breath catches. A grin spreads across his face as pain mixes with pleasure.
Then, somewhere across the room, a young man cries out and collapses on the floor. For a heartbeat, the room goes utterly still. Then panic erupts. A handful of people rush towards him, and the rest try to move as far away as the four walls allow them. In an instant, the gathering has transformed into chaos, and people are shouting at each other, throwing accusations, the man's close friends and family are weeping. You begin to think that you don't feel all that bad for these fools.
Hidan reaches over, hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and turns your attention back towards him. His smile is bright, deceptively boyish. This is silly to him, and it's becoming silly to you. His eyes gleam with anticipation.
"You can pick the next one."
────» Obito.
The afternoon in Konoha is pleasantly warm. The weather is nice, which means the market is especially lively. Vendors call out to passing customers and the scent of grilled food hangs temptingly in the air.
Despite insisting that crowds are exhausting, Obito agreed to come with you. You appreciate that. It's funny, in a way. You've heard stories about how Obito used to be a people's person, an extrovert, an annoyingly loud one even. But… that's not the Obito that exists anymore. But you don't dwell on it. You like him exactly as he is.
As you're examining a display of handmade trinkets, an unfamiliar voice catches your attention.
"Excuse me."
You turn. A handsome young man smiles politely. He asks for directions. You answer politely.
Then he asks you a second question, about Konoha's cuisine. Oh, so he's a tourist. You wonder where they make men that handsome. Although, of course, Konoha boys are the best.
The stranger is persistent. Third question, he asks you where to find the best restaurant.
By the fourth question, you begin to suspect that it's not Konoha he's interested in…
You recommend him a cozy little tea house just down the street and he laughs softly.
Meanwhile, Obito suddenly develops an interest in a basket stall right beside him. How fascinating. A basket. He hears you continuing the conversation, and this time the dashing suitor manages to make you laugh.
'Well, that's just too far,' Obito decides. He ceases faking interest in baskets. He grabs the largest wicker basket within reach and marches over. And, before the poor tourist can react, the basket drops neatly over his head. It shuts down the conversation, as well as covers up the man's good looks, just in case. Can't be tempted if you don't see him.
"Don't talk to this loser, let's go," Obito grumbles, taking your wrist. His grip isn't hard, but it's stiff.
"…What was that, fry-face?!" the muffled voice shouts from somewhere beneath the basket.
Obito doesn't even hesitate. "Shut up, bucket-head! You look stupid!"
The man begins wrestling with his unexpected headwear. Before he can free himself, and before this can escalate into a fight, Obito has already spirited you halfway down the market.
A few minutes later, the two of you are seated on a quiet bench overlooking the square. You glance sideways. Obito has his arms folded. He's staring very intensely at absolutely nothing.
"…Jealous much?"
His head snaps toward you. "W-What? No. I just…That guy wasn't even that impressive. So… You should stick with me."
The moment the sentence leaves his mouth, he seems to realize exactly how it sounded. He quickly turns away. It does absolutely nothing to hide the blush creeping across his cheeks.
You smile to yourself. Hmm. So maybe fragments of the old Obito still linger, after all.
────» Madara.
To say you're comfortable would be an understatement.
Layer upon layer of fine kimonos has been spread beneath you, their silks and cottons overlapping in a variety of colors and intricate patterns. They make for an absurdly luxurious bed. They're warm, too. Though, admittedly… Most of that warmth comes from Madara. He's lying beside you, one arm loosely around your waist while your head rests comfortably against his chest. A rather scandalous novel rests open in your hands.
The only sound in the room is Madara's steady breathing, and an occasional amused chuckle escaping your lips as you read about the romance of a warlord and his rival's spouse. The tale follows a fearsome warlord who, after years of living for the thrill of battle, finally finds love. His calloused hands trace soft skin and, you bait your breath, he kisses the—
"That's so stupid," a deep voice interrupts.
So, Madara is not sleeping.
"No man would allow his rival to just take his lover, not while he's still alive."
Oh, so he was also reading your smut. It's alright, just play it cool. We all have hobbies. Besides, he clearly got into it enough to know the plot. He better not chastise you. Fortunately, he's more… um, liberal, than one would expect, and not a single complaint comes your way.
You turn your neck to look at him. "How do you know?"
"Because I wouldn't."
The answer comes so quickly, so matter-of-factly, that you can't even question whether he means it. Of course he does. Madara has never been in the habit of making empty declarations. Come to think of it… the Senju brothers have barely been allowed within arm's reach of you. You could count on one hand the number of times you've exchanged more than a passing glance with the Hokage, and even those encounters had been brief.
An impressive accomplishment, really. One that you know Madara is proud to claim as his, though he wouldn't brag. He simply assumes it's the natural state of the world. You're his, and that's that.
You smile to yourself and return your attention to the book. Perhaps the fictional warlord should've consulted Madara first. He clearly has some notes.
────» Hashirama.
You carefully loosen the little shrub from the earth, gently shaking away the dirt still clinging to its tiny roots. Hashirama eagerly holds out the clay pot the two of you had lovingly decorated together: painted flowers twirl around its rim, and there's a somewhat shoddy, but also very cute, drawing of you and Hashirama holding hands. Hashirama had insisted on adding it.
He watches with baited breath as you replant the delicate form of life into its new home.
"It's like a little baby," Hashirama breathes out.
"You're like a little baby," you comment.
"I am?" Hashirama looks at you with soulful eyes. How disarming; he could end wars with that look.
"You absolutely are," you affirm.
"…Awh."
You aren't even sure if it's a sound of endearment or if he's sulking, but he hangs his head down and a curtain of his long hair slides down his shoulder and drapes itself neatly across the shrub's tiny branches.
When he moves his head to look up at you again (what, you thought he'd be able to take his eyes off of you for long?), his hair takes the entire pot upwards with him.
"Oh, woah, be careful!"
You quickly grab the pot before gravity can introduce it to the ground. Fortunately, the pot doesn't fall. Unfortunately… when you try to set it back down, it refuses to move, stuck to Hashirama's hair. You only then notice that you're pulling on the lock.
"Ow, ow, ow!" Hashirama cries.
His hair is hopelessly tangled around half a dozen tiny branches. How did this even happen?! You stare at the shrub in disbelief. Then at Hashirama. You crouch beside the pot to inspect the damage. Somehow, the little twigs have woven themselves around far more strands than should be possible.
You sigh. This… This is going to take a while.
A very tiny, very pragmatic part of your brain briefly suggests simply cutting the trapped hair. Simple, efficient, if it works, it works. The strategy reminds you of his brother. Yeah, that's definitely what Tobirama would do.
But you inhale. No. You're not quite as cold as Tobirama. You're going to lovingly save every single hair.
And once you're finished… you'll kiss him better for enduring such a harrowing, tragic accident.
Manga edits and writing are mine. Please don't repost the writing.
summary: five gothic romance vignettes for the men the uchiha clan could not bury properly
word count: 3887
content: gn!reader, multi-character x reader, gothic romance, dark romance elements, horror imagery, canon-typical violence, cliffhanger endings, individual content tags are attached to each mini-story
🖤 series masterlist
ITACHI UCHIHA — the doomed saint
content: injury and blood, wound care, death imagery, self-sacrifice, canon-typical itachi angst
You found him where the road ended and the cedar trees began.
It was always a place of endings. A shrine too small to appear on maps, a bell with a cracked mouth, stone foxes furred in moss and old rain. Travellers left paper prayers there when they feared they would not return home, and shinobi avoided it because shinobi hated admitting they believed in anything that could not kill.
Itachi sat beneath the eaves with blood darkening his sleeve as crows gathered in the branches above him.
He looked less like a missing-nin than a beautiful mistake grief had made and failed to correct. His cloak was torn at the shoulder, hair clinging damply to his cheek, and one hand rested against his ribs, too still to be casual, too careful to be painless, and when he looked up at you his eyes were dark.
No Sharingan.
Worse.
Human.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he stated.
“You always say that.”
“And you never listen.”
The bell’s rope swayed though there was no wind.
You crossed the shrine’s courtyard and knelt before him. He watched you with that terrible gentleness, the kind that made every practical motion feel ceremonial, every kindness feel like an offering laid before a god who had long since refused worship.
You pulled bandages from your pack.
Itachi’s fingers closed around your wrist before you could touch the wound.
“Don’t.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Yes.”
“Then let me help you.”
His hand remained around your wrist, loose enough that it couldn’t hurt, tight enough that it couldn’t be ignored.
Above you, the crows shifted together, a single dark thought passing through the trees.
“It will make no difference,” he responded.
You hated him for how calmly he could say things that broke something inside you.
“Then let it make no difference after I’ve done it.”
For a moment, Itachi only looked at you. Then, his fingers released.
You worked in silence, cutting away ruined fabric, cleaning blood from skin gone too pale beneath the lantern light. The wound was deeper than it looked. Older bruises shadowed the side of his abdomen below it, yellowed at the edges, violet near the bone. His breathing did not change when the antiseptic touched his flesh, but his gaze drifted up towards the treeline, towards distances you could not follow.
Inside the shrine, incense began to burn. You had not lit it.
The scent curled through the damp air, bitter and sweet.
“I brought food,” you offered, because talking about rice balls was easier than saying you were afraid that one day he wouldn’t be sitting beneath the eaves when you arrived.
Itachi’s mouth softened. “You shouldn’t.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
“You should forget this road.”
“I have a good memory.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
When you tied the bandage tighter than necessary, his eyes returned to you.
You saw it in his face then, that slight fracture in his composure, so delicate anyone else would miss it. You, however, had learnt the language of Itachi’s almosts. His almost smiling, almost reaching, almost staying.
A crow dropped from the cedar branches and landed beside his knee. In its beak was a strip of red thread. Itachi took it before you could ask.
“What is that?”
“A warning.”
“From whom?”
He looked down at the thread in his palm and when he spoke, it was soft, thoughtful. “Someone who still believes warnings can change fate.”
The shrine bell rang once. Far away, another bell answered. Then another. The sound moved across the forest like grief being passed from hand to hand.
Itachi closed his eyes. You felt the air change. He had made a decision.
“No,” you said.
His lashes lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
For the first time, something like pain crossed his face openly. It was gone almost before it arrived, swallowed by discipline, by purpose, by whatever cruel altar he had made of himself years ago.
“You’ve mistaken me for someone who can be saved,” he said.
“I have mistaken nothing.”
His hand rose to your face, and stopped before touching you. That restraint hurt more than contact would have.
“Do not love me,” Itachi said quietly. “I am already leaving.”
The words entered you cleanly, without mercy, and struck your heart.
You caught his hand before he could lower it and pressed his cold fingers against your cheek. For one breath, he let you.
The crows exploded from the trees.
The lanterns inside the shrine went out one by one.
When the darkness reached the doorway, Itachi turned his head towards the forest road.
Someone was walking towards you through the rain, wearing his face.
MADARA UCHIHA — the warlord
content: supernatural horror, curses, blood imagery, shrine/ritual imagery, power imbalance, fate/possession themes, implied forced betrothal
The shrine had been dead for a hundred years, though the villagers still left offerings at its steps.
They did not pray there, not properly. No one rang the bell, no one clapped their hands beneath the rotting beam or bowed long enough for any god to mistake them for faithful. They came at dusk with rice wine, salt, wilted camellias, and scraps of paper inked with names they would not dare speak aloud. Then they fled before moonrise, moving quickly through the trees as if the forest might remember their faces if they lingered too long.
You were sent because you did not believe in curses.
That was what you told yourself as you climbed the cracked stone path with your lantern held close to your cloak, damp from the mountain mist. The trees grew too thick here. Roots strangled the old steps and branches interlaced overhead until the sky narrowed to a torn, black cloth with moonlight caught in its ragged seams. Somewhere beyond the shrine grounds, a murder of crows called once and then even they fell silent.
Inside, dust settled over every inch like funeral ash. The offering table had split down the middle, one half sagging beneath a scatter of old salt and brittle flower stems. Paper talismans peeled from the walls in curled tongues, their ink faded to brown veins. A statue stood at the far end of the hall, too damaged to identify, its face eroded smooth by time.
At its feet sat a bowl of water, untouched by dust and still enough that the moon reflected through a roof that no longer existed.
You stepped closer.
The water turned red.
The lantern guttered in your hand.
“Late,” a voice said.
You turned too quickly and nearly dropped the light.
A man stood beneath the broken torii gate where no man had stood a breath before wearing armour dark as old blood. His hair fell wildly around a face cut from arrogance, violence, and fatigue. His eyes were not merely red, they were ancient wounds opened anew.
You knew him before your mind ever permitted the knowledge.
Every child knew Madara Uchiha by silhouette alone. The warlord, the ghost of battlefields, the name buried beneath treaties because peace could not survive speaking it too often.
“You’re... dead,” you whispered.
Madara looked almost amused. “As are many things worshipped by cowards.”
The mist crawled around his feet. Behind him, the trees bowed beneath a wind you could not feel. The shrine changed with his presence, becoming taller, darker, more recalled than ruined, as though waking from a long slumber. The beams groaned overhead, the walls remembered their lacquer, the air filled with incense though none had been lit.
You reached for the kunai at your hip.
His gaze followed the movement with imperial disinterest.
“If I wanted you dead, little descendant of trembling men, you would not have had time to fear me.”
“I’m not afraid.”
At that, he smiled.
It was not kind. It was worse. It was pleased.
“You lie badly.”
He came forward, each step unhurried, and the shrine accepted him. That was the only word for it. The floor did not creak under his weight; the shadows arranged themselves behind his shoulders; moonlight caught on his armour and came away sharpened.
You held your ground because pride was the last poor weapon left to you.
Madara stopped close enough that you could see the fine cracks in one plate of his armour, the old faded scar at the corner of his mouth, and the strange weariness buried beneath his terrible composure.
“Why am I here?” you asked, though your voice came out weaker than intended.
His eyes lowered to your face. “Because history has a longer memory than the living.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the only answer you are prepared to understand.”
You should have stepped away, you knew that. Every instinct in your body understood that this man was not safe. Especially not in the ways a shinobi measured danger. He was not a blade at your throat—he was the mountain deciding whether gravity still pleased him.
His hand rose, slowly. He touched two fingers beneath your chin, so lightly it was almost reverent. The shock of it passed through you with humiliating force.
Madara’s expression shifted. Something in him had faltered, brief as lightning behind cloud.
“You were promised to me by history itself,” he rumbled, voice low and quiet in his chest.
You sucked in a sharp breath. “No one promised me to anyone.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. Barely there, barely a touch at all.
The shrine’s bell rang, once, deep underground, and Madara’s gaze moved past you towards the statue at the end of the hall.
Its faceless head had turned.
Your lantern’s flame sputtered and died.
In the sudden darkness, Madara’s hand closed around yours. Not gently, but not cruelly. He took your hand as though the world had opened beneath you both and he had decided you would not fall alone.
“Then tell history no,” he remarked.
The floor beneath the shrine split open under your feet.
You knew because you had walked this road every morning for three months, past the broken bridge, past the persimmon tree split by lightning, past the field where nothing grew though summer had come early. There had been no house, no gate squeaking on its hinges, no warm square of light behind paper windows.
Now it stood at the end of the road as though it had been waiting for you all your life.
It was a small house, perfectly ordinary at first glance. Dark roof, wooden steps, wind chimes singing softly under the eaves. Morning glories climbed a fence you did not remember planting.
Your name was carved into the gate.
You should have run. Instead, you opened it.
Inside, it smelled of rice, rain, and something almost painfully familiar. The entryway held your sandals, though you had never removed them there. A cup sat on the table, filled with the tea you preferred. In the corner, a half-mended tear in your old cloak had been stitched with clumsy, careful thread.
The room knew you, that was the first horror.
The second was that you wanted to sit down.
“You came home early.”
The voice came from behind you.
You turned, and Obito Uchiha stood in the doorway with flour on his sleeve and one visible eye curved in a smile.
This was not the masked man from rumours, nor the war criminal whispered about in briefings. This was not the thing that had crawled out of history carrying too many dead with him. This Obito looked younger around the mouth. Tired, yes, and scarred, and wrong in ways your instincts recognised before your heart did, but he smiled at you as if nothing terrible had ever happened.
As if nothing terrible ever needed to happen again.
“Where am I?” you asked.
“You’re home,” he stated simply, his smile thinning at the edges.
“This— isn’t my home.”
“It could be.”
The wind chimes sang.
You took one step back. The floorboards did not creak, nothing in the room moved unless he allowed it to. Obito watched you with aching patience.
“I made it from memory,” he said. “The parts you liked. That kitchen from the place you stayed in the Land of Waves. The window from that inn near the border. The garden from the village you said smelled best after rain.”
Your breath caught painfully in your throat. “I…I never told you that.”
“No,” he murmured softly, “you didn’t.”
Outside, the sky remained a perfect, tender blue. Too blue.
You went to the window and looked out. The road was gone. The field was gone. Beyond the fence, there was only garden after garden, all blooming impossibly. No insects. No rot. No distant smoke from war camps. No sound except the bell-bright chatter of water over stones.
A world without injury. A world without interruption. A cage made of flowers.
Obito came to stand behind you, not touching, but close enough that his warmth reached your back.
“You were tired,” he explained. “Every time I saw you, you were tired. Fighting, losing people. Pretending it didn’t matter because everyone else was doing the same.”
You stared out at the garden until the colours blurred.
“So you built a prison?”
“I built a place where nothing can take you from me.”
“You don’t have me.”
The silence that followed was the first imperfect thing in the house. Then Obito chuckled once, very gently. It was not amusement; it was damage learning how to breathe.
“No,” he conceded. “Not yet.”
You turned on him then and his expression had changed. The sweetness was still there, but behind it, something vast and starving looked as though it was trying to crawl through the seams. One eye red, one eye lost forever to shadows and old bargains.
“I made a kinder world,” he sighed. “Why are you afraid of it?”
“Because you’re the one who made it!”
He reacted to that as though you had struck him. You saw the movement, saw the boy beneath the monster flinch.
For one dangerous second, the house trembled.
The cup shattered on the table. The garden outside flickered, black earth bleeding through beneath the flowers. The far wall opened onto a battlefield slick with rain and blood, and for a moment, you heard screaming.
Then Obito closed his eye and the house became whole again.
“I can make you happy here,” he said.
“No.”
His gaze lifted.
In the hallway behind him, a door appeared where there had not been one before. Your bedroom door from childhood.
Obito looked at it, then back at you.
“That room was the hardest,” he said. “I had to guess what you dreamt about.”
As the words left his lips, the door handle began to turn.
SASUKE UCHIHA — the last heir
content: supernatural horror, haunted house, massacre and death references, ominous presence, claustrophobic atmosphere
The Uchiha compound did not rot.
That was the worst part.
Rot would have been merciful. Rot would have softened the beams, swallowed the blood, turned grief into earth and fungus and something honest. Instead, the compound endured. Roof tiles remained aligned, doors slid open on well-oiled tracks, the pond still reflected the moon. Even the wind moved through the streets as if afraid to disturb what had happened there.
The dead had kept house.
You arrived at dusk with a key from the Hokage and a task no one else wanted. Inventory, preservation, and removal of unstable materials. Careful bureaucratic phrases for walking through a massacre with a clipboard.
Sasuke was already there. He stood in the central street beneath the black skeleton of an old lantern post, his cloak lifting in the evening wind. He did not turn when you approached.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“I was assigned.”
“So was he.”
You did not need to ask who. The compound listened for your answer.
That was how it felt from the moment you crossed the gate. Every wall seemed alert, every window dark but aware. The place had the awful intimacy of a room where an argument had just stopped.
“I can leave,” you said.
Sasuke’s shoulders moved almost imperceptibly. “No.”
It was not welcome. It was not a refusal. It was simply the only permission he knew how to give.
You worked through the first house in silence. Records, weapons, ceremonial clothing, framed photographs turned face-down in drawers. In one room, a child’s wooden shuriken lay beneath a low table.
Sasuke saw it before you did. His hand twitched, then went still.
You looked away.
Outside, crows gathered along the roofline and by midnight, you had reached the main house.
The air changed at the threshold. Sasuke stopped moving.
You felt it before you understood. Heat without fire, pressure without movement, the sensation of standing before something that knew your name and disliked the sound of your breathing.
“This house remembers everything I tried to forget,” Sasuke breathed. His voice was flat. His hand was shaking, but only slightly, only because the house saw him too.
You stepped inside first.
The entryway smelled of dust, cedar, and old smoke. A pair of sandals sat neatly by the wall, too small for him now. A crack ran through the mirror above the washing basin, splitting your reflection from throat to brow.
Sasuke entered behind you, and every lamp in the house went out.
Instinctively, you reached for a weapon. His hand caught yours in the dark.
“Don’t.”
The word was close to your ear, closer than he had been a second ago.
For a moment, the only living thing in that house was the warmth of his palm against your knuckles.
Then something moved upstairs. Not a footstep.
A drag.
Sasuke released you and his sword whispered free of its sheath. You could see nothing but the faint outline of him, black on black, breath held so tightly it seemed the air itself might bruise.
“What was that?” you asked.
“Just the house settling.”
You raised an eyebrow at him in the dark. “You don’t believe that.”
Sasuke hesitated. “No. I don’t.”
A door slid open above you. Then another. Then another.
The sound moved down the hall in sequence, slow and deliberate, as if someone were passing through rooms and leaving them open. As it went, the dragging continued.
Sasuke started towards the stairs, but you caught his sleeve before he could begin his ascent. He looked down at your hand. In any other place, he might have pulled away. Here, he let the contact remain.
“Don’t go alone,” you pleaded.
His mouth tightened, flattening into a line. “I’m always alone here.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head. “Not tonight.”
The words altered something.
You felt it and so did he.
The house…exhaled.
A lamp at the end of the corridor flared to life, blue-white and sickly. Its glow revealed a wall you were certain had not been there before. Fresh wood, no dust and a paper charm nailed to the centre with a rusted kunai.
On it, written in a hand identical to Sasuke’s, was your name.
Sasuke stared.
“That wasn’t here before,” you whispered.
His sharingan opened in the dark and from behind the new wall, something knocked three times.
You met Shisui Uchiha three days after his funeral.
The village had buried an empty story and called it closure. There had been no body for most to mourn, only rumours folded into official silence, only ANBU shadows lingering too long near the Naka River, only Itachi standing beside the water with his face blank enough to frighten you.
Three days later, Shisui was sitting on the riverbank with his sandals off and his trousers rolled up to the knee.
“Don’t scream,” he said cheerfully.
So you screamed. Naturally.
Shisui winced. “That’s fair.”
You should have run for the nearest patrol, you should have thrown a kunai, you should have done any of the things shinobi were trained to do when the dead appeared at dusk, smiling as if lateness were their only crime. Instead, you stood ankle-deep in river mud and stared at him.
He looked alive.
Not ghostly, not pale, not transparent beneath the dying light. Alive. Warm colour in his face, dark hair slipping loose around his forehead, that familiar, beautiful quicksilver smile softening when he saw your shock giving way to something more dangerous.
Hope.
“No,” you breathed.
Shisui’s smile faded then. “I know.”
“You’re— you’re dead.”
“I know.”
“Stop agreeing with me,” you huffed.
That almost brought the smile back. You hated how badly you wanted it.
The river moved quietly between you, evening insects humming in the reeds. Across the water, the trees leaned close, keeping counsel. Shisui looked down at his bare feet, toes just touching the current.
“I didn’t mean for you to see me.”
“Then why are you here?”
His eyes lifted to yours. The question morphed into something else in your mouth.
Why are you here?
Why are you alive?
Why did you leave?
Why does the world look less unbearable now that you’re sitting in it again?
Shisui heard all of them, he always had. That was one of his cruellest talents, understanding the things you had not yet forgiven yourself for feeling.
“I missed you,” he stated. Simple. Unadorned. Like it was obvious.
A blade between the ribs would have been kinder.
You laughed once, because anything else would have sounded too close to weeping.
“That’s not fair.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to haunt me and say things like that.”
His gaze dropped to the water again. “I’m not trying to haunt you.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
The river darkened as the sun sank behind the trees.
For the first time, Shisui looked afraid.
Not of you, not even of death. He was afraid to speak the answer to that question aloud.
“I don’t know.”
You came back the next evening. And the next. And again after that.
Each time, he was there at the edge of the Naka River, alive in every way that mattered until dawn came too close. He told you things in fragments, but never enough, never the part that explained the impossible. He laughed when you were angry, went quiet when you were kind. Once, when you slipped on the wet bank, he caught you by the waist and his hands were warm through your clothes.
Too warm for a ghost. Too dear for a lie.
On the seventh night, you touched his face.
Shisui went still as stone.
His skin was damp from the river mist. His eyes searched yours with a grief so carefully hidden it could only belong to someone who had been beloved and doomed at once.
“You feel real,” you whispered.
“I am real.”
“Then why do I wake up every morning with river water on my hands?”
His expression broke open. Only for a moment, only enough to show you the terror beneath the charm, but it was enough.
“Do you?” he asked.
Your blood seemed to freeze in your veins. The reeds stopped moving and far across the river, a crow called from the dark.
You stepped back from him.
Shisui stood quickly, reaching for you.
“No— Wait!”
“What did you do?”
Shisui held his hands up as though in surrender. “Nothing you didn’t ask me to.”
“I never asked you for this.”
His sharingan bloomed red in the dusk, not as a threat but as a plea.
“You did,” he whispered desperately. “You just don’t remember.”
Behind him, the Naka River began to flow backwards.
a/n: as you can see, i got possessed by gothic literature and decided to make a series of naturo characters as gothic horror/romance tropes since the naruto cast is basically emotional asbestos wrapped in pretty trauma
i'll be making a tag list for this series, please let me know in the comments if you would like to be on it 🖤
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