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It was never about the ropes, nor the knots that held him still.
It was about the quiet undoing of a man who had never learned how to be held.
Just skin, breath, and the trembling compassion of being seen.
An anonymous commission for someone who trusts my ability to capture a softer side of Madara, almost vulnerable, while, of course, keeping his trademark stubbornness and refusal to give up control!!!!
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Madara sat at the edge of the bed with a posture that could have read relaxed, if not for the wire-tight stillness beneath it. He’d been halfway between pulling her into his lap and rolling her beneath him when she stopped everything with that quiet, surgical sentence.
-I want to try something different.
Now she stood between his thighs, bare feet on the cool floor, framed by the shape of his legs. There was no coyness, no disguise in her tone; just intent stripped of softness.
He tilted his head, impatience flickering just below restraint. -You’re stalling.-
-Maybe…
-Spit it out, (Y/n), or I won’t let you finish.
A pause, not nervous, but a calculating one.
-Shibari.
A short sound left his throat, almost laughter. -No.-
-Why not?
-Because I don’t get tied.- Each word cut down to steel.
It should have ended there; that tone usually did. Yet (Y/n) didn’t move, only stood closer, knees grazing his. The stillness felt deliberate, mockery through calm.
-Is it pride?- she asked, voice measured, disarming in its precision. -Or control?-
The corner of his mouth twitched. -You think you can read me?-
-I always do.
Madara leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The motion should have closed the distance, should have made her step back; instead, she stayed within reach of his breath. That was the first crack, small, but echoing.
For a few seconds, he only looked at her. Measured stare, steady inhale. Then an exhale through his nose, bored, dismissive. -You’d wrap me up and what? Admire your handiwork?-
-Maybe I want to see what you look like when you’re not in command of everything.
Silence, fine as glass.
His first reaction was to spit, -I don’t lose control-, but something in her tone, clinical in its gentleness, a surgeon knowing precisely where to cut, made words unnecessary. His hand found her hip, holding her there between his legs, reclaiming ground by instinct. -And if I said no?-
-You are saying it, just not with your mouth, and we’re still here.- The words landed like cold water. He hated how she saw through him, how she didn’t flinch at his tone but leaned closer, small and immovable. -This isn’t about tying you down,- she went on, quieter now. -It’s about you letting someone hold you. Just once.-
His gaze shifted to the wall, jaw tightening.
The idea scraped at everything he was built on. Surrender, even as play, felt like corrosion, but her voice was slipping through his walls like smoke, softening certainty in places he hadn’t known were hollow.
When she laid the rope beside him, she didn’t touch it again. Just waited. The air between them throbbed faintly, alive with decision.
Madara despised hesitation. Despised being studied. But more than that, he despised the stillness, the fact that his body hadn’t yet obeyed his mind’s refusal. Her eyes fixed him in place, her breath barely brushing the hollow beneath his sternum.
He wanted to be cruel enough to end it.
Instead, her hand rose, slow, grazing his throat. A wordless question. It was that softness, not persuasion, that unlatched him.
-Fine,- he muttered, almost to himself. -Show me.-
It wasn’t surrender, no.
It was the sound of a fortress unlocking, hinge by hinge.
She didn’t move at first, as if silence itself needed to acknowledge the surrender. When her hands finally reached for him, they did so without tremor, her composure a quiet kind of command.
-Everything off.- Not an order; certainty.
Madara’s mouth twitched, something between a smirk and a flinch. He should have made her say please; that would have restored the balance. But his body moved before thought could intervene, each motion deliberate, unwillingly obedient. The air against bare skin felt alien, cool, indifferent. Vulnerability was not a state he recognized until that moment.
The first touch of rope began at his shoulder. The texture bit softly, carrying the warmth of her fingers. Each pull drew sound from him he didn’t trust, low, involuntary, escaping before pride could catch it. He shifted, testing the give, finding almost none.
-This all you’ve got?- he managed, words shaped around what breath he had left.
Her reply came against his nape. -You tell me.-
Another knot, cleaner, pressed into the line of his spine. Pressure radiated outward, pulse tightening against restraint. It was unbearable, but in a way that begged repetition.
Thoughts unraveled mid-formation.
I could break these.
I should.
This is nothing.
But why does it feel—
Rope crossed his sternum, each pull roughening breath into precision. She worked like a musician tuning an instrument, and every knot muted something in him, one instinct, one layer of control.
When she stepped back to study her work, he fought to keep his chin lifted. Ropes traced pale, geometric lines along ribs, hips, thighs. Without his armor of arrogance, he looked almost human.
-Happy?- he muttered, voice slipping somewhere between defiance and plea.
-Not yet. But I see you are.
The answer rose not as words but sound, low, raw, when her fingers followed the cord across his chest, traveling all the way down to his hard cock. The vibration rippled through him, heat collecting where the rope met skin, breath turning heavy.
-You’ve had your fun,- he said, but the pulse in his throat betrayed him. Each beat slow, indulgent. Resistance had become a habit rather than truth. She saw it: the slight arch of his back when she tightened the rope, the unguarded tilt of his head toward her.
The pleasure of it confused him: the exposure, the release of not directing every movement. It burned under his ribs, sharpened by its wrongness, made whole by how right it felt. Each inhale deepened the pressure until he leaned into it.
Her hand settled over his heart, light as breath.
-There,- she murmured. -Now breathe. Let me take care of you.-
And he did, one steady pull of air that fractured halfway, escaping as a quiet, broken sound. A moan disguised as a curse.
For the first time, control belonged to something outside him. It began like a slow unraveling. Every knot felt deliberate, as though her hands had mapped his undoing long before they touched him. His body strained instinctively against the binds, testing them not for escape, but for proof that he could not.
The realization hit him like vertigo: how much he wanted that. To stop dictating every rhythm, every breath, to stop being the unmovable force he had made himself into. Yet wanting it didn’t make it easier. The instinct to command was muscle-deep, bred into him through a lifetime of authority and domination.
He’d never felt so exposed.
Or so alive.
His cock stood flushed and aching, a defiant, humiliating pulse that betrayed him. He wanted to look away, to bury the obscene evidence of what she was doing to him, but she was kneeling between his thighs now, calm, deliberate, devastating.
(Y/N) didn’t rush; her silence said more than any taunt could.
When her fingers brushed against the inside of his leg, Madara’s breath faltered. The touch was light, exploratory. A scientist dissecting control.
-Is this what you want?- she murmured, her voice honeyed with mockery, heat curling off each word.
His jaw was locked tight, as though silence might preserve some crumbling part of his dignity.
(Y/n)’s lips curved, cruel in their understanding. -I can do this all night.- Her tongue flicked out, tasting the bead of precome that gathered at his tip. -Your body’s already telling me everything.-
A sharp breath escaped him, small, unwilling, treacherous. She rewarded it with a slow, deliberate lick up his shaft, her tongue dragging like honey over violence. He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking despite himself, and hated how instinct guided him more than pride ever could.
-Stubborn thing, you are,- she whispered, drawing back just as he strained for more. -I’ll just have to break you down until even that pride begs for me.-
He glared, or tried to, but the look collapsed into something that burned too close to pleading. Her tongue returned, slower now, methodical. Every movement of her mouth dismantled him with surgical precision. He could feel his composure fracture, piece by piece: the breathing too fast, the muscles trembling under the ropes that once felt like prison and now like promise.
Frustration was an inconsistent thing inside his head, torned between allowing pleasure and saving face, chest heaving against the ropes as her mouth hovered maddeningly close without ever giving him what he wanted. His dick ached, flushed and leaking, each heartbeat pulsing like a demand he couldn’t voice without conceding ground.
-Still fighting me?- she teased close to his sack. -Even now?-
Madara’s hands flexed uselessly against the ropes, his jaw locked. -You mistake control for resistance.-
-And you mistake surrender for loss.
-Don’t twist my words.
-I’m not, love. You came undone the moment you let me tie you.
-You think rope can undo me?
Her fingers trailed up his abdomen, light enough to make him shiver. -Not the rope. Me.-
-You don’t know what you’re asking.
-I do. I’m asking you to stop surviving for one night. Let someone else hold the weight.
He exhaled sharply, deflecting with anger because softness terrified him more. -You don’t get to tell me what I need.-
-I’m not telling,- she said, her voice lowering, silk threaded through command. -I’m asking.-
Her breath brushed the head of his cock again, and he jolted espite himself. The silence that followed was a stalemate drawn in heat and trembling air.
Finally, she spoke again, softly, like a promise. -You don’t have to trust me forever. Just right now.-
Madara’s throat worked, defiance thinning under the ache that had nowhere left to go. When he spoke, it was hoarse, reluctant, but real. -Fine… just right now.-
-Good boy.- Her smile against his skin was a sin in itself before her lips parted around him, slow, deliberate. The first glide of her tongue drew a sound from him he didn’t recognize, half curse, half surrender his breath fractured into something that sounded too much like relief. His head fell back, eyes squeezing shut as she took him deeper, her rhythm measured, patient.
-Perfect, love,- she praised between strokes, her words vibrating through him. -That’s it. Don’t fight it. You’re beautiful like this.-
Madara’s hands clenched into fists, a futile grasp at the control already dissolving beneath her touch. Every movement of her mouth pulled another layer from him until all that remained was breath and heat and the small, unguarded sound of his own surrender.
She sucked him in inch by inch, her throat tightening around him, and the sound that emerged from his mouth felt foreign, a guttural, broken thing that didn’t display power at all.
It was raw, human, desperate.
(Y/n) took him deeper, her lips meeting the base, the heat of her mouth overwhelming every rational thought he’d ever had. Each sound she made, wet, obscene, worshipful, dragged him closer to surrender. His mind thrashed for purchase, for the familiar comfort of control, but all he found was her.
Her pace.
Her will.
Her mercy.
It wasn’t the pleasure that undid him; it was the helplessness of wanting more.
-Close,- he groaned, the warning more confession than command. -I’m… I can’t—
His body betrayed him in the next breath.
Release tore through him like something violent and sacred, every muscle drawn taut, every sound leaving him stripped bare. He came undone in her mouth, the world narrowing to heat and pulse and surrender. His eyes remained closed while the orgasm ran through his muscles, the room trembleling with what had just passed, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.
His body, once a fortress of control, now felt foreign to him, conquered in silence. She rose without a word, her hair brushing his skin in passing, and the bed dipped beneath the ghost of her weight.
The sound of shifting rope filled the quiet, soft and deliberate. She worked each knot loose with the same care she had tied them, fingers tracing the paths that had once restrained him. The cords fell away one by one, leaving faint marks that glowed in the dim light, fragile echoes of his surrender. His eyes followed her hands, half-lidded and heavy, every movement pulling him deeper into the haze that lingered after release.
When the last knot came undone, she lingered. Her fingertips brushed against the skin of his wrists, now free, and he flexed them once, slow and uncertain, as though testing the limits of his own body again. There was something almost reverent in the way she touched him, like she was returning him to himself, piece by piece.
A man caught between humiliation and strange deliverance.
No words were needed; none would have survived that hush. She moved as though untying something larger than rope, something that had held him long before this night. Each motion steadied him, coaxing his breath into rhythm, drawing him slowly back into himself.
When the final loop slipped free, she set it aside and climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the soft hollow beside him. The air between them hummed with leftover heat, heavy with what hadn’t been said. He looked carved from exhaustion, jaw slackened, eyelids dragging, muscles loose but ready to coil again at the slightest provocation.
Her hand found his shoulder first, guiding him down wordlessly until his head settled against her chest. For an instant, pride flared, that old instinct to refuse anything that felt like understanding, but it burned out almost as quickly as it rose.
Weariness took its place, heavier, truer. He stayed where she placed him, every breath melting another piece of armor.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, slow strokes that carried no command, no purpose beyond touch itself. Nails traced his scalp in soft spirals, scratching lightly, rhythm steady and grounding.
A sound rumbled out of him, deep, low, too primal to be language. Somewhere between a growl and a sigh, it vibrated through her ribs. He shifted closer, seeking more without asking, eyes half-shut, breath grazing her sternum.
He had never looked more dangerous or more human than in that small surrender, all hunger without the cruelty, all need stripped of its edge. Every stroke of her fingers drew another quiet, feral sound from him, the kind a beast makes when it has forgotten it’s being watched.
She smiled faintly, pressing her lips to his hair. The scent of smoke and skin filled her lungs; it was dizzying, familiar, entirely his. For a while, they drifted in that suspended quiet, nothing but heartbeat and breath. His weight settled heavier against her, and she thought he’d finally fallen asleep.
-I love you,- she spoke lightly, the words escaping like a confession meant only for the dark.
For a moment, nothing. Then warmth moved against her chest; a slow, deliberate kiss pressed just above her heart. Not passion, not possession.
Gratitude, maybe.
A silent I heard you.
Her hand stilled mid-stroke, fingers trembling faintly. He didn’t lift his head, didn’t open his eyes. Only stayed there, lips lingering over the place where her pulse beat steady beneath skin.
No reply came in words, but she didn’t need one. The weight of him, all sinew and silence and spent breath, was answer enough.
Outside, night stretched endless and patient, holding what little was left of them both. Inside, her hands resumed their path through his hair, slower now, gentler, each movement a vow spoken without sound.
And when sleep finally came for him, she kept tracing circles over his scalp, protecting the fragile peace he would never admit to wanting, the peace of a man learning how to be held.
please continue the saints don’t survive halloween series!!! came from ao3 just to ask about it because im so invested 🤍🤍🤍
That work is specifically commissioned, but fortunately for those who enjoy it, @reaperwillows commissioned the next part earlier this month! The table is set, hope you enjoy!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/80994841
Kaien’s house always made Obito feel like he’d tracked dirt in on purpose. Everything gleamed: pale stone floors without a single scuff, spotless glass walls, the kitchen island so clean it reflected the pendant lights like a showroom. Even the air felt filtered, expensive, disciplined. No clutter, noise, or evidence of anyone messy (or human) actually living there.
His cousin, Indra, fit the place perfectly.
He, on the other hand, felt like a stain trying not to spread. Obito stood in the kitchen longer than necessary under the pretense of getting something to drink, palms damp, heartbeat already misbehaving. He told himself it was just the party later, the idea of seeing her with Madara again. Anticipation curdling into jealousy.
Yet nothing was that simple, not for him.
Across the open living room, Ivy was half on top of Indra on the couch, one knee hooked over his thigh, fingers playing with the chain at his collarbone. She was laughing, loud and bright and unbothered, while Indra’s hand rested lazily on her hip as it had always belonged there. His coldhearted cousin didn’t smile for anyone. For her, he did; subtle, barely there, but real.
Obito hated how steady they looked. Two people, actively choosing each other. He used to have that. What the hell happened?
—Jesus,— Ivy called out after ten minutes of Obito just staring at them, squinting at him like he’d offended her visually. —Need help, Bibi? Lost something?—
Indra’s eyes flicked up, slower, colder. They skimmed over him once, assessing damage. Obito shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie to stop them from fidgeting. —I’m fine.—
—You’re never fine when you say it like that,— Ivy shot back.
He tried to smile, but it came out wrong. The pressure inside his chest shifted, more prominent. Like something stretching.
“Let me come out. I’ll fix it for you.”
Fuck no.
He focused on the floor tiles.
Counted the lines between them.
Tried to stay here.
Tried to stay present.
Indra’s attention drifted back to Ivy, fingers sliding higher along her thigh in a slow, absent-minded squeeze. —What do you want?— he asked Obito, tone flat, uninterested in preamble. Straight to it, as per usual.
When he arrived at Kaien’s house, Obito told himself he was there to talk, lay everything out, get a second opinion, and hear something that might steady him.
The intention sounded simple in his head. In practice, it felt like peeling skin back to show bone.
Exposing himself, even just verbally, demanded a kind of precision he didn’t possess. Words had never obeyed him; they tangled, stalled, betrayed him at the worst possible moments. Nothing ever came out the way it lived inside. He hadn’t planned for how hard it would be to start, already stuck somewhere between humiliation and fury. —I… need you to see something,— he said finally.
Ivy perked up immediately. —Sounds illegal.—
—It’s not funny,— he snapped, too fast.
Her brows rose. —Okay. Sensitive.—
The pressure inside him stirred again at the edge of that word.
“Sensitive. Weak. Pathetic. You are. Let me handle this.”
He pulled his phone out before he could rethink it, chasing away that sick voice inside his mind. His thumb hovered over the video for a second too long. Once they saw it, there was no going back. Once they confirmed what his brain had been trying to deny for days, he wouldn’t be able to un-hear it.
But maybe they wouldn’t confirm it. Maybe they’d see what he saw the first time. Maybe they’d say it was wrong. That she looked trapped.
That Madara had actually cornered her.
He handed the phone to her, Indra leaning in slightly, chin brushing her shoulder as the video started. Obito didn’t look at the screen, focused on their faces instead, searching for outrage, for disgust. Something he could build on. The sounds filled the pristine room in a way that felt obscene against the marble and glass.
—She doesn’t like… that. She likes it—it soft.— He rushed out, words tripping over each other. —She doesn’t—that’s not like her! Madara… pushes. You—you know how he is. He gets in your head and—and makes everything feel intense and you just—you react!—
Ivy replayed a few seconds without asking. His stomach flipped. —She looks pretty aware to me,— she said carefully.
Aware.
Not forced.
His pulse spiked.
—She could be overwhelmed,— he insisted. —He’s—he’s like that. Way too fucking intense. She doesn’t always push back, she’s sweet, kind, what if—
Indra finally spoke, interrupting his delusion, voice quiet and level. —She’s enjoying it, Obito.—
It felt like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise. Obito’s grip tightened around the back of the couch until his knuckles whitened. —That doesn’t mean she wants it.—
Ivy tilted her head, smiling. —Then what does it mean? Cause she clearly does. Good for her tho.—
He opened his mouth. Nothing clean came out. Inside his head, something colder shifted closer to the surface, an urge with teeth.
“It means he took what was yours.
It means you let him.
It means you could break his jaw and drag her out and she’d remember who she belongs to.”
His breathing changed, fighting to keep the voice out.
—Look at me, and answer, then.— His cousin stood up slowly, guiding Ivy with him without breaking eye contact with Obito, putting himself slightly between them. He hated that. Hated the implication. —Are you asking us if she was forced, or are you asking us to tell you she didn’t choose him?—
He paced around the room, hands in his hair and his eyes tightly shut.—I just— His voice cracked, humiliatingly. —She wouldn’t do that. Not like that, not to me. Not without— He cut himself off.
“Not without what? Sad little idiot, you gave her freedom, and she snapped the leash. You deserve the pain.”
Not without telling him? Not without asking permission? The pressure inside him swelled, hot and blinding. For a split second, his thoughts tilted sideways into something violent and clean.
Madara bleeding on that marble floor.
Her wrists in his hands.
A locked door.
No more choices for (Y/n).
His fingers twitched.
Ivy saw it. —Hey,— she said, softer now. —Where did you just go?—
—Didn’t go anywhere.
—(Y/N) doesn’t look scared,— Indra said evenly, getting the conversation back on track. —But that’s what you don’t want to hear.—
Something snapped tight inside Obito’s chest. —So you’re just fine with it?! With Madara doing this to me?!— he demanded. —You’re just going to say she wanted him and that's it?—
—I’m saying,— Indra replied, still maddeningly calm, —that rewriting it won’t help you. She made her choice. You can do nothing about it.—
—Wait a fucking second tho.— Ivy stepped around Indra, stubborn, refusing to be shielded. —Why does it matter more that she enjoyed it than that he filmed it?— she pressed. —You’re more upset about her reaction than the invasion; your anger should be directed at her privacy being violated, not at her choices!—
“Because the invasion makes sense.
Because Madara is a bastard who would force her.
Because if he forced her, I can fix it.
I can take her back and make things right.
She won’t suffer if she has no choice to begin with.”
But if (Y/N) actually chose Madara—
The thought detonated his head, that sinister voice gaining even more power; Obito’s vision blurred at the edges, and heat rushed up his spine, violent and electric. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. —She didn’t choose him. He pushed her.— It sounded less like a statement and more like a threat.
Ivy’s eyes flashed, female indignation all over. —You don’t get to decide that for her. She’s free to choose whoever the fuck she wants.—
Boom. That did it.
The pressure surged forward, intense and eager. For a terrifying half-second, Obito wanted to grab Ivy’s shoulders and beat the shit out of her until she took it back. Until someone took it back. The image of Madara laughing flickered in his mind, and the urge shifted: teeth bared, blood in his mouth, hands around a throat.
Indra moved before he consciously processed it. One step forward. Solid. Unyielding. —Snap out of it, now.— A demand, absolute. The heat in Obito’s chest slammed into something colder and steadier. His cousin’s gaze didn’t hold fear but calculation, assessment, recognition of something wrong that he didn’t fully understand but refused to let escalate. —Take a breath,— he added.
Obito realized he, in fact, wasn’t breathing at all. He forced air into his lungs. It burned. Ivy’s expression had shifted from confrontational to concerned. —You’re doing that more and more,— she said, gesturing vaguely at him. —You disappear for a second and get all violent. It’s creepy.—
—I’m fine,— he muttered again, weaker this time.
—You’re not,— Indra said.
Silence settled, heavy and charged. Obito ran a hand through his hair, pacing once across the polished floor and back. He felt too big for his own skin, like if he didn’t keep moving, something inside him would claw its way out. —I just need to know,— he was quieter now, almost pleading despite himself. —If she’s being manipulated. If he’s pushing her into something she doesn’t actually want.—
Ivy studied him for a long moment, Indra voicing out her thoughts. —You want us to say she’s a victim. Even if it's a lie. But if she chose him, Obito— he added, —that doesn’t make you worthless. It just means she picked differently than what you expected. Move on.—
—That’s worse.— Obito laughed under his breath, hollow. He looked down at his hands, still trembling. He imagined seeing her tonight. Imagined Madara’s hand at her waist. Imagined her leaning in instead of pulling away. The pressure inside him didn’t feel confused in those fantasies. It felt decisive.
“Remove Madara.
Remove the problem.
Take her somewhere quiet.
Don’t give her the option again.
Don’t let her get away.”
The thought frightened him, not because it was violent, but because it felt reasonable. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, fighting to stay in his skin. He didn’t want to be that version of himself. Didn’t want to become someone who solved humiliation with blood.
Indra watched him carefully. —If you go tonight looking for a fight, you’ll lose. And you know it.—
—Why?
—Because he wants you angry. And because,— Indra added, voice still cold but not unkind, —if she steps toward him again, you won’t be able to pretend anymore. You’ll explode.—
That was the real terror. Not Madara, or the video, but the possibility that she would choose his cousin twice. Ivy moved closer again, cautiously this time. —You need to decide,— she said, —whether you’re trying to protect her… or control her.—
The pressure inside him recoiled at that word.
“Control.
We have to control.
She won’t stay with us if we don’t control her.”
He picked up his phone from where it rested on the table, screen dark now. His reflection stared back at him, eyes too bright, jaw too tight. —I’m not losing her,— he said quietly.
Indra didn’t argue, just looked at him in that steady, unnerving way, as if watching something fracture in slow motion.
Obito turned toward the door before either of them could say anything else. The house felt suffocating now, too clean, too controlled. Tonight, he told himself, he would stay calm. He would stay himself. But somewhere deep under the panic and the jealousy, something else was stretching its limbs, patient and cold, already imagining what it would feel like to finally stop asking for reassurance, and start taking what it wanted.
//
After the video, Madara didn’t change. That was the most unsettling, telling part of the whole situation. He acted like that situation was necessary, bound to happen, no sudden tenderness or cruelty; everything was intentional and nothing required explanation. If anything, he seemed calmer. More certain. (Y/n) kept foolishly waiting for him to say something that clarified it, apologize, offer some sort of explanation as to why he would do something so fucked up.
To admit that it had been about Obito.
Or about her.
Or about superiority, winning, perhaps.
Of course never did.
Madara didn’t talk about feelings, didn’t even talk about them indirectly. There was no open “want”, not a hint of what could be going through his head hidden in his speech. He didn’t say she was his.
He just touched her like she was.
At school, his hand would settle at the back of her neck when he passed her in the hall, fingers sliding briefly into her hair before letting go. At parties, he’d pull her into his space without asking, palm firm at her waist, guiding her through bodies and noise like she was something valuable he refused to misplace. When she stood too far away during conversations, he would reach back and hook two fingers into her belt loop, tugging her closer without looking.
He never asked if she was okay with it, only assumed she was. And she kept proving him fucking right.
Izuna and Shisui noticed, and things changed with the cousins; she used to be Obito’s girl, always seeing them from afar. Now, they were suddenly close, very much so. At first, they treated her like an accessory that had shown up with Madara and might disappear just as quickly. Izuna would toss comments at her like she was part of the entertainment. —Don’t touch his shit,— he’d grin once when she reached for Madara’s drink. —Our boy kills for less. Wanna keep breathing? Stay away.—
Shisui was lighter about it, but the tone was the same. Amused. Detached. Curious about how long she’d last. They didn’t ignore her, but also didn’t take her seriously. (Y/n) felt it in every interaction. The way conversations curved around her, how they’d look at Madara when she spoke, as if waiting for him to confirm whether she mattered.
And she hated how much she wanted that confirmation. She understood she needed to belong next to him, sick or not. The first time Madara pulled her down into his lap in front of them after everything had blown up, Izuna let out a low whistle. –Got it,— he said, leaning back on the couch. —Gotta shut my mouth then.— Madara didn’t respond, but his hand slid up her thigh slowly, deliberate, fingers spreading as if to make a point.
Not to her.
To them.
She felt heat rush to her face and something else to her belly, her stomach flipping and her spine straighten at the same time.
Displayed. Chosen. Claimed. Barbaric, if you will. An action Obito would avoid for her sake. It should have made her feel small. Instead, it made her feel important.
Madara didn’t kiss her sweetly. He didn’t brush soft pecks against her cheek. When he kissed her, it was firm, hand holding her in place, like he was reminding her who initiated it. Sometimes it happened mid-conversation, when someone else was talking.
A quiet interruption. A power move. She never knew if it was about her, or about the audience. That uncertainty should have unsettled her more than it did.
Truth was, where Obito made her feel safe, steady, cradled, and quietly content, Madara could drag her beneath a perilous kind of brilliance, a spotlight she never sought yet couldn’t quite resist.
With Obito, warmth settled; with Madara, it burned.
Whenever the urge to text Obito surfaced, it came after midnight, when the world thinned to silence and Madara’s physical presence no longer crowded her senses. She would unlock her phone and linger there, staring at the empty space where his conversation used to be, as if something might reappear if she waited long enough.
Because, of course, Madara had erased many things from her orbit.
The first time she noticed it, she’d thought she’d imagined it. Contacts rearranged. Photos missing. Entire conversations gone. She’d asked him about it at school, holding up her phone between them. —You… went through it?—
He glanced at the screen once. —Why wouldn’t I?—
(Y/n) should have walked away right then and never glanced back, find the boy whose heart she shattered and asked for forgiveness, instead of lingering in the poisonous, undefined thing unraveling between her and Madara. —You can’t just—!
He shrugged slightly. —You were thinking about texting him.—
—What do you even know?
He stepped closer then, aggressive, closing the space because he could. His fingers slid under the edge of her jacket, settling at her waist like they always did. —You’re predictable, (y/n). And he’s not okay right now.—
She frowned, guilt all over her face. —Well, what we did was fucked up and mean and—
—It was, but it’s not the cause of what’s happening inside his mind.— The way he said it made her hesitate. —He was already off,— Madara continued, gaze steady on hers. —Before we did anything.—
“Did anything.”
Like the video had been a calculated move in a game she hadn’t realized she was playing. —I need to talk to him… apologize,— she said, but it came out weaker than she intended.
Madara tilted his head slightly, studying her reaction. —No. I’ll take care of it from now on,— he replied. —Find a different way of making peace with it.—
A quiet implication that he handled things. That she didn’t need to. He didn’t say he cared about her safety, only implied Obito was unstable. He didn’t say he wanted her away from him, but deleted him from everywhere.
And the terrifying part was that she let him, because every time doubt started to rise, every time she thought “this is too much, this isn’t normal”, Madara would do something that made the ground feel steady again.
At another party, someone she barely knew grabbed her wrist too tightly while laughing about something. Before she could even process it, Madara’s hand was there, peeling the guy’s fingers off without raising his voice. —Stay the fuck away,— he said calmly. certain. The guy backed off immediately and Madara didn’t ask if she was okay, just pulled her back into his chest and continued the conversation like nothing had happened.
Her pulse didn’t slow for a long time after.
After some days, it was Izuna who noticed the shift first. The teasing stopped, gradually. Instead of commenting on her like she was a temporary toy, he started handing her drinks without a joke attached. Started asking her opinion on music, on plans, on stupid arguments about nothing. Then, Shisui followed suit. One night, when Madara stepped outside to take a call, he stayed next to her instead of drifting off. —Don’t wander,— he told her lightly when someone tried to pull her toward the kitchen. —He’ll kill us.—
It was half a joke. Half not. But there was something else in it too. Protection. Not because she was fragile, but because (y/n) was theirs; Madara’s call.
That was when it clicked, not in some romantic, soft way. She simply understood the atmosphere around her changed. It wasn’t about being tolerated anymore: it was about being included.
And that meant Madara had said something. Madara, who didn’t speak about feelings. Madara, who never clarified whether this was about her or about humiliating Obito.
If it had just been about Obito, he would have gotten bored by now.
Right?
The thought lingered longer than she wanted it to. Sometimes, when she caught him watching her from across a room, his expression gave nothing away. No softness or vulnerability. Always the same unreadable focus.
She couldn’t tell if he liked her. But she could tell he didn’t plan on letting her go. And that, fucked up as it sounds, did something to her. (Y/n) was starting to understand something about herself that she hadn’t had language for before.
It wasn’t that she wanted to be controlled, exactly; she liked not having to fight for space. Liked being pulled where she was meant to stand. Liked being placed on his lap in front of everyone and knowing no one would question it.
When she sat there now, she didn’t hesitate. Her body adjusted automatically, knees angling over his thigh, back settling against his chest. His hand would spread over her stomach or her hip, strong, possessive, absent-minded but firm.
She felt small in a way that didn’t erase her, chosen in a way that felt intoxicating. And the more that feeling grew, the quieter the ache for Obito became.
Not gone. Just dulled.
Whenever it flickered back, (when she thought about his awkward smile, the way he used to look at her like she was something fragile and miraculous) Madara would brush his mouth against her jaw mid-conversation, or pull her into a corner just to press her against the wall for a second, lips at her throat.
Pressure. Skin. Hot, languid kisses as a reminder. Slowly , she stopped opening her phone at night to stare at empty threads. Stopped wondering if she could explain the situation. Stopped telling herself this was temporary.
If Madara was playing with her, he was patient about it. If he was serious, he’d never admit it. Either way, she kept stepping closer. Whatever this was, game or claim or something in between, when his hand settled at her waist and the room adjusted around them, she felt steadier than she had in weeks.
//
Tonight's house was too small for all of them, first thing she noticed once the alcohol settled into everyone’s bloodstream and the music turned from background noise into a living thing. The air was hot, damp with sweat and cheap perfume and whatever someone had spilled near the kitchen.
Madara’s hand settled at the back of her neck automatically, fingers warm and firm, guiding her forward through bodies without needing to look at her. She adjusted to the pressure without thinking; always did now. Her steps matched his, her shoulder brushing his chest when he slowed, her hand finding the fabric of his shirt when someone bumped into her too hard.
Izuna and Shisui fell into place around them like satellites. It wasn’t obvious. That was the point. Izuna moved slightly ahead, carving space with nothing but presence and a lazy smirk. Shisui drifted to her other side, close enough that if someone tried to wedge between them, he’d intercept without making a scene. It had become a rhythm. An echo system, almost. Madara in the center. Her attached to him. The other two orbiting in widening circles.
She didn’t know when it had stopped feeling awkward. Maybe the night Izuna had handed her a joint without a joke attached, or when Shisui had wordlessly stepped between her and a guy who wouldn’t take a hint.
Tonight, she slipped into the role easily.
Madara thrived in these places. He drank, smoked, occupied space like the room adjusted around him automatically. When he sat, people shifted. When he stood, pathways opened. (Y/n) stayed close without being told to, trained to be aware of where he was at all times. When he leaned against the wall near the couch, she drifted into the pocket of space beside him. When he moved toward the kitchen, she followed half a step behind. His hand would find her eventually: at her waist, at the back of her neck, fingers sliding under the hem of her top just enough to remind her he could.
Izuna was loose tonight, already flushed, eyes bright and unfocused in that way that meant he’d had too much too fast. He laughed loudly, arm slung around whoever happened to be closest, but he never strayed too far. Even drunk, he glanced back at her every few minutes like he was checking inventory.
Shisui was tense. Quieter. Leaning against doorframes, watching entrances and exits with an expression that didn’t match his chilling posture; when Ivy walked in, however, his demeanor started to make sense. The girl didn’t just enter rooms; she detonated them. Glitter catching the strobe lights, hair loose, skirt riding high on her thighs like she dared anyone to comment. Indra followed with his usual controlled indifference, hand planted possessively at her waist the second someone’s gaze lingered too long.
And the shift was immediate. Shisui saw her and everything else blurred. It was almost embarrassing, how visible it was; the way his spine straightened, the way his jaw set like he was preparing for impact.
Ivy grinned when she spotted him, slow and deliberate, like she enjoyed lighting matches near gasoline.
Indra noticed that too. The air thickened. She felt Madara’s fingers tighten slightly at her hip, recalculating. —Don’t move,— he murmured, voice low enough that only she heard.
(Y/n) nodded.
Izuna followed Shisui’s line of sight and groaned. —Shit, again?— But the other was already crossing the room.
It started small. A comment. A smirk. Ivy laughing at the wrong thing. Indra’s hand tightening at her waist like he was reminding everyone where she stood. Then Shisui said something sharper. Indra replied colder. Ivy pushed back because she always did.
And suddenly it wasn’t playful. Not cousin rivalry, but way tooloud.
—Don’t fucking touch her like that,— Shisui snapped, stepping too close.
Indra’s expression went flat. —She’s my girlfriend, mind your business.—
—Girlfriend, or a pretty toy? That how you let him treat you Ivy?
The music didn’t stop, but conversations around them did. Heads turned. A circle began to form without anyone acknowledging it was happening.
Madara didn’t step in immediately, measuring his cousins.
Izuna tried to diffuse it at first, laughing too loudly, throwing an arm between them, but Indra shoved it off and Shisui didn’t back down. Someone knocked over a cup. Something shattered near the kitchen. And for the first time since (Y:n) walked in, the orbit fractured.
Shisui wasn’t watching her.
Izuna got pulled sideways when the glittery girl grabbed his face and dragged him into a kiss that made him forget everything else.
Madara shifted his weight, eyes still on the escalating argument.
Then someone bumped into her hard from behind. She stumbled forward instinctively. Madara caught her wrist automatically, but someone else collided with him at the same time, a spill of beer, a curse, bodies shifting in chaos.
The circle tightened around Shisui and Indra.
Voices rose.
Ivy was yelling now too.
For half a second—just half—she felt lost. She turned toward the fight, and that was her mistake: one second she was watching Shisui shove Indra back, hearing Ivy shout something sharp and cutting.
The next, her back hit the wall. Hard. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. A hand slammed beside her head, palm flat against the wall. Another gripped her upper arm, fingers digging enough to immobilize and hurt .
Obito. He looked wrong up close. Not drunk. Not wild in an obvious way. Contained. Too contained. His chest rose and fell too fast, like he’d been running. His eyes locked onto hers and for a split second she didn’t recognize the expression there.
It wasn’t hurt or regular anger, but… a split. Something behind the surface, pressing forward, trying to decide which version of him was going to speak.
His grip tightened unconsciously.
—Obito…?— Her voice barely came out. He leaned closer, not touching her with anything but the hand on her arm and the one braced against the wall, but the proximity was suffocating. The noise of the party dulled around them, like they’d stepped into a pocket of silence inside the chaos.
Inside his eyes, something flickered violently. Pleading. Rage. Possession. She saw his throat work like he was swallowing words that didn’t want to be swallowed. For a heartbeat, she thought he was going to beg. The next, she thought he was going to drag her out the front door. His jaw clenched tight, breathing stuttered like he was physically fighting himself.
She’d never seen him look at her like that. Hungry, in a very wrong way. Different than ever, unstable. His forehead nearly touched hers, but he stopped himself at the last second, like crossing that final inch would mean losing something.
Around them, Shisui and Indra crashed into a table. Glass shattered. Someone shouted. But Obito didn’t look away. And in his eyes, she saw it clearly for the first time: he wasn’t just heartbroken, but deciding something too. And whatever part of him was doing that, didn’t look like it cared about consequences
AO3
When the hired Santa cancels hours before the celebration, Ivy turns to the last person she ever expected to ask, and the only one desperate enough to do anything for her approval. Indra hasn’t been part of Raizen’s life for years, but with Christmas on the line and Ivy watching him like a judge, he steps into the red suit ready to humiliate himself if it means earning an inch of her trust back. What begins as a frantic attempt to save his son’s first real holiday becomes a quiet, unsettling test of devotion, and the moment Ivy discovers just how far he’s willing to go for her.
Another amaziiiiiing commission for @urheartbeatbreaker, the person who CAME TO ME WITH A DAMN FEVER DREAM AND SAID: MAKE IT HAPPEN!!!! Drunk uncle Izuna, dysfunctional father Indra, two aunts trying to keep the magic of Christmas alive for a little boy who isn't to blame for being born into such a damaged family... yes, this is one of the most fun pieces I've done so far. All my kudos to you, urheartbeatbreaker, A FUCKING GENIUS YOU ARE!
(There's an NSFW bonus scene between Indra and Ivy, but only posted on my Patreon jijijiji)
Remember that if you’d like to commission me, you can do it through Ko-Fi, my Patreon tier (specifically for monthly commissions!), by sending me a private message here on Tumblr, or by emailing me at [email protected]. Your support means the world to me. Thank you for helping me monetize my art!!!
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Christmas settled over the Uchiha lounge like a weather anomaly: warm lights, clashing personalities, something sweet burning in the background, and tension humming under every surface. It looked domestic from a distance, but the air felt charged, as if someone had wired the whole place to explode if spoken to too loudly.
In the kitchen, Ivy moved with practiced control, sleeves pushed up, hair tied loosely, Raizen pressed to her side in a way that made her adjust her stance with every step.
Not clingy… just uneasy.
The boy wasn’t used to many people in one room. Usually, it was just him, Ivy, maybe Madara, or Shisui drifting in to steal food. Never a full gathering. Never chairs scraping, bottles clinking, laughter coming from three different places at once. His small hands kept fisting the hem of Ivy’s sweater each time someone in the living room spoke too loudly.
Madara helped her with the dinner, and it was, against all logic, going surprisingly well. He took to cooking like a man who’d never been allowed hobbies and was now making up for it with military precision.
-You seasoned this too early,- he examined her bowl of herbs as if they were classified documents.
-It’s fine.
-It’ll dry the skin.
-I went to school for these things, Madara.
Raizen watched their quiet bickering with wide, overwhelmed eyes. When a laugh erupted from the dining table, Shisui’s sharp and bright, he flinched hard and buried his face in Ivy’s neck again.
She smoothed his hair. -It’s just people talking, sweetheart.-
-Mommy, they’re loud…
-Yeah,- she admitted, -they are.-
Her tone made it clear he wasn’t wrong.
It almost felt peaceful, if you ignored the rest.
By the fireplace, the opposite of peace had taken shape: Izuna had already declared war on Christmas. He sat on the rug, legs stretched out, posture loose, a nearly-empty bottle of whisky hanging from two fingers. He wasn’t drunk enough to slur, but drunk enough to have no filter, though honestly, that wasn’t a dramatic shift from his sober version. His scowl cast shadows, and his eyes were glossy, honed, ready for insults or confessions; whichever arrived first.
Indra sat beside him on the couch, or rather loomed, which, for Izuna, was basically emotional violence. Coat still on, posture straight as a spear. Silent, watching Ivy from across the room with the intensity of a forgotten god trying to relearn prayer. Indra didn’t blink enough. He didn’t move enough. Didn’t breathe enough.
Izuna kept making little noises of disgust next to him, muttering, -Can’t believe I’m spending Christmas next to the family serial killer,- and his cousin gave no reaction.
There was a faint tremor in one of his hands, though.
Only Ivy could’ve recognized it.
The man radiated pressure like something seismic.
-Who the hell decided holidays required other people,- Izuna kept going, talking to no one. -I could’ve spent the whole day in bed. Peacefully. Alone. Watching trash….- he waved a lazy hand in front of Indra’s face when disturbed by his cousin’s attitude. -Can you not stare like that? Just for, like, five minutes. You look like you’re trying to summon her soul out of her body.-
Indra didn’t react. His gaze never faltered.
-Bro. BRO. At least pretend you’re a person?
Silence.
-Oh my fucking god.- He took another heavy drink and muttered, -Fuckin’ hate holidays so much.- He had no idea a Santa suit would be involved later. If he did, he would’ve taken the bottle and left belit0’s mind.
At the table, Bee sat close to Uri, comfortably close, legs angled toward her, voice lowered in the intimate way she only used with people she trusted. Uri, soft-spoken and precise even in chaos, listened with her chin resting on her hand, eyes occasionally drifting toward Madara in the kitchen with a softness she tried to hide.
Shisui sat opposite them, his chair tipped back dangerously, arms behind his head. He was watching everyone with the predatory amusement of someone waiting for an excuse to misbehave. Kept trying to catch Raizen’s attention whenever the kid peeked out of the kitchen, but the boy immediately ducked back behind Ivy’s thigh.
Shisui smirked. -My boy’s shy.- He said it loud enough for Indra to hear, but there was no reaction from him.
Bee nudged Uri. -He’s overwhelmed. Look how tiny he is. If I were him, I’d be terrified, too.-
Uri nodded, eyes following Raizen carefully. -He’s not used to groups. His breathing changes every time someone stands up.-
It would be a long night.
Then…
A glitch in the hallway.
Even chaos paused at that, just a second.
Obito’s voice, faint, echoing like someone caught in bad reception: -belit0 wait—this isn’t FAIR—let me—
Then the rip closed, shutting him out of the scene. Completely removed.
For Bee’s safety.
For Izuna’s temper.
For the structural integrity of the house.
Uri smiled, pleased.
Bee’s jaw tightened once, then she let it go.
Izuna chugged more whisk., -Best Christmas gift she’s ever given us.-
Raizen peeked out one last time, trembling fingers in Ivy’s sweater, eyes darting from the table to the fireplace to the ceiling as if expecting more people to materialize. He whispered, -Mommy… why is everyone here?-
Ivy knelt to meet his eyes. -For Christmas dinner. For gifts. For you.-
-I don’t know if I like it.
-I know, baby. You don’t have to talk to anyone until you’re ready.
Madara, of all people, softened minutely as he stirred the sauce. -You’ll adjust, Raizen. You’re clever, just observe and decide.-
-You sound like my son is about to sign a bank loan.
-My nephew understands my tone. Don’t you, boy?- The Uchiha gave him a serious look, full of indecipherable things, getting Raizen to nod with confusion and reach out his arms to Ivy again, asking to be lifted. His fingers twisted tightly in her sweater, his small face pressed into her shoulder as she shifted him higher on her hip.
Ivy shot him a look. -He’s three, Madara. Not a senator.-
-Same skill set. He needs to be prepared for the hostile world we live—
Fortunately, the man's ominous words were silenced by a sudden sound.
BZZ.
BZZ.
BZZ.
Ivy’s phone buzzed somewhere in the kitchen’s chaos, and Raizen flinched hard enough that Ivy nearly dropped a bowl of frosting.
-I got it,- Madara said, wiping his hands on a towel as he moved toward the counter. She tried to stop him, but was too slow.
The Uchiha patriarch of Overcomplication was already answering.
-Hello,- he said, crisp and bored.
Ivy’s stomach dropped.
Bee sat up straighter.
Uri glanced at the ceiling like she was preparing for divine intervention.
Shisui’s eyes slid toward Indra, reading the vibration in his posture like a wolf tracking a heartbeat.
-God, let it be bad news.- Izuna took another drink.
Madara listened.
And listened.
And listened.
His expression didn't move, but somehow the atmosphere tilted.
-I see,- he said lightly. -Mm. That is inconvenient. Understood.-
He hung up and turned with the solemnity of someone announcing a death sentence.
Ivy’s voice tightened. -Who was it?-
-Santa isn’t coming.
Raizen stiffened.
Shisui broke first. -What? Why?-
-He claims he’s sick. Sounds like a man lying on a dirty couch eating cereal.
-Mommy... Santa is sick?- The boy asked with tears in his eyes, knowing that without Santa there would be no presents, and without presents there would be no Christmas.
Or, at least, that's what his uncle Tobi had explained.
Izuna cackled. -Sick? Nah, more like he passed in a ditch. Yeah. Santa’s dead, kid.-
Raizen’s face collapsed. -Santa—Santa died?-
Ivy’s eyes shot knives. -Izuna, shut. Up.-
-Why? He should learn now. Death is everywhere during the holidays.
-Jesus Christ, Izuna.- Bee smacked the table, unable to cope with her boyfriend's insensitivity, still holding on to that stupid fight neither of them fully understood.
Shisui tore his gaze from Indra long enough to stare at Raizen, voice warm and steady. -Hey, no one died, little man. Santa’s alive. Just… unreliable. Like some adults we know.- His eyes flicked toward Indra for only a heartbeat, enough to slice.
Indra’s hands were fisted on his knees, nails pressing crescents into his skin. The silent fury and longing beneath the surface of him made the air heavy, a storm waiting for permission.
Uri tried to lighten it with a strained smile, knowing that this inconvenience was like blood in shark water. -I'm sure Mrs. Claus will give Santa something to help him get better, right, Ivy? Everything’s going to be just fine.- Amidst the tensions of those present, shit could explode at any moment, and the night didn’t need more issues.
Izuna scoffed into his bottle. -Sure. If you want discount Santa. Walmart Santa. Santa with back problems.-
Raizen whimpered, burying his face deeper against Ivy.
Ivy kissed his hair, stepping away from the kitchen, getting privacy with her boy. -Baby, it’s okay. Santa is fine. He’ll come tonight. Do you remember what Mom said? About how a little elf told me you were the best kid on his whole list? Number one? Do you really think he's going to leave you without presents? No way!-
-Bu-ut… he’s o-old… old people get sick… yo-ou said so too…- the child whispered.
-It’s different, sweetheart—
-Kid’s right, Ivy. Man probably has four diseases anyway. Should get tested for STDs before stepping into a house with children. Nobody knows what that bastard does when he’s not chained to Mrs. Claus.- Izuna said.
-Izuna…- Ivy hissed, murderous eyes on him.
He held up both hands. -I’m drunk, Ivy, but not drunk enough to lie to a child.-
-You are absolutely drunk enough.- Bee muttered.
-Have somethin’ to say, Belisse? Cause I’m right here, baby. Come to daddy and let’s fucking talk.
Shisui pointed at Izuna with cold precision. -I swear to God, if you fuck Raizen’s first Christmas because of your own unresolved childhood trauma—
-It’s Christmas, cousin!- Izuna barked. -Trauma is seasonal.-
Madara sighed, sliding a tray into the oven like this family wasn’t imploding thirty feet behind him. -Everyone, shut up. Santa will come.-
Ivy, bouncing the child lightly to keep the illusion alive, fired questions like arrows: -Yeah? You should call him again, check on him! I’m sure he’s fine by now. Ask him how he’s doing. If he feels better enough to come, hm? -
Madara, ever the pragmatist and absolutely hopeless at anything involving imagination, just stared at her as though she’d finally lost her mind. -What are you talking about, woman, the actor said—
Shisui perked up, eyes flicking to Indra again, not maliciously, but with a wicked little understanding of inevitability, using the opportunity to shut Madara up and save Raizen’s childhood. -You know… we do have one adult here who is silent, disciplined, and already looks like he breaks into houses. He could call Santa for us.-
Ivy sighed and opted for sweeping Raizen out of the kitchen and away from the conversation, sparing the child from hearing the absolutely pathetic logistics of a family that had never, clearly never, managed a proper Christmas dinner in their lives
Bee choked on a laugh.
Uri snorted.
Izuna pointed his bottle at Indra. -Absolutely not. You put this man in a Santa suit, and we are summoning something demonic. He will look like Krampus on vacation.-
But they were all staring at him now. Indra, who hadn’t moved at all. Indra, who held the world’s worst stillness, readiness twisted into obedience.
Indra, who couldn’t speak but was prepared to do anything Ivy needed, even if it meant putting on a red suit for a son who didn’t remember his voice.
Shisui leaned back, leveling another quiet, surgical blade of a comment across the room. -Who knows? This may be an opportunity for some people to make up for old absences.- The venom in his words dissolved only partially in the drink he nursed, hatred and resentment seeping into the room like a slow-creeping fog.
Izuna snorted. -Jesus, Shisui, subtlety died in you years ago.-
The room vibrated with that uncanny, feverish holiday tension, like the walls were holding in too much history, anger, longing.
Madara wiped his hands again. -Santa will come.-
Everyone looked at Indra.
Indra looked only at Ivy, who was coming back to the kitchen.
Ivy exhaled slowly, steadily, resigned. Madara barely had time to object before Ivy was easing Raizen into his arms. The boy latched onto his uncle like a terrified koala, burying his face in the stiff fabric of his shirt. The Uchiha adjusted him with the same ease he handled hot pans, competent, mildly annoyed, but ultimately resigned. -You’re safe,- he told Raizen, tone clipped but gentle enough to carry weight. -No one here will harm you. Even the idiots.-
Bee saluted with her fork.
Izuna flipped her off.
Ivy brushed Raizen’s hair once, then looked at Indra, really looked, with the calm, cutting decision-making she’d perfected since the day her life split in two.
-Husband.
His body reacted before his mind did: shoulders snapping straight, breath hitching, muscles nearly giving under the shock of being chosen, addressed, allowed. Izuna muttered something derisive by the fire, but even he knew better than to really poke the beast when Ivy’s voice was the leash.
She didn’t speak again; she only tilted her head toward the hallway.
He rose immediately, a dog hearing the opening of a door.
Indra followed her through the dim corridor, every step silent, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the movement of her hair, her hands, her breath, anything that might tell him how to be worthy. The noise of the living room dulled behind them, replaced by the soft, eerie quiet of the house’s interior.
Ivy slipped into the small guest room beside the stairs. A lamp glowed weakly on the dresser. She crossed her arms and leaned back against the edge of the bed, watching him with that unreadable expression that always made him feel both chosen and doomed.
Indra stopped just inside the door. Didn’t dare step closer. He waited, perfectly still, perfectly obedient, a towering shape wound so tight he seemed on the verge of shaking. Kept his hands at his sides like a student prepared for punishment. His eyes tracked nothing but her: the way she shifted her weight, the twitch in her jaw, the faint scent of sugar still clinging to her shirt.
-I need your help.
His chest lifted, too sharply, visibly, like she’d cracked open a locked chamber inside him. His gaze locked onto her face, bright and wounded and too alert, as if bracing for an order that might break him.
-A favor,- she clarified. -A real one.-
He swallowed, throat working once.
A man with no voice but a thousand screams held behind his teeth.
Ivy kept her tone level, unflinching. -The Santa actor canceled. Raizen’s scared. He doesn’t understand any of this. And I won’t let him have a ruined holiday.- Indra stood straighter. -For him,- her eyes stayed locked on his, making it impossible for him to miss the deeper truth: you owe him. You owe me.
He nodded. Then nodded again, faster, sharper, frantic agreement from a man who would’ve carved out his lungs if she asked for a noise.
She reached into the small closet, pulling out a sealed plastic garment bag, bright red fabric visible through the folds. -I bought a backup costume. Just in case something like this were to happen.
She held it up. A strange, soft gravity settled between them.
Indra only moved when she extended it toward him, slow, respectful, unwilling to enter her personal space until she allowed it. His fingers brushed the edge of the bag, barely grazing hers. He inhaled sharply, like the smallest touch was a blow to the ribs.
-You’ll wear this. You’ll be gentle. You’ll give him his gifts. You don’t get to scare him. I’ll do the talking. Teamwork.
He nodded immediately.
Teamwork.
A vow.
-And you don’t get close to me in front of him. You keep your distance.
Pain sliced across his expression in a brief, raw flicker, but he nodded again, obedient even when it tore something out of him. It was what he had earned, and he would serve his sentence until he was deemed worthy of them again.
Ivy stepped past him to the door. -Ten minutes before twelve, you get dressed, and we give our son good memories.-
Our son.
Good memories.
Raizen was still clinging to Madara’s neck when Ivy walked back into the kitchen; calm-faced, unbothered, as if she hadn’t just left Indra waiting in a dim room with a Santa suit balled in his hands.
Madara exhaled like a man finally being released from hostage duty. -Take him,- he murmured, shifting Raizen toward her. The boy clamped tighter around his uncle’s collar.
-Uchiha Raizen,- Ivy warned, the strict tone of a firm mother consuming the room. -Let the man go. You can’t live in his arms.-
Madara smirked. Her ability to sound terrifying while wearing a ridiculous Christmas sweater was just impressive. Reluctantly, the kid let go of him and melted back into her hold, burying his face under her jaw as she steadied him on her hip.
But behind them, the living room had escalated into something feral when Izuna sat down at the dinner table, looking for trouble. His voice cut through the air like a rusted blade, no context whatsoever. —and of COURSE he’s defending her. You always defend her, cousin. Always. Don’t think I don’t see you.-
Shisui leaned back in his chair, arms loose behind his head, that clean, pretty smile of his cutting warmer than it should. -I’m defending Bee because you’re being an asshole,- he said, unbothered. -Not because she’s trying to get in my bed.-
-Oh, fuck off. That’s exactly what you want. I see you. You’ve been eyeing her like you’re starving since day fucking one.
Bee froze mid-sip. -Izuna—
His palm hit the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. -No. Don’t. I’m not stupid, Bee. I know what’s going on. You’re probably already fucking him.-
Shisui’s smile vanished, the air tightening around him. -Careful.-
-What? Hit a nerve?- Izuna leaned in, grin sharp and mean, eyes bright in a way that had nothing to do with humor. -Or maybe it’s not just him. Maybe my brother’s gettin’ his turn too. Are you collecting us, Bee?-
Madara’s spoon hit the pot with a dull clack. -…What was that?-
Izuna jabbed a finger in his direction, delighted with himself. -Bet she doesn’t even pay rent for all the space she takes up in your head, huh? With that beautiful ass, who the fuck would blame you.-
Madara finally turned. Slow. Dead calm. Eyes like granite. -Stop talking, Izuna.-
The other lurched up from his chair, swaying, mean from the inside out. -Oh, look at that. Now he’s defending her too. Perfect. Real perfect.- His hand carved a sloppy arc through the air. -What is it? Both of you taking turns with her behind my back? Same night? Same bed? Why the hell not— she’s already fucked one cousin before me, what’s a couple more?-
Bee’s breath hitched, fist tightening around the glass. -Izuna, what the hell—
Uri’s hand slid to her arm, tugging her back a step. -Leave him. He’s gone.-
-I’m gone because you—and Obito— Izuna jabbed his finger at no one and everyone, furious at the room itself, —you all—!
Shisui pushed up so fast his chair shot backwards and hit the wall. -Finish that, cousin, and we’ll need a second Christmas tree for what’s left of you.-
Madara moved between them with the tired patience of a man who’s been here too many times. -I’m not in the mood for this shit. You’re acting like children.-
-Oh shut the fuck up,- Izuna snapped, stumbling forward. -You’re all the same. Acting like I’m insane while she— he wheeled toward Bee with a wild, cracked laugh, -She’s probably fucked half this family already.-
-I haven’t done anything— Bee’s voice thinned.
-Yeah?- Izuna barked back. -That’s what girls always say right before they climb into someone else’s lap. Which one of these motherfuckers you gonna choose next, huh?!-
The room spiraled, voices clashing, chairs scraping, Shisui leaning in like a bomb preparing to arm itself, Bee shaking with fury, Uri trying to keep the table from flipping, Madara grappling with Izuna’s shoulder—
And, away from the chaos, Ivy: unamused, unfazed, frosting a cake with one hand while holding Raizen with the other. Alone and in charge of the whole Christmas food now.
Indra saw it first.
Because he always saw her.
She shifted Raizen on her hip, frosting sliding off the spatula with slow determination. The kitchen was overheating, the oven humming, sugar dust on her sleeves; a storm of domesticity that would have exhausted anyone who hadn’t rebuilt their life from the ashes of a broken marriage.
She didn’t ask for help, never did, but the second Indra stepped closer, careful, slow, broadcasting his presence so he wouldn’t startle her, she lifted her free arm and held their son out to him without even sparing him a glance.
-Hold him.
He froze, a fear so sharp it almost buckled his legs.
Raizen reached out timidly toward him, confusion etched across his tiny face.
Indra’s mind spiraled.
He’ll reject me. He’ll cry the second I touch him. He’ll know something is wrong. He’ll run back to her. He’ll look at me the way she did the night everything ended.
But he took the boy, carefully, as if holding a living relic. His son settled into the crook of his arm… and didn’t cry. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t stiffen. The boy simply sighed, a soft, tired sound, and tucked himself against Indra’s chest, face pressed into the hollow of his neck.
Indra’s inhale shuddered, so subtle it could’ve been mistaken for a tremor.
Raizen’s tiny hand curled into his shirt.
Something inside him caved, violently, quietly, the way cliffs collapse into the sea.
Behind him, Izuna was still screaming, Madara was still intervening, Shisui was still verbally sharpening knives, Bee was still fighting back tears, Uri was still restraining her… but none of it touched Indra in that moment.
He was holding his son.
His.
Son.
A child who didn’t remember him. A child who didn’t fear him. A child who found comfort in the arms of a man who had failed him. Indra swallowed once, hard, eyes burning so silver they reflected the kitchen light.
Ivy never looked his way. She kept frosting her cake, professional, focused, radiant in that terrifyingly capable way she had always been, but she spoke softly, in an ordinary tone. Commanding.
-You’re doing great. He likes you.
Raizen’s small fingers found the curve of Indra’s earlobe, warm and tentative, the tiny touch sending a shock down his spine. Nothing dramatic on the outside, just a flicker in his breath, a microscopically stilled blink. Ivy didn’t notice; her attention was everywhere now, to everything the others were too drunk, too volatile, or too self-absorbed to help with.
She moved like a woman who’d carried real emergencies in her arms: efficient, detached, steady, deeming Indra decent enough to be her soldier. -Put that on the table,- the order rang.
With no hesitation, he moved, balancing Raizen with his left arm and taking the tray his wife pointed to with his right, stepping into the warzone of cousins and lovers colliding.
Izuna was yelling big, poisonous roars, just to aim the blade at Bee, but Indra didn’t process the words. He crossed the room like a shadow with a purpose, set the tray on the table, and turned to receive the next silent instruction.
Ivy passed him glasses.
More water.
Wine.
A bowl of sauce.
Roasted vegetables.
And he took each one, carried them as if serving a queen. Raizen nuzzled closer, thumb brushing Indra’s earlobe still, gentle, trusting; a child’s instinct carved from something deeper than memory. He nearly sagged at the weight of it.
Then Bee’s fury was snapping the air, anger flushing up her throat. -You’re fucking unbelievable—
Shisui cut in with a sharp, protective edge. -Cut the bullshit, Izuna. Be smart and shut the fuck up for once.-
Bee rounded on him instantly. -And you—Shisui—stop—! I don’t need you stepping in every five seconds—
-You do when he’s like this,- he shot back, posture coiled, braced to break someone’s teeth. -You know he goes for blood—
-I’m not fragile—!
Izuna let out a bark of laughter. -Ooooh, look at that. Lover boy wants to save the girl.- His eyes narrowed on Bee. -He does this so much you sure you’re not fucking him? Or trying? Bet he’d love that—
-Why are you doing this?!- Bee bit out, stepping toward him despite Uri’s hand pulling her back. -I’m not with him, I’m not with anyone—
-Yeeah, right,- Izuna drawled, leaning in too close, breath hot with whiskey. -Forgot. You already got your fill with Obito. Should’ve known—
Uri snapped. -Madara. Do something. He’s—
-I told him to stop already.
-That’s not doing something,- she hissed, stepping between the chaos and getting in his face. -He’s humiliating her in front of all of us and you’re doing absolutely nothing—
-You don’t understand how to handle him when he’s drunk. You go too hard, he goes harder—
-And you go too soft, so he walks all over everyone. Set a boundary, or I swear I’ll kill your brother—
Shisui’s hand dragged across his face, exasperation fired through with fury. -Uri, don't bother with him. Let me handle Izuna—
-No,- Bee barked, shoulders bristling. -You don’t get to “handle” anything. I can defend myself. I’m not some fucking—
-You shouldn’t have to defend yourself!- Shisui’s eyes cut toward Izuna, who was swaying like he might swing on someone or vomit on the rug. -That’s the fucking problem! He’s rabid tonight—
-Nah, rabid, you say?- Izuna snarled, stumbling forward, finger stabbing the air between all of them. -Maybe, if she didn’t act like a poor little victim, maybe if any of you saw what I see—
-What you “see” is whatever your drunk brain invents,- Shisui shot back.
-What I see,- Izuna slurred, -is Belisse jumping from cousin to cousin like she’s trying to fill a fucking sticker book—
Bee surged forward. -How can you say that, after everything I told you? Why—?!
-Go on,- Izuna taunted, stepping right into her space, breath sharp and ugly. -Tell me you didn’t spread that pretty cun—
Shisui lunged.
Madara caught him by the collar, shoving him back. -Not in front of the kid—
Uri turned on Madara so fast he had to step back. -Are you fucking kidding me?! You stop Shisui, but you won’t shut Izuna up?! Have you lost your goddamn mind?!-
-He’s my brother.
-And you’re letting him gut her alive because he shares your DNA?!
Shisui jabbed a finger toward Izuna. -Let me knock him out. It’ll solve everything—
-No,- Bee growled at him. -You are not fighting for me. I said I can—
-You shouldn’t have to!- Shisui shouted, finally losing the last thread of composure. -Why do you think he keeps doing this?! Because you won’t let anyone step in—
-Because it’s not your place!- Bee fired back.
Izuna laughed, thrilled, destructive. -Fight over her, go on. Makes sense. You all want her anyway.-
-I swear to fucking—
Madara slammed a hand down on the table. -ENOUGH.-
It didn’t help.
Bee was still glaring at Shisui.
Uri was still yelling at Madara.
Shisui was still trying to hit Izuna.
Izuna was frowning at everyone, a live wire ready to ignite the curtains.
And above it all, Ivy continued plating food as she’d cooked through worse, Indra observing her, unaware of life outside his wife and son’s orbit. The only man in the house who could end the entire war with a single look, once Ivy snapped her fingers and decided she was bored with their yelling.
Her loyal soldier, always ready for her.
Eventually, her voice cut cleanly across all of it from the kitchen doorway. -Make them sit at the table, Indra. Dinner’s ready.-
And he was already moving.
One step.
Another.
Raizen remained undisturbed, playing with his earlobe, oblivious to the violence vibrating inside his father’s ribs.
Izuna saw the shadow approaching and smirked. -Fuck yeah, here comes the corpse. Did our suicidal mommy finally give you a fucking job, mut—
The slap cracked through the room, intense enough to silence everything.
Indra didn’t jostle Raizen; he adjusted his stance mid-movement, pivoting with the precision of someone who’d spent years mastering how to hit without disturbing what he held.
Izuna’s head snapped to the side, hair falling into his face, breath knocked out of him in a stunned exhale.
The mark bloomed instantly red.
No one spoke.
Not Madara. Not Shisui. Not Bee.
Uri’s eyes widened in disbelief at the speed, the efficiency, the coldness of it.
Raizen, nestled safely against his chest, pressed closer, steadying himself as if the world hadn’t shifted.
Ivy surged from the kitchen and pointed to the table, taking advantage of the silence.
-Sit. All of you.
And they obeyed.
Even Izuna, still reeling, dropped into a chair with a muttered curse and a hand against his jaw, fury smoldering under humiliation.
Indra remained where he was until his wife looked at him again, chin lifted in that unbothered authority that owned him down to bone.
-Food goes out now.
He nodded once, subtle, immediate.
Raizen’s small fingers curled more firmly around his skin, and that was somehow the thing that almost buckled him. Not the violence, chaos, or Ivy’s orders, but being held, trusted, chosen in the smallest, most instinctive way, by his own blood.
Chairs dragged.
Silverware clinked.
Everyone sat because Ivy had told them to, and there was no universe in which her word wasn’t law.
Madara slid into the seat at her left, posture rigid with the leftover adrenaline of trying to contain his brother’s violence and Uri’s opinions.
Shisui dropped into a chair a little farther down, eyes locked on Izuna like he was daring him to breathe wrong. Bee sat beside Uri, both whispering, more like damage control than anything resembling conversation.
Indra didn’t move toward the table until Ivy pointed to the spot at her right side. A gesture that meant permission, ownership, recognition. The possibility of remaining close to her.
He obeyed, while Madara handed her a glass of wine like nothing in the last fifteen minutes had been deranged.
Bee steadied her own glass.
Uri rubbed her temples.
Izuna sulked in the wreckage of his whiskey-soaked vegetables.
Shisui glared at everyone at once.
But Raizen, confused, looked at each adult in turn: Ivy, Mom, first.
Then Shisui, whom he always called “daddy” without understanding the storm it caused.
Uncle Madara, Uncle Izuna, Aunt Bee, Aunt Uri.
His gaze circled the table and circled back to the stranger holding him.
His brows pulled together. …-Sir…?-
Indra went absolutely still.
“Sir”.
From a three-year-old child.
His fucking kid. Calling him “sir”.
Sir.
Was it truly possible that this small, sun-warmed creation of love and gentleness had come from his own cursed blood? That someone as terrible as he was had played a part in bringing such a perfect child into the world?
No.
Of course not.
His contribution began and ended with the genetics etched into his son’s face, softened only by his mother’s eyes.
The only person deserving of praise for the tenderness, stability, and careful guidance in a world he himself had made difficult was Ivy.
She had shaped their child.
He had merely been the obstacle she overcame.
-Go on, sweetheart. You can ask him whatever you want.- Ivy bit back a smile against her knuckles.
Raizen hesitated, gathering the courage of a boy who wanted something but didn’t want to impose. His voice came out small and unsure, the way a child tries to be polite without actually knowing the rules. -Can… can I have… food… sir?- He paused, searching for the right way to say it, his little face scrunching. -Please?-
Indra was internally screaming. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve such a blessing, such a Christmas gift. Life was too generous to someone who had stolen, hurt, and killed so much. To someone who turned his back on those who today welcomed him with open arms.
He deserved to die, if anything so dramatic could ever balance the scales. To choke on water and collapse in the most pitiful, humiliating way, right there, before the child he’d once forsaken out of spite, before the woman he had abandoned in pursuit of ghosts.
But then Ivy was giggling, hiding her mouth behind her fingers, shoulders shaking once, delighted and cruel in equal measure. It snapped him out of his stupor, out of his downward spiral. -Look at my baby and his perfect manners.- she smiled.
Shisui’s jaw twitched visibly. Jealousy flared across his face like a slap, but he swallowed it down, barely. He kept glancing at them through the corner of his eye, ready to self-combust, but Izuna’s mess was still exploding down the table, demanding his attention.
Indra lifted a tiny food-filled fork with a controlled steadiness that didn’t match the internal freefall Ivy could practically hear humming inside his brain. Their son relaxed by increments, leaning slightly into him, tentative, trusting, settling like the weight of a decision made. Those dangerous hands cut more small pieces of food, pulse steady despite the pressure simmering beneath his skin.
The boy lifted his chin, waiting with the patience of a child who rarely asks for things, and took the bite carefully, lips pressing together as he chewed. -Th’ku,- he mumbled through the food.
Ivy tilted her head. -Say it again, love?-
Raizen glanced at her, then at Indra, uncertain which adult to address.
-…thank you,- he tried again, softer, shy.
And chaos detonated again down the table.
Izuna had upended another glass, this time wine, and splashed half the basket of bread.
Bee tried to pull it away; Izuna swore at her.
Uri swore louder.
Shisui rose halfway from his chair, torn between intervening and turning back to keep watching Raizen with an expression that could char wood.
Madara got shoved by Uri when he tried to calm her down.
-You’re enabling Izuna,- she shot at him.
-I’m trying to prevent a homicide,- he shot back.
-You’re failing.
-That’s because you keep yelling at me instead of him.
Izuna only grinned, mean and loose at the edges.
But none of it reached the right side of the table.
Indra cut another small piece of food. Raizen watched his hands with fascination, little shoulders softening. He took the next bite even more politely than the first. Ivy leaned an elbow on the table, watching the two of them like it was the only thing in the room that wasn’t rotting under the weight of dysfunction.
-Perfect,- she granted. Not kindly or softly, but truthfully. -He’s comfortable with you.-
Indra’s gaze flicked her way for a second. Just a second. Enough.
Down the table, Izuna knocked over a candle on purpose.
Shisui practically vaulted across the plates to stop him from burning the house down.
Uri was yelling at Madara about emotional negligence.
Bee accused Izuna of being a child.
Izuna accused everyone of betraying him.
Yet none of it touched the three at the head of the table.
Mom, cool as winter glass; Dad, firm and obedient, beside her; and their son, who looked up again, mouth parted, trying to gather another polite little sentence.
-Sir…? More?-
Not demanding. Not grabbing.
Hopeful, brave enough to ask.
Indra passed him the next bite before the echo of the word even faded.
//
By the time dessert appeared, the tiramisú Ivy had sworn she’d never make again because it “took too damn long”, the table had calmed, if only out of exhaustion. She watched the momentary peace from her throne at the head of the table, cool ruler of the deranged kingdom she’d built with teeth and soft hands.
When the clock blinked 23:45 toward midnight, she rose.
-I need your help in the kitchen,- she casually said to Indra, tapping his wrist with two fingers, disguising the act so their child wouldn't notice.
A direction. Showtime.
Bee caught on instantly and leaned over. -Raizen, come here, sweetheart. There’s something really cool I want to show you.-
The kid let himself be lifted with a small, quiet whine of confusion. He pressed his cheek into Bee’s collarbone as she carried him toward the living room, whispering soft nonsense to keep him entertained.
Ivy led Indra into the adjacent room again, where the Santa costume hung on the back of a chair like a corpse waiting for animation.
The door shut behind them. Noise from the dining room thinned to a muffled, chaotic hum.
She looked at the costume. At the fake beard, padded belly, wig, boots, and the enormous red sack that was already filled with gifts.
-Arms in.
Indra obeyed instantly.
She slipped the red coat over his shoulders, tugging it until it sat correctly. Her hands brushed past his ribs without hesitation, professional, brisk, a woman preparing a tool for a job.
Not a man.
A tool.
He took the humiliation with no resistance, eyes lowered, a servant in front of his queen.
-Wig,- she said, holding it up. -Bend.-
Ivy settled it on his head, adjusting it with small, careful movements, making sure no dark hair showed. The fake beard came next, itchy wool that hooked behind his ears and covered half his expression. She tugged it once, checking stability.
-I’ll guide you through the whole thing,- she reminded him, stepping back to assess her work after taking care of the pants and boots.
He nodded.
-I’ll talk, you’ll nod, wave, hand out gifts, let him touch the beard if he wants. Kids latch onto sensory things.- She paused. -Keep your movements slow. He gets overwhelmed if someone’s too abrupt.-
Another nod.
She reached for the red sack next. It was heavy. She dragged it forward, then, without asking, placed the strap over his shoulder. The weight pulled him to one side.
For anyone else, it might’ve looked ridiculous.
For him, it was simply another command.
-Good,- she said softly, almost to herself.
Indra swayed under the weight and steadied. He looked absurd: massive frame stuffed into fake fur, wig hanging slightly crooked, beard turning him into a mute, bulky parody of innocence.
He looked like the opposite of the man he’d been built to become.
And Ivy, glowing, focused, watched him with something unreadable.
-If you do this right, Indra, I’ll take it as a good sign. A step forward.- She grabbed his coat sleeve and pulled him toward the back door. -Finishing touches now.-
Cold air slapped his cheeks when she opened it. Night wind. Frost. A sky bruised with clouds. She took a handful of snow from the railing and flung it at him. It stuck to his wig, beard, coat, and shoulders. Then she threw another handful. And another. When she stepped toward him again, she brushed extra snow onto his sleeves like he was a mannequin.
-There. Now you look like you traveled.
Indra endured it with the rigidness of a man suppressing every instinct to kneel at her feet, because tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight was about one child. Memory and future. One story that needed to be right.
-This is important. Raizen deserves this. A full Christmas. A real Santa. Not some broken, half-effort nonsense.- She fixed the beard one last time. -He deserves magic. And we’re going to give it to him.-
We.
Plural.
A team.
Family.
Those words hit harder than any order she’d ever given him, but whether Ivy could see the impact through the fake beard or not, she didn't let on.
-You walk in. You let me talk. You let him hug you if he tries. If he cries, kneel. If he hides, wait. No sudden movements. And if he gives you a gift, accept it. No matter what it is. Pay attention to my signals, my hands, my face.
Indra nodded. Hard.
And at his utter determination, heat entered her eyes, recognition of the lengths he was willing to go to be seen by her. He had once ruled by fear. Now he wore fake fur and bells to earn a single approving glance.
-Five minutes. Then knock.
She left him standing alone in the cold night, snow melting slowly against the bright red suit, the weight of the sack digging into his shoulder, breath a low fog in the dark.
He waited, and for once, it didn’t feel like punishment.
It felt like purpose.
//
Five insistent knocks landed heavy on the door, loud, weighted, the announcement of a mythical figure waiting behind the door. Ivy opened it with fake excitement. -Raizen! Look who came to visit! Hurry!- voice bright enough to disguise command beneath it.
Uri gasped as if witnessing an angel or a crime, the irony of a murderer dressed in innocence too strong for words.
Shisui snarled, annoyed. -Seems our guy needs some antipsychotics this year.-
Ivy didn’t look at him, but the faint tilt of her head promised violence if he tried anything.
Raizen froze mid-step on the rug. His entire body locked up, eyes huge, mouth round, shaking with unspent surprise. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t breathe.
Then:
-SAN—TA!!-
He jolted forward so fast he almost face planted twice. The boy bounced, literally bounced, tiny feet slapping the floor as he stumbled across the room, all drowsiness gone, replaced by pure explosive joy.
Indra followed Ivy’s secret nod: two steps forward, unhurriedly, exact. The bells on the suit jingled in a sad, muffled way as if the costume hated being alive. He paused where she’d pointed him to pause, lifted one mittened hand, waved.
The kid burst into a squeal so sharp the lights might’ve flickered.
Madara, heroic in his own way, tightened his grip around Izuna’s shoulders because the drunk was already fighting the hold, already snarling. -That’s not Santa. I know Santa. That looks like Ind—
-Shut the fuck up.- Madara shoved him back down by sheer unwillingness to entertain the moment failing.
-I WAN’ TALK! LET ME GO!
-Sh.
Meanwhile, Raizen skittered to a halt near Santa, panting like he’d sprinted across a continent. Little fists balled. Eyes shining. Words spilling too fast for his mouth to manage:
-I—I—was GOOD! I—did—my—teeth—an’—my toys—s’not onna floor—an’ I HELPed—mommy—!
Indra nodded vigorously, because that was Ivy’s cue: affirm everything.
His son clapped, elated.
-Careful, Santa. He hits back. Must be genetic.- Shisui muttered under his breath, low and pointed, defensive and wounded all at once.
Indra ignored him, every nerve aimed at Raizen, who was vibrating with excitement. He knelt at Ivy’s indication, exactly how she had instructed. The boy tottered closer until he was right in front of him, tiny hands grabbing the fake beard with wonder.
-You came,- Raizen smiled, awe dripping off every syllable. -You real.-
Indra nodded again. His wig slid half a centimeter sideways. He reached into the sack, rummaging through it, making a show of it until he found the right gift. Ivy was the commander behind all movement. A small tilt of her head: step forward. A tap of her finger: kneel lower. A gesture toward the sack: this one next. A lift of her brow: give it to him, no, not like that—yes, that.
Indra obeyed like he was carved from obedience.
Raizen squealed again, jumping up and down in one spot.
Santa handed him the first package.
The boy hugged it before even opening it.
Then he hugged Indra.
Full force, trust, joy. Three seconds, five, seven.
Another gift. Another hug.
A third.
And that’s when it happened.
Santa’s shoulders started shaking.
Shisui noticed first, eyes narrowing.
Bee noticed second, mouth forming a tiny shocked “oh”.
Ivy noticed last, and only because Raizen pulled back, confused, staring at Santa’s trembling arms.
-Santa?- voice tiny and brittle. -You okay?-
The beard twitched. His shoulders, too. Then the entire suit shuddered like someone had yanked an emotional plug out of the wall. Silent convulsions. Wetness soaking into the wool. The ugliest crying a human had ever attempted while wearing bells.
Bee scooped him up so fast the air cracked. -No, no, baby—listen—listen to me—you didn’t break anything, he’s just—uh…- She darted a look at the adults.
Uri slapped a hand over her own face as she’d just watched a man get hit by a bus in slow motion. -He’s cold. That’s why he shakes.-
Ivy, expression locked somewhere between homicidal and I expected this but not tonight, crouched slightly to hiss directly at Indra’s kneecap: -Stop. STOP. Pull yourself together or I swear to every ancestor in this house—
Indra shook harder, tears sliding under the fake beard in fat, pathetic streaks.
-Ah… Santa’s having a breakdown. How many more Christmases will he ruin? This makes three already.- Shisui didn’t even try to hide the venom.
Raizen buried his face in Bee’s neck, trembling. -I was good,- he whimpered, voice breaking. -I didn’ make him cry, right? I didn’—
-No, sweetheart, no,- Bee rushed, rubbing circles on his back. -He’s not upset with you—he’s just cold—he traveled through a storm, remember? He’s—he’s very emotional about the weather. That’s all.-
Ivy bent closer to Indra, her tone low and lethal: -If you don’t shut it down right now, Raizen is going to need therapy until he’s thirty. Breathe. Fix your face. Move.-
Santa nodded, twitchy and desperate, still wiping at the beard with mittened hands that only made everything worse.
Raizen peeked up from Bee’s shoulder, eyes glistening. -Santa… not mad at me?-
Bee pressed a kiss to his hair. -He’s not mad, baby. He’s just… dramatic.-
Shisui coughed. -Runs in the family.-
-Santa’s fine,- Bee insisted gently. -See? He was just cold.-
Indra straightened, shoulders still trembling, but steadier now, holding the line because Ivy had told him to.
Raizen sniffed. -S-Santa… want cookie?-
Indra nodded, chest fighting its own rhythm. A cookie was shoved into his mitten within seconds, after Raizen selected the perfect one from a plate Uri offered. The kid held the cookie up with so much sincerity the universe should’ve split.
Santa leaned forward, mechanically, awkward as hell, and ate it in one go
-GOOD JOB!- Raizen declared proudly.
Shisui stared at the two of them, jealousy leaking through his expression. Madara still had Izuna half-pinned by the neck, who yelled: -WHY WE FEED THE MAN WHO BROKE HER?! LET ME GO. I WANNA PUNCH CHRISTMAS.- Bee shushed Izuna like scolding a feral cat.
And Ivy, the orchestrator, the reigning storm, leaned closer to Santa, eyes cutting clean through him. -C’mon Santa, get up!- She feigned a wonderfully cheerful tone for their son, but Indra recognized the threat beneath it. -I’m sure you’re rushed, all the kids from the world are waiting!-
So he rose, still shaken, still leaking silent tears, but steadying, slowly, because her voice told him to. Hulking and ridiculous in his red suit, with snow melting on his shoulders and a plastic belly digging into his abdominals, he held his son’s trust like something fragile and holy, posing for pictures Ivy insisted on.
Chaos raged behind them, but in front, his child, this night, an impossible moment with Ivy… For once in years, he didn’t break anything.
He only broke open.
Even with his swollen face, wig sliding toward one eyebrow, with Shisui muttering curses that only adults understood, and Izuna trying to lunge at him twice before Madara’s grip shut that down. Raizen stayed at Santa’s side the entire time, giggling, bouncing on his heels, whispering excited secrets, -I didn’ pee my bed dis week! Not once!- clinging to red sleeves like they were made of magic. Every now and then, he glanced back at Ivy to make sure she was seeing what he was doing.
She always was.
When it was time to wrap things up, Raizen wrapped both arms around Santa’s legs and squeezed with all the strength his little body could muster.
-Tank you, Santa,- he said into the fur. -Tank you so, so, so much.-
Indra’s head bowed, not theatrically, but because something inside him gave way, again. Ivy saw it instantly and stepped forward, clamping a hand on his shoulder in warning. Bee swooped in before the kid could see the wobble. -Okay, buddy, Santa’s gotta keep traveling, remember?-
Uri added, -Come with us, let’s open your presents.-
The boy nodded furiously, wiping his nose on his sleeve before grabbing each of their hands and dragging them away with tiny determined steps. Before disappearing into the living room, he looked back one last time. -Bye, Santa!! I love you!!- Then he vanished, squealing down the hall.
Ivy gave Santa one last look, a tight, silent “hold it together”, then turned and headed after the others to keep Raizen’s excitement from collapsing again. Only when she vanished into the next room did he step outside.
The night closed around him like an unplugged stage. Cold. Dark. Quiet. He pressed his back against the brick wall just beyond the porch light, hidden from view. He ripped off the hat, beard, wig, mittens. Everything hit the ground with soft thuds.
And then dropped to a half-crouch, burrying his face in both hands.
No performance now, no control, but the liberation of raw, shaking soundless sobs folding him in half.
Years of distance. Years of absence. And tonight… Raizen hugging him like warmth itself, saying “I love you” with the uncalculated purity adults forget how to touch.
He didn’t hear the door open, the crunching steps across the snow. Only when a hand curled around his wrists, firm, insistent, did he register she was there. Ivy tugged his hands gently away from his face, uncovering him. Dropping to a crouch in front of him, her thumb swept a streak of wetness from his cheek, lifting his chin so he would look at her. Her expression was careful, honed by everything they’d survived, but warmed by something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.
She slid her arms around him, pulling him into her, guiding his forehead to her shoulder the way people do when they’ve already forgiven something they won’t admit to yet.
His hands, large, shaking, useless, hovered in the air for a moment, unsure if he was allowed, but she grabbed his coat and hauled him the rest of the way in, holding him with a certainty that shut down every apology he couldn’t speak.
A silent answer to a man who’d spent long starving for it.
When she finally pulled back, she rested one palm against his jaw, steadying him. -You did good. Really, really good.- Hope tightened painfully inside his chest. -Come back in when you’re ready,- Ivy added, getting up and stepping away, but keeping her hand on him until the last possible second. -Raizen wants to show “the good Sir” his presents.-
Get me back, Indra Commission (Otsutski Indra / Uchiha Ivy)
AO3
After the disastrous fallout from "His Chain, My Blood" and "Hollow Mouths Speak Fire", Indra and Ivy find themselves reunited in the relative safety of the "Uchiha Couch": she, finally resting after the flood of sedatives she’s been taking; he, trying to win her back without a single word. The dynamic shifts, and the once–untouchable Indra Uchiha is no longer the man he was. In his place, Ivy Uchiha rises as a dominant force, turning the tables and taking control.
This commission was a wonderful and necessary experience that revealed Ivy’s full strength to me. The role reversal concept is something I wouldn’t have explored without the creativity of @urheartbeatbreaker!!!! I’m grateful for the trust placed in me to bring this idea to life, I love you!!!!
Remember that if you’d like to commission me, you can do it through Ko-Fi, my Patreon tier (specifically for monthly commissions!), by sending me a private message here on Tumblr, or by emailing me at [email protected]. Your support means the world to me. Thank you for helping me monetize my art!!!
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Patreon
Warm sugar perfumed the air as Ivy drifted from counter to counter, a quiet storm in slippers, her cardigan slipping off one shoulder. Nothing in her body language suggested she felt the weight of the obsession stalking her through the lounge. If anything, she walked like she owned the house and everything in it, including the man dragging his shadow after her like a leash.
Indra followed with no shame, and nothing about him was gentle. Hunger radiated off him in a slow, corrosive heat, staying close to her, too close, but never breaking the unspoken boundary that seemed to be imposed.
The cousins were scattered, lost to their own distractions; Izuna and Shisui out with Bee, Obito asleep, Madara shut away in his room with Uri. Each sealed in their own world, while a mute dance unfurled in the kitchen.
Ivy ignored all sensations while opening another bag of flour, wrist flicking with careless grace. Powder spilled, dusting her shirt, her cheekbone, the chain around her throat.
Indra jumped as if slapped, the sight hitting him like an electric current. That particular softness Ivy never admitted to having, revealed by a scatter of white dust. It had been ages since he’d seen her vulnerability slip through like this.
She didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge the way he moved, standing two steps behind her, body locked, back straight, hands at his sides as if touching anything without her permission might break whatever fragile permission allowed him to orbit her at all.
His devotion throbbed like a heartbeat.
-Move,- she murmured to herself as she nudged a mixing bowl aside.
Not a command. Not directed at him.
He stepped backward anyway, automatic, instinctive obedience, only to drift forward again when she shifted, compelled by something rawer than thought. Motion betrayed him; longing betrayed him more.
Heat curled between her thighs at the faint rustle of his clothes behind her, the sound of a beast trying to keep quiet. Ivy’s fingers pressed into the dough, pulse stayed steady, knowing that if he couldn’t match her vibe, then so be it.
For years, everything had moved to Indra’s rhythm, his choices, his gravity, and she was done surrendering to anyone’s shadow but her own. Ivy never considered herself prey, not even now, not even with him unraveling behind her.
Indra’s breath shuddered against the back of her neck, not touching, never quite touching, just close enough for warmth to lick her skin. -You’re too close. Back off.- She didn’t stop kneading, working the dough, issuing the order as casually as a breath.
The beast obeyed without question, yielding space he would try to reclaim the moment she allowed it, unable to stay out of her space for long.
Pretending she wasn’t being watched with a level of focus that felt obscene proved to be fun.
When she reached for the cinnamon jar on the high shelf, she stretched her body deliberately, torso lengthening, hips tilting back just enough to brush the edge of his breath.
Ivy knew he reacted to her provocation by the sound of his steps. Eyes half-lidded, she hummed. -If you’re going to stand there,- she stated with a mocking tone, -you could at least make yourself useful.-
His inhale cracked.
Indra brought out his notebook: small, battered, always tucked into his back pocket. Hesitated. Didn’t write. Waited.
-I didn’t ask you to write anything.
The notebook lowered like a guilty hand. His chest tightened; he stood straighter, shoulders locked with military precision. He would’ve waited a century for her next word.
She slid a tray into the oven and wiped her hands on a towel. Her movements were unhurried, almost elegant, a woman moving through her own kingdom while the wolf behind her trembled with devotion.
-You want to touch me,- Ivy murmured, adjusting the oven temperature. -I can feel you wanting it.-
His breath left him in a choke.
She turned then, finally. Flour dusted across her cheek made her look like evil disguised as domesticity. Indra’s pupils swallowed the rest of his irises. His hands flexed open and closed, the only betrayal of how badly he wanted to drop to his knees.
Her fingers reached out and dragged slowly along his jaw, a faint, teasing smear of white left behind. His eyes fluttered shut like the touch gutted him.
-You can’t talk,- her thumb grazed his lower lip. -But you don’t need a voice to beg, do you?-
Indra’s answering tremor was violent, full-body, desperate. He opened the notebook with shaking fingers, scribbling fast, frantic words that could barely stay on the lines.
I’ll do anything.
Just stay near me.
I can’t—
He ripped the page out before she could read the last sentence. Shoved it into his pocket. Shame flushed across his face in a way that made him look young for a moment, then dangerous again, when he raised his eyes to hers.
Ivy caught his wrist before he could retreat, soft but decisive. -Show me. Not with words.-
Indra swallowed hard. Stepped closer. Closer. Until the heat of his chest pressed into her sternum. He kept his hands at his sides, fists trembling with the effort of not touching her without permission.
She tilted her head, examining him like a specimen.
Like prey that wanted to be predator.
Like predator begging to be prey.
-Touch my waist.
His exhale broke. Hands lifted slowly, reverently, trembling as they settled on the curve of her hips like she was the first and last thing he had ever believed in.
She moved into him just a fraction, enough to make his restraint combust. His fingers dug in, jaw clenching, breath ragged against her cheek. -Good,- her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, not a kiss, just promise. -Time to show you know how to listen. I’m in charge.-
Indra nodded frantically, reverent, undone.
When she pulled back, he followed involuntarily, body chasing her warmth without his permission, until she pressed two fingers to his chest.
-Stay. Let me finish baking.
Indra went rigid, then loose, then reverent with a kind of need that bordered on sickness. Staying wasn’t a choice; it was compulsion, instinct, history rearranged into obedience. He froze where she left him, breath unsteady, spine straight as if she’d pinned him there with her fingertips.
Silence settled heavy, thick with everything they hadn’t said, years of love curdled into ruin, grief fermented into obsession, guilt sharpened into a hunger that never died even when he wanted it to. Ivy moved around the kitchen like she was alone, like the man shaking behind her was just furniture, a dangerous decoration no one bothered to dust.
Oven heat bloomed soft and golden when she cracked the door open. Warm air rolled over Indra’s skin, and he withdrew like the temperature itself had teeth.
Memories throbbed behind his eyes: her hands dusted in flour in another lifetime, her laughter echoing off the walls of a home he once believed he deserved. That past hovered close enough to taste, close enough to tear him open again if she pressed in the wrong place.
She didn’t look at him when she spoke. -Take them out.-
The command struck him like physical contact. He stepped forward, hands shaking, careful, always careful, because if he broke one cookie, he’d convince himself he’d broken something sacred. The tray left the oven with a faint metallic scrape. Cookies slid onto the cooling rack in neat rows. His fingers trembled so violently that one nearly tipped.
Ivy didn’t miss it. She never missed anything. Her voice sharpened, cruel in the gentlest tone. -You’re shaking. Really? Over this?-
Shame bit into the back of his tongue, but he nodded once, a short, jerky acknowledgment.
Yes.
Over this.
Over her.
Over being close enough to hear her voice again without imagining a gunshot at the end of the sentence.
She leaned back against the counter and scrolled through her phone like he wasn’t fraying at the edges. Every swipe of her thumb deepened the tension between them; every idle sigh reminded him she could end him with a single change in tone.
Years ago, he could crack the world open with a look, cut a man down with a word, and bend the entire Uchiha network into submission with the weight of his will. Now he couldn’t breathe without measuring the distance between her heartbeat and his own.
-Put them on a plate.
He obeyed instantly. Quick, precise, terrified of failing at something as simple as arranging cookies. His hands were steady only when they touched violence; domesticity made him unravel.
Ivy knew that. She’d always known that.
A quiet, mocking hum escaped her. -You don’t even know how ridiculous you look, do you?-
He did. And he didn’t care. He would’ve crawled across broken glass if she said his name with irritation.
Something electric coiled beneath Ivy’s skin as she watched him follow her orders; this man, who once moved like the center of gravity had been built around him, now shaking at the sound of her voice. It should’ve scared her. Should’ve repulsed her. Instead, it made her heart pulse heavy against her ribs with a cocktail of rage and longing she tried to swallow down.
He’d ruined her once. Torn her apart so thoroughly she still heard the echo of that night in her dreams. And yet here he was: silent, needy, cracked open, a beast leashed by her indifference.
-Now wipe the counter,- she said lazily, tapping her phone against her palm.
Indra grabbed the cloth. His movements were too fast, too violent, like he was cleaning blood instead of a kitchen mess. Devotion had turned feral in him. Guilt had carved his bones hollow. Love, if that’s what the thing in him still was, had mutated into something fierce and bottomless.
Her lips curled slightly. -Slower. You’re going to miss a spot.-
He slowed. It almost broke him.
Resentment simmered under her skin in delicate little drips, the kind that weren’t loud enough to explode but potent enough to stain. Part of her wanted him to suffer. Part wanted him to kneel. Part wanted him to grab her by the waist and kiss her like he used to, before the beach, before the gun, before the redhead.
But she didn’t want to give him anything.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Indra was a storm that had drowned her once, and now she was the one deciding how close the tide was allowed to come.
-Good,- she whispered when he finally finished.
His breath cracked as he exhaled.
Ivy brushed past him, and the movement alone transformed the air. Indra’s eyes dropped instantly, shoulders bowing minutely, instinct returning to a posture he hadn’t taken since the days when loving her meant being allowed near her.
She paused beside him. -Stand straight.-
He obeyed before she finished the sentence.
Years of rage and mourning flickered under his skin, but above all of it pulsed something dangerous, ancient, passion with sharp teeth. He looked like a ticking time bomb rewired to explode only when she allowed it.
And God, she loved having that power.
Her voice came quietly, mercilessly soft. -Bring me the bowl.-
Indra moved, and Ivy looked at the man she once loved enough to die for, now trembling with the need to be useful to her.
-Good boy,- she murmured, not as affection but punishment.
Indra’s knees nearly buckled, terror and need tangled inside him, two wires sparking against each other. Ivy watched that tiny collapse with the calm precision of someone taking notes. Her satisfaction was subtle, almost polite, the same way a surgeon might admire the way a blade parts skin.
She turned away first, cool, unbothered, decisive. -You have five minutes to make my iced coffee, the way I always liked it.-
Another test.
-Five,- she repeated, setting her phone on the counter. Her thumb tapped the screen. A timer filled the display, merciless red numbers counting down even before it began. -If you’re late… you won’t be allowed near me for three days.-
Three fucking days.
Something catastrophic flashed through Indra’s expression, so brief it looked like the shadow of a shadow. Distance had once been his refuge; now it was punishment so absolute it might as well have been exile.
Ivy set her phone down with a light click. -Start.-
The timer began.
He moved like a man sprinting through memory, one hand on muscle memory, the other on desperation. Ice cubes cracked into the blender, cold brew poured thick and dark, caramel ribboning down like something sacrilegious. He was scared, desperate, fingers shaking and sweat rolling down his forehead, but he never spilled a drop. He remembered the sweetness she preferred, the bitterness she liked underneath it, the exact ratio that used to make her eyes soften in the early mornings before the world ruined them both.
He remembered Raizen sleeping in his arms while he made her breakfast.
Remembered how Kaien laughed at the image once, said Ivy had tamed him for good.
And her, a warm presence against his chest, who whispered, “a little more cream, love,” when he was just learning how to do it right.
He blinked hard.
Worked faster.
Metal straw. Two perfect cubes of ice added at the end. The glass wiped clean. Everything immaculate. indulgence disguised as precision.
It took him two minutes and twenty seconds.
He slid the plate of cookies into his other hand and slipped up the stairs without a sound, terrified of wasting a single moment of whatever mercy she’d just granted him.
Ivy was already curled on his bed.
His bed.
His room.
Sprawled across the pillows like she owned the place, because she did. Because she always had. Because he would’ve burned the house down if she’d asked.
Warm lamplight traced her silhouette. One leg thrown over the other. Reality TV playing on the big screen: shallow, loud, trashy.
Perfectly beneath her and chosen precisely because it would bother him.
She didn’t look up as he entered. -You remember? How to do it?-
He nodded, fast, frantic.
-I hope you don’t waste my time… show me.
Indra stepped closer and presented her the glass like an offering. She took it without gratitude, lips wrapping around the metal straw. Her eyes drifted shut on the first sip. He nearly swayed from the force of wanting her approval.
-It’s good.
Relief slammed through Indra.
-Bring the cookies,- she added, already swiping to the next episode of “Too Hot to Handle.”
He approached the bed, but she lifted a single hand, palm outward.
Stop.
-You sit here,- she patted the mattress beside her, her tone misleading. -And you feed me.-
He moved instantly, kneeling first, then sitting only when she lifted her chin in permission. Her thigh brushed his. He stiffened, fluttered, steadied himself.
The TV blared. Hot men in swim trunks. Women screaming. Everyone making out with reckless abandon.
Ivy bit into the cookie he held out for her. Chewed slowly. Her eyes found the screen. -God, look at him. The jawline. The body. He’s beautiful.-
Indra went still. Completely, brutally still.
There was no need to look at him to picture the expression on his face, that familiar, senseless possessiveness flaring up, as if he had any right to be jealous. So she just reached for the straw and took a long, unhurried sip, letting the gesture answer for her. -You agree, right?-
Disagreement was a cliff.
Agreement was a plunge.
But her rules rewired him. Her voice rewrote the world.
Ivy turned her head slightly, not enough to face him, just enough for her lashes to lift. -I can’t sit next to a man who doesn’t agree with me.-
It wasn’t a threat. It was worse. It was logic he’d kill himself to obey.
So he nodded.
-Say it,- she whispered, even though she knew he couldn’t. -Show me you agree.-
His chest rose. Fell. Rose again. He lifted his hand, slow, shaking, respectful, and traced a single deliberate gesture in the air.
Yes.
Ivy smiled. Not softly. Not kindly. With a slow curl of satisfaction that sank talons into the deepest, most ruined parts of him. Ivy leaned back against the pillows, her body brushing his side in small, accidental tortures every time she shifted.
-Good. Keep feeding me.
And he obeyed. Every bite. Every sip. Every moment punctuated by her commentary: more gorgeous men, more cruel comparisons, more tests he passed because losing her was a punishment he would not survive twice.
Indra’s desperation became a living thing in the room, thick and dangerous, a charged wire humming beneath his skin. He sat on the edge of combustion, holding her glass, her cookies, his breath.
Everything except himself.
Ivy’s contentment radiated in warm, quiet waves. She lounged in his sheets, in his space, in the center of the heart he’d ruined with his own hands. And she let him serve her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Because for them, it was.
Resentment lived underneath.
Grief lived deeper.
Love, ruined, sick, indestructible, coiled through every breath they took.
On the screen, a man with perfect abs stepped out of the ocean.
Ivy hummed approvingly. -He’s hotter than you were at his age. Don’t you think?-
Indra nodded again.
She didn’t see the way his throat trembled. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was why she smiled. Ivy stretched out on his bed like sin in soft cotton, finishing the last of the iced coffee with an exaggerated hum that went straight down Indra’s spine and detonated on his balls. On the TV, another sculpted man walked into frame, and she grinned like she’d just discovered fire.
-He’s sooo hot… would climb him like a tree… I used to do that with my husband...
Indra’s pulse shattered into glass. He nodded, because she expected it, because she demanded it, because obedience had become his nervous system.
-And that one… God.- She pointed at the screen with a lazy flick of her wrist. -Perfect mouth. Perfect arms. Perfect everything. You see it, right?-
Another nod. Another tremor.
She licked cookie crumbs off her thumb. Slowly. Deliberately.
-You getting jealous, hm? Looks like your brain is overheating.
His body was a riot of hunger, guilt, devotion, rage, everything he’d trained himself not to feel boiling under her heel just because she spoke.
-I mean…- She stretched again, long and feline. -I haven’t had a man that hot near me in… fuck, forever. Not even Shisui compares.-
The words sliced him open.
She knew they would.
It was the whole fucking point.
-Maybe,- Ivy said, pretending to ponder, -I should get a toy. Something to help me out when I’m watching shows like this. Something a little… bigger than average.-
Every one of his muscles coiled so sharply he might’ve passed out.
Then she looked at him, finally, directly, cruelly, and gave the command.
-Go get me one.
Confusion and surprise struck his face; his disbelief must have been apparent for further clarification to be given.
-From Izuna or Shisui’s room,- Ivy explained. -They have… variety.-
Feral rage took over.
Shisui’s room was a no-man’s land. A battleground. A place he would never, ever, set foot in. Fury clenched so hard in his ribs that his vision darkened for a breath. That one cousin had always been the enemy, the arms she collapsed into whenever he failed. The mere thought of taking something from that room, from that man, from the fucking bastard who ruined his face for life, made him eager to place a weapon between Ivy's legs.
It was jealousy, and it was war.
It always would be.
But Ivy’s eyes softened into something mocking and devastatingly sweet. -Go. Bring me something I’ll like.-
He stood, not even a single moment of hesitation, no hint of his inner struggle.
Just raw, animal obedience.
Indra stepped into the hallway like a bomb on fragile legs, chest lifting and falling too fast, breath sharp and thin with terror at failing her. His feet never even pointed toward Shisui’s room. Instinct forbade it. Even Ivy wouldn’t try to drag him over that line.
He wouldn’t come back the same man.
So he turned.
Izuna’s door yawned open like the mouth of hell.
Chaos greeted him: clothes on the floor, things all over the place, half-open drawers full of vice and silicone. Indra froze for a half-second, stomach twisting at the idea of Ivy’s hands touching anything touched by another man.
Filth.
Contamination.
Not for her. Never for her.
Drawer after drawer, he examined, fingers sifting fast and efficiently.
Ivy’s preferences from a lifetime ago flickered through his mind with obsessive clarity; what she gasped for, what made her thighs tremble, what she used when he was gone on long-bloody nights and she didn’t want to sleep alone.
A memory struck him with unwelcome clarity.
Her terrified face, flushed with shame, on one of those first nights after they’d moved into the apartment Kaien gifted them, the place that would later witness their first true loss. Indra had opened a box and found her small collection of self-pleasure toys, and the image of her frozen there, caught and trembling, flashed bright behind his eyes.
Fear had been the first thing he recognized. Ivy, panicking that he’d assume their intimacy wasn’t enough, that she wasn’t satisfied, that the toys were some kind of indictment of him. And he, cruel, amused, had only smirked and told her to show him. Every detail. How she used each one, how she liked to touch herself, how she played with them. She did, voice breaking, tears slipping down her face, humiliation tangled with pleasure until she couldn’t tell one from the other.
Between drifting reminiscences and automatic movements, his eyes landed on the right one, pulling him back into reality.
A sleek black toy, thick at the base, smooth as glass. Almost identical to the one she kept in her nightstand beside their marital bed, in the mansion, years before she’d lost everything.
His hand tightened.
Too much neglect.
Too much Izuna.
Unacceptable.
He carried it to the bathroom with the precision of a soldier carrying a weapon.
Hot water. Soap. Rinse.
Soap again. Rinse.
Rinse. Rinse.
He stopped only when it gleamed like it had been forged anew for her alone. His fingers scrubbed it with affection both pathetic and divine, mind whispering with feverish intensity:
No filth touches my queen.
No other man’s presence, no other man’s dirt, nothing unworthy gets near her.
She deserves clean.
She deserves perfect.
She deserves better than me.
But she asked, so I will give her everything.
The toy dried in a fresh towel, white, untouched, chosen from the back of the cabinet where Izuna never reached.
He made his way back, pulse thundering at his bedroom door.
Was it the right choice? What if she didn't like it?
She was still lying there. In his sheets. In his air. In his past and future all at once. Reality TV blared in the background, moans and ocean waves and half-naked men filling the room with faux-heat.
What if his memory had failed him? What if Ivy hated it?
-Show me what you picked.
He placed it in her hands and knelt beside the bed without being told.
What if she kicked him out? What if he hadn't been able to fulfill such a fucking simple task? What if...
Her fingers curled around it. Her eyebrows lifted, impressed despite herself. -Nice choice.-
Relief shuddered through his entire body.
A pause. A smile. Cruel, slow, syrup-thick. -You remembered what I like,- Ivy murmured. -Of course you did.-
Indra nearly broke.
-And you cleaned it.- She sniffed it, amused. -Extensively.-
He lowered his gaze to the floor, chest heaving in silent confession.
-You always were good at serving me.
Indra trembled.
-Look at me.
He did.
-Good, sweet little boy,- Ivy purred. -Now, lie between my legs, don’t take your eyes off me, and don’t you dare move without my word. We don't want you to suffer any bad consequences, do we?-
Liquid pleasure ran through his veins at those words. His nod could have been described as desperate, pathetic, the complete opposite of what his figure and his name once represented, but he couldn't have cared less.
As he settled himself in between her legs, Indra felt suffocated by those green eyes, that soft skin, the golden highlights in her hair, the lack of color in her lips and cheeks, the mixture of gratification and pain, vengeance, in her voice.
Ivy.
Ivy Ivy Ivy.
His wife, his love, his Ivy.
Ivy’s satisfaction rolled through the room in slow, merciless waves.
Indra’s despair filled every inch of air left.
And somewhere between cruelty and adoration, between ruin and longing, the old gravity pulled taut between them again, twisted, toxic, irresistible.
Battlefield.
Love.
There was no such difference when her voice echoed again. -Come here. Between my legs, on your belly, no touching.-
Indra lowered himself into place, body stretched long across the bed, head resting level with Ivy’s knees. The position alone gutted him, not because of the closeness, but because of what it echoed. There had been a time when this same alignment meant warmth, laughter against his mouth, furious intimacy, Ivy’s fingers combing his hair or tugging at it.
Now the air tasted different.
Now every inch between them carried the weight of everything he’d ruined.
Ivy reclined against his pillows, one hand draped loosely at her side, the other taking the toy from his hand. She wasn’t grand about her authority; she simply existed in it. Calm. Decisive. Entirely settled in the seat he once filled.
-Undo my clothes.
No sharpness. No seduction. Just a directive.
His hands lifted, hesitant for the first time in years. He didn’t waver in conflict, didn’t hesitate when breaking bones or storming houses or carving his way through the world Kaien had thrown him into. But touching Ivy again, undoing Ivy, after everything… that was different.
His fingers brushed fabric. A memory flickered: her younger self laughing at how clumsy he was with buttons the first time they’d snuck away from a party. The way she’d kissed the corner of his mouth to hide her smile. How her breath had hitched when his hand found her waist.
He shook the remembrance off and focused on the present.
Clothing slid down her hips. The shape of her thighs caught the low light. His breath faltered before steadying into something thin and painful.
-Stay there. Just like that. Don’t move unless I tell you.
His lashes fluttered once, yes, and then he stilled, an animal caged by obedience, pulse thundering against the sheets.
Now he was the one trembling.
A low, broken-sounding breath escaped him as Ivy shifted above, entirely indifferent to the storm writhing under his skin. -You know,- she started conversationally, -my husband and I used to do ridiculous things in bed.-
Entirely transfixed, he observed how she toyed with herself, using the black vibrator with an almost obscene level of skill. She dragged it over her clit first, lips parted on a first moan, her free hand twisting in the sheets beside her hips. The scent of her arousal was thick in the air, musky and heady, and it only grew stronger as she worked the toy in slow, lazy circles.
Indra’s chest pressed into the mattress, ribs expanding against fabric that smelled faintly like him. Not the him she loved, that scent had faded long ago, but the man he became after.
Smoke. Cold air. Sleepless nights. Distance.
He stared at her pussy, the curve of her hip, the space his hands used to know without instruction. And in that space, reflection rose sharp and unwelcome.
You used to touch her without thinking.
You used to be allowed.
You were the one she called home.
The vibrator dipped lower, parting her folds, slick from her earlier attentions, and she worked the tip of it just barely inside her entrance, teasing herself with it almost lazily, tilting her hips to rub her clit against the flared base.
Fingers curled hard into the sheets, knuckles whitening, yet he stayed perfectly still, breathing harshly, unwilling to risk a single movement that might make her stop.
-He was wild,- she moaned, moving her hips to feel the toy exactly where she wanted it. -Electric. Completely obsessed with me. Every night felt like the world was ending in the best way.-
Her tone, besides the heat, was airy, almost dreamy, the kind someone uses when they speak of a great love long gone.
Except the great love was him. And she refused to acknowledge it.
-He used to touch me like I was the only warm thing in the world,- Ivy whispered, a cruel smile touching her mouth. -And God, the fire we had… It was unreal.-
Ivy breathed slowly, sensually, pleasuring herself with the quiet awareness of someone who understands the room shifts around her, not the other way around.
-He’d do anything I asked. Anything at all.
Her gaze found him, even, assessing, almost curious. There was heat in it, nostalgia, a woman taking measure of the man who once held her together and tore her apart in equal measure.
The toy slipped inside Ivy’s dripping entrance, marked by uncontrolled moaning and the activation of its vibrations, the first speed aiding it to the deepest part of her pussy. Indra’s reaction was immediate and violent in its restraint: eyes darkening to near black, the tendons in his neck standing out as he forced himself to stay leashed, controlled.
His entire body went taut, muscles coiling and trembling, a predator ready to strike, held back by nothing more than the thread of her will. The effort of holding himself together showed plainly in the rigid set of his jaw, in the sharp, uneven hitch of his inhale as his nostrils flared and he dragged in a shuddering breath.
-I think about it way too much,- Ivy groaned, sliding the toy in and out. -How fierce he was. How he couldn’t keep his hands off me. How he’d lose his mind just being this close.-
Her calves brushed his shoulders, an absent gesture.
Like he wasn’t there.
Like he wasn’t breaking apart under every word.
The wet, obscene squelch of the toy leaving her made every muscle in his body lock hard enough to hurt. Ivy seemed to feel his surrender, the superhuman effort it took not to get up and fuck her the way he would have years ago.
Her lips curled into a smug, wicked little smirk as she dragged the vibrator away from her cunt, her free hand gliding over the sweat-slick planes of her stomach, her inner thighs, touching everywhere except where she needed it most.
Delaying her own pleasure was the best form of torture. -He loved me with this… terrifying loyalty,- she went on. -Like he was starving. Like I was the only thing that kept him alive.-
Indra’s cock twitched helplessly against the mattress, a raw, animal sound trapped somewhere behind clenched teeth. And she heard it, fuck, she fucking heard it.
A sound, torn from his damn mute throat, the first she’d heard from him since they’d met again. Low and animalistic, but sound nonetheless, provoked by the pure and unfiltered desire to have her, fuck her, bury himself inside as if nothing had happened.
Revenge or no revenge, it was still a victory.
She thumbed through the toy’s settings, dropping to a low, teasing purr that had her hips shifting in restless anticipation against the unforgiving grip of her other hand. Ivy teased herself mercilessly, working the vibrator in slow, shallow thrusts until it barely slipped inside, until only the tip stretched her open around it, and he ached for her, down to the very marrow of his bones.
Indra’s entire body shuddered once.
The room pulsed with the memory of everything he had been to her, everything he had destroyed, everything he still wanted to give her even now with nothing left of himself to offer.
-You remember him, don’t you?- The smile that appeared was soft and lethal. -My husband? Remember when this, us, meant something else?-
His lips parted, yet as per usual, no sound came.
Of course he remembered. He remembered the mornings when she’d tug him between her legs just to kiss his forehead, when she’d whisper that he smelled like home and safety. He remembered Raizen kicking inside her while he rested his head exactly where it was now. He remembered thinking he’d never lose this, never break something so soft.
And then he remembered the beach.
He shut his eyes for half a heartbeat.
-Open them,- Ivy whispered.
He obeyed instantly. Too fast.
Something in her softened for the briefest second, sympathy but not forgiveness, more like recognition that the boy she fell for was still buried somewhere inside the man she refused to touch. Her voice softened into something devastating. -Good job, love. Keep it up, I’m close.-
He watched intently, fully present, as her hand controlled the toy just how she wanted, pressing her clit furiously while fucking herself with the elongated part. It was a work of art, the way her body flushed, her neck and cheeks, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead, her face contorted in a pleasure he knew from beginning to end.
Ivy’s body broke open in a soundless cry.
She came undone on the sheets, in his place, his territory.
Even as the tremors rippled through her, even as her pulse beat hard, he didn’t move, still obeying. The sight, the scent, the soft wet sounds of her ecstasy tore at the animal in him, the part that once would’ve taken her without thinking: rutting, claiming, leaving nothing untouched.
But he held. He held because his queen willed it.
The vibrator slipped from her oversensitive nerves, landing weakly on the mattress. A message louder than anything she could have said aloud: “This is my bed. I do what I want with it. I ruin it how I please. I use it how I choose.”
His breath came harsh through flared nostrils, chest rising in tight, controlled pulls, his eyes never leaving her face. He was a captive audience, and a willing one, waiting for her next command, whatever shape it chose to take.
-You’re shaking, love.
He was, and not with fear, not lust, but something rawer: a body remembering warmth while being denied it. A mind dragging itself across memories that tasted different now that he knew what he’d turned them into.
-You used to be unstoppable,- Ivy murmured. -You’d walk through hell and come home to me in one piece. Now look at you.-
He wanted to look away. Reflex. Shame-tangled reflex.
-Don’t.
So he didn’t.
His gaze stayed fixed on her, lips pressed tight, breath coming small and ragged. Ivy watched the struggle unfold in the subtle tension of his shoulders, the way he bit back every impulse: to touch, to reach, to claim, to take, all the things that belonged to the man he used to be, not the one lying here now, pinned by her precision.
A moment passed, quiet, suspended.
-I’m letting you be close,- Ivy said. -Not for your sake. For mine.-
It hit him harder than any punishment she could have crafted.
Not mercy. Not cruelty.
Truth.
She wanted him near because power tasted different up close. Because the wound between them still pulsed. Because distance was easier to survive than closeness, but closeness was what hurt them, and that was the fucking point.
Was it?
And Indra, wild with need, cracked down the center, starved for every scrap of her attention, stayed perfectly, painfully still.
-When I feel like it again, I’ll come looking for you. If you cross a line, touch me without permission, or try anything I don’t approve of, we’re done. Behave, and we’ll see where this goes.
She rose with the calm, effortless grace of a queen, swinging her legs over his body before gathering her clothes. -You did a wonderful job.- Ivy pressed a brief kiss to his hair, a seal, a warning, a reward, and left him alone in the room.
Clicker Training Commission (Uchiha Tajima / male reader)
AO3
After a busy day, all Tajima wants to do is play with his pet.
Male (y/n).
An adorable and kinky commission for @pebble-bastard-child someone who always comes up with wonderful and innovative ideas for me to play with and have fun!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Remember that if you’d like to commission me, you can do it through Ko-Fi, by sending me a private message here on Tumblr, or by emailing me at [email protected]. Your support means the world to me. Thank you for helping me monetize my art!!!
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Kneeling at Tajima’s feet, (y/n) rested in that quiet posture that always soothed something deep in his chest. Warm lamplight gilded the sharp lines of the Uchiha leader's face as he settled back in his favorite chair, gaze fixed on his lover before him, with a reverence few ever earned.
A long exhale broke the hush. -Work dragged past its limits again,- he muttered, voice low and edged with irritation. -Endless meetings. Requests piling higher than any sane man tolerates. Every room had someone waiting: questions, complaints, pointless chatter.- His hand passed over his eyes, almost weary. -Hours upon hours of nonsense.-
Another breath, this one heavier.
-Yet this,- he quietly said, eyes landing on (y/n) again, -finally feels like relief.-
That intense stare softened just a fraction, though his composure still held its usual dominance. Fingers brushed the armrest, slow and thoughtful, as though deciding where to begin unwinding the strained tension of the day.
-I come home craving silence and loyalty,- Tajima went on, tone warming in contrast to the cold annoyance in earlier words. -Craving something dependable.- His foot nudged lightly under (y/n)’s knee, an affectionate signal masked beneath authority. -Something steady. Someone who knows how to ease me out of that mess.-
A quiet click followed, soft, deliberate, produced by a small device in his hand. (Y/n)’s posture lifted in an instinctive show of attentiveness, a subtle offering shaped by training and eagerness, just like a prepared pet should react to its owner giving a command.
A faint curl touched the corner of Tajima’s mouth. -Good boy,- slipped out almost as an exhale, both praise and claim, yet heavier than both.
(Y/n)’s shoulders relaxed at the sound, barely perceptible, but enough for Tajima’s expression to sharpen with satisfaction.
-My day was a storm,- he continued, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. -Hours of irritation. Too much noise. Too much disrespect.- His fingers toyed with the clicker, turning it over, passing it from hand to hand, studying it with a false curiosity. As though he hadn’t spent weeks using it on (y/n), shaping the perfect response to every sound, every action, every unspoken desire that crossed Tajima’s mind. -So now I want calm. Obedience. A place to rest my mind.-
Another gentle click.
A hum of approval followed when (y/n) lifted his gaze to meet his, compliant and unwavering.
No matter how difficult it was for his boy to hold that stare, he always moved in tune with the clicker’s rhythm, never missing a single sound, never faltering. Each sharp note carried its promise of reward, and the pull of that conditioned pleasure guided (y/n)’s mind without resistance, like a current too deep to fight.
-That’s it,- Tajima murmured, gaze tracing the submissive posture without a single touch. -Already making it easier for me to breathe.-
(Y/n) had been docile from the beginning, pliant and eager, and there was a quiet, exquisite satisfaction in watching each trained reaction unfold flawlessly: precise, immediate, and obedient. It was a small symphony of control, every click a note, every response a proof of how completely Tajima’s will had taken root.
The silence between them stretched tight until the clicker sounded again, two quick, precise notes. The command needed no words. (Y/n) moved at once, fingers steady as they brushed against the fabric at Tajima’s waist, easing it down with deliberate care. Every movement was measured, the pace unhurried, as though the act itself required reverence.
Cool air met heat, and the Uchiha leader groaned, the awareness of his own cock vivid against the space between them, half-hard and begging to be touched..
A softer click followed. (Y/n)’s eyes lifted, lashes low, mouth poised a breath away. The nearness, the stillness, both of them suspended in it, drew something taut inside Tajima. The boy’s obedience was visible in the way he waited, in the way he breathed only when permitted.
-Perfect, you are,- his words were filled with heat, slipping out before thought could shape them. His voice sounded rougher than he meant, his restraint thin around the edges. -You want this, don’t you? To please me. To let everything else fall away.-
Another click, barely audible, and (y/n) responded with perfect precision.
A fleeting touch, both lips ghosting over the base, a kiss more promise than act, and Tajima’s composure wavered. His hand found its place in (y/n)’s hair, steady but sure, guiding rather than forcing. -There you go,- he said, voice low, as though coaxing rather than commanding.
The rhythm built in quiet increments, the air loaded not with sound but with motion: the subtle shift of breath, the muted drag of heat and skin, the cadence of compliance. Tajima’s grip tightened, not in dominance but in wordless approval. -You learn so well,- his thumb traced circles behind (y/n)’s ear. -Every sound, every cue… you hear them all.-
A triple click, clear and insistent, carried the next command.
(Y/n) followed seamlessly. He held Tajima’s dick with one hand and plunged his mouth onto it, all the way to the base, enough pleasure to make the rest of his cock harden. The sensation drew a low sound from his chest, rough and unguarded, feral.
For a moment, all sense of control dissolved into the simple pulse of feeling, the steady rhythm that blurred thinking and will alike.That closed mouth on his most sensitive skin, its warmth, its moisture, was a perfect alchemy of sensation, enough to erase every trace of the day’s fatigue. Tajima’s focus narrowed to that feeling alone: the drag, the slide, the steady suction. Pleasure coiled in his gut, winding tighter with every second.
He had thought, once, that control meant distance, that to keep mastery over another’s body, he had to remain untouched himself. But nights like this had proven him wrong. There was a strange intimacy in the precision of command, in knowing exactly how to draw a response, how to guide every motion without words. The sound of his own breathing filled the quiet between clicks, steady and deliberate, mirroring (y/n)’s obedience.
It wasn’t power that thrilled him, but the connection, two rhythms merging into one.
He clicked twice, short, deliberate bursts, and (y/n) followed, shifting lower. His tongue dipped down to trace the tender spot just beneath the head of Tajima’s cock, rubbing and lapping in slow, practiced little circles.
Tajima watched, his mind quiet in a way it never was outside this room.
The day’s chaos, the endless stream of demands and noise, fell away until there was only this: the muted gleam of light against (y/n)’s hair, the faint rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. Every detail leveled him. Every movement reminded him of how long it had taken to build this level of trust.
The clicker wasn’t a tool anymore; it was language, one that only the two of them could understand.
A low groan rumbled out of Tajima’s chest. Every muscle begged him to thrust forward, to chase the feeling, but no. This… this measured, painstaking rhythm, this control over every flick of tongue and breath, was worth more than any raw, mindless release could ever be.
He could feel the tremor of restraint running through him, but beneath it was pride. (Y/n)’s focus never wavered; even blind to everything but sound and command, he moved with a confidence that only came from devotion and repetition. Tajima had shaped that discipline, refined it until obedience became art. And now, watching it unfold, he felt something almost reverent bloom in his chest: something too deep, too fragile to name.
Another single click, sharp, staccato, and (y/n) descended further. His tongue trailed over Tajima’s balls, bathing them in heat and slickness before gliding even lower, pressing to the smooth skin of his perineum.
The Uchiha’s leader eyes fluttered closed. His mind drifted to all the small details that had brought them here: the early hesitations, the quiet reassurances, the endless patience it took to turn instinct into precision. It wasn’t about ownership anymore; it was trust, laid bare.
Every motion (y/n) made carried the echo of that shared history.
His head fell back against the chair, eyes half-lidded in awe. Nothing compared to this, to watching (y/n) serve him so completely, so willingly.
To know every movement had been trained, refined, perfected under his hand.
A warmth that had nothing to do with touch spread through him, a mixture of pride and tenderness. He wasn’t sure when admiration had blurred into something deeper, when the sight of obedience had started to feel like devotion mirrored back at him. But now, seeing (y/n) move with such ease, such certainty, Tajima knew he’d never find this kind of perfection anywhere else.
-That’s… that’s it,- he managed, voice rough, frayed around the edges. -Such a fucking good job.- The words dissolved into a guttural sound as his hips gave a shallow, involuntary jerk.
(Y/n) adapted instantly, flowing with the movement like water. His tongue never left his skin, every breath perfectly timed, his obedience forming the surface on which Tajima’s pleasure painted itself again and again.
The clicker was still between his fingers, its smooth weight grounding him. He thought of how far they’d both come to reach this quiet wordlessness, where sound alone carried intent, where trust replaced speech. The space between clicks was filled with something almost sacred, a current of understanding that ran deeper than desire.
A rapid triple click split the quiet, sharp, commanding. Tajima couldn’t hold back.
(Y/n) responded without hesitation, taking one of his balls into his mouth, suckling softly while his tongue traced lazy shapes across the skin.
The sound that tore from Tajima’s throat was half-groan, half-moan. His thighs fell open, trembling under the strain of restraint, but (y/n) didn’t waver. He held Tajima’s pleasure in steady, capable hands, keeping them both balanced on the knife’s edge of release.
Every breath, every faint tremor between them was a dialogue, one built not from words but from presence. Tajima’s chest ached with it, that overwhelming mixture of need and admiration. To be seen this completely, to have someone meet his precision with devotion… it was almost too much to bear.
-Soon,- he breathed, brushing trembling fingers against (y/n)’s cheek. -Soon, you can have it. You can have everything.- His thumb dragged across (y/n)’s lower lip, pressing just enough to feel how his tongue worked over skin. -You’ve earned it. So good. My… beautiful, pretty boy.-
But even as the words left his lips, he knew he couldn’t give in, not yet.
With an effort that bordered on physical pain, he forced himself to click the trainer in his hand five times, the signal for (y/n) to stop entirely. The younger man obeyed instantly, pulling back and sitting up on his knees.
The Uchiha leader steadied his breathing. The urge to reach out, to grant what was begged for, was sharp and immediate, but he held back. Discipline came first. Each withheld touch was a lesson, not in denial, but in meaning. He wanted (y/n) to know that every reward was earned, that obedience didn’t go unseen.
Even though he almost whimpered at the loss of that soft mouth, his cock angrily throbbing in the cool air, a silent demand for more, more, more, Tajima knew this was necessary.
Vital.
For a moment, he simply observed his boy. The rise and fall of (y/n)’s chest, the slight tremor in his arms as he steadied himself, the way compliance looked on him: quiet, proud, complete.
Every click of the trainer was a promise kept, a language they’d built from patience and trust. He reminded himself that this was why restraint mattered: because his touch meant something only when it was earned.
Watching (y/n) kneel there, still and waiting, stirred something quieter in him. This was what trust looked like: the willingness to stop without question, to believe that restriction had purpose.
Tajima’s chest ached with muted fulfillment; his boy had learned that touch wasn’t automatic. It was deliberate, a language of approval written in skin.
-Over on your back,- he directed, voice hoarse and thick, guiding (y/n) down until the younger man was laid flat on the floor, legs up and pressed together. -There you go…- he coaxed, the words barely more than breath.
The Uchiha took a steadying drag of air, tracing a hand down (y/n)’s thigh before moving. His boy followed every word, every hint of motion, like a compass locked on north. He had seen many kinds of obedience before, cold, mechanical, but this wasn’t that. This was a willful surrender, offered, not taken. The sight of it filled him with a fierce kind of gratitude, almost reverent.
Guiding him to the correct position, Tajima reminded himself of the rule he’d made long ago: affection meant nothing if given carelessly. His hand followed the shape of his boy’s hips: to place him, to adjust him, it was an act of recognition.
This was (y/n)’s reward: not pleasure for its own sake, but the confirmation that he had done well, that he had been seen.
Kneeling over (y/n)’s prone form, he slotted his dick between the other’s legs, the soft skin of those beautiful and tender inner thighs closing tight around his neglected cock. He hissed at the sudden shock of sensation, head tipping back, one hand gripping tight to (y/n)’s upraised knee, both feet resting over his shoulders.
He stayed there for a beat, eyes fixed on the younger man’s face. There was no fear, only trust, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow, waiting. Tajima felt the weight of that confidence settle over him like a mantle. To touch him was no small thing; it was the culmination of hours of work, patience, and understanding.
(Y/n)’s reward was not just the warmth of Tajima’s touch and attention, but the quiet certainty that he had earned it.
The Uchiha lingered, letting the moment stretch. Between them, the room was thick with understanding, unspoken but solid affirmation floating through the air. Tajima thought of every session before this, each mistake corrected, each boundary tested, and how far they had come.
Touching was a privilege for them both, earned through effort and restraint
Once his cock was burried between (y/n)’s thighs, he began to move, shallow rolls of his hips, just enough friction to drag a moan from both of them.
It was an almost-mockery of fucking, open and raw, slick and hot and perfect.
Between each motion, Tajima found himself studying the lines of (y/n)’s body: the tension beneath his skin, the way his fingers flexed and relaxed with each shift.
Every small reaction told him something, not about pleasure, but about trust, about how far he could push before breaking it. He realized then that what he offered wasn’t simply touch; it was permission to let go, to feel safe even in the unraveling.
Even as rhythm took over, part of him stayed detached, observant.
This was the balance he’d learned to hold, to feel, but not lose himself. Every measured motion was its own kind of praise, a silent way of saying “you did well”.
Tajima gave what he wanted, knowing that his attention was the real gift.
-Fuck… you love it, don’t you?,- Tajima rasped, hips stuttering into a jagged rhythm. -Yeah, you love it… perfect little slut, so good for me, so fucking precious…- The words dissolved into a wrecked whine as his thrusts picked up speed and force, the tightness of (y/n)’s thighs around him almost unbearable.
He didn’t hear his own voice anymore. It was all instinct now, a blur of sound and breath, but even then, part of him stayed aware; the part that always watched, always guarded. He’d promised himself that control meant care, that no matter how far they went, he would never stop seeing the boy beneath him. The thought steadied him, even as his pulse thundered in his ears.
He had learned to read the difference between desperation and surrender. The way (y/n)’s body moved now wasn’t begging for release; it was yielding to reward, accepting what was given without reaching for more. The boy wasn’t seeking his own end, only intent on making sure Tajima had it all, every ounce of effort, every bit of pleasure. Tajima felt the weight of that, the sacredness of permission granted after patience held.
(Y/n)’s hands scrabbled at the floor, beyond words, beyond thought, only able to lie there and take it, body moving instinctively, hips jerking in tiny, helpless motions that denied him any real relief, helping the Uchiha's cock slide rapidly against his skin, moaning with abandon.
Every click, every motion, had built to this. Tajima wanted to tell him that, to put it into words, but all that came out were broken sounds and feral groans. So he let his hands speak instead, steady, grounding, reverent, reminders that he was there, that this was shared. With firm, precise touches, he played with his boy’s most sensitive parts, knowing that the stimulation would be enough to push him over the edge without much effort.
Without losing the rhythm of his hips, he wrapped one hand around (y/n)'s cock, sliding his thumb over the head, playing with the hole, then sliding down, applying pressure at the base. The boy arched his back off the floor, a shameless moan hitting the walls, eyes fixed on Tajima's.
It was implied that if visual contact were to be lost, the consequences would be frustrating, to say the least.
Looking down at him, Tajima’s thoughts softened. This was the moment he worked towards. He felt gratitude settle in his chest, pleasure about to explode in between his legs. His touch had become something more than control; it was acknowledgment, a wordless “you’ve earned this”. His climax was roaring, barreling down his spine and settling deep in his gut. His thrusts faltered, erratic, graceless. He clicked the trainer once, twice, three times, the signal for (y/n) to let his thighs fall open, to bare himself completely to his lover’s final command.
-Come for me… (y/n)... show me what a good boy you are…- He ordered.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled. The world seemed to contract to the space between them, the sound of their breathing, the heat of skin against skin, the echo of faith that hummed through every nerve. Tajima closed his eyes, letting it wash over him, the quiet certainty that he had given something back.
Not dominance, not control, but care, plain and wordless.
They surrendered together, the moment spilling over into one shared release that marked (y/n)’s belly and chest like a canvas painted in satisfaction and affection, an unspoken expression of everything between them.
Tajima didn’t care about completion or relief; his focus was on the way (y/n) stayed open and unguarded. He brushed his thumb along his jaw, not as command but affirmation, reassurance, approval.
The lesson was finished, the reward given; a circle closed with patience and care.
Old times, a circus troupe, the whole family making special appearances as performers, and Belisse, lost in the midst of the circus chaos. Part 1 of this commission, featuring in the future: Indra, Ivy, Uri, Madara, Obito, Shisui, Raizen, Ame, and others.
2000 Word Commission (Uchiha Obito / Fem Reader) @moroseu
"Alrighty for this one imma let you pick between Madara or Obito since you write both of them so well 🥹💗 If you could write in a modern AU about ex-lovers reconnecting online? He accidentally likes an old risque photo of reader during a work break and she notices immediately because she misses him too. Which leads into some spicy texts or phone call👀"
You know I had to choose Obito for this commission because which Uchiha is more capable of liking something unintentionally?!!?!?!!?
Also, thank you so much to beautiful Roseu for always supporting my work, highly grateful to my darling🙌🏻💕🛐💫
EACH COMMISSION COMES WITH AN EXTRA SECRET SCENARIO, THAT I UNIQUELY AND ESPECIALLY ADD FOR THE BUYER. (I'll leave you an example of it at the bottom, but in Spanish, so you don't cheat.)
KO-FI COMMISSIONS
His mind is fried as he opens Instagram without even thinking about it, headphones still in place and microphone ready for when the client finishes her word marathon. Uncle Madara usually makes fun of Obito and his job, saying it's just a stupid call center and his labor is way too simple, so easy he could do it without paying attention, yet he doesn't have a clue.
He has been on the phone for about an hour with Mrs. Maria Rodriguez, trying to explain why her online banking is blocked, asking for verification of certain suspicious transactions, struggling to read some legal disclosures without being interrupted. The lady, in her eighties and as lucid as a mad goat, talks on and on, ignoring all Obito's requests for time to explain himself.
He holds a Monster in his hand, the only source of strength in these times of labor adversities.
Personally, he believes that people this old should not have access to these types of lines without a family member by their side to assist, with the personified example on the phone and not being able to do anything about it. The lady speaks a mixture of broken English and fluent Spanish, mixing dialects and mistranslations into a jumble of incomprehensible sentences.
He has been staring at his computer screen for an hour with his microphone muted, tired of fighting Mrs. Rodriguez's compelling need to recount all of her family's wanderings, what she did today, what she bought yesterday, what medicines she needs refills for. The Uchiha abandoned the urge to fight against his rambling client some time ago, determined to end the call as airily as possible.
He evaluated the possibility of dropping his connection several times, fed up with being unable to follow her lead or explain the reasons for the blockages in her account, exercising all his patience on the first call of his shift. He has about seven more hours of torture ahead of him, and no idea how the day is going to end after starting out like this.
As Maria continues to babble on about how her granddaughter started school and explains she ran out of Atorvastatin for her heart problems, Obito gives up and grabs his cell phone, leaving Instagram open just to bring some comfort to his visual. He's tired of seeing Mrs. Rodriguez's account on his screen, and can't seem to get out of that situation anytime soon.
He would jump into watching TikToks, but it causes him terrible frustration having to binge them without sound, choosing muted stories as his quality poison. He can't forego the possibility of finally needing to use his microphone as soon as the client stops mumbling, simply staring at the photos people ephemerally upload.
His heart catches in his throat when he sees Shisui's story, and almost chokes on the shot of Monster he takes at that exact moment. Had he had the microphone open, Mrs. Rodriguez probably would have spent another hour telling him to watch out and be careful, to drink some water.
It's not because of Shisui himself, but because of who is posing with him in the story. (Y/N), his ex, beautiful and stunning as always, looks at him from the other side of the screen with a wonderful expression, huge smile, and looking genuinely joyful. They both model in front of a sculpture in a museum, and Obito should have assumed he would eventually come across some hint of her on his social media.
He never unfollowed her, but preferred to restrict her stories so as not to suffer whenever seeing her dating someone else, knowing that a girl as stunning as (Y/N) would not take long to find someone. She and Shisui, co-workers at his uncle's company, always had a pleasant friendly relationship, true work besties.
He is not surprised to see them together, nor does he suspect his cousin is betraying him in any way, but coming face to face with her after months of grieving is shocking. Mrs. Rodriguez brings him out of his stupor by asking him a question he fails to catch, only being aware of it by the sudden silence in the line.
He hastily opens his microphone, unwilling to lose his job and have to beg Madara to employ him, and speaks as professionally as he can muster, "Mrs. Rodriguez, as I told you a couple of times, this is Obito with Wealth Fargu, online fraud assistance trying to verify a transaction for an amount of 273.45 cents made through Zelle. Can you confirm the legitimacy of it or are you unfamiliar with the charge?"
"Ohhhh, it was probably mi hija, trying to purchesear something because it turns out..." Another huge trail of words he's not willing to hear, ringing on the other end of his headphones for approximately 45 minutes. Maria goes back to addressing her pointless monologue as the Uchiha decides to pop into (Y/N)'s profile, pressing the @ that Shisui left in his story, and see what life has thrown at her.
Their separation was neither traumatic nor terrible, two adults agreeing it was not the right time to face anything serious, let alone a relationship like the one they were in, taking the most responsible decision and opting to walk away. There are no grudges or quarrels, just words stuck on the tongue and many "I love you" to be said.
Obito scrolls through her profile, reaching the time limit where the two stopped talking and seeing each other, and clicks on the first picture. Dazzling as always, (Y/N) poses in a bikini on the beach, body sculpted by the world's most lustful gods, curves to die for, tanned to the perfect point.
He can't deny the feelings his friend downstairs feels as he admires the details of the photo, putting his Monster down on his desk and resting his phone on it as well, trying not to make mistakes and unintentionally like it. He looks at the screen from afar, with Mrs. Rodriguez in the background as she continues to tell him about her daughter, and can't help a circulation of beautiful memories in his mind.
"OBITO! MY BOY! ARE YOU THERE?!" Maria shouts on the other end of his line, startling him so much that Uchiha brings his hands to the keyboard out of instinct. The second his arm twitches in panic, he ends up inadvertently pressing against the phone screen, giving a like to the most suggestive photo he could have found on (Y/N)'s profile.
"YES, HERE I AM! DO YOU RECOGNIZE THE TRANSFER AND THE AMOUNT?!" he shouts out of sheer panic at his customer, while internally wanting to die at the sight of the phone. That red heart, lit up at the base of the screen, hunting him as if it wanted to eat him alive.
"Yes, yes, it was my daughter." Obito doesn't have the strength to answer as he should, opting to reestablish Mrs. Rodriguez's access to her online banking without the system's regulatory checks, needing to cut the call and breathe. He doesn't even say goodbye before letting go of the line, and remains transfixed staring at his computer screen.
He locks the cell phone without moving his eyes, refusing to look at it, knowing there is no way to retract the notification that has probably already arrived on his ex's device. He tosses it onto his bed, located just behind the desk he uses for work, determined to feign nonchalance in the remaining hours of his shift.
...
The clock strikes five o'clock, time for the Uchiha to finally log off, shutting down the system he uses on his computer and heading to bed. It's a Friday without much to do, having turned down some invitations to go out to stay at home and relax, but he begins to evaluate the possibility of accepting some of the proposals just to get drunk and forget his little mistake.
Of course, for that, he has to go through looking at his mobile phone, which is an impossible task.
He turns the device over on the mattress, having landed on the screen, and lies down next to it. iPhone pointing towards the ceiling, he looks at it from the side, unable to read the notifications that came in or to know if there were any repercussions for his action.
He types in his security code by heart, keeping his face out of the camera, and is thankful to always have it on mute to avoid knowing what happened during all the hours he ignored it. When he accesses his messages, however, everything becomes complicated.
He can't make out names or pictures at the angle he tries to look at the phone, and doing his best to try and open his family's group chat, he ends up getting into one that leaves his heart in his throat again.
"Hey there :)" He reads the harmless text his ex sent him, and has no idea how to react. Having already inadvertently left her on read, he has no choice but to reply, a little excited and nervous.
"Hi :), what's up?" With a smiley face? No smiley face? More formal? Less informal? Resentful? Cheerful? He has no idea how to set the tone of his message, conflicted about how to react after so many months of no contact with her. How should one behave when your beautiful ex texts you again?
His message is instantly read, which means (Y/N) is inside the chat. She sends another calm, casual reply, and the two of them fall into the well-known chatting dance, catching up as if nothing happened.
Obito learns he misses her madly when she sends a picture of her smiling face, always so pretty and perfect, the most beautiful woman in the world to his eyes. Feelings of nostalgia and love intermingle in an emotional mess, tying a knot in his chest he decides to ignore.
After all, he still loves her fiercely.
He responds to the photo with one of his own, having taken about ten minutes to define the angle and try to look as cute as he can. Disheveled after a long day at work, his ex replies with a similar picture, but a little more daring.
She, on the bed, wearing shorts too small and revealing half of her buttocks, only a fragment of her face in the shot. She is clearly shooting where she wants the attention to go, and the Uchiha is not going to object to that. (Y/N's) body is still as ravishingly gorgeous as he remembers, smooth skin he can identify even through the screen, an angel personified on earth.
Not intending to ruin the reunion, mixed feelings between his legs as well, he follows the tone of her photo with a slightly more provocative one. He, in the mirror, shirtless and revealing the V marked at the end of his abdomen by stretching the waistband of his pants down.
The tone quickly rises on both sides, both parties engaged in a back and forth of increasingly explicit photos, and soon, Obito finds himself with a hand inside his pants, touching himself without remorse. According to the videos he now receives, (Y/N) seems to follow him in body and soul, showing as she satisfies herself with a pink toy vibrating on her clit.
She had no possession of such an object before it all ended, and he feels even more aroused at the possibility of her not having been with anyone for months. Of course, there would be nothing wrong with the opposite case, but a toxic part of him is happy about that fact.
(Y/N) moans into her phone with anticipation, and before he can reply with a video of his own, he receives a video call. He doesn't take a second to answer it, being greeted with an "I miss you" between moans and ragged breaths, his ex's legs spread wide open as she touches herself with that toy of hers.
"I need you, (Y/N), I fucking miss you too" he moans in response, ceasing his touch to articulate coherent words and then resuming his self-inflicted caresses. They both share the moment, separated by distance but together in virtuality, fucking each other from afar yet close at the same time.
"You... sho-ould come! Here... I-I mean, come here!" It kills him the effort she makes to communicate what she needs, and he can imagine the familiar look of pleasure she must have plastered on her features, the one he appreciated countless times beneath his own body.
"Now?"
"Fuck yes-s, come, please!" Obito doesn't need a second invitation, quickly cutting off the call and typing an "on my way, don't cum" into their chat as he pulls on a jumpsuit with no need for a t-shirt underneath, sneakers, and runs out of his apartment with his car keys ready in hand.
2000 Word Commission (Uchiha Madara / Fem Reader)
@ moroseu
"I just wanted a short and sweet scenario of Madara finding out reader is an artist. (She kept it hidden mostly out of shyness or embarrassment) Madara flips through her sketchbook and it’s just a bunch of portraits of him funnily enough."
EACH COMMISSION COMES WITH AN EXTRA SECRET SCENARIO, THAT I UNIQUELY AND ESPECIALLY ADD FOR THE BUYER. (I'll leave you an example of it at the bottom, but in Spanish, so you don't cheat.)
KO-FI COMMISSIONS
I hope you enjoy it Roseu, and thank you very much for trusting me!
Madara searches and searches but cannot find it, and he knows Hashirama will forgive his absentmindedness, but Tobirama will not. If he wants to survive today's meeting with the Senju brothers, he must find that copy of the peace treaty he was supposed to write.
He rummages through his office and knows there is no point in searching his desk in the Hokage's tower, only because he already did so yesterday, desperate and dreading this morning's arrival. The Uchiha counts the hours he has left before facing the albino in a death match for having lost something so important and mentally prepares to justify himself.
What can he say about it? Life is so stressful I lost sight of it? I probably forgot it somewhere, where everyone can access it, and I don't even remember where it is? Maybe it fell into Izuna's careless hands, and who knows where it ended up?
Any excuse, no matter how stupid, will work to buy off the Hokage, but with his brother, it's a different story. He can already taste the repertoire of insults Tobirama will hurl at him, those dirty looks that will fill him with anger, and the urge to battle him like it's war all over again.
He decides there is no way of maintaining his mental health today if he can't find the damn document, and frantically rummages through all the drawers of his desk, one by one. Papers fly through the air, feathers, and ink spilled on the beautiful wood of his furniture, falling and staining the floor.
He worked hard for the paper to be politically perfect, without any terms or words that could ignite it’s recipients' ire, sentences idyllically conjugated and devoid of any errors, fool-proof. Of course, not himself-proof.
Madara runs his hands through his hair, tugging and trying to pull ideas from possible hiding places through the pain. He tightly clenches his teeth to keep himself from screaming, but the clock shows he doesn't have much time left.
In a desperate attempt, he turns to his room, shuffling through all his clothes and throwing garments everywhere. Soon, the place becomes a mess, with the bed unmade moved from place to place, clothing strewn all over the floor, and drawers opened and dismantled. All his personal belongings are left in plain sight, including jewelry and valuables, but the treaty is still missing.
The Uchiha sits up in bed, angry and frustrated, and starts punching pillows only to avoid lunging at the walls and tearing a hole in it, yet breaking the bed’s foundation along the way.
Soon, the whole scene looks like a battlefield, as if someone had broken in and tried to steal, searching for goodies and destroying everything in their path. Of course, Madara had the courtesy not to touch his wife's side, leaving her clothes and belongings where they always are, without moving or disturbing the order (Y/N) maintains of her things.
Her closet had not been opened or searched, her clothes were intact, and her jewelry as well. It was only his side of the room that seemed to have been broken into.
In the midst of the chaos and the beating of his poor pillow, a voice catches his attention from the bedroom door. "Aniki what the fuck happened here...?" Izuna asks without surprise, used to his older brother's fits of rage and the imperious need he has to break, hit, hurt.
As if enlightened by the god Indra himself, he feels hope, deeply counting on his younger brother to have some idea where said document may have gone. Madara’s eyes are bloodshot, he has a vein standing out profusely in the middle of his forehead, and he holds his poor pillow as if it were a person he is trying to suffocate.
When Izuna looks at him, he seems about to pounce and eat him alive. He feels like a Senju in wartime, taken as a target by the worst Uchiha of all.
Hoping whatever is happening to his older brother won't stop him from remembering they're family and he shouldn't kill his Otouto, he asks uncertainly, "Any explanation for this? We're all grown up now, Madara. Didn't all dad’s scolding help you with any-"
"WHERE IS IT?!"
Maybe Izuna was the one who took it from Madara's office, to read and analyze it. Maybe he found it lying somewhere in the house, keeping it out of concern for the importance of such a paper. Perhaps he took the liberty of putting it under lock and key, being aware of the monumental event unfolding on that sheet.
"What the fuck are you talking about! You're honestly scaring me, maybe it's better if I call Hash-"
"NO! ARE YOU CRAZY?! JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU PUT IT!"
"WHERE I PUT WHAT?!"
"THE TREATY!"
"THE TREATY?"
"YES, THE TREATY"
Seeing his younger brother's confused face, Madara realizes he is not involved in its disappearance. He probably doesn't even know what said paper is about, nor does he have any interest in knowing. Izuna had refused to participate in the construction of the village, in the new power system, and still has trouble adjusting to living with his former enemies so closely.
No matter how much the Uchiha leader tried to involve him, to share with him what happens in every meeting with the Hokage and his brother, he refused to listen, to admit things have changed and violence is no longer necessary.
To think he could be involved in the situation was his inner hope believing his younger brother was finally ready to accept everyone's new life.
"Listen, I have no fucking idea what you're talking about, but if you don't want me to call that fucking Senju, why don't we ask (Y/N)?"
Taking a deep breath and finally letting go of the tortured pillow, Madara breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth about three times, feeling his younger brother's restrained laughter from the doorway and the effort he makes not to tease him when he's angry.
"Why would (Y/N) have the peace treaty? She won't even step into my office; she despises all political matters. If she had stumbled across it around the house, in case I’m willing to admit I missed it, she would have delivered it to me in hand."
"Maybe she forgot, Aniki. We, humans, make mistakes and forget things! For example, the other day I was with this girl and-"
"Just shut your mouth and help me search."
Mentally apologizing to (Y/N), the Uchiha decides he can't let any chance slip away, and resolves to go through his wife's drawers. He is the one who takes care of the clothing, while his younger brother investigates her personal belongings and jewelry.
They both silently engage in the task, feeling like they are trespassing on boundaries they shouldn't be. If the situation wasn't desperate, Madara would never mess with her personal space.
After what feels like an eternity of unsuccessful searching, Izuna says, "You know... now that I think about it... On one of your trips, when you asked me to stay with her in your absence, I saw her placing things in a secret spot. I shouldn't have looked, I know, I know, don't even bother, I don't want to hear it, but maybe right now it will be useful for you."
Outraged by his younger brother's meddling but eager to discover a new searching possibility, Madara agrees to be guided to the place, with Izuna still endlessly justifying himself as to why he knew about it.
They both arrive at a chest hidden under the stairwell leading to the second floor, an object the Uchiha leader had never noticed there before. Made of dark wood, it camouflages with the dimness of the cramped space, remaining perfectly unnoticed.
There is a padlock on the lid, and he ponders as to why (Y/N) would shove something so important in there, without telling him anything, and then lock it up. It doesn't make any sense, but at this moment nothing does, and he agrees to trespass on his wife's last privacy boundary.
Crouching down in front of the chest and using the strength of his hands, he forcefully pulls the lock apart, its metal yielding weakly under his fingers as if it were made of plastic. It was clearly a symbolic barrier, a warning sign for no one to dare open it. It was not genuinely intended to protect, but to appeal to the conscience of whoever wished to violate it, and prevent them from doing so.
Madara could not afford to ignore the possibility.
"Aniki... are you sure it's worth it? Why would she put it there?"
At Izuna's words, the chest is left unguarded, with the older Uchiha hesitantly opening the lid. Inside are a pile of papers, notebooks, knick-knacks, and items resembling souvenirs.
It's like a time capsule of (Y/N)'s entire life, filled with photos and tidbits identifying her childhood and the course of her years. Madara feels like he's looking at something he shouldn't, but he doesn't react fast enough to stop his younger brother from taking the easiest notebook to reach and looking at its pages.
"Oh wow... Madara... maybe you should..."
From the ground, the Uchiha leader steals the book from his hands and begins to flip through the pages with the same amazement as Izuna.
Its pages are filled with drawings, professionally executed, perfect, and pleasing to the eye. The first works date back to ancient dates, scribbles without much sense and various objects, as if (Y/N) had been practicing.
Madara was unaware of his wife's talent and inwardly wonders why she never told him how good she was at her craft. As he continues to look through the same notebook, the younger Uchiha dives for another one in the bottom of the chest, enjoying it as if it were an adventure.
"Well... this just got weird..."
Not understanding, he receives the next notebook from Izuna's hands and analyzes it with amazement. This book, unlike the previous one, is entirely about human faces. Bodies, features, positions, and postures, different examples of the same person in different scenarios.
At first, he finds it hard to believe, but Madara finally understands why his brother considers it weird.
All the drawings are about him. Every figure, every face, every eye, and faction, posture, is him being traced on the white pages by (Y/N)'s hands. The first page consists of his face expressing different emotions. An angry drawing, a happy one, sad looking, a disgusted one.
The precision of her strokes is so accurate it's scary, but he can't stop seeing himself from (Y/N)'s point of view. The next one consists entirely of his body, his torso without a shirt, that scar on his chest placed exactly where he has it in real life, the mole on his arm in the same spot, and his groin line precisely matching.
The drawings vary in mood and style, from some suggestive to utterly adorable, each line's precession terrifyingly perfect.
At some point Izuna retreated, leaving him alone with the astonishing discovery and unwilling to take responsibility for having found (Y/N)'s secrets. The Uchiha leader, so absorbed in his stupor, did not even notice, continuing his analysis without interruption.
The time for the meeting with the Senjus passed, and it was Izuna who came forward on his behalf to take over the responsibility, covering for his older brother in his initial trouble and allowing him to enjoy their find.
Madara spent hours in front of the chest, pulling out notebook after notebook and finding tons of works portraying him, grinning like an idiot to himself at the love he feels for this woman and how lucky he is to be the subject of her art.
Maybe (Y/N) was embarrassed about it and kept it hidden from him, yet the Uchiha just wants to hold her so tightly as to smother her, fill her with kisses, and make love to her, all at the same time. He felt genuinely honored and happy of having such a lovely and talented person by his side.
