Listen to this: Yandere Obito getting more attached and horny seeing the reader cry bc shes js traumatised and scared without him 🥴 I literally need him to feel needed it would just make him more deranged istg😭
•∘˙⊹. ꒰ঌ ᧔ෆ᧓ ໒꒱ .⊹˙∘•
hi hii babes! Obi our deranged boy, how I love you
Warnings: 18+, yandereObito!, Obi manipulated you, you can’t tolerate things without him, dacryphilia, derangedobito!, fem reader, akatsukiObito!, use of the term good girl
ྀི
-Obito is glued to your hip and dangerously so. Even to the point that if you used the bathroom, he’s standing outside the damn door. Privacy does NOT exist
-he believes that every single one of his actions are okay, and normal when in love. How other Uchiha clan members are always with their lovers no matter what
-but something clicked in the wrong spot within his head. Which has led him down a rather sadistic path when it comes to the things he does for you
-today..he unfortunately had to distance himself from you due to an akatsuki meeting. His heart broke in two when he watched that pretty little mouth of yours turn into a fat pouty frown
-he couldn’t focus one bit as Pain droned on about his goals and what step comes next in his plan. Then merely rolled his eyes under his mask the second Hidan and Deidara started arguing
-all he knows is that the second Pain dismissed everyone. He was GONE. Having used kamui. Pushing his key into the lock on your front door, slipping inside and closing it behind him with a soft click
-and that’s when he’s heard you. Sniffles, and small whimpers. He knew you wouldn’t dare touch yourself in his absence…something about this is different. He pushes your bedroom door open to find a crying you in the middle of your bed. How the blankets had wrinkles in them from you scrunching them up. He knows what happened
-Obito will only admit this to himself but he got into your head. Whispering controlling nothings into your ear to the point you can’t do anything without him. AND to his sick enjoyment…can’t be alone without him. You used to be so independent
-his plan worked…it actually worked
-the moment your eyes found him, you reached an arm out to him. Silently pleading for him to climb in bed and join you. When he does, you sob violently into his chest
-you knew where he was and what he was doing but it didn’t help the irrational part of your brain from assuming he abandoned you. Even though your sweet obi would never
-Obito listens as you mumble about how much you missed him and how fearful you were that he might not even come back. Trying to hold in the chuckle that threatens to escape him at pathetic he’s made you..
-another thing, and thankfully you haven’t noticed it yet is the painfully erect cock that Obito’s cloak is hiding. How it twitches against his leg, dripping small beads of pre cum against his thigh
-you’re such a pretty thing when you cry..how needy and dumb you get in his absence despite being insanely intelligent.
-watching all his efforts work has done something deadly to his brain…making him even more deranged than he was before. How his cocks throbs with every sniffle and new tear that rolls down your cheeks
-the way you need him, how you crave him even if you don’t fully grasp why you suddenly cling to him the way you do, never fails to cause his cock to harden
-maybe he can manipulate you into abandoning your village and join the akatsuki. You’ll be a good girl and listen..won’t you?
"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.
buddy cop caleb and valko ft middleman!y/n and villain!sylus
buddy cop obito and kakashi ft middleman!y/n and villain zabuza
happy with either
Voting ended onJul 2
so i found this old draft where characters a and b meet y/n who is a middle man who is trying to capture a mafia boss and helps characters a and be trying to catch him.
but the thing is, the plot suits both kakashi and obito and caleb and valko and i simply cant choose 💔
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 🖤
All rights reserved. Please do not repost, copy, translate, plagiarise, or feed my work into AI. Reblogs are deeply appreciated; reposts are not permitted.
alrightyyy babe can you give me some teen Obito headcanons for the scenarios I had described to ya T_T 💗
༄ Tags: teen Obito, fluff, friends to lovers
༄ Requested scenario: How Obito will react if you confess to him first?
Obito was a lovely child ever since he was young. At least in your eyes. His fiery determination blended seamlessly with his kind-hearted nature and those soft, brown eyes. It was truly admirable.
And you made sure to voice every thought on your mind.
“Good job, Obito! You almost crushed him!”
Obito blinked, thoroughly defeated by his opponent, his glare directed at Kakashi evaporating as he looked up at you, a wide smile spreading across his face.
You offered him your hand, and he took it, before you placed a hand on his back, guiding him toward a bench—not before sticking your tongue out at Kakashi, who merely raised an eyebrow in response.
So Obito tried, every single time, to make you proud of him, inadvertently helping himself become a better version of who he was.
And of course, surprising you whenever he got the opportunity.
Meaning, every attempt your Obito made to capture your attention came in the form of the sweetest gestures a little boy could possibly offer his crush. Carrying your schoolbag after class. Picking the prettiest flower along the road, only to present it to you with flushed cheeks. Holding your hand whenever you lost your way. Arguing with anyone who got too close to you because their intentions didn't seem particularly friendly for Obito’s taste.
And you were no different. Always complimenting him. Always seeking out his presence. Always hugging him excitedly whenever you hadn't seen him for a few days.
And so it continued throughout the years until he grew older, mature enough to gather the courage to ask you to be his lover. Not that it hadn't been obvious before. Everyone knew that, ever since childhood, the two of you had been bound together by a red string of fate.
“Obito, when we grow older, promise you'll still be here? And that we'll always stay together?”
He felt his eyes sting at the time, only nodding frantically as he took your hands in his, his heart fluttering wildly within his chest.
“Yes! Yes, yes. Always!”
—
In the present, Obito was pacing near the front gate of the school, waiting for you to arrive. You knew something was wrong from the moment you saw him, familiar as you were with every expression that could grace that handsome face.
“[Name]!”
“Yes?”
He jogged forward until he stood directly in front of you. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, his gaze drifting elsewhere.
“Obito, what's wrong?”
He whispered so quietly that you barely caught it.
“I wanted to talk about something...”
“What?”
“I wanted to talk about something!”
Both of your eyes widened at how serious he sounded, and Obito released a breath of relief when you laughed. He missed it every time you didn't laugh or smile, though he liked to believe he was capable of keeping you happy whenever you were with him.
“Yeah? You can tell me anything, Obito.”
He gulped, his throat already dry from nervousness.
“I wanted... I wanted to ask you something.”
You could see the tremor running through his body, his hands twitching at his sides. Your smile widened, your heart pounding against your ribs. You knew. You had waited for this for so long.
“Please, tell me. I want to hear it, Obito.”
“Y-Yes?” You nodded, and he glanced at you shyly. “I suppose I'm not exactly the most inscrutable guy, and you probably already know what this is about... but I wanted to tell you directly because you deserve that.” He exhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again.
He was struggling too hard, so you didn’t have much choice than to be the one taking the lead.
“I like you, Obito.”
Obito blinked a few times. His ears were ringing, and his body only had grown noticeably warmer. Your smile faded slightly as a tear rolled gently down his cheek before you panicked. He wiped away a tear with his elbow, trying to hide it from you.
‘No, no! Obito.” You cupped his face in your hands, making him look at you until he had no choice but to continue.
“I love you, [Name]. And... I want to show you just how much I've always wanted you in my life... only if you want that too.”
The silence between you was agonizing for Obito—until it wasn't. He was terrified, terrified that he had gotten everything wrong, until suddenly you threw yourself into his arms, and he embraced you instantly, your hands settling on his shoulders.
“It sure took you long enough!”
His lips parted in surprise as he gazed into your lovely eyes, then down at your soft lips.
“I love you too, Obito. But I'm sure you already knew that.”
He nodded. He did. Still, Obito had been utterly scared of your answer. But now, as you looked at him as though you truly meant every word, and as your eyes lingered on his lips as well, it became unmistakably clear. The two of you belonged together.
Obito cupped your cheek, leaning in slowly until his lips met yours in a gentle, innocent kiss. Only then did his heart thunder within his chest for reasons that had nothing to do with anxiety, but everything to do with happiness.
firstly, a treat for being just a general lovely person 🍪 and some flowers to hopefully bring you joy 🌻🌸🌹
and finally, for your absolutely delightful ask game, might i offer one obito uchiha + praise kink? 😘
Aly!! 💜 thank you for playing with me and offering this absolute blessing of a prompt!!
obito uchiha x female reader (smut)
Obito didn’t realise he enjoyed praise until it was much too late.
“Oh fuck... Obito... yes, there! Feels so good, you’re so good,” you babbled mindlessly, both hands deep in his hair and tugging as he tongued your pretty little cunt.
His hips stuttered beneath him. One arm gave out causing him to almost fully faceplant into your soft petal-like folds. Dark eyes rolled over in ecstasy and he moaned pathetically, praying you were too far gone into your own bliss to notice—he wasn’t so lucky.
“... ‘bito?”
He did his best to ignore the curiosity in your tone, suckling your clit between his lips in every effort to divert your attention and bring the proceedings back on track, but you were determined for answers.
Obito swiped a hand across his sticky mouth when you shoved him backwards, quickly shuffling over his legs before he could scramble away. He looked everywhere but at you, warmth spreading like a rash over his cheeks and down his neck. He was painfully hard; cock throbbing against the flat of his stomach and leaving precum spread over his scarred skin.
You cooed like the most beautiful dove. “Does someone like being praised?”
He bit his lip to keep the moan behind his teeth from escaping, but his body betrayed him by the tightening at his hips and how his flushed tip bobbed and batted in response. Your fisted his shaft, one cursory pump which saw sparks flashing across his vision and smiling down at him.
“Oh, baby... it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You look so pretty all flushed and ready for me.”
Didn’t you realise you were going to kill him, kill him dead, if you didn’t quit that right now? He tensed all over; his hips bucked jostling you closer to him and his shoulders strained from where he had stretched out to hold onto the headboard behind him.
“S-stop,” he managed, not recognising his voice.
Your fingers danced over his quivering abs, painting the precum into little designs whilst you rolled your fist down his length. He wanted to look away, to bury his face into the pillows, but you were coming alive above him. You were glowing. Eyes bright and full of mischief. Your smile a mix of impish delight and genuine affection. When you swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, he lost the war and moaned full throated.
“You don’t want that, do you? Your beautiful cock is fit to burst, and I want to see you fall apart. You’re always making me feel good, lemme repay the favour, yeah?”
His spine arched and he gave over to his instincts, no longer able to fight when you made him feel so damn special. Obito still didn’t feel worthy of you, he didn’t think he ever would, but for right now he could at least pretend.
“Good boy,” you purred as he came with a whine.
Your mouth found his, hand still carefully working him to prolong his pleasure, and feeding him your unconditional love. With your forehead pressed to his, you whispered sincerely...
“I’m going to make you feel special every day, my love.”
a man built to level mountains, a solid wall of scarred muscle that took up entirely too much space on the mattress.
but right now, buried deep inside you, Obito Uchiha was reduced to a worshipping mess claiming you for the second time in the night.
he was a man who loved with his entire chest, carrying that loud, all-consuming loyalty he's always had into every single touch.
he was possessive, consumed by the way you felt around him, demanding every single drop of your attention in bed.
a complete lover boy devoted to you.
your lover boy.
you could barely take it anymore. On top of him, riding his dick like it was made for your cunt, and yours only, straddling his thick brawny thighs, gasping for air as you moved at a too desperate pace.
and he loved it.
Obito loved to see you cum around his shaft, he loved to see the way your whole body bounced on top of him.
Plap
Plap
Plap
his massive hands—the same ones with those thick fingers that had been curling inside you just moments ago, relentlessly hitting that sweet, spongy spot, now wrapped wholly around your hips.
he guided your fast descent, his thumbs digging religiously into your skin to anchor you, or maybe make you go even crazier.
Hornier.
feeling his hot touch against your shivering skin.
you had been leaning forward, letting the rippling heat of his broad, bulky, and solid chest soak into your skin, but he gripped your waist tighter and forced you to sit straight up.
he wanted a clear view.
he wanted to see you in the exact moment your cunt would come undone on his big cock as he bred your tight hole.
“O-obito," you were a moaning mess, your nails biting into his monumental biceps as your core contracted around him feeling him deeper, and deeper.
Oh. So. Fucking. Deep.
"y-y-e-e-s, baby... oh… yeeeesss."
he looked up at you from the pillows, his dark eyes swimming with a blend of pure pleasure and utterly devotion.
His.
His only, forever and ever.
To love,
To feel,
To hold,
To fuck your brains out.
a dark smile tugged at the corner of his lips as you paused for half a second to catch your breath.
"you want me to stop, baby? Yeah?” he teased, a low vibration of his silky voice that rattled straight through your stomach.
"n-no, Obito, p-please," you dragged out the plea, your hips instinctively twitching against his abdomen.
you were not leaving that dick until he made you cum at least 4 times that night.
"good, because I wasn't going to," he murmured, the dark, liquid velvet of his tone completely wrapping around your senses.
He moved one of his hands, slipping down between your thighs, his rough thumb finding that shivering cluster of nerves, the absolute epicenter of your undoing.
So sensitive.
Plap
Plap
Plap
he circled it with pitiless intent, completely stealing the breath from your lungs as a broken sob left your lips.
Gosh, you were so fucking beautiful.
Delicious.
And his.
His to claim, to mark, to scream his name so everyone knew who you belonged to.
you tried to drop your chin, suddenly shy under the raw intensity of his stare, but his hand snapped up, his large fingers smelling like you, your juices, your sex, catching your jaw to tilt your face right back down.
“Eyes on me. Let me see how pretty you look when you come around my dick” he ordered, the weight of his gaze pinning you exactly where he wanted you.
he arched his spine, surging his hips upward to drive his size even deeper.
“Yes baby, let this cock make your cunt feel good, hm?” he praised, his broad chest heaving as he drank in the sight of your wrecked expression.
the pressure of his thumb combined with that impossibly deep angle finally pushed you over the absolute edge.
a blinding wave of white-hot pleasure crashed through your system, tearing a loud, broken cry from your throat.
you came undone against him, your inner walls clamping down violently and milking his length with every trembling spasm. You could feel his thick white seed spilling inside of you.
he groaned, his own control snapping as he felt you unraveling so perfectly around him, in his arms.
“Mine. every single inch of you."
A/n: idk, just a thought I had (will forever blame my last convo with strawberrylina tho), enjoy <3 not proofread tho
