Indra's writer

Madara's first instinct is correction, and the first thing he takes from (y/n) as a consequence of her behavior is comfort. He starts assigning her to every miserable task nobody wants: winter patrols, border watches, escort missions with people she can't stand, weeks sleeping on the ground while everybody else rotates back home.

He wants (y/n) exhausted; exhaustion wears down most people.

The fact that it doesn't work only makes him more vindictive.

That’s when public humiliation becomes a recurring thing. He waits until she's surrounded by other clan members to start dismantling every mistake she's made during the last month, failed objectives, injuries, oversights. All cruelty comes from the accuracy of his information.

And if she answers back? Amazing, because he permits himself to continue.

Promotions stop arriving, recognition vanishes, people less capable start climbing above her… Madara signs every recommendation. He wants her to understand exactly who's standing between her and advancement.

If she confronts him about it, he doesn't deny anything, asking whether she believes leadership should reward insubordination.

Friends stop lingering around her, too. There’s never a direct threat from him, but nobody wants his attention, not in the way (y/n) has it. People start choosing easier company because association has consequences.

The uglier punishments happen when she accidentally embarrasses him (happens way too fucking often). A sarcastic remark during a meeting might cost her six months of hell afterward.

Madara has resources, authority, and worst of all, a hell lot of patience (dangerous combo when annoyed).

What starts bothering him, after months of torturing her, is the fact she keeps surviving his methods. Anybody else (except Izuna, of course), would've apologized, broken and tired of such dire consequences. But, (y/n) adapts, gets meaner, even less cooperative than before. Madara spends years trying to grind that behavior out of her, only to create somebody even worse.

Neither of them can stand the other anymore; problem is they're both too stubborn to disengage.

One of the worst consequences comes from reputation: the clan stops seeing her as an individual and starts seeing her as "the woman always fighting with Madara." Everything becomes attached to him, one way or the other. 

There are moments when even Izuna tells him to leave her alone, yet he never listens. He can’t. By that stage, it stopped being about discipline years ago... now it's about winning. 

And Madara Uchiha hates losing almost as much as he hates being laughed at.

Indra does not court people the normal way. He studies them, learns routines, weaknesses, ambitions, fears. Love, for him, is twisted and fucked up; the second he realizes his feelings run deeper than lust or curiosity, the situation turns dangerous for everybody around you.

He notices competition fast, and God, does it poison him… One man walking you home too often.. another making you laugh during village gatherings… a third lingering near you with marriage intentions written all over his face. Indra starts keeping score inside his head: who touched your shoulder, made you smile, looked too long, etc.

None of them survive his obsession intact.

Ashura becomes a problem almost by accident. Not because he wants you romantically necessarily, but because people gravitate toward him, trust him, smile around him. And if you happen to smile too when speaking to his brother, Indra takes it personally. 

Everything with him becomes competition. If you praise Ashura’s kindness, Indra trains until his hands split open bloody against wooden posts. If you defend another man’s actions, somebody ends up injured.

He acts above jealousy, never screams or throws tantrums, but removes obstacles one by one with cold, terrifying patience. And at some point, the village starts noticing strange patterns around you. Men interested in courting you turn mean with no explanation. Others suffer "accidents", mysterious ones they refuse to acknowledge. One disappears entirely near the forest outskirts after speaking to you for more than thirty minutes.

Indra attends the search party afterward with complete calm…

By the time you realize how deep his obsession runs, he already inserted himself into every part of your life. Your family respects him deeply, clan elders encourage the match, villagers praise his devotion because from the outside, he looks perfect: attentive, protective, serious about commitment. Only you see the cracks underneath.

Indra genuinely believes nobody else deserves you. That belief roots itself so deep inside his mind it becomes morality. Other men appear lesser beside him, weaker, stupider, temporary; he sees himself as the inevitable outcome no matter how long you resist. Who else could love you correctly? Who else would destroy entire lives just to keep you safe and his?

If you reject him outright, things turn ugly. Indra withdraws first, only to gain distance and build pressure around you from every direction. Friends grow distant, marriage offers stop arriving, and certain doors inside the village begin closing. When you feel isolated and alone, Indra steps back into your life, offering comfort from problems he created himself.

And let me tell you… if you’re smart, see the red flags and try to get away… you’re in big trouble. The closer he gets to losing you, the worse the obsession mutates, spiraling to the point of instability, sleeplessness, even more unmeasured violence.

He hates seeing fear in your face when directed at him, yet causes it constantly anyway; he can’t avoid it. He wants devotion, dependence, but his methods poison every chance at healthy affection until love and terror become tangled together beyond separation.

If you ever try escaping the village entirely, Indra follows, no pride involved, no dignity. He abandons all responsibilities to go after you. Days without sleep if necessary. Mountains, forests, rivers…. it doesn’t matter. He tracks you down with frightening precision because by that point, his mind no longer recognizes a world where you exist outside his reach.

Obito stops measuring time inside Kamui on purpose, and eventually she does too. At first, she scratches marks into the wall to count days, desperate to preserve some sense of reality, but the dimension never changes; no sunrise, sunset, or weather, but endless gray stretching forever. Obito notices the tally marks one day while bringing food and runs his fingers over them. The next time she looks, the marks are gone. He phased that section of the wall like it never existed.

He lies, but never in obvious ways, that’s what makes it effective. Obito doesn’t say "nobody is looking for you", no, he lets hope die first. Weeks pass between visits sometimes, days. Each return comes with exhausted sighs and careful little comments dropped into conversation like poison: "I checked near your house today." "Your friends moved on faster than I thought". "They held a funeral." He says while handing her groceries.

The Kamui dimension starts eating at her head because Obito controls every piece of information entering it. He becomes her only reference for reality, the only human contact. If she argues about memories, he twists them carefully until she doubts herself. "No, you hated living there," he murmurs while brushing her hair behind her ear. "You cried every night near the end. Don’t you remember?" And after enough isolation, she doesn’t know anymore. Memory starts feeling slippery inside that place.

Sometimes, she begs him to let her leave. Obito never gets angry; instead, he looks hurt, genuinely hurt. "Why?" he asks. "So they can use you again? Forget you again?" Then he wraps his arms around her and starts talking about the outside world like it’s cruel, dangerous, ugly beyond repair. War. Corruption. Death. "You’re safe here with me." He repeats that phrase so often it becomes part of the walls themselves.

The outside world starts feeling fake after enough years pass. Like a dream she had once imagined. Faces blur first, voices follow. She catches herself struggling to remember her best friend’s name one night and breaks down over it. Obito holds her through the entire panic attack while pressing kisses against her hair, murmuring soft reassurances the whole time. 

Inside, he feels monstrous relief. Every forgotten memory ties her tighter to him.

He hates reminders of who she used to be. At first, he brings books and magazines from outside to keep her entertained, but the second she grows too attached to them, he stops. Same with mirrors. Obito notices when her attention drifts too far from him toward memories of another life. Those objects disappear without explanation.

(Y/n) starts waiting for him. She listens for Kamui distortions, rearranges the house before he arrives, saves thoughts and stories to tell him because silence becomes unbearable. The dimension trains dependency into her nervous system piece by piece until loneliness hurts worse than fear ever did.

Obito notices the exact moment she stops asking to leave every day. He says nothing about it, but warmth spreads through his chest so violently it almost feels like happiness.

Their arguments become surreal over time because her sense of reality keeps eroding. "You kidnapped me," she whispers one time, but the accusation sounds weak even to her own ears. Obito sits beside her, touches her face so gently it makes her sick, and explains everything with slow words. "I saved you." He says it with complete sincerity. "You would’ve died out there." She no longer knows if he’s lying.

He becomes obsessed with domesticity because it validates the fantasy in his head. He wants routine, shared meals, her clothes folded beside his, the illusion of marriage growing inside a dimension built from isolation and dependency. Of course, it doesn’t make him sane: it makes him worse.

He starts panicking whenever he leaves Kamui too long. Irrational thoughts eat through him during missions. What if she disappears? What if the dimension fails? What if somebody finds a way inside? He returns more and more often just to reassure himself she’s still there waiting where he left her.

And she is. Every time.

The cruelest part is that Obito genuinely loves her in his own broken, monstrous way, but it comes twisted through obsession and fear and control until it stops resembling anything human. He doesn’t want her happy unless the happiness comes from him, doesn’t want her memories unless they lead back to him in the end.

After enough years inside Kamui, the thought of leaving starts terrifying her almost as much as staying. The outside world becomes too large, too loud, too uncertain; meanwhile, Obito remains constant, predictable. The monster under the bed and the only thing protecting her from it at the same time.

Their intimacy goes beyond just sexuality. It mutates into routine, rituals. The Kamui dimension erases normal human structure from both of them until touch becomes language, reassurance, punishment, comfort, all tangled together beyond separation.

She starts waiting for him like a puppy for its owner. He returns and finds her near the portal distortion instead of across the house. Then sitting by the door. Then kneeling. It becomes tradition. The second space begins warping open, she’s already there on her knees, waiting for him, hands resting obediently on her thighs, while that endless gray bends around the only person who ever enters it.

It ruins him, because this is what he always wanted without understanding it himself: someone waiting, someone needing him enough to build their entire existence around his return. The worst part is that Obito never forces those rituals into existence. He feeds them slowly instead, rewards her, shapes everything through affection and attention until she begins craving their routine as much as he does.

Then, she catches herself kneeling for hours, just hoping he comes soon. Obito acts calm about it externally, but inside, the sight drives him half insane every single time. Walking into Kamui after days surrounded by war and betrayal and blood only to find her already kneeling there waiting for him with that soft desperate attention focused entirely on him? It feeds every broken, starving part of his mind.

Sometimes he doesn’t even greet her first. The portal opens, he steps through exhausted from battle, gloves stained dark, and she looks up at him with visible relief flooding across her face. Obito stares for a second too long, then his hand moves toward his pants before he even thinks about it.

It's one of their moments. He jerks off while she babbles nonsense, as if it were perfectly normal. Obito uses her attention to ground himself after missions while she uses the routine to soothe the endless anxiety he carved into her head. He stands there half-undressed while she talks softly from her place on the floor, inventing stories about her day because there’s never anything real left to discuss anymore. Its always the same books, walls, silence, so she starts making things up. Little lies about imaginary birds outside nonexistent windows. Complaints about meals she “burned.” Stories about dreams she had while waiting for him. Obito always knows she’s inventing half of it, yet he listens anyway.

He cums on her face as she continues talking. She then gets up, cleans herself up quietly while Obito watches, takes him by the hand toward the kitchen table, and serves him food while asking about his day like they’re some normal married couple.

And Obito melts for it every single time, because nobody ever waited for him before, nobody ever listened to him like this.

The Infinite Tsukuyomi comes to life above the battlefield. The moon cracks open, violent light pouring across the world while roots burst from the earth in monstrous waves, swallowing shinobi whole beneath bark and illusion and dreams crafted from desperation. 

The idiots playing heroes scream somewhere in the distance, trying to stop a war already lost. 

Madara pays no attention to them because Tobirama decides to speak: pinned beneath black rods and broken stone, reanimated paper splitting apart, he stares up at Madara with the same cold contempt he carried since they were boys standing ankle-deep in a river. Edo Tensei strips him of exhaustion, strips him of blood, of death itself, yet hatred survives intact, clinical and mean as ever.

Madara stands above him with one restored eye and enough chakra flooding through his veins to make the battlefield tremble beneath his feet. 

He should kill Tobirama, end him, crush his skull into the earth, and move on toward the final stage of the plan. Instead, the fucker says her name. —She survived the kidnapping.—

Madara’s expression doesn’t move at first.  Most people would mistake that stillness for indifference. 

This Senju knows better. 

He watches Madara’s fingers flex once at his side, watches chakra flare violently around him, watches the first crack split through the ground beneath his feet.

—She died.— Cold and immediate. That certainty lasted decades.

Tobirama almost seems amused by it. —No body was ever recovered, correct?—

Memory crashes into him before he can stop it: blood outside the main house, torn walls, soldiers screaming through the estate while he searched room after room with her name lodged somewhere behind his teeth like a prayer he refused to say aloud. Hashirama trying to speak to him afterward and failing every time Madara looked at him. The endless searching that turned into mourning after months passed with nothing found except silence.

And Izuna already dead by then.

Gone.

Buried.

Her disappearance came afterward, the final shove that sent everything inside him collapsing into rage and prophecy and madness. He lost his brother first; then his wife vanished into blood and smoke without a corpse left behind to bury.

He spent years convincing himself there had been enough blood for death.

Tobirama tears that belief apart in seconds. —You were unstable after your brother,— he says, voice untouched by guilt. —Obsessive. Violent. Hashirama wanted negotiations with your people. You wanted war. Removing her from the equation prevented further complications.—

Madara stares, no answer comes. For the first time in decades, genuine shock carves through him so deep he cannot force words past it.

—She fought when we took her,— Tobirama continues. —Killed two men before restraint became necessary. Your wife was inconveniently resilient.—

The battlefield fades. The Tsukuyomi spreads above them. Shinobi collapse beneath roots and white light. The world bends itself into illusion exactly as Madara planned it. 

He no longer cares.

All those years. All those fucking years.

He built this war around ghosts, around Izuna’s death and her absence and the hatred festering inside him after both were ripped away. He clawed his way toward godhood, believing the only way to see either of them again required tearing reality apart itself.

And one half of that grief had been breathing somewhere in the world the entire time…

—She survived the experiments better than expected. The regenerative effects altered her permanently. Immortality was accidental.

Experiments.

That word is poison.

Tobirama notices and keeps speaking, because this is what he does best: dissect wounds with cold hands and watch people bleed from them. —She escaped. I never found her afterward.— His gaze sharpens. —Interesting, isn’t it? You spent long trying to destroy the world for a woman who never stopped living inside it.—

That finally drags anger back into Madara’s body. Real anger. Not the empty rage he carried through war after war, but the violent, ugly kind, that starts in the stomach and climbs upward until breathing itself feels impossible. Chakra bursts from him in suffocating waves. The broken battlefield groans beneath the pressure while Tobirama’s Edo Tensei body cracks further against stone.

Hashirama knew enough to stay silent, Tobirama kept her hidden, and Madara drowned the world trying to bring back someone who had never stopped living. A laugh almost escapes him then, harsh and humorless, because the irony feels monstrous enough to choke on. —She would hate what you became,— Tobirama says.

Madara grabs him by the hair before the sentence fully leaves his mouth. —You kept her from me…—

—War requires hard decisions.

—You tortured her.

—I used her.

The Senju’s honesty lands worse than denial ever could.

Madara stares down at him with murder written through every line of his face. For a moment, Tobirama sees it too: the realization that this war no longer matters. The Infinite Tsukuyomi no longer matters. Madara won the second he admitted she survived.

Because now he can finish the rest beside her, no illusion required.

Above them, the moon’s eye watches over a sleeping world while roots tighten around thousands of trapped bodies. Somewhere in the distance, the heroes still fight through the battlefield searching for him.

They’re too late.

By the time they reach the ruins where Tobirama lies pinned beneath black rods and shattered stone, he’s already gone.

//

The war ends beneath the Infinite Tsukuyomi’s light, the world wrapped inside roots and illusion, while thousands dream beneath white cocoons hanging from the God Tree like grotesque fruit. Villages stand abandoned, rivers flow beside empty roads, entire cities sleep without knowing it, endless bodies trapped inside bark while the moon watches overhead.

And through all of it, one thought keeps dragging him forward: if (y/n) escaped Tobirama, she would go home.

Not the Uchiha compound. Konoha. No

Her clan lands. Or what remained of them.

Madara remembers the place from another lifetime. Mountains wrapped in forests so dense sunlight barely touched the ground, rivers cold enough to numb bones, shrines hidden beneath moss and roots older than most clans themselves. 

Her people vanished after their marriage, swallowed by war and time until only abandoned structures and overgrown graveyards remained.

She used to hate speaking about it, too many ghosts there.

Which means, of course, that she would return anyway; people always circle back toward their wounds.

Madara travels for weeks beneath the Infinite Tsukuyomi’s pale glow. 

The world stretches empty around him while cocoons sway from trees overhead. 

Once, he passes through a village where entire families remain suspended above the streets they died trying to build. Another night finds him crossing a battlefield frozen beneath roots, corpses and sleeping shinobi tangled together beneath white wood like conflict itself lost meaning halfway through.

None of it matters. They can all go to hell.

The closer he gets to her clan territory, the stranger the forests become.

Dead bark litters the ground in enormous shattered pieces. Trees torn apart from the inside. Burn marks climbing trunks blackened by fire jutsu. Madara slows for the first time then, eyes narrowing as he studies the destruction around him.

The roots reached this place, and something fought back.

A faint grin almost pulls at his mouth despite everything: of course she resisted.

The tiny house appears near dusk beside a river half-hidden by thick woods and climbing ivy. No smoke rises from the chimney, but signs of life sit everywhere once he steps closer. Fresh wood stacked beneath a covered awning, herbs hanging dry near the porch, a water bucket filled recently.

Madara stands there staring at it longer than he should.

This is real.

After decades of grief and rage and plans built around her death, reality shrinks down into something painfully ordinary: a small wooden cottage deep in forgotten woods.

She lived here. Alone.

The front door opens beneath his hand without resistance. Inside smells like cedar, herbs, old paper. Home. Not the Uchiha compound with its stone and authority and endless pressure of clan leadership. This place feels warmer, smaller, human in ways his life stopped being.

He walks through it in silence. One room. A kitchen. Books stacked near the windows. Blankets folded with precise care. Signs of one immortal life stretched across time in quiet isolation.

Then he sees the altar and his steps stop immediately.

Photographs cover almost the entire wall above a low wooden shrine worn smooth from years of use. Some so old the edges curled inward with age, others newer, preserved better. Candles burned down to wax pools beside incense bowls and faded flowers.

Her family, people Madara barely remembers from before her clan vanished. Then him, a photograph from younger years stares back at him from the center. Madara, in old armor beside her, expression severe even then, one arm around her waist while she laughs at something outside the frame. Another picture shows Izuna beside them both, smirking with his arm thrown over Madara’s shoulder.

His chest tightens violently. There are more, dozens more, tiny fragments of a life she refused to let disappear. He reaches toward one photograph before stopping halfway, fingers hovering inches from the image instead.

Because now he understands something unbearable: she mourned him too. All these years, while he drowned the world trying to bring back ghosts, she built a grave for him inside this tiny house and kept feeding the memory alive piece by piece.

The realization leaves him standing motionless in the middle of the room while dusk darkens around the windows.

Then the floor creaks behind him.

Madara turns.

And she attacks immediately.

No hesitation, shock-frozen silence, or whispered disbelief like frightened little civilians reunited after war. She spent too many decades surviving to trust ghosts standing inside her house.

A knife flashes first, straight for his throat.

Madara catches her wrist by instinct alone, eyes widening a fraction before she twists and drives her knee toward his ribs with enough force to crack bone on a normal man. He lets go to evade the hit and she uses the opening, another blade appearing from somewhere inside her sleeve before slashing toward his restored eye.

Still vicious after all these years. It almost makes him smile.

The cottage explodes into violence around them.

Wood splinters beneath chakra and impact while she tears through the room with brutal precision. Madara evades instead of retaliating, stepping around shattered furniture while she drives him backward across the house.

—Stay the fuck away from me!— She yells, raw and angry.

Madara catches another slash inches from his face. —Stop, woman!—

—You’re dead!

A table crashes apart between them.

She moves before the debris even lands, grabbing a fallen kunai from the floor and aiming straight for his heart this time. Madara twists aside, fingers brushing her wrist, but she tears free and drives him through one of the walls, splitting it open toward the forest outside.

Let her fight, he thinks. Let her scream.

After everything stolen from both of them, this feels more honest than tears ever could.

—It’s me! I’m here!— Madara snarls, dodging another strike. —I came for you, yet you greet me with a blade to the throat?—

—My husband died! 

Madara sees different things written across her face beneath the rage: the years spent mourning him, burying him inside memory piece by piece until grief settled into routine. She built an entire life around his absence. A shrine, grave, a way to survive immortality without losing her mind.

And now he stands inside her house, breathing as if none of it happened.

Of course she wants to kill him for it.

She throws another weapon; Madara ducks.

The blade buries itself inside the wall behind him, beside one of the old photographs hanging crooked from the impact shaking through the house. Izuna smiles back at him from the frame. That almost derails him for a second.

She notices, and attacks harder.

The next hit catches him across the jaw, splitting skin despite his reflexes. He turns with the impact instead of resisting it, more irritated than hurt, while she grabs a broken chair leg and swings again with frightening accuracy toward his throat.

—You’re not him!

He catches the wood this time. It splinters between his fingers. —And who else knows, then,— he says, voice lowering, —that you hate mikan but still force yourself to eat them when winter comes because your mother convinced you they prevent illness?—

Fury crashes back harder than before. —Stop this madness!—

She lunges again.

Madara sidesteps, grabs her wrist, twists, forcing the weapon free from her grip. She retaliates by driving her elbow into his throat before he can pin her properly, then both slam into the kitchen wall together, cracking the beams holding the ceiling overhead.

The cottage groans around them.

—Who knows,— Madara continues over the chaos, breathing rougher now, —about the scar beneath your left breast from when you fell through river ice at thirteen?—

(Y/n) whimpers at those words.

—You cried because you thought your clan tattoos looked ruined afterward.

Her expression changes, fear starts crawling beneath the anger. He sees the exact moment she begins understanding no impostor could know these things.

No transformation jutsu, no spy, no illusion.

Him.

It’s him.

She attacks anyway; immortality and grief turned both of them monstrous in different ways.

The next strike comes reckless, from emotion, and Madara finally catches her properly. He grabs both wrists, spins, and drives her down against the ruined floorboards while the remains of the cottage shake around them.

Wood cracks beneath the impact.

She thrashes beneath him, vicious as a trapped animal, but he cages her down with sheer size and strength, knees forcing her thighs apart enough to immobilize her hips while both wrists remain pinned above her head in one hand. —You have another scar, inside your right thigh, one I did myself when trying to rip your pants with a kunai,— he says.

The fight stops.

Her breathing turns uneven beneath him.

Madara leans closer, hair falling loose around his face, while decades of grief and obsession burn through his eye almost feverishly now.

—You bite the inside of your mouth when you lie, hide weapons beneath floorboards instead of drawers because you never trusted locks, sleep facing walls whenever nightmares get bad.— His grip tightens. —And when I fucked you after battles, you always reached for my hair first before anything else.—

A horrible sound leaves her throat then.

Nobody else could know those details. 

Her eyes shine with something ugly, rage collapsing inward beneath unbearable understanding. —You died,— she whispers.

The words sound smaller this time. Broken open.

Madara stares down at her pinned beneath him in the wreckage of the home she built without him, breathing hard, his chest aching.

Madara loses sight of her during the last push against the Senju. One second, she fights three men at once with blood running down her arm, mud splattered across her face, breathing hard but still standing. The next, smoke cuts through the battlefield, fire erupts near the riverbank, and she’s gone.

At first, he assumes she moved ahead. Then, he assumes she fell behind. Twenty minutes pass. Madara kills two Senju, desperate and angry, breaking bones through armor. She knows he doesn't like to lose sight of her, ever. She knows he needs to see her fighting, alive, just as much as he needs the same from Izuna. These are small concessions Madara won't make, and if, for some reason, either of them were to disappear, anger and panic would take hold of him, just like now. 

Izuna is okay, but where the fuck is (y/n)?

By the time the retreat signal sounds through the valley, something ugly has already started clawing inside his chest. He rushes back to the compound soaked in blood that isn’t all his. Sweat sticks his hair to his neck, one shoulder guard hangs half-broken after taking a direct hit earlier in the battle. His eyes keep scanning the wounded brought through the gates, yet there’s no sign of her.

Someone says her name near the medic halls, and he turns so fast the shinobi beside him almost reaches for a weapon.

—She’s alive,— the man blurts out when questioned. —Bad shape, but alive—

Madara is already moving before he finishes. Armor hits the floor as he walks. Gloves first, then the chestplate straps ripped loose with one violent pull. His gunbai lands somewhere behind him against wooden flooring with a loud crack. He keeps going without it.

The medic room smells like herbs, blood, wet cloth. Several wounded Uchiha fill the space, groaning while healers move between futons. The second the leader enters, conversation dies.

And there she is: standing against the wall with bandages wrapped around her ribs and shoulder, as if sitting down and resting were a sign of weakness, dried blood dark across the front of them. Her hair looks filthy, tangled with sweat and ash, one eye swollen purple, a cut crossing her mouth.

Alive.

Madara stops breathing for a second; relief hits so hard it almost pisses him off.

She notices him and lets out a tired laugh, bending slightly, in pain. —You look worse than me.—

He crosses the room in seconds, crowds her space with angered authority. —What the fuck happened to you?— The words come out rougher than intended. One healer starts explaining something about a kunai wound, blood loss, a collapsed lung, but Madara barely hears any of it. His eyes stay locked on the stained bandages around her body. —You disappeared,— he barks at her.

Her expression changes, annoyed. —I got surrounded.—

—And that somehow prevented you from retreating with the rest?

—I killed every Senju in front of me before I dropped, if that answers your question.— A dangerous look flashes across her face then.

—Not fast enough, no.

The room goes silent.

A younger medic glances between them before quietly ushering everyone else toward the far side of the room. Nobody wants to stand between Madara Uchiha and whatever this is becoming. She stares at him in disbelief. —You think I almost died because I fought poorly…—

—I think you were careless.

—I’m a shinobi and I acted—

—You’re a fool.

That does it. Beautiful anger cuts across her face, alive and burning, and he finds himself absurdly grateful for it; he longs to be on the receiving end of her precious wrath. —I’m not a weak little soldier who needs guarding every second,— she spits back. —You don’t get to look at me like I failed some fucking test because I came back injured!—

Madara steps even closer, both his hands caging her against the wall. —You almost didn’t come back at all!—

She sees it then, beneath the rage, beneath the insults and the strong voice and the clenched jaw: fear, real fear. Madara stands in front of her, covered in battlefield filth with half his armor missing, staring at her like he still expects her to disappear if he looks away for too long.

And God, that realization does something awful to her chest. —You thought I died,— she says, quieter now.

His silence answers for him. He never looks vulnerable in the way other people do. No trembling voice or collapses. He shows it through aggression instead, through the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants to punch someone.

She exhales through the pain, forcing calm into her voice because one of them has to keep their head straight right now. —I’m still here.—

Madara’s expression darkens. —You were bleeding out in the fucking mud.—

—Alive, Madara. I survived.

—Barely.

—You think I don’t know that?

—I think you pushed yourself past the point of reason like you always fucking do.

A bitter laugh escapes her. —That’s rich coming from you.—

—At least I know when to retreat.

—Oh, bullshit.

—I searched half the battlefield for you, (y/n).

—Sorry, my mighty clan leader. I was busy trying not to get skewered through the lungs. Forgive me for delaying the reunion.

—Don’t joke about this.

—Then stop talking to me like I’m some idiot who tripped into her first war!

—You disappeared!

—And?! I’m here!

—And I had to hear from somebody else that you survived!— There’s genuine anger there, accusation, like she committed some personal offense by ending up on the brink of death without him there to stop it.

Her eyes narrow again despite herself. —You arrogant fucking bastard—

Before she can finish her answer, he grabs her face and kisses her.

Hard.

Every bit of tension between them crashes together at once: fear, relief, anger, exhaustion, all of it tangled inside the kiss until neither of them can separate one emotion from the other anymore. She tastes blood on his mouth. His or hers, impossible to tell.

Madara kisses like a man furious at the existence of death itself. 

One hand braces beside her head while the other grips her waist, careful despite everything, fingers pressing against bandages and torn fabric. She makes a small sound against his lips when his body crowds between her thighs, heat and sweat and battlefield grime still clinging to him.

The room has emptied now; everyone knows better.

When he pulls back, both breathe harder. —You piss me off,— he mutters against her mouth.

A weak laugh escapes her despite the pain. —You came here half-naked and panicking through the medic halls for me.—

—I was not panicking.

—Where’s your gunbai then?

Madara stares at her for one long second before kissing her again, rough enough to shut her up.

This one turns hotter fast.

Months of tension and brief encounters already existed between them before tonight; almost losing her tears the rest wide open. His hands move over her like he needs proof she’s intact beneath the bandages, fingers dragging against sweat-damp skin while she grips his shoulders and feels how tense every muscle remains.

And then she notices it… the hard pressure against her legs. Her eyebrows lift immediately. Madara catches the expression and looks almost offended by it. —Don’t start.—

—You’re hard.

—You’re alive.

—That’s your defense?

—That’s the problem.

The words barely leave his mouth before she grabs the front of his undershirt and drags him down into another kiss. Madara responds hooking his hands beneath her thighs, lifting her off the floor with a gasp that turns into a hiss of pain when the movement pulls at her bandaged ribs. —Madara— fuck—

—I know.— He says it against her mouth and keeps going anyway.

Her legs wrap around his waist on instinct, trembling from pain and adrenaline while he presses her back against the wooden wall, making the hanging lantern sway. Every piece of him feels overheated. 

The armor left behind in the corridor suddenly makes sense. He came here ready to tear apart anything standing between him and proof she still lived.

His mouth moves across her jaw, her throat, every inch of exposed skin he can reach while his fingers shove fabric aside with growing impatience. Torn clothes, loose wrappings, the ties of his trousers pushed down just enough for him to get where he wants.

Where he needs.

The second he presses into her, both of them groan.

Madara drops his head against her shoulder with a rough curse under his breath, fingers digging into her thighs while she pulls his hair. The pace starts brutal from the beginning, no patience or composure. Every thrust carries too much force behind it, desperate enough that the wooden wall knocks softly behind her with each movement.

Like he’s trying to bury himself inside the fact she survived.

She feels him shaking once. That almost undoes her more than the sex itself, because Madara Uchiha does not lose control, not during battle, or before clan elders, not with enemies staring him down across rivers soaked in blood. Yet here he is, kissing her frantically between breaths, as if he stops touching her for even one second, he’ll walk back into that battlefield and find her corpse waiting there instead.

—You’re out of your fucking mind,— she mutters against his mouth, breathless now, —fucking me through a collapsed lung.—

His hand grips her jaw. —You ignored direct orders. I told you to crawl back to me if necessary.—

—Wha-at, while bleeding across the forest floor?— She laughs and moans, getting him angrier.

—Yes.

—You panic too much for a clan leader.— That earns her harsher thrusts.

—There,— Madara growls against her lips. —That sound proves you’re still alive better than words do.—

Heat rushes through her face. Arrogant bastard. He keeps moving with the same relentless pace, hips driving against hers while kisses turn messy from lack of air. 

And the more she moans for him, the worse he gets, falling into his own desires and ignoring the rest of the world. His mouth finds her throat again, and he mutters, almost like a threat, —I should get you pregnant.—

She blinks once. —What?—

Madara pulls back enough for her to see the dark look in his eyes. —I should put my heir in you so you stop throwing yourself into battlefields.—

A laugh escapes her despite everything. Breathless. Disbelieving. —What a disgrace,— she shoots back. —The great Madara Uchiha knocking up one of his own soldiers, unwed?—

His grip tightens on her thigh. —You’d stay home then.—

—I would fight with your heir in my womb if I had to.

—That child would come out holding a kunai from all your stupidity.

—And if you tried locking me away from battle, I’d fight you too.

Madara stares at her for one long second after that. Then he laughs, real, low, rough, almost insane around the edges from exhaustion and relief and need all tangled together. —You impossible woman.—

—You’re the one—!— fu-ucking me against a medic room wall covered in blood.

—I’d do worse if you scared me like that again.

She feels the truth of his words in every movement, in the way he keeps her lifted against him no matter how her wounds ache, in the kisses pressed against her mouth between harsh breaths, in the fact Madara, proud, terrifying Madara, cannot stop touching her because some ugly part of him still needs reassurance she exists beneath his hands.

//

Itachi knew Orochimaru would retaliate after the failed attempt to take his body. What he did not know, what never crossed his mind even once, was that Orochimaru had discovered his secret. His one hidden thing. The single piece of his life untouched by Akatsuki, by blood, untouched by the endless graveyard his existence became after the massacre.

(Y/n) lived in a village so small most maps ignored it entirely. A place buried between forests and rivers where old women dried herbs outside their homes and fishermen returned before dusk with lanterns hanging from poles across their shoulders. Forgettable, quiet, safe (or as close to safe as the world allowed).

Itachi made sure of that. He visited between missions when he could. Rare nights and rare mornings, needing to remember what warmth felt like before disappearing again beneath the weight of who he had become.

Nobody knew of the place, of her, or so he believed.

This time, his absence lasts six days. By the fourth, something feels wrong. Orochimaru’s disappearance after the failed confrontation came too easy; men like him never swallowed humiliation without trying to poison something afterward.

Still, Itachi never imagined… this.

As he approaches the village, the first thing he notices is a foul smell. Decay, human decay, left under rain and summer heat until the air itself thickens with it. 

By the time the town appears through the trees, flies swarm so densely over the streets they almost resemble shifting black clouds. Bodies litter the mud where they fell days ago, swollen beneath ruined clothes, skin splitting open from gases trapped beneath flesh. One corpse near the center well has burst apart entirely, the stomach cavity crawling white with maggots.

The stench hits the back of Itachi’s throat. Blood gone sour, human waste released after death, wet wood soaked in gore, rotting meat left beneath heat.

Hell would smell like this.

And through all of it, one thought tears through his mind with growing violence: (y/n).

(Y/n)(y/n)(y/n)—!

He pushes through the village, sandals splashing through puddles tinged pink from old blood that has washed into the rainwater. A child lies facedown near a doorway with the back of his skull caved inward. Two villagers hang from ropes near the square, bodies swollen purple-black, tongues protruding from their mouths.

Orochimaru made a statement here. Cruelty for its own sake. Punishment stretched into spectacle.

Itachi already knows this is his fault.

Her cottage stands near the edge of the village beneath tall trees, the front door hangs broken from one hinge, blood streaks the wooden steps leading inside. He enters, and the world narrows.

There is red everywhere.

Across the floorboards. The walls. The overturned table near the kitchen. One entire section of the room looks smeared red from someone dragging themselves across the floor with failing strength.

And there she is.

Collapsed on the floor with one hand still pressed over her stomach, fingers soaked dark from trying to stop the bleeding herself. Several torn bandages lie scattered nearby beside empty bowls of water turned pink with diluted blood.

She survived long enough to treat herself, and that realization hurts worse. 

He should have been here to annihilate the enemy, to protect her.

A dead shinobi lies several feet away near the doorway, missing-nin, slashed throat. Blood dried black beneath the corpse in a massive pool swarming with flies.

Even wounded, she killed the one sent to finish her.

His chest constricts so hard breathing becomes difficult.

Then (Y/n) moves, A weak twitch of her fingers against the floor. Itachi drops beside her. Her skin feels freezing despite the fever burning underneath, bruises fingerprint her throat dark violet, blood crusted down her side where fabric sticks to open wounds, a deep cut on her belly. She smells like iron and sweat and infection beginning to settle into damaged flesh.

The same scent of death Itachi leaves in his wake.

Her lips part weakly when his hand touches her face. —Mercy…— It comes out cracked apart from pain and dehydration.

He should have been here. He protected a village that ordered children butchered in their sleep. Protected secrets, politics, men who hid behind sacrifice and necessity. But not this, not her. He’s a failure. —I’m here,— he says, and hates how strained his own voice sounds.

(Y/n)’s eyes close again after hearing him, trusting him to handle the rest. It feels unbearable, because he doesn’t deserve her. Even less her faith.

Itachi lifts her into his arms with impossible care, terrified of worsening injuries already severe enough to kill most people. Blood seeps through his hands from the wound beneath her ribs.

He places her on the futon first, then he works; it takes time, but he’s able to control the bleeding, close and clean wounds, make her as comfortable as possible.

The nin’s corpse leaves the cottage before sunset while she sleeps. The villagers follow afterward. Every body dragged away from the houses, every corpse burned beyond the tree line so the smell will not reach her if she wakes. Itachi spends hours moving through the town in silence beneath falling rain, surrounded by split flesh and leaking organs and faces half-eaten by scavengers already drawn near.

When he returns to the cottage close to dawn, blood covers him nearly to the elbows. He checks on her after washing himself, feeling unworthy of her presence, unfit to be near her.

He did this. It’s on him.

The next days dissolve together after that.

He seals the cottage shut with layered jutsu to keep scent, insects, and strangers outside. Candles burn low through endless nights while he changes bandages stained through with blood and pus, cleaning wounds before infection finishes what Orochimaru started. He feeds her broth in tiny amounts because larger bites make her sick. Helps her drink water one swallow at a time.

And every moment carries the same quiet horror beneath it: he almost came home to a corpse. All his fault.

The thought follows Itachi through every hour like a shadow stitched to his spine. It lingers while he washes blood from the floorboards one bucket at a time, while he scrubs dark stains from the walls where her body struck during the attack, while he burns ruined blankets and broken furniture outside beneath silent trees still carrying the stench of death from the village beyond.

He cannot let her wake up to that, not the blood, the smell, the reminder that she spent days half dead and alone waiting for someone who might never return.

So he cleans.

Sleeps little. 

Eats less. 

Moves through the cottage at night with exhausted eyes and stiff shoulders while she drifts in and out of fever behind him. Every time she wakes, the place looks less like a slaughterhouse and more like home again.

By the week, the air no longer reeks of decay each time the wind shifts through the trees, but the shame sits deep.

He pulls his shit together, barely, when she finally stands without swaying. Itachi watches her while she steadies herself against the wall near the wooden tub, exhaustion written through every slow movement of her body. Fresh bandages wrap her stomach beneath loose robes. The bruising around her throat faded from black to ugly yellow-purple. He kneels beside the tub in silence and forms the fire jutsu carefully beneath the water until steam rises into the cold evening air. 

Warm orange light flickers across the cottage walls. 

Outside, rain taps softly against the roof.

—You must stop tormenting yourself.— she murmurs.

His eyes lift toward her. —I’m sorry.—

A tiny smile pulls at her mouth despite everything.

The bath should help. Heat easing muscles stiff from healing wounds and too many days trapped in bed. That’s what he tells himself while helping her remove the outer layers of clothing with hands that avoid lingering too long.

But the second skin appears beneath cloth, tension crashes through him again: bandages crossing her ribs, bruises, half-healed cuts, proof. All proof of his failure.

—You can stop looking at me like that, Itachi.

—Hm.

She sinks into the heated water with a soft exhale while steam curls around her skin, and for the first time in days some of the tension leaves her face. Itachi remains beside the tub afterward, silent as ever, sleeves rolled past his forearms stained faintly pink where blood seeped through.

He looks worse than she does now. Eyes shadowed, movements stiff, shoulders wound tight enough to snap. The guilt sits on him like chains.

She studies him quietly for a moment before speaking. —Get in.—

—I’m fine. It’s for your wounds.

—You haven’t rested properly since you came back.

—Irrelevant.

—Itachi.

The way she says his name makes him pause, and hesitates only a second longer before removing the cloak. Then the mesh beneath it. Then the rest. He moves with the same restraint he brings into everything else, controlled even while exhausted half to death himself. Steam wraps around his pale skin as he steps into the tub behind her, muscles tense from shoulders to thighs the entire time.

Even sitting beside her, he never relaxes; his body has forgotten how.

She turns in the water until she straddles his lap, hands resting against his chest while droplets slide down both their skin. The contact alone makes him freeze. —It’s over,— she whispers.

His hands settle against her waist, and she feels the tremor move through him then. Tiny but real, even underwater. That’s the moment his mask cracks. He hides his face in the crook of her neck while his arms lock around her. Warm water shifts softly around them. Her fingers slide through his damp hair, gentle, patient, coaxing him back toward himself piece by piece. Small kisses press against the top of his head, his shoulder, while tension fights violently beneath his skin. —You came back to me,— she whispers.

A tear slips down his face. 

Then another.

Itachi does not sob, does not break apart loudly. The grief leaves him in silence instead, shoulders trembling once beneath her hands while he buries his face against her neck and tries to breathe through days' worth of terror. —Forgive me, (y/n). Forgive me.—

—For what? There’s nothing to forgive, love.

His hands tighten again around her waist. —This… All of this…—

The blood, the lifeless village, the fact that loving him painted death across everything near her. She cups his face until he looks at her again. —I knew the risk of loving you. You are not to blame.—

—I left you…

—You still came back. You always do.

Something desperate flashes across his expression then. Her mouth finds his before thought catches up. The kiss starts trembling, hesitant only for a second. She feels the exact moment his composure slips entirely, the rough inhale against her lips, the way his hands spread across her back like touch itself became survival.

This is his language: not speeches or confessions, but touch.

He needs to touch, apologies written in the way he kisses her, like he needs proof she still breathes, the way he holds her impossibly close while warm water moves around their bodies, how his entire frame shakes when she presses soft kisses across his face between whispered reassurances.

She guides him through it, out of the panic, out of the guilt chewing him hollow. Her hands explore him with slow affection until tension starts leaving his muscles little by little beneath her touch. When she rolls her hips against him under the water, his breath catches, eyes squeezing shut while something wrecked and needy crosses his expression. —Itachi,— she whispers against his mouth, —I’m here.—

A broken sound leaves him at that.

One of her hands sink between their bodies, finding his lenght, guiding him between her folds. When he slides inside, it happens slow, almost reverent, his forehead pressed against hers while both shake from the weight of everything carried into this moment. His arms wrap around her even harder, pulling her against his chest like he cannot bear even an inch of distance now. —I’m sorry,— he whispers again, voice cracking this time.

Indra treats the knife like an extension of authority. He sits you in his lap, forces your back against his chest, and tilts your chin up with the blade resting beneath it while he talks into your ear. He likes making you hold still; that’s the game with him. Testing discipline, watching your breath catch every time the edge drags down the center of your throat, across your chest, stopping right above your cunt while his other hand keeps your wrists pinned in place. He’d slide the knife under the ties of your robe, under straps, under lace, splitting things apart without warning just to feel your body tense against his, (say goodbye to all your clothes, yeah). The threat stays constant with Indra, because even when he kisses you, there’s steel resting somewhere vital.

Madara goes for intimidation. He lies you flat on your back and makes you feel watched, examined, interrogated, even. The knife stays visible the entire time because he wants your attention glued to it, your eyes following every movement of his wrist while he carves tiny shallow lines into the mattress beside your head whenever you get too mouthy. He likes fear mixed into desire, gets him hard too quick. The hottest thing to him is seeing your body react before your pride catches up, knowing he has full control over you, knowing you know it too. He's patiently cruel abou it too, hooking the blade in your underwear and dragging it down your thighs inch by inch instead of just cutting fabric like Indra. Madara has patience, too much patience. He’ll hold the handle of the knife against your pussy and keep it there while you grind against it, desperate and embarrassed and trying not to beg while it cuts his hand. That's how it works for him.

Izuna.................. is chaos. There’s nothing controlled about him once blood enters the picture. He starts playful, kinda sweet, spinning the knife between his fingers while he kisses you, teasing, laughing into your mouth... until there’s a sting across your thigh and his whole expression changes at the sight of red blooming across skin; he’d nick your lower lip during a kiss by accident, stare for half a second at the tiny bead of blood, then kiss you harder with this ruined little sound in his throat because now he can taste it too. That’s when he gets rough. He likes seeing you squirm, grabbing your hips hard enough to bruise while he mouths at the cuts he leaves behind. There’s always blood on his hands with him because he cannot stop touching the marks afterward, smearing red across your stomach, your chest, your lips. And he gets obsessed with the sounds: the broken moans after the blade scrapes across your skin, those little cries when he presses his thumb into a fresh cut and kisses you through it. Izuna wants you overwhelmed, messy, wet enough that it drips down his wrist while he fingers you with one hand and hooks the knife beneath your chin with the other, that insane grin stretched across his face like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or bite you open.

Obito… I can see it in very specific moods, but it’s not natural to him. He wants closeness, warmth, reassurance. A knife changes the air into something colder than what he usually craves. If he ever tries it, it comes from darker periods where his head is already fucked up, and his relationship with violence gets tangled with affection. Even then, he’s the type to stop midway and ask if you’re okay because the second you sound genuinely frightened, it snaps him out of it. He wants intensity, not fear. Huuuuuuuge difference.

Nobody remembers when this fucker first appeared. The oldest forest shrine keepers insist he “started being there,” a phenomenon lacking logic or explanation. One day, there was no Shisui and all was peace. Next, young hunters stopped returning home.

He wears charm like a hunting lure. Warm laughter, tilted smiles, playful teasing, fingers brushing wrists and throats. Everything about him feels inviting at first, safe, even; he looks like the kind of man who would help you find your way out of the woods. And he never lies about being dangerous, that’s the funny part. He warns people of his true nature, they just mistake it for flirting.

His missing eye changes depending on who’s looking at him. Some swear it’s wrapped in old bandages, caked with dirt and mud. Others insist there’s no missing eye at all, that he has the most beautiful gaze they’ve ever seen. Nobody agrees.

Out of all his brothers, he’s the one who walks into human villages for entertainment, singing and smiling, messy and dirty, covered in mud and blood. He loves humans in the same way cats love wounded birds. It depends on his mood, but he often doesn't bother hiding his fangs, red eye, or pointed ears. He loves people's surprised expressions when they see him in his real form (but, he never shows his wings, not before killing).

Shisui’s stupidly social. Regular fae stalk from shadows; he inserts himself into conversations, sits too close to strangers, steals food off plates, makes villagers laugh within minutes. Children adore him, yes, but he only aims for adults (keep him feeling full for longer). Also, he’s incapable of respecting personal space, crowding people deliberately just to watch their reactions: fingers under chins, hands on waists, breath against ears. 

His favorite prey are arrogant people who think they’re immune to manipulation. Hunters, priests, scholars, noble sons. Anyone convinced they can “handle” fae and their terrible intentions. Cynical and dumb, he collects emotional dependencies more than bodies, because he wants people needing him, thinking about him, dreaming with his face, forgetting themselves for him. 

When he succeeds, he gets bored and kills the person (he haaaaaaates being bored more than anything in the world).

He reveals himself little by little, so gradually that the person (his prey) questions whether the physical changes they see are actually just figments of their imagination. He goes from being a handsome man to a beast. Although, as I mentioned earlier, sometimes he doesn't bother with disguises or pretense; people fall for him, glamour or not.

How unstable he is becomes obvious once his magic cracks. Mood swings so abrupt they feel unreal. One second playful laughter, the next dead silence, with that single eye fixed on the person while deciding where to bite first.

He mutilated his own wing once during a fit of rage because one of his brothers ignored him for several weeks. The injury healed crooked afterward, giving one wing a slightly sharper silhouette. His wings shed shimmering dust when he’s emotional: gold when amused, black when furious, red during hunts.

He doesn’t always hunt for hunger; he also seduces people because he’s lonely. He enjoys dismantling people's defenses, watching them abandon their morals, families, lovers, and beliefs.

Shisui leaves tiny gifts near people he’s interested in: feathers, carved bones, teeth, broken jewelry, flowers growing from impossible places. 

He can imitate voices after hearing them once. More than one person has followed “friends” into the forest only to find Shisui waiting instead (loves to do it when he’s bored in between hunts).

The fucker bites when irritated, actual puncturing bites meant to leave scars. He thinks fear and attraction are almost the same emotion.