#shisui uchiha

[bl00dalchemist]

He will warm up to you eventually.

[swagglessmoth]

Teen rebellion

Tenzo wanted to pick up some walnuts and Kakashi said no

[cuddlymaus]

"My name is Sasuke Uchiha. I hate a lot of things and I don't particularly like anything."

[morellore]

I forgot about Tumblr

[meduontheshore]

<jōnin apartments>

[fishisvibing]

The uchiha trio in akatsuki

[adhdnojutsu]

Missed drawing the boys! Bases by albanenechi (IG)

[cr0wcaller]

🍥 MULTI | how love makes room

naruto men and how they accommodate their partially blind wife ft. madara, tobirama, itachi, obito, shisui

word count: 3,622

content: multi character x reader, fem!reader, established marriages, partially blind reader with no functional vision within three feet and limited vision on her left side, domestic fluff, attentive husbands making room for the way their wife experiences the world

a/n: the answer to this request for @pink-sunrise-56, i hope this is what you had in mind!! also why are these uchihas always standing in the dark? can someone please turn on a fucking light??

🔥 MADARA UCHIHA

The cup had been beside your right hand when the meal began, which you knew because you had placed it there yourself with two fingers lingering briefly against the porcelain as you committed its position to memory. Yet when you reached for it again, you found only the polished surface of the table beneath your fingertips.

Before your hand could wander further, porcelain scraped quietly over wood.

"There," Madara murmured beside you. "At your right hand."

Your fingers closed around the cup. "Thank you."

The conversation continued around you without interruption as one of Madara's senior clansmen reported on patrols from beyond the newly established village. Anyone less familiar with your husband might have believed he was listening with his usual impassivity, but you did know him. Madara had stilled at your side, his attention resting not upon the man speaking but on the attendant who had moved your drink to make room for another serving dish. The attendant realised it too, and his next breath caught audibly.

You brushed your knee against Madara's beneath the table.

Not now.

His eyes shifted to you. At this distance, his face had disappeared into the place where sight failed you entirely, but you felt the weight of his attention as clearly as the warmth of the brazier nearby. After a moment, Madara leaned back in his seat and permitted the report to continue, though the poor attendant did not relax again for the remainder of the meal.

It was only when the gathering drew to a close that another problem presented itself. Chairs moved, dishes were collected, and somebody shifted the low brazier from its usual place to clear the servants' path. You rose alongside Madara, reaching instinctively for the table to orient yourself.

"My arm," he said quietly. "The brazier has been moved into the space to your left."

When his sleeve met your searching fingers, you slipped your hand through the crook of his elbow, allowing him to guide you around the obstacle without drawing the room's attention to it or, at least, without drawing further attention to you.

Madara paused at the door and turned back to face the room.

"Who altered the arrangement of this room?"

Silence fell with almost comical speed.

The attendant who had moved your cup bowed so deeply that his hair nearly brushed the floor. "T-there was insufficient room for the final dish, Lord Madara. I thought—"

"Then the dish should have waited."

His arm remained steady beneath your hand while the atmosphere of the room changed around him, every person present suddenly remembering that their clan's patriarch required neither shouting nor visible anger to frighten them.

"It will not happen again," the attendant promised.

"No," Madara agreed, "it will not."

You waited until the doors had closed behind you before speaking.

"You terrified him."

"He placed a coal brazier against the side you cannot reliably see."

"He only moved it half a step."

"He moved it at all."

There was no arguing with that tone, you knew it well, though you still made a valiant attempt. "Not all carelessness is malicious, Madara."

"It need not be. Fire burns no less thoroughly for a lack of ill intent."

You sighed, but your thumb stroked once across the fabric covering his arm. "I could have managed."

"I know."

The immediate answer softened something in you. Madara adjusted his pace to yours as you crossed the darkened courtyard, keeping himself on your left without any conscious deliberation. He had done it for so long that you doubted he even remembered choosing to begin.

"This is your home," he continued. "You should not be required to map it anew because others find thought difficult."

Once you were safely inside your home, you turned towards him and lifted your hand. Madara bowed his head without protest, allowing your fingertips to find the familiar severity of his features. You traced the furrow of his brows and clicked your tongue.

"You're still glaring."

"I am not."

"Madara."

His hand closed over yours, holding your palm against his cheek. "He will remember now."

"So will every descendant he ever has."

"Then the lesson was efficient."

You laughed despite yourself and felt the corner of his mouth shift beneath your thumb, betraying the satisfaction he would never admit aloud.

🌊 TOBIRAMA SENJU

At first, you thought somebody had tidied the kitchen badly.

The tea remained on its usual shelf, but a braided cord had been fastened around its container and the rice jar now bore a smooth strip of leather, while the salt had been marked with two raised notches beneath the rim. Nothing had been placed beyond your reach or brought unnecessarily close in the mistaken belief that proximity would help you see it. Instead, every near-identical container could now be distinguished beneath your fingertips.

Even the path between the kitchen and the sitting room felt different. The low table had shifted closer to the wall, the baskets had been raised onto shelves, and there was not a single abandoned scroll waiting to catch your foot.

You stood in the doorway with one hand resting upon the frame.

"Tobirama?"

Your husband's voice answered from his study. "What?"

"What have you done to our house?"

There was a pause long enough to suggest Tobirama was considering whether denial still remained possible.

"I removed several unnecessary variables."

"From the kitchen?"

"From the household."

You followed the sound of his voice, trailing your fingers lightly along the wall. Tobirama met you before you reached the study and deliberately stopped beyond the distance at which your vision disappeared. He was still little more than a pale blur against the darker room, but you could make out the shape of him crossing his arms.

"Was there a problem with the previous layout?" you asked.

"There were several."

"I seem to have survived them."

"That doesn't make them efficient."

Of course—efficiency. You concealed your smile and stepped closer, touching his forearm before allowing him to guide your hand towards the desk.

"There is something else," he said.

Beneath your fingers lay a flat wooden board, its surface divided by shallow grooves. A narrow frame ran along its edges, with small pegs that would be moved to accommodate different sizes of paper. You explored it slowly, following one channel and then another.

"What is this?"

"You mentioned that your hand sometimes wandered when writing longer reports. The grooves should keep each line level, and the frame will prevent the paper from moving under your wrist."

You paused. "I mentioned that months ago."

"Yes."

"I wasn't even speaking to you."

"You were within hearing range."

The clinical dryness of his answer could not conceal the hours of work beneath your hands. Every groove had been carved smooth enough that the wood would not catch your skin or brush. The pegs fitted firmly without requiring so much pressure that they became difficult to move. Tobirama had not merely invented something and presented it to you; he had considered how you would actually use it.

"Try it," he suggested. "There might still be defects."

You seated yourself and fitted a sheet of paper into the frame. Tobirama placed the brush in its established position at your right, told you precisely where the ink rested, and then fell silent while you wrote.

You completed several lines before setting the brush down and turning your head towards where he still stood. "Well?"

"I was about to ask you that."

"You've been staring at me so intensely that I can feel it."

"I'm observing the test."

You reached for him; Tobirama recognised the gesture and stepped within range, allowing your hand to find the front of his robes. You curled your fingers into his collar and pulled him down into a kiss. He went rigid with surprise, though only for a moment. His hand settled carefully against the side of your neck before you drew away.

"That," he murmured, recovering his dignity with some effort, "is not useful feedback."

"It wasn't meant to be feedback."

"The board still requires proper evaluation."

Your fingertips travelled upwards until they found the heat gathering across his cheekbones. "You’re blushing."

"I am not."

"You certainly feel as though you are."

Tobirama caught your hand, though he did not remove it from his face. "Is the board functional?"

"It is." Your teasing softened as you ran your thumb across his cheek. "And you made the house remember where everything belongs so I don’t always have to."

A quieter man might have allowed the tenderness of that observation to stand. Your husband, however, inhaled, glanced away and retreated at once behind practicality.

"A household shouldn't demand unnecessary effort from the people living in it," he stated. "Besides, you're the only person here who returns things to their proper places. The system benefits me as much as it does you."

You smiled. "Naturally."

"Your scepticism is unnecessary."

"So was reorganising our entire home."

"No," Tobirama said, turning his face just enough to press his mouth against your palm. "It wasn't."

🐦‍⬛ ITACHI UCHIHA

Itachi Uchiha had once been capable of entering a room without disturbing so much as a grain of dust. He had frightened you terribly during the first weeks of your marriage. One moment you had been alone; the next, his hand had touched your shoulder from within the three feet where your vision could not find him at all. He had apologised immediately, but the brief shock upon your face had followed him for days.

Now, two soft knocks sounded against the kitchen doorframe.

"I'm home," he said.

You smiled over the steam rising from the kettle. "You're late."

"I know."

Itachi remained in the doorway long enough for you to locate him. At that distance he was only a dark, rain-softened shape, his features lost to the blur, but seeing him was never quite the point. The pause allowed you to place him before he approached, then bare feet whispered against the floor.

"It’s me," he murmured as he came close, brushing the backs of his fingers against your sleeve before his hand settled upon your shoulder.

"I had my suspicions."

"Did you?"

"Anyone else would have entered like a normal person."

The quiet breath near your ear might have been a laugh. Itachi slipped past you to lift the kettle from the stove, carefully describing each movement before the rearrangement could confuse you.

"I’ve moved the kettle to the rear hob. The knife is still beside the board."

"You know I heard you put it down."

"I know."

He said it anyway. He always did.

Rain clung to his hair and clothing, carrying the cold scent of the night into the warmth of the kitchen. You found a towel in its proper drawer and held it out. Itachi accepted it with a soft word of thanks, though instead of drying himself immediately, he watched you measure tea leaves into the pot.

"Were you waiting for me?"

"I was making tea."

"At midnight."

"Tea is still tea after midnight."

"That doesn't answer my question."

You tilted your head towards his voice. "Maybe I wanted tea and happened to make enough for my husband as well."

"Perhaps."

There was affection tucked inside the word. You could hear it because you had learned all the places Itachi concealed things—behind silences, beneath deflections, in the careful way his thumb passed over your knuckles when he took the cup from your hand.

He moved the knife to slice a piece of ginger, then returned it to precisely the same position.

"The blade is at your right," he told you.

"Thank you."

Itachi sat opposite you while you poured. The table placed him just far enough away that you could make out the general shape of his face when he raised the cup. His expression remained indistinct, softened further by curls of steam, but something about his posture made you narrow your eyes.

"Are you smiling?"

"A little."

You held out your hand, a movement Itachi understood and leaned forwards until your fingertips met his cheek.

Within three feet, he vanished from your vision entirely. Beneath your touch, however, there was no such uncertainty. You traced the familiar line of his nose, the faint hollow beneath his eye and, finally, the unmistakable curve of his mouth.

"Liar," you murmured. "That's at least half a smile."

His lips curved further beneath your fingertips. "You always know."

"Of course I do."

"Even if I didn't announce myself?"

You pretended to consider it. "Your steps change when you're tired; you smell like rain and cedar smoke; you set your cup down more quietly when something has been weighing on you, and when you're truly happy, your silence feels different."

Itachi said nothing, but his hand rose to cover yours, holding it against his face as his eyes closed.

You stroked your thumb over the smile he could no longer hide. "I don’t need to see you this closely to know you."

"No," he said softly, turning his head to kiss the centre of your palm, "I suppose you don't."

🎭 OBITO UCHIHA

Obito had moved the bowl. Again. You reached towards the place where it had rested moments earlier and found an empty stretch of counter. Before you could search farther, the bowl was pressed directly into your hands.

"Here," he said. "I've got it."

You held it for a moment, then set it down. "Obito."

"What?"

"Where is the knife?"

A suspicious silence followed.

"Obito."

"I moved it."

"Where?"

"On the other counter. I thought it was too close to your hand."

"It was exactly where I put it."

"I know, but the blade was facing—"

"Away from me."

Your husband fell quiet. You could feel him hovering somewhere to your left, within the neglected edge of your peripheral vision and close enough that you could not see him properly even if you turned.

It had begun three days earlier, when you had failed to notice that a stool had been moved into the walkway. You had caught your hip against its corner, earning a bruise and startling Obito badly enough that he had declared war upon every object in your home.

Since then, he had cleared surfaces while you were using them, moved furniture without telling you and placed things directly into your hands before you had decided whether you even wanted them. His intentions were painfully tender, though living within them was becoming impossible.

"I need you to stop helping me for a moment," you sighed.

The silence around him changed. "Oh."

The hurt in that single syllable made you reach for him instinctively. Your hand found nothing, so you waited until Obito stepped closer and placed his fingers beneath yours.

"I don't mean that I never want your help," you told him gently, "but you've moved the flour, the bowl, the knife and half the furniture."

"I was trying to make things easier."

"I know, but now I don't know where anything is in my own kitchen."

His fingers curled loosely around yours. "I don't want you getting hurt just because I wasn't paying attention."

"You can't watch every step I take."

"I could try."

"Obito."

"Alright, I would try."

You drew him closer until you could place both hands around his. "If you're approaching from my left, say my name. If something has been moved, tell me. Keep the walkways clear, put things back where they belong, and if you think I need something, ask before you decide for me."

"What if there isn’t time to ask?"

"Then help me. I’m not asking you to stand aside while I walk into a fire."

A reluctant laugh escaped him. "That seems reasonable."

"You're allowed to care for me," you said, stroking your thumb across his knuckles. "You just...can't turn caring for me into making every decision on my behalf."

"I thought husbands were supposed to make their wives’ lives easier."

"They are. Just like wives are supposed to tell their husbands when they're being menaces."

Obito squeezed your hand. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

Together, you restored the kitchen to an arrangement you could navigate. Obito told you where he placed each object and waited while you confirmed its position beneath your fingertips. When the spoon later slipped from the counter and rolled somewhere beyond your left foot, you heard his first instinct in the sudden forward step of his feet. Then he stopped himself.

"The spoon rolled under the table," he said. "Do you want me to get it?"

You smiled. “Yes, please.”

Obito retrieved it and placed it on the counter at your right. "Here?"

"Perfect."

The quiet pride in his hum warmed you more than the stove.

After you had eaten, Obito seated himself several feet away. From there you could make out the softened outline of his shoulders and the pale blur of his face turned towards you. He had chosen the distance deliberately, giving you what little sight of him the evening allowed.

"You can come closer," you said.

"I thought you wanted to see me."

"I do."

When you held out your hand towards him, Obito crossed the room and took it, allowing you to draw him into the place where his face disappeared but everything else became clearer; the roughness of his palm, the warmth of his breath and the familiar way his forehead settled against yours.

"I also want you," you murmured. "Those aren't always the same thing."

His arms closed around you carefully, without hesitation and without presuming. "This?"

You smiled against his mouth. "This is helping."

🌀 SHISUI UCHIHA

"Devoted husband approaching from the left!"

You turned towards the voice and raised your elbow.

Shisui stopped just beyond its reach and stared in mock affront. "Violence? In the marketplace?"

"If you announce yourself like that one more time, I will demonstrate violence in the marketplace."

"I could have said devastatingly handsome husband."

"That would have been worse," you muttered.

His laughter slipped easily into the noise surrounding you. Sellers called out prices from beneath canvas awnings, sandals scuffed across packed earth, and somewhere to your right, oil hissed as another batch of dumplings dropped into a pan.

Shisui moved to your left and offered his arm. He did not take your hand or pull you towards him; he simply waited until you found his sleeve and chose your own grip.

"There's a loose board about three steps ahead," he said as you began walking. "A cart is coming up behind us on the left, but we have time. Also, the melon seller is attempting to charge an old woman twice the proper price."

"How is that relevant to our route?"

"It isn't, but she's winning and I thought you'd appreciate knowing."

You did.

Shisui's guidance arrived so naturally among his observations that it rarely felt like instruction. He warned you when the ground dipped, told you when somebody was about to pass close against your left shoulder, and filled everything between with an account of the market's far more interesting hazards.

"Kotetsu is pretending not to see us."

"Why?"

"He owes me money."

"Then I imagine he can see us extremely well."

"That's my clever wife."

His arm shifted gently beneath yours, guiding you inwards as the cart rolled past. Once it had gone, he returned you to your previous path without interrupting his story.

At a stall near the end of the lane, a merchant thrust something towards your face.

"Look at this workmanship," he insisted. "Finest ornament in the district."

The object disappeared completely within the useless closeness of your sight. Before you could lean back, Shisui spoke.

"She'll judge it with her hands, if you don't mind."

The merchant faltered, then placed the ornament carefully into your open palm for you to trace its narrow metal prongs and the cluster of stones fixed at its head.

"What does it look like?" you asked.

"Gold-coloured, not gold," Shisui explained. "Three red glass beads pretending to be rubies, arranged in a fan that's expensive enough to invite robbery and ugly enough to discourage it."

The merchant made an offended noise.

You bit the inside of your cheek. "Maybe something else then."

The next hairpin was simpler, shaped like a slender branch with small leaves curving along one side. Shisui described the darkened silver and green stones while you explored each detail beneath your fingertips.

"I like this one," you decided.

"So do I."

You turned towards his voice. "You haven't insulted it, so you must be serious."

"I can be serious."

"Not often."

Shisui left your side only long enough to pay. He told you when he was crossing in front of you, pressed the parcel into your right hand when he returned, and then apparently forgot himself. When warmth appeared suddenly within the blind space to your left, you drove your elbow backwards.

"Ow!"

"I warned you."

"I thought you were bluffing."

"You can see through solid objects and copy people's movements, but you couldn't see that coming?"

"In my defence, I was distracted by your beauty."

You found his shoulder and shoved him lightly. Shisui caught your hand, laughing as he lifted it to his mouth.

"Would you like to wear it?"

When you nodded, his fingers gathered your hair with unexpected gentleness. He warned you before removing the pin already holding it in place, then slid the new one securely into the twist.

"How does it look?" you asked.

Shisui stepped back far enough to inspect his work. "Beautiful."

"The hairpin or me?"

"You. The hairpin is doing its best to keep up."

You groaned. "That was awful."

"You married me with full knowledge of my condition."

"Yes," you said, finding his offered arm again, "and unlike mine, yours is completely incurable."

tag list: @sunday-kisser

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