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Masterlist

Name: Becca

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 25

My favorite thing at the moment: Cross stitching!

Favorite animal: Fox

I write fanfic for selfish and creative pleasures and I'd love to write something for you! I'm always open to talking about anything and everything. I'm an open book, really.

Do not hesitate to: reach out, request, or even ask me for advice that I have gathered from my 25 years of life.

Have a request? Go for it!

Here's a link to my Masterlist. I hope you enjoy :)

Fandoms I Write:

Harry Potter

Sherlock

Marvel

Gotham

My Hero Academia

Full Metal Alchemist: Brotherhood

Supernatural

Doctor Who

Avatar the Last Airbender

Haikyuu!

The Flash (CW)

Twilight

Demon Slayer

Rise of the Guardians

Naruto

There will probably be more to come in the future!

If you want to request something not on the list please be sure to include: Name of the character, show/movie from, details, and specifics of your request. I'm more than willing to try to write you whatever you want! Please specify your pronouns you prefer for the reader (I want to respect you 110%).

My Boundaries:

Smut/lemon/NSFW (I will do borderline stuff but I have my limits)

OCs

Rape/SA

Incest

Jim Moriarty x reader, Sherlock x reader

Summary: Tensions build at 221B when Sherlock’s control cracks and something far more personal slips through, just as Moriarty reminds you he’s always one step ahead. 

Warnings: gun violence, stalking, obsessive behavior, manipulation, suggestive themes, emotional intensity

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Masterlist

By the time you get back to 221B, Sherlock is livid; however, livid at the moment feels like an understatement. The energy in the room is sharp and restless, pacing lines carved into the floor as if he could wear down his frustration through movement alone.

"He’s manipulating you," he snaps, pacing 221B. "He wants to see how far he can pull you before you break."

John watches from the corner, arms crossed, his expression tight with concern as his gaze flicks between the two of you. 

“The question is… are you tempted?” Your heart jumps up your throat at Sherlock’s question.

You hesitate. 

The truth settles heavily in your chest before you can stop it. You are. Not because you trust Moriarty, not because you believe anything he says, because you don’t trust his words fully. There’s just something so undeniably thrilling about his attention. The way he looks at you, the way he speaks to you like you are something worth noticing, something worth choosing. No one has ever made you feel like that before, and the realization alone is enough to unsettle you.

Sherlock notices your hesitation. And it infuriates him. That’s when he steps closer, "Do you have any idea what he’ll do to you?"

His voice drops, quieter now, but carrying something deeper than anger. His teeth are clenched, “I won’t let him have you,” he murmurs.

And for the first time, Sherlock Holmes looks truly vulnerable.

Your heart aches at the sight of it. 

He does not move away after he says it, and the space between you shifts into something heavier, something that presses against your lungs and makes it harder to breathe. You inhale slowly, deeply, but your thoughts begin to blur together, clouded by the intensity of the moment. 

Normally, Sherlock speaks and withdraws, retreating into logic or distance or movement, but this time he stays exactly where he is, close enough that you can see the uneven rhythm of his breathing, close enough that the sharp scent of his coat and cold London air clings to him in a way that feels almost tangible.

John shifts slightly in the corner, sensing something delicate forming, but he says nothing.

Sherlock studies your face as though it holds an answer he cannot deduce from observation alone. His gaze lingers longer than necessary, almost searching for something deep inside me.

“You think his attention means something,” Sherlock says quietly, and the sharp edge of his anger has softened into something more strained. “He wants you to feel chosen. It is a tactic.”

You swallow, your voice quieter now, “Maybe.”

The word is small, but it hangs between you like a obstacle.

His jaw tightens again, though the emotion behind it has shifted. There is something wounded in it now, something uncertain that flickers briefly through his pale blue eyes before he can fully mask it.

“You matter without him,” Sherlock says, the words slipping out faster than he intended, as if he had not planned to say them aloud. He pauses, recalibrating, forcing himself into a steadier tone. “Your memory for detail is unusually precise. You matter to the people in your life.”

You stare at him.

He is not talking about the situation anymore.

He realizes it a fraction too late, a faint flush rising along his cheekbones. It is subtle, but unmistakable. He clears his throat, glances toward the fireplace as though grounding himself, then looks back at you with deliberate composure.

“You are not some pawn for him to amuse himself with,” he says, softer now. “You are not disposable.”

The word lands heavier than he intends.

Disposable.

The idea clearly unsettles him.

He reaches out without thinking, his fingers brushing lightly against your wrist. The touch is gentle, almost tentative, his fingertips resting there as if he is testing whether you will pull away.

You do not. Your heart stutters sharply in your chest.

His thumb shifts slightly, pressing against your pulse point in a way that feels intentional. The contact is brief but meaningful, as though he is grounding himself in the steady rhythm beneath his fingers.

John clears his throat again, quieter this time, but neither of you look at him.

Sherlock’s voice drops, “He will make you feel extraordinary before he makes you collateral.”

“And you would not?” you ask.

The question is not an accusation. It is vulnerability, seeping into your words like frost on a window. 

He exhales slowly, and some of the tension drains from his posture, leaving something more exposed behind.

“I would not,” he says.

There is no dramatic emphasis. No clever phrasing that you’ve seen him do on multiple occasions. His voice is certain. 

His hand tightens slightly at your wrist before he becomes aware of it. His gaze flicks down to where he is touching you, then back up to your face, and still he does not pull away immediately.

“I observe you because you are remarkable,” he continues, more quietly than before. “Not because you are useful. There is a difference.”

Your chest tightens.

Sherlock is not good at this. You can see him building each sentence like a structure he has never constructed before, selecting words carefully, trying not to fracture under their weight.

“I do not want him near you,” he admits. “Not because you are fragile- he’s- he’s dangerous.”

You almost laugh at that, but his expression stops you.

“He destroys what he finds interesting,” Sherlock says, his voice steady but low. “And I…” He falters, and the break in his composure feels significant. “I would prefer you remain intact.”

Intact.

As if your safety is something personal to him.

His gaze drops briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, the movement quick and unintentional but impossible to miss. It is a small fracture in the control he holds so tightly.

The room feels smaller.

The space between you feels charged.

You can see it now, something forming that neither of you has named yet, something that sits quietly beneath everything else.

His hand finally slips from your wrist, but instead of stepping away, he moves closer, the distance between you now deliberate.

“You should not be intrigued by him,” he says softly.

“And if I am?” you ask.

His throat works as he swallows.

“Then I will have to make myself more interesting,” he replies, and there is no arrogance in it, a quiet resolve in its place. 

The words settle over you, slow and heavy.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then somewhere outside, a sharp crack splits the night. The sound of a gunshot shatters the fragile tension that had been building between you. The window explodes inward, glass scattering in sharp, glittering fragments. A bullet whistles past, missing Sherlock by inches before embedding itself into the wall behind him. The world narrows instantly into noise and motion as your ears ring and your heart slams violently against your ribs.

Glass rained down in sharp, glinting fragments. Sherlock reacts without hesitation, his body colliding with yours as he forces you down to the floor, his arms wrapping tightly around you in a protective grip. 

John is already moving, his gun drawn as he shouts into his phone for backup, his voice sharp and commanding.

But all you can focus on is Sherlock. The solid weight of him above you. His breathing harsh and uneven. His eyes wide with something dangerously close to panic.

His hands gripped your arms, grounding you, "Are you hurt?" His voice was low, urgent. You shook your head, unable to form words. He searches your face, his gaze moving quickly as though checking for injuries you cannot see, and then his hands shift, cupping your face.

A shiver ran down your spine.

His touch is unexpectedly gentle, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone as if reassuring himself that you are still there.

"You should leave," he murmurs. "Get as far away from this as possible."

Your stomach twists painfully. Leave? Now? After everything?

Your hand moves instinctively, wrapping around his wrist and tightening your grip. “No, I won’t.”

His jaw tightened. "This is Moriarty. He won’t stop. He won’t stop until he has you."

"And neither will you," you whisper. "You’re not pushing me away, Sherlock. I asked for your help, I’m not taking that back."

A muscle in his jaw twitches, his fingers curling slightly against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, he exhales sharply, like he’d lost a battle with himself. Before you could process it, his forehead was against yours. The movement is instinctive, unplanned, a moment of raw closeness that strips away everything else.

Your breaths mingle in the narrow space between you. His fingers slide into your hair, holding you there, anchoring himself to something real in the middle of the chaos.

"I won’t let him take you," he murmured against your skin. A promise that hung in the air, dancing on his breath.

Your chest tightened, "I know."

His nose brushes yours, a soft, fleeting contact.

He hesitates, and for the first time, Sherlock Holmes looks like a man standing at the edge of something deeply uncertain.

You could close the distance.

Or you could let him. 

Either way, everything has changed, and somewhere out there, Moriarty is watching.

"Oopsie! Did I do that?" Moriarty’s voice crackles over a hidden speaker, apparently, that had found its way into 221B.

"I do love a little drama," Moriarty purrs. "But don’t worry, darling. I’d never hurt you. I just needed to remind Sherlock that he’s not the only player in this game."

Silence settles heavily in the room.

His Irish lilt breaks the tenseness, "Come find me," Moriarty whispers. "If you dare."

The line goes dead.

Sherlock turns to you. Waiting.

And in that moment, you understand something with unsettling clarity. There is no stepping away from this now. 

Jim Moriarty x reader, Sherlock x reader

Summary: Under the glow of London’s streetlights, a dangerous game is finally initiated when Moriarty approaches you directly, forcing Sherlock to realize just how much is at stake.

Warnings: Stalking, obsessive attention, manipulative behavior, suggestive themes.

Part One. Part Two. Masterlist.

Sherlock insisted you continue your routine, but every step you took through London’s streets felt like walking through a minefield. The ordinary rhythms of the city no longer felt ordinary. The crowded sidewalks, the hum of traffic, the flicker of shop windows reflecting passing strangers. Everything seemed sharpened now, as if the world had tilted slightly out of alignment. You weren’t alone. He was always there.

A snippet of a dark coat in the reflection of a shop window. The faint sense of someone standing just out of sight when you turned a corner. Once, late in the evening, you could have sworn you heard your name whispered softly behind you, only to turn and find nothing but the empty stretch of pavement and the distant glow of streetlights. It was enough to drive you mad. Sherlock and John shadowed you whenever they could, their watchful presence meant to reassure you, but they were not always fast enough to catch the quiet moments when the feeling crept closest.

The sensation of being watched burrowed into your skin like an itch you could not scratch. At first it had only been glimpses. Reflections in the windows of passing cars. The flicker of a shadow disappearing down a side street the moment you noticed it. But then it began to feel closer. More deliberate. More intimate, as if whoever was watching you wanted you to feel the weight of their attention settling slowly over your shoulders.

The first package arrived at your flat the following evening.

It sat neatly outside your door, a sleek black box tied carefully with a blood red ribbon. There was no return address. The hallway outside your apartment was quiet, almost unnaturally so, and for a moment you simply stared at it, your stomach tightening with a dread you could not quite name.

Your fingers trembled as you carried the box inside and closed the door behind you. The silence of your flat pressed in around you, making the soft sound of your breathing seem far too loud. Slowly, you untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled carefully within layers of delicate tissue paper, was lingerie. Dark lace and smooth satin that caught the light in a way that felt almost sinful. It was beautiful in the way expensive things often were. Beautiful and deliberate. Resting on top of the folded fabric was a small ivory card embossed with elegant gold lettering.

For my favorite pawn. Try it on. I’ll know if you do. xx

Your stomach twisted as the words settled in your mind, a strange mixture of horror and something you did not want to name curling uncomfortably in your chest. You snapped the lid shut almost immediately, as if closing the box could somehow erase the moment entirely. But the damage had already been done.

Sherlock’s face darkened the moment you showed him.

He snatched the card from your hands and read the message once, then again, his eyes narrowing with each pass as if he could somehow extract more meaning from the ink. With sudden precision he crumpled the card into his fist and tossed it into the fireplace, where the flames caught the edges and consumed it in seconds.

“He’s pushing boundaries,” Sherlock muttered as he began pacing the length of the room. His movements were sharp, restless, each step carrying the coiled tension of a mind already racing several moves ahead. “He wants to see how far he can get inside your head.”

John dragged a hand slowly down his face, looking exhausted and deeply unsettled by the entire situation. “Jesus, this is sick.”

You swallowed, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. “What do I do?”

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned toward you, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity that made your chest tighten. “You do nothing,” he said firmly. “You act like it never arrived.”

His jaw was clenched, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. You could see how deeply it bothered him. Not just as a detective analyzing a dangerous criminal. As a man watching someone else reach into your life and touch something that did not belong to him. Moriarty was toying with you, and Sherlock hated it with a quiet, simmering fury.

The next night, he appeared.

You were walking home through the familiar streets of London, trying to shake the lingering unease that had followed you all day, when the streetlights above flickered suddenly. Just once. A brief disturbance in the steady glow.

And then you heard his voice.

“Did you like my gift?”

You froze where you stood. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to run, to turn and disappear into the nearest crowd, but your feet refused to move.

Moriarty stood only a few feet away, leaning casually against a lamppost as if he had been there all evening waiting for you. His suit was perfectly tailored, the dark fabric crisp beneath the dim light, and his eyes gleamed with a mischievous amusement that made your pulse thunder in your ears.

“Don’t look so scared, sweetheart,” he cooed lightly. “I don’t bite. Well… not unless you ask. I’m only here to chat.”

Your pulse hammered through your veins as you forced the words out, struggling to keep your voice steady. “I have nothing to say to you.”

He clicked his tongue softly and pushed himself away from the lamppost, taking a slow step closer. “Now that’s not very polite,” he said, his tone playful and mocking all at once. “I put so much thought into your little present.”

Your breath caught when he tilted his head slightly, studying you with a sharp and calculating curiosity.

“Tell me… did you wear it?”

Your face burned instantly. “You’re disgusting.”

“Oh, darling,” he said with a Cheshire like grin curling across his lips, “you have no idea.”

Your stomach churned, but you forced yourself to stand your ground. “Sherlock knows about you. He’s watching.”

Moriarty let out a theatrical sigh, feigning disappointment. “Of course he is. So predictable. You didn’t think I would let Sherlock have all the fun, did you?”

Then his smile sharpened.

“But the real question is… do you want him watching? Or would you rather it be me?”

A chill slid down your spine. Moriarty was magnetic in a way that felt deeply unsettling. Captivating despite every warning bell screaming in your mind. The sharp cut of his cheekbones caught the light, and the glint in his eyes carried a dangerous sort of delight that made it clear he understood exactly what effect he had on people.

He leaned in closer, invading your space until you could smell his cologne. Dark and smoky and intoxicating. The exact same scent you had noticed lingering in your living room days earlier.

“I see the way he looks at you,” Moriarty whispered softly. “He’s not nearly as cold as he pretends to be. But tell me, darling… does he make you feel alive?”

“You don’t belong in his world,” Moriarty continued as he stepped even closer, close enough that you could almost feel the warmth of his breath brushing your cheek. “All that dull logic. All that righteousness. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

The streetlights cast long shadows across his face, carving his features into something sharp and beautiful and deeply dangerous.

You shook your head, even though your pulse had begun to betray you. “I’m not playing your game.”

His smile deepened slowly as he tilted his head, studying you with the fascination of a scientist examining something rare beneath a microscope. “Darling,” he said softly, “you already are.”

A sleek black car rolled silently to a stop behind him. The door opened at once, as though the driver had been waiting for a signal.

Moriarty stepped back and extended his hand toward you in a gesture that was strangely courtly.

“Come with me,” he purred. “Let’s make Sherlock chase you for once.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was not just temptation you felt in that moment. It was possibility. Stepping forward would mean choosing chaos. Choosing heat. Choosing something that would burn through everything you thought you understood.

And yet your body did not move. You stood there, suspended between instinct and consequence.

“Step away from her.”

Sherlock’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

You turned sharply, relief flooding your chest so suddenly it made your knees feel weak. He stood at the far end of the street, his coat billowing behind him in the cold wind, his posture rigid and his eyes locked onto Moriarty with a lethal intensity.

He looked less like a detective and more like a storm gathering strength.

Moriarty’s grin widened with open delight. “Ah,” he sighed softly. “Here he comes.”

Sherlock moved quickly toward you. Not recklessly. Sherlock was never reckless. His movements were purposeful and controlled, every step measured as he closed the distance until he stood directly between you and Moriarty without hesitation.

You felt it the moment he did it. The shift. The protective line drawn clearly in the quiet street.

“She’s not yours,” Sherlock said, his voice low and controlled though something trembled just beneath the surface.

Moriarty laughed, the sound light and mocking and far too pleased with itself.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he replied casually as his hands slipped into the pockets of his coat. “You always think everything is a matter of possession.”

His gaze slid around Sherlock’s shoulder until it landed on you again, deliberate and assessing.

“But tell me…”

The pause stretched.

“…does she belong to you?”

The air seemed to thin around you.

Sherlock did not answer.

His jaw tightened, his shoulders squaring as his hands slowly curled into fists at his sides. The streetlight caught the pale tension of his knuckles as they whitened.

You could feel the tension radiating off him. Not just anger.

Fear.

Not of Moriarty.

Of losing.

Moriarty’s eyes flicked between the two of you, reading the silence as easily as sheet music.

“Mm,” he hummed thoughtfully. “Thought so.”

He stepped backward toward the waiting car, never once breaking eye contact.

“This is far more interesting than I anticipated,” he added lightly. “Do try not to bore me.”

Then he slipped inside the car. The door closed smoothly. The engine purred to life.

Within seconds the vehicle disappeared down the street, swallowed by the dark arteries of London as if he had never been there at all.

But his words lingered.

Does she belong to you?

The street felt suddenly too quiet.

Sherlock did not turn around immediately. His shoulders remained rigid, his breathing sharp and uneven as though he were forcing himself not to chase the car into the night. Forcing himself not to escalate. Not to reveal more than he intended.

When he finally faced you, his expression had shifted. It was no longer cold or detached.

Something rawer lingered there.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he said, though the usual reprimand was missing from his voice.

You shrugged your shoulders softly and dropped your head.

His eyes darkened at the gesture.

The wind lifted a loose strand of your hair between you, and the silence stretched again. This time it was not simply tension that filled the space between you.

It was recognition.

You were no longer just a witness standing on the edge of their war. You were no longer collateral damage waiting to be protected.

You were the axis between them.

Sherlock stepped closer. Not close enough to cage you, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence through the cool night air.

“You don’t understand what he is,” he said quietly.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“There’s a reason he chose me, right?” you answered.

Something flickered across Sherlock’s face. Something dangerously close to hurt.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The city continued to hum around you, indifferent to the quiet gravity of the moment.

Finally Sherlock exhaled slowly, the fight draining from his posture just enough to reveal the man beneath the brilliance.

“He’s not playing with you,” he said quietly. “He’s studying you.”

You held his gaze steadily.

“And so are you,” you replied.

That stopped him completely. His breath caught just slightly, but you saw it.

The distance between you felt charged now. Not only with fear, but with a growing awareness that neither of you had fully acknowledged before. This was no longer simply about protection.

It was about choice.

Sherlock looked at you as though he were trying to solve something unsolvable, and for the first time since you had met him you realized something deeply unsettling.

He was not sure what you would choose.

The wind died down around you. The streetlight above flickered once more.

“Let’s go,” he said finally, his voice softer now.

Not commanding. Not possessive.

Just asking.

And as you walked beside him into the darkness, you could not shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted.

This was no longer a threat lurking quietly at the edges of your life.

Moriarty x Reader x Sherlock

Caught between the cold brilliance of Sherlock Holmes and the intoxicating chaos of Jim Moriarty, you become the one variable neither man can control, the axis upon which their war quietly turns. The slow descent into obsession, desire, and choice, where being wanted is as dangerous as being hunted.

Part 1: Now You See Him, Now You Don't

Part 2: A Game Begins

Part 3: Under Watchful Eyes

Part 4: A Shot in the Dark

Part 5: The Devil's Table - Release in late May

Part 6: Release TBD

Part 7: Release TBD

Jim Moriarty x reader, Sherlock x reader

Summary: Sherlock and reader discuss the situation and Moriarty's fascination with them.

Note: The long-awaited part two to this piece: Part One. Enjoy :)

The men explain themselves, word vomiting from John in particular. Describing who they are - "consulting" detectives. Who Moriarty is - a “consulting” criminal. Apparently, these men were in the right place at the right time to help you, something Sherlock grumbled at. You were able to piece together the basics of who they were as you sat and listened. 

The flat at 221B Baker Street smelled of old books, pipe smoke, and something distinctly chemical, perhaps remnants of one of Sherlock’s experiments that John was telling you about. You sat on the worn couch, hands wrapped tight around the bottom of your sweater. Your fingers trembled slightly, a lingering side effect of the encounter.

Sherlock paced the room, a flurry of motion and energy, his blue eyes sharp as he processed the information. "Moriarty doesn't waste his time. If he's chosen you as his next game, then there's something about you that interests him."

Your throat was dry, "I don’t understand… I’m not special. I’m just—"

"A creature of habit," Sherlock interrupted, spinning to face you. "You follow a predictable routine. Same coffee shop, same grocery store, same park bench, same route home. You made yourself an easy target."

The words cut deep, even though you knew he wasn't trying to be cruel. John, sensing your unease, shot Sherlock a glare. "Not helping, mate."

You swallowed hard, gripping your sweater tighter. "So what do I do? Call the police? Change my route?"

Sherlock scoffed. "The police? Against Moriarty? That’s adorable. No, if he’s watching you, it’s because he wants to be seen. He’s already woven you into his web."

You choke down the bile creeping up the back of your throat, "Then how do I get out?"

John shifted beside you, offering a reassuring smile. "We’ll figure something out. You’re not alone in this, alright?"

His kindness settled the anxious fluttering in your chest, but Sherlock had a different approach. He crouched in front of you suddenly, those piercing eyes scanning your face as if searching for something just beneath your skin. "Tell me, before today… did you ever feel watched?"

You hesitated. Thinking back, there had been moments, tiny flashes of unease. The tingle on the back of your neck, the flicker of movement in your peripheral vision. But you’d ignored it, brushing it off as paranoia.

"I… maybe," you admitted softly. "I just thought it was in my head."

Sherlock nodded as if he'd already expected that answer. "That’s how he operates. Moriarty doesn’t just appear. He seeps into your life like a slow-moving toxin, waiting until you’re comfortable before he makes his presence known."

A chill crept down your spine.

John sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "We need to be smart about this. Sherlock, what do you suggest?"

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, "You keep living your life as if nothing is wrong. Let him believe you’re oblivious. But from now on, you won’t be alone. John and I will be watching."

You exhaled slowly, processing the weight of that decision. "So… I become the bait?"

Sherlock smirked, "Think of it as playing his game on your own terms."

John, on the other hand, looked significantly less thrilled with the idea. "That sounds bloody dangerous."

Sherlock waved off the concern. "Everything is dangerous when Moriarty is involved."

A heavy silence settled over the room. Then-

Ding.

Your phone screen lit up. Your breath hitched.

One new message. No number. Just a single line of text.

Say hi to Sherlock for me. I’ll see you soon. xx

Your blood ran cold.

Sherlock plucked the phone from your hands before you could react, eyes scanning the message. His lips curled in something between a sneer and a knowing smile.

"Well," he murmured, tossing the phone onto the table, "it seems the game has officially begun."

Sherlock’s words lingered in the air, as heavy as the silence that followed. Your stomach twisted. The words felt final, like a door had just shut behind you, locking you inside something far bigger than you could comprehend.

John exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before standing. "Right. That’s enough excitement for one night. I’ll make some tea."

Tea. How utterly normal. You clung to the idea like a lifeline as John moved toward the kitchen, the sound of the kettle clicking on, grounding you in something real. In a moment like this, the thought of being back at home, curled up in your bed, makes your heart ache with want. 

Sherlock, however, was still watching you. Studying. 

His gaze was sharp, cutting through you like glass. He was seeing something you couldn’t, dissecting you with that brilliant, unrelenting mind of his.

You swallowed hard, "I don’t understand."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, "Understand what?"

"Why me?" Your voice came out quieter than you wanted. "I’m not special. I’m not a detective or a criminal mastermind. I just-" You huffed out a frustrated breath. "I just go to work, I go home, I exist. That’s it."

Sherlock didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you. It was maddening. You just met the man, and he already feels like someone you need to impress. 

Then, he smiled. Not a kind smile. Not even an amused one. It was knowing. Sharp. Like he’d just solved a puzzle you didn’t even know existed.

John returned, setting a warm mug in front of you. His hand lingered for a second, reassuring. His warm eyes find yours. "Drink. You’re shaking." 

You hadn’t noticed until now. Your hands trembled against the ceramic, the warmth seeping into your fingertips as you gripped it tightly.

John sat beside you, shooting Sherlock a glare. "Could you stop staring at her like she’s a science experiment?"

Sherlock ignored him completely. His voice, when he spoke, was soft. Calculated.

"You say you’re not special," he mused. "But Moriarty doesn’t waste his time on nobodies. He sees something in you."

You scoffed. "And what, exactly, does a psychopath see in me?"

Sherlock leaned forward slightly, his gaze locked onto yours. "Potential."

Your breath caught. John shifted uncomfortably, "Sherlock, maybe don’t-"

"No," you interrupted, eyes still on Sherlock. "I want to hear this."

Sherlock studied you for a beat longer before tilting his head slightly. "You think you’re ordinary because you follow a routine. Because you don’t seek out danger or play mind games. But that’s exactly why you caught Moriarty’s attention."

Your grip on the mug tightened. "That doesn’t make sense."

"Doesn’t it?" His lips twitched. "You’re a paradox. Someone who appears predictable but isn’t easily broken. You didn’t collapse when you realized you were being followed. You didn’t run to the police, even when fear told you to. Instead, you came here, to me. Trusting a complete stranger in the process."

Your pulse hammered in your ears.

Sherlock’s voice dropped lower. "He sees it, and now I do too. You’re not special because of what you’ve done. You’re special because of what you could do. Because given the right push… You wouldn’t just survive his game." His eyes darkened. "You might win it."

A shiver ran down your spine.

John cleared his throat loudly, “Okay. That’s enough ominous speeches for one night.”

You barely heard him, because deep down, in the quietest part of your mind, something about Sherlock’s words rang true.

Moriarty wasn’t interested in you because you were weak.

He was interested because maybe, just maybe, you weren’t. 

The cab ride home felt longer than usual. London blurred past the window in streaks of orange and shadow, reflections of your own face flickering back at you, distant, thinking too much.

Your mind replayed everything.

The way Sherlock had said your name. The way he’d looked at you, not afraid for you, but wary of what you might become inside the game.

You wrapped your coat tighter around yourself.

You weren’t naïve. You knew men like Moriarty didn’t fixate without purpose. He was deliberate. Strategic. If he’d noticed you, there was a reason. Sherlock told you as such.

But the part that unsettled you most wasn’t the danger.

It was the possibility.

The thought that maybe he had seen something in you that no one else had.

When the cab finally dropped you off, you stood on the pavement a moment longer than necessary, scanning your street.

Normal. Quiet. Safe.

You told yourself you were being dramatic.

Inside your building, the stairwell creaked the way it always did. The hallway light flickered the way it always did. Your door looked untouched.

Still.

Your fingers hesitated on the key. You exhaled sharply and stepped inside. Everything appeared exactly as you’d left it.

The lamp by the sofa. The book open on the coffee table. The mug in the sink.

But something felt-

Off.

You closed the door slowly behind you.

And then you smelled it.

Faint. Smoky. Dark.

Not your perfume. Not your detergent. Not anything you recognized.

It wasn’t overpowering, just a whisper in the air. Something warm and expensive and intoxicating. Like burned sugar and old cologne and something metallic beneath it.

You stood very still.

Your heartbeat thudded in your ears.

You moved further inside, scanning the room with sharper eyes now. Nothing disturbed. No broken locks. No obvious intrusion.

But the scent lingered.

As if someone had stood in your living room not long ago.

As if someone had leaned over your couch.

As if someone had breathed in the air you were breathing now.

Your pulse fluttered, not entirely from fear. There was a part of you, deep down, that was terrified of your feelings, because alongside the unease was something else.

A flicker. A warmth low in your stomach. You shouldn’t feel that. You knew you shouldn’t.

If he had been here, if this was connected to him, it wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t thrilling. It was a warning.

And yet.

Your fingers brushed absentmindedly over the back of your neck, as if expecting to feel someone standing too close behind you.

You imagined it for a second.

Him.

Watching. Studying. Choosing.

The thought made your breath thin.

“Stop,” you whispered to yourself.

This was how it started. This was how people got pulled into disasters they couldn’t control, by mistaking attention for destiny.

You moved through the flat methodically, checking windows. Locks. Closets. Rational. Careful.

Nothing.

But when you returned to the living room, the scent still hung there.

Smoky. Dark. Intoxicating.

You sank slowly onto the couch. Sherlock’s words echoed in your mind.

He’s not interested because you’re weak.

Your gaze drifted toward the window, to the city lights beyond. If Moriarty was watching, if he had been in this room, then this wasn’t random.

This was deliberate.

Which meant this wasn’t just a one-time occurrence; it was the beginning.

Your chest tightened. You should call Sherlock. You should tell him about the smell, about the feeling, about the way your instincts were screaming.

Instead, you leaned back against the cushions and closed your eyes. Because beneath the fear, beneath the logic, beneath the clear understanding that this was dangerous.

There was something else rising.

Curiosity.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

You weren’t just being hunted. You were waiting to see what he would do next, and somewhere inside you, somewhere you didn’t want to look too closely. 

ahh!! That’s so sweet of you, thank you 🥰

Kakashi x reader

Summary: After accidentally seeing Kakashi without his mask, you realize how screwed you actually are as you keep thinking about his (pretty) face.

Warnings: Fluff

The day had been like any other, until it wasn’t.

Team 7 was sprawled across the training field in various stages of exhaustion, the last of their sparring drills finally finished. Sakura was fussing over Naruto’s bruises, Sasuke was pretending he didn’t care about his own, and Kakashi was, well, Kakashi was as unruffled as ever, though his silver hair was a little more mussed than usual.

You were helping gather the equipment, rolling up the rope targets into neat coils, when you caught him from the corner of your eye. He had pulled his mask down, just enough to swipe at his jaw with the back of his wrist, the last light of the sun catching the scar across his cheek.

You hadn’t meant to look. Honestly. One glance, that was all it took. One glimpse of a straight nose, the soft curve of his mouth, the delicate scar tracing across skin you’d only ever imagined. Your gaze snagged, breath hitching at the line of his mouth, the impossible softness of it compared to everything else about him.

And then, just as quickly, the mask was back up.

He noticed your stare. Of course he did. That amused crinkle at the corner of his eye gave him away. But he said nothing, only handed you the rope coil like nothing unusual had happened.

You, however, spent the rest of the evening feeling like you’d been dropped into an alternate reality. His face, his actual face, burned behind your eyelids, playing on loop in your thoughts. It was beautiful in a way that unsettled you, not because you disliked it, but because you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Which was exactly the problem.

By the time you all ended up at Ichiraku, the kids had sensed something.

“Why’re you so stiff?” Naruto asked, pointing a chopstick at you, broth dripping dangerously close to your lap, “You keep looking away from Kakashi-sensei like you’re hiding something!”

You smiled sweetly, pretending you hadn’t just almost choked on your noodles. “Naruto, I’ve spent all day with you. If anyone’s hiding something, it’s you hiding that sandal you abandoned in the training field.”

His mouth dropped open, “How did you-?! That was a tactical loss!”

Sakura leaned across the counter, eyes narrowing. “No, he’s right. You’ve been different since training ended. You didn’t even tease Kakashi-sensei for reading his dumb book during dinner.”

“Dumb book?” Kakashi echoed lazily, though his eye was sharp on you.

You waved her off, keeping your expression calm, your tone smooth, “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Sasuke finally looked up from his bowl. “Pathetic,” he muttered, not even specifying whether it was directed at Naruto or you. Probably both.

You sighed, “Can we eat in peace, or do I need to start assigning extra drills?”

That shut them up long enough to finish the meal, though you could feel Kakashi’s gaze flick toward you every so often, a quiet curiosity humming beneath his usual aloofness.

After ramen, you dropped the kids off one by one. Sakura was home first, with her calling back a suspicious, “Don’t think I didn’t notice!” before disappearing inside. Naruto bolted off toward his apartment with the enthusiasm of someone already dreaming of his midnight snack. Sasuke just gave a curt nod before vanishing into the shadows of his compound.

And then it was just the two of you.

The night was quiet, lanterns glowing softly along the cobbled street, their light catching in the edges of puddles and the worn stone beneath your feet. Somewhere far off, laughter drifted from an open window. A cat darted across the road and disappeared into the dark. Everything felt slowed, muted, as if the village itself were holding its breath.

You walked side by side, close but not touching, trying to act normal, but your every word felt rehearsed, every glance stolen and immediately regretted. You were acutely aware of him: the steady rhythm of his steps, the warmth he seemed to carry with him, the way his presence felt heavier now, more charged.

Finally, Kakashi broke the silence.

“You’ve been… different.”

You kept your eyes ahead, focusing on the road, on anything that wasn’t him. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“They’re not wrong.” His tone was thoughtful, not accusing, almost careful. “Usually, when people avoid looking at me, it’s because I’ve upset them. Or because…” He hesitated, just slightly, barely enough that anyone else might have missed it, but you felt it. His voice dipped softer. “…they don’t like what they see.”

Your steps faltered before you could stop yourself. You came to a full halt, the words hitting harder than you expected. You turned to stare at him, disbelief written all over your face.

“Wait,” you said. “Is that what you think?”

He stopped, too, finally turning to face you fully. His single visible eye searched your face, unreadable but intent, like he was bracing for something. “Shouldn’t I?”

That did it. The knot in your chest snapped.

The rush of words spilled out before you could stop them. “Kakashi, no. Are you insane? I can’t stop thinking about it because you’re—” You cut yourself off with a groan, dragging a hand down your face before throwing both hands up. “You’re gorgeous, okay? Absolutely unfairly gorgeous. I’ve been trying to play it cool because I didn’t want to make it weird, but it’s already weird, and I just—”

You stopped short, the weight of what you’d said crashing down all at once. Heat flooded your cheeks. You looked away, suddenly very interested in literally anything else.

For a long, heavy heartbeat, he was silent. The night stretched.

And then his visible eye curved, his shoulders easing as a quiet laugh slipped out, soft, disbelieving, full of something that sounded dangerously like relief.

“Gorgeous,” he repeated, rolling the word over like it didn’t quite belong to him. “That’s… not what I expected.”

“Don’t mock me,” you huffed out, still mortified, arms crossing over your chest like it might contain the embarrassment.

“No mocking.” His voice was warm now, tinged with something else, something gentler, something almost shy. “Actually… that’s a relief.”

You risked a glance at him then. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t hiding behind that lazy ease he wore so well. He looked… sincere. Open, in a way that made your chest ache.

The air between you shifted, charged and delicate all at once, like one wrong move might shatter it. You hadn’t even realized how far you’d walked until you noticed where you were, standing outside your place, the familiar door only a few steps away.

Neither of you moved right away.

Kakashi tilted his head, considering you, the corner of his eye soft. “Mind if I come in?”

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs, loud enough you were sure he could hear it. A rosy tinge crept across your cheeks, but you didn’t look away this time.

“Not at all.”

Inside, the room was dim but cozy, the glow from a single lantern casting golden light across the walls. Shadows gathered in the corners, familiar and comforting, the kind that made the space feel lived in rather than empty. The quiet here felt different than outside. Thicker. More private.

You busied yourself with setting down your things, slipping off your shoes, straightening an already straightened surface. Anything to keep your hands moving, to keep from trembling under the weight of his presence behind you. You could feel him there without looking. Steady. Patient. Watching, but not pressing.

Your heartbeat refused to slow. Every small sound seemed louder in the stillness. The soft brush of fabric as he shifted his weight. The faint inhale of his breath. You told yourself to turn around. You did not. Not yet.

When you finally did, he was already there. Standing just close enough that the air seemed thinner, warmer. Close enough that you were suddenly aware of how little space there really was between you. His hands slid into his pockets casually, an old habit, but his posture was different. Less guarded. His gaze was intent, focused on you in a way that made your breath catch all over again.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, not awkward but charged, humming with everything left unsaid on the walk home.

“Earlier,” he said quietly at last, his voice low and careful, “you didn’t really get a chance to look.”

Your chest tightened. The words landed softly, but they carried weight. Permission. An offering.

Your breath caught before you could stop it, a sharp little inhale that gave you away. You nodded once, unable to trust your voice. Your eyes flicked briefly to his mask and then back to his eye, heart pounding harder with every second that passed.

He did not rush. He did not tease. He simply watched you for a beat longer, as if making sure this was truly what you wanted. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted his hand and tugged the mask down.

There it was again, the face you’d glimpsed in the field, only now there was no rush, no need to look away. You let yourself admire him: the strong line of his jaw, the very faint stubble along his cheeks, the perfect beauty mark that dotted his chin. His lips were shaped like temptation itself, full, curved, more expressive than you’d ever imagined. He was beautiful. He was unfair. And he was yours to look at.

You stepped closer, hand lifting almost of its own accord to brush against his face. “Definitely gorgeous,” you whispered, the truth of it raw in your voice.

Something in his eye softened, the walls he always kept between himself and the world lowering, just for you. He bent toward you, slow and cautious, as if giving you every chance to back away. You didn’t.

Your lips met, tentative at first, then deeper as the tension of weeks, months, unspooled between you. His mouth moved against yours with a tenderness that made your knees weak, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck, thumb grazing your skin like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You tilted into him, fingers curling into his shirt, and he angled his head, deepening the kiss. His lips were warm, softer than you could have guessed, moving with a kind of reverence that stole the breath right from your lungs. When he finally drew back, it was only to let his forehead rest against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between.

And then, because you couldn’t stop yourself, you kissed him again. Quick, eager, almost laughing against his mouth. He chuckled low in his chest and kissed you back, his hand sliding down to your waist, steadying you as though he knew you were dizzy from the sheer reality of him.

By the time you finally parted, both of you were flushed, breathing unevenly.

You pressed your forehead to his shoulder, whispering, “That was… a lot.”

His voice rumbled against you, dry but fond. “Good or bad?”

“Good.” You tilted your face back up at him. “Definitely good.”

He smiled then, really smiled, no mask, no barrier. And it was devastating.

You blinked, half dazed. “Oh, great. Now I’m ruined. I can’t un-see it. You’re just-” You waved vaguely at his whole face. “That.”

A flush crept across his cheeks, Kakashi Hatake, the infamous Copy Ninja, actually blushing. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw like he could hide it, then remembered he wasn’t wearing the mask anymore and froze.

“…I don’t really know what to do with my face right now,” he admitted.

You bit back a grin. “Maybe just keep smiling like that. I could get used to it.”

He huffed, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Dangerous suggestion. You’ll be the only one who gets to see it.”

“Good.” Your voice softened, sincerity threading through your teasing. “I wouldn’t want to share it anyway.”

That earned you a look, fond, amused, and just a little stunned. He ducked his head like he needed a second, hair falling into his eyes. Without thinking, you reached up and brushed it back for him. He stilled under your touch, then leaned subtly into your hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For a long, quiet moment, the two of you just stood there, him awkward but soft without his mask, you dizzy with the realization that you might never want to see him any other way.

Finally, you broke the silence with a grin. “You know, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to have to kiss you again.”

His lips curved, and this time he didn’t hesitate. “Then you should.”

So you did. And the world outside could wait.

The kiss was slower this time, unhurried and certain, like neither of you felt the need to rush anymore. His hand found your waist, warm and steady, grounding you there in the quiet of your home. You rested your forehead against his when you finally pulled back, smiling softly, the closeness still humming between you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. There was no need to fill the silence. It felt settled, gentle, honest in a way that surprised you both.

“I’m not very good at this part,” he admitted quietly, almost sheepish, eyes flicking away for just a second before returning to you.

You smiled, thumb brushing lightly against his hand, “You’re doing just fine.”

Hawks x reader 

Summary: Hawks tries to stay anonymous at a book signing to meet a new favorite author of his. Obviously, it does not go as planned.

Warnings: None

Note: Here's the winner from my December poll! Thanks to the people who voted, I really appreciate the response :)

Hawks does not read romance.

That is the official, public-facing stance.

The carefully crafted image.

The one that fits neatly alongside Number Two Hero, effortlessly cool, and emotionally unavailable enough to be mysterious.

Privately?

Privately, Keigo Takami is sprawled across his couch at two in the morning, one wing draped lazily over the backrest, the other twitching every time his phone lights up. The city outside his window hums softly, distant sirens, wind between buildings, the low thrum of life continuing without him.

His screen glows with a forum thread.

“Books That Will Ruin Your Life (Emotionally)”

He squints at it like it personally offended him.

“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters, thumb hovering.

His phone buzzes.

Mirko: read The Quiet Between Heartbeats or i’m kicking your ass next training session

He snorts, tossing the phone onto his chest.

“Wow,” he says to the empty apartment. “Threats. Real mature.”

Five seconds pass.

Then he picks the phone back up.

He tells himself he’s just going to skim the blurb. Just to know what she’s talking about. He’s a professional; being informed is practically part of the job.

Five minutes later, the ebook is loaded on his phone.

Thirty minutes later, he’s sitting upright.

An hour later, his wings have curled in slightly, feathers ruffling whenever a line hits a little too close to something he doesn’t like examining.

By the time the sky starts to lighten, he’s finished.

And that’s the problem.

Now, a week later, he’s standing three blocks away from a small, cozy indie bookstore, heart doing something stupid in his chest, hood pulled low, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, baseball cap tugged down so far it’s more suspicious than helpful.

In his hands is a paperback copy of The Quiet Between Heartbeats.

He keeps glancing down at it like it might suddenly scream his secrets to the world.

“This is for research,” he tells himself. “Totally professional. Heroes should understand emotional narratives. It’s… empathy training.”

Mirko would never let him hear the end of this.

His phone buzzes again.

Mirko: signing today. go.

Hawks: absolutely not

Mirko: coward.

He exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face.

He is a coward.

Because what if someone recognizes him? What if someone sees him holding this book? What if someone asks why he’s there?

The cover is understated, no dramatic embraces, no glossy torsos, just two hands almost touching, fingers hovering in that unbearable space right before contact. The title is simple. Intimate.

Your name is printed beneath it.

No author photo. No smiling headshot. Just words.

Somehow, that makes it worse.

Because now his imagination has room to work, and that’s never gone well for him.

“Okay,” Hawks mutters. “In and out. Five minutes. I buy another copy for a friend. Normal. Casual. Extremely masculine.”

He pushes the door open.

A bell chimes softly.

The bookstore is warm in a way that feels intentional. Wooden shelves, soft lighting, the smell of coffee and paper, and something faintly sweet, vanilla, maybe. It feels lived-in. Loved.

There’s a small crowd gathered near the back.

And then—

He hears your laugh.

It’s not loud. Not performative. It bubbles up easily, like it surprised you too, and something about it makes his chest tighten before he can stop it.

He freezes.

You’re seated behind a table stacked with your books, pen in hand, leaning forward as you talk to a reader like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. Your expression is open, engaged, eyes warm when you listen, brighter when you respond.

You tuck your hair behind your ear as you speak.

You look… real.

Not distant. Not dramatic. Not like someone hiding behind their success.

Not at all what he expected.

Not that he had expectations. Obviously. That would be ridiculous.

He swallows, suddenly hyper-aware of his own height, his wings, the way he takes up space even when he doesn’t want to.

He shuffles into line, keeping his head down.

Everything is fine.

Right up until it very much isn’t.

“Oh my god—”

Hawks’ soul leaves his body.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move.

“Hawks?”

He bolts. Not gracefully. Not heroically. Pure, panicked instinct.

The hood slips. The sunglasses tilt. His wings twitch reflexively, feathers rustling.

The bookstore goes silent.

Then—

“Oh my god, it is him!”

“No way—”

“Is that Hawks?!”

The air changes instantly. Phones come out. Voices overlap. Someone grabs his sleeve. Someone else reaches for a selfie. Another asks if he’s single, which he absolutely refuses to acknowledge.

“Okay—hey—haha—easy, feathers,” he says, backing up, palms raised. “Let’s all just—whoa—personal space—”

A chair scrapes loudly.

“Hey.”

Your voice cuts through the noise, calm, steady, unshaken.

The room stills.

“This is a book signing,” you say gently, standing. “Not a hero appearance. If you want to meet Hawks, there are official events for that.”

You glance at him then, really look at him, and something in your expression softens.

“And,” you add, smiling slightly, “he’s clearly trying not to be noticed.”

There’s a pause.

Then, miraculously, people start backing off. Apologies murmur. Someone looks embarrassed. Another mutters about boundaries.

Hawks stares at you like you just performed actual magic.

You tilt your head, “You okay?”

“…Yeah,” he says, stunned. “Yeah. Thanks. That was, wow.”

You grin, “Perks of being the one with the pen.”

He laughs before he can stop himself.

When it’s finally his turn, he approaches your table slowly, like he’s stepping into something fragile.

“Who should I make it out to?” you ask, pen poised.

He slides the book forward, tapping the cover once.

“Uh,” he says, casual to a fault. “It’s for a friend.”

You look up.

Slowly.

One eyebrow lifts.

“Mhm,” you say. “Your friend has excellent taste.”

“Mirko recommended it.”

Your face lights up instantly. “Mirko?! Oh my god, she actually read it?”

“She threatened bodily harm if I didn’t,” he says. “Very persuasive.”

You laugh again, and this time it’s brighter, more delighted.

“I love her,” you say, writing his inscription. “She DM’d me once about chapter fourteen.”

He winces. “Yeah. That tracks.”

“You’re… Hawks,” you say, writing.

“Unfortunately,” he replies. “On days like today.”

“You tried to go incognito,” you say, amused.

“I tried,” he defends. “I even practiced not standing like myself.”

You gesture at his wings. “And yet.”

“They betray me constantly.”

You finish signing and slide the book back to him. He looks down.

For your “friend”—

Thanks for taking a chance on quiet love stories.

—Y/N

Something settles in his chest, quiet and unfamiliar, like a weight that isn’t heavy enough to hurt but is definitely there to stay. He looks down at the book in his hands, then back up at you, eyes a little softer now, a little less guarded than when he’d first approached the table.

“You didn’t ask my non-hero name,” he says softly, almost like he’s testing the words.

You smile, knowing and unbothered, the kind of smile that tells him you noticed far more than you let on.

“Didn’t need it.”

The sound he lets out is half a laugh, half a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He rubs the back of his neck, feathers rustling faintly with the motion, bashful in a way that feels wildly unfair coming from someone like him.

“For what it’s worth…” He hesitates, then meets your eyes. “Your book’s really good.”

Your expression shifts instantly, not the polite gratitude you’ve mastered for readers, not the practiced warmth for signings and small talk. This is quieter. Real. Something open and unguarded.

“Thank you,” you say sincerely. “That means more than you think.”

The space between you hums for a moment, charged but easy. Then you tilt your head, lips quirking as mischief sneaks back in.

“So,” you tease, “did your friend cry?”

He scoffs immediately, all bravado snapping back into place. “Absolutely not.”

You lean closer, lowering your voice like you’re sharing a secret, eyes bright with victory.

“Chapter nineteen.”

His jaw tightens. He looks away. “…Okay, maybe a little,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

You beam, full, delighted, triumphant.

“Well,” you say, standing and gathering your things, your voice dropping conspiratorially, “since I accidentally ruined your day, I think I owe you an escape.”

Before he can ask what you mean, you reach out, fingers wrapping around his wrist, warm, sure, and tug him gently toward the back exit.

He goes without question.

Outside, the air is cooler, quieter, the noise of the bookstore muffled behind the door. He exhales slowly, deeply, like he’s finally come up for air after being underwater too long.

“Wow,” he breathes. “You just kidnapped a top hero.”

“Relax,” you say easily. “I’m a romance author. It’s basically my brand.”

He laughs, really laughs, and this time when he looks at you, he actually sees you. The way you stand comfortably in your own space. The warmth in your eyes. The quiet, unshakable confidence that doesn’t demand attention but somehow commands it anyway.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I pictured you completely different.”

“Oh?” you tease, folding your arms. “How so?”

“Older,” he says. “Scarier. Probably wearing a lot of black.”

You snort. “Wow. Rude.”

He grins, unapologetic. “Still… kind of a fan.”

Your smile softens, fond and unguarded.

“Good,” you say. “Because I’m a fan of yours too.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “You are?”

You nod casually. “Saved my cousin during a villain attack last year. He hasn’t shut up about it since.”

“…Huh,” Hawks says, something warm blooming behind his ribs. “Guess we’re even.”

The moment lingers, quiet, suspended, before something impulsive sparks. You step closer, rise onto your toes, and press a quick, teasing kiss to his cheek.

“For your friend,” you whisper.

You pull back before he can even process it.

Hawks just stands there, stunned, book clutched to his chest, face heating up faster than he can control.

“…Wow,” he breathes. “Guess I’ll have to come back.”

You grin over your shoulder as you head back inside.

“Next time,” you call, “admit it’s for you.”

He watches you go, wings twitching, heart absolutely done for.

Yeah.

Hi there! Sorry for the very delayed one shot. I was still so thrilled to write this for you. I hope you enjoy!

Where the Light Still Lingers

Tanjiro x reader

Summary: After the Mugen Train, you pick up an injured, guilt-ridden Tanjiro from Rengoku’s home and gently remind him he’s allowed to rest and heal, bringing him back to the Butterfly Mansion for warmth, comfort, and love.

Warnings: Grief, fluff/comfort

The late afternoon sun stretched long golden fingers across the dirt road, painting everything it touched in warmth that didn’t quite reach the heart. You could feel it, that quiet heaviness in the air, the kind that follows loss, clinging to the world like a shadow that refuses to lift.

The bicycle’s creak and soft whir were the only sounds as you guided it up the path toward the Rengoku estate. The wind carried the faint scent of pine and smoke, the kind that reminded you of evenings at campfires and the way Rengoku’s laughter used to carry through the air like something unbreakable.

You hadn’t ridden a bike since childhood, and this one, borrowed from one of the Kakushi, wasn’t exactly made for steep roads, but you didn’t care. You’d heard that Tanjiro had gone to visit the Rengoku home alone, and your chest hadn’t stopped aching since.

Both of you were still healing, bandages, sore muscles, and the constant sting of remembering, but the emotional wounds were slower to mend than the physical ones.

When the house came into view, its shoji doors open to the gentle breeze, you saw him immediately. Tanjiro knelt in the courtyard with Senjuro, a soft, bittersweet smile on his face as he handed the boy something, a hair tie, you realized, one you’d seen Rengoku wear.

The scene froze you for a moment. Tanjiro’s expression was full of that deep compassion that made you fall for him in the first place, but beneath it lingered exhaustion, guilt, and a sadness so raw it made your throat tighten.

He turned at the squeak of the bike brakes and blinked, surprised. Then, that familiar smile, soft and radiant even through the pain. “Y/n! You came all the way here?”

You swung your leg off the bike and gave him a mock-stern look, “I could ask you the same thing. You were supposed to be resting.”

He scratched his cheek sheepishly. “I know. I just… I needed to thank Rengoku’s family properly. I couldn’t leave without doing that.”

Senjuro smiled faintly from behind him, eyes red-rimmed but hopeful. “I’m glad you came, Y/n. Tanjiro’s been helping me a lot today.”

Your expression softened immediately. “I’m sure he has,” you said kindly, reaching to pat the boy’s shoulder. “You take care of yourself, alright? Your brother would want that.”

Senjuro nodded, and you saw something flicker in Tanjiro’s eyes: admiration, sorrow, pride. When Senjuro went back inside, Tanjiro turned toward you again, his shoulders drooping slightly.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you worry again.”

You sighed, walking up to him and touching his sleeve gently. “Tanjiro, I’m always going to worry. That’s part of loving you.”

His eyes widened a fraction, the faintest blush creeping across his freckled cheeks. You could almost see the protest forming, that he didn’t deserve it, that he was fine, but you cut him off before he could speak.

“I understand why you came here,” you said softly. “And I think Rengoku would’ve been proud. You honor him just by being you. But you’re allowed to rest too. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

He exhaled shakily, gaze dropping to the ground. “I just… when I think about him… I keep wondering if I could have done more. If I’d been faster, stronger-”

You stepped closer until his forehead was almost against yours. “He saved you because he believed in you. In all of you. That wasn’t weakness, Tanjiro, it was love.”

His eyes glistened, the weight of unspoken guilt loosening just a little under your words. You reached up and cupped his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips.

“Let’s go home,” you whispered. “We can talk more there. You look ready to fall over.”

That earned a soft laugh, hoarse but genuine. “I might, actually.”

“Good thing I brought transportation then,” you said, jerking your head toward the bike.

He blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little. You’re sitting on the back, and you’re holding on tight.”

He tried to argue, but you raised a brow, which was enough to silence him. With a sheepish grin, he obeyed, settling carefully behind you. His hands hovered awkwardly until you reached back and caught one, placing it gently around your waist.

“Like this,” you said quietly.

His breath hitched against your shoulder. “O-okay.”

The road stretched ahead, bathed in gold as the sun dipped lower. When you pushed off, the wind caught the edges of your haori, carrying with it the faint smell of pine and the warmth of the fading day.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the rhythmic whir of the tires and the occasional chirp of early evening crickets. You could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back, the way his forehead brushed your shoulder every time the road dipped.

Finally, he murmured, “Thank you for coming for me.”

You smiled softly, keeping your eyes on the road. “Always.”

He chuckled under his breath, voice low. “You shouldn’t have to keep rescuing me.”

“That’s funny,” you said, a teasing lilt to your tone. “Because I could say the same about you.”

His laughter, though quiet, was genuine this time, bright enough to make your chest ache in a different way.

As the Butterfly Mansion came into view through the trees, the fireflies began to glow, small flickers of light like lingering embers in the dusk. You felt him breathe out softly against your shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you said. “It is.”

When you reached the courtyard, you stopped and steadied the bike, turning slightly. “You okay?”

He nodded, though his eyelids drooped, exhaustion winning the fight. You swung off and offered him a hand. “Come on, hero. Bedtime.”

“But-”

“No buts,” you interrupted. “You’re going to bed, you’re going to rest, and if you’re good, you get cuddles. Deal?”

His blush returned full force. “C-cuddles?”

You raised a brow, pretending to think. “Hmm. Maybe not then.”

He panicked instantly. “No, wait! I-I mean-yes! Deal!”

You laughed, loud enough that one of the Kakushi passing by grinned before scurrying off to avoid interrupting.

Inside, Shinobu was waiting near the hallway, arms folded and an all-too-knowing smile curving her lips. “Ah, I see our patient retrieval operation was a success.”

“Mostly,” you said. “He’s a little stubborn.”

“I am not stubborn,” Tanjiro muttered, cheeks pink.

Shinobu tilted her head sweetly. “Of course not. You’re just dedicated to keeping my infirmary full.”

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing as Tanjiro looked suitably chastised. Shinobu waved a hand dismissively and said, “Go on then. Y/n, make sure he actually stays put this time.”

You gave a small salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

The walk to his room was quiet, though Tanjiro leaned a little heavier on you than he probably meant to. You didn’t mind; it just meant he trusted you enough to stop pretending he wasn’t tired.

Once you helped him settle onto the futon, he sighed, relief softening his features. “You really didn’t have to come for me,” he mumbled.

“I know,” you said gently, brushing a few loose strands of hair from his forehead. “But I wanted to. You’d have done the same.”

He blinked up at you, eyes glassy with fatigue, “You’re too good to me.”

“Not true.” You smiled faintly. “I just know how to handle you.”

He chuckled, already halfway to sleep. “That’s even scarier.”

You laughed softly and adjusted the blanket over him, sitting down beside his futon. “Go to sleep, Tanjiro. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

His hand reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing yours. “Stay?”

You hesitated only a second before sliding down beside him, careful of his bandages. His arm automatically slipped around your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

“Better?” you whispered.

He hummed sleepily. “Mmhm. You smell like the forest.”

You smiled, resting your head on his shoulder. “You smell like trouble.”

He let out a soft laugh that quickly faded into the slow rhythm of his breathing. Outside, the cicadas sang their endless song, and for the first time since the train, you felt something like peace settle over you both.

You looked toward the window, where the last streaks of orange still glowed faintly on the horizon, light that lingered, refusing to die out.

“Goodnight, Tanjiro,” you whispered.

He stirred just enough to mumble your name, soft and sure. “Goodnight… I love you.”

You froze for half a second, your heart stumbling, then smiled into the quiet, brushing your thumb over his hand.

“I love you too,” you murmured.

Kakashi x Reader

Summary: When rumors sour your opinion of Kakashi, he hides behind a disguise, “Sukea”, to win your trust and affection. But as sweet nights and whispered confessions turn to love, the mask becomes harder to shed, until the truth shatters everything he’s built with you.

Warnings: Mild angst, emotional confrontation, fluff, romance

You had once admired Kakashi Hatake.

How could you not? He was a hero, a jonin of rare caliber, the famed Copy Ninja whose name still made enemies hesitate. He carried himself with quiet confidence, eyes hidden behind his mask and forehead protector, an unreadable figure who seemed to exist just slightly out of reach of everyone else. You had thought him noble, maybe even admirable.

Until the whispers started.

They slithered through the mission lounge when shinobi were tired and loose-tongued with drink. At first, you ignored them. But then the same things came again and again, from different lips, always accompanied by knowing smirks. 

“He’s obsessed with those filthy books.” 

“He doesn’t care about real relationships, just… distractions.” 

“Didn’t I tell you? I’ve spent the night with him myself.”

The image you’d built of him cracked, piece by piece, until admiration was replaced with quiet disappointment. How pathetic, you thought once, catching sight of him with a book in hand, smiling faintly at something on the page.

And Kakashi, standing just a few paces away that day you confessed your low opinion to Kurenai, felt every word like a kunai in his chest.

He told himself it shouldn’t matter. He was used to rumors, used to people misunderstanding him. He didn’t live his life for their approval.

But your voice haunted him, “I just don’t think very highly of Kakashi-senpai anymore. He seems… not serious. The things that people say about him are kind of gross, honestly.”

That night, he dug through an old drawer until his hands closed on the brown wig, the violet paint. A disguise he’d once used half in jest, half for freedom. Sukea.

The mirror showed a different man, hair chestnut instead of silver, eyes framed in careless purple lines, an easy grin where Kakashi’s calm stillness usually reigned. He didn’t look like himself at all. And for the first time, Kakashi thought, maybe that was a good thing.

The first time, it was tea.

The storm outside rattled the windows, and you had barely shaken the rain from your hair when a man with messy brown hair and violet paint smudged around his eyes leaned across the table with a grin.

“Storm caught you, too, huh?” he said. “Tell you what, if you don’t mind company, I’ll order us both tea. I swear I’m not as strange as I look.”

You blinked at his cheer, but found yourself nodding. The tea was hot, the conversation warmer. He told silly stories about tripping over his own sandals, about getting caught in a chicken coop on a mission gone wrong. You laughed, and when the rain cleared, you realized you hadn’t felt so light in a long time.

It continued with the lanterns.

Konoha’s streets glowed gold and crimson, paper spheres bobbing overhead as the summer festival unfurled in color and sound. The air smelled of grilled squid and sweet bean cakes, mingling with the chatter of villagers.

You weren’t expecting to see him there, but of course, Sukea appeared as though he’d been waiting. “You came too!” he said brightly, weaving into step beside you. He wore casual clothes, his purple eye paint slightly smudged from the heat. Somehow, it suited the chaotic warmth of the evening.

“You stalk me, don’t you?” you teased, arching a brow.

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Ouch. I prefer the term fate.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed a smile.

He dragged you into game stalls, insisting on trying his hand at every challenge. He failed miserably at ring toss, nearly knocked over a stall at target practice, and finally, at a prize booth, somehow managed to win a small stuffed fox with lopsided ears.

“Behold,” he said grandly, offering it to you. “Your prize, my lady.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You really didn’t need to-”

“I did.” His grin softened, eyes warm as he pressed it into your hands. “It reminded me of you.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” Your lips raise into a smirk.

“Clever. Pretty. Dangerous when you want to be.”

Heat rose in your cheeks. You shoved his shoulder lightly, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously right, maybe.” He winked.

The rest of the night passed in a haze of laughter and glowing lanterns. As the crowd thinned, you found yourselves walking side by side beneath the shimmering lights. Your hands brushed, once, twice, and finally stayed, his pinky curling gently around yours. He didn’t say anything, just smiled at you sidelong, and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

It was late, and the village hushed. You’d just finished dinner together when he tugged your hand, “Come on. I want to show you something.”

He led you up winding stairs, then onto a quiet rooftop where the world spread wide. The sky stretched dark and endless, stars scattered like shuriken tossed carelessly across velvet. The lanterns below flickered dimly, but up here, it felt like you were alone in the universe.

“Wow,” you whispered, lying back on the tiles beside him.

“Told you,” he said smugly, folding his arms behind his head. “Sukea always delivers.”

You snorted, “You always talk about yourself in the third person?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress someone.” He peeked at you, grin crooked. “Is it working?”

You turned your head toward him, smirking. “Maybe a little.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it was gentle, filled with the sound of night insects and the rustle of wind.

You found yourself speaking before you meant to. “I don’t really… trust people easily. Shinobi life makes you careful. But with you-” You hesitated, cheeks warm. “It feels easier. Like, I don’t have to keep my guard up.”

He went still beside you. His chest ached with how much he wanted to tell you the truth in that moment. To tell you it was him, Kakashi, the man you thought unworthy. That you did trust him, you just didn’t know it.

Instead, he rolled onto his side, gaze intent. “I feel the same,” he said quietly. “With you, I… forget how heavy things usually feel.”

Your breath caught. The words hung between you, fragile and shimmering.

Then he forced a grin, ruffling your hair. “Anyway! Don’t go getting all sappy on me. You’ll ruin my reputation as a cool guy.”

You shoved him playfully, laughing, though your heart was thudding wildly.

And Kakashi lay there, smiling at your laughter, and hated himself for hiding behind Sukea, because it wasn’t just you who was falling. It was him, too.

The kiss ruined everything.

It was after ramen, both of you tired and content, your knees brushing beneath the counter. He made some silly comment about how loudly you slurped, and you smacked him, laughing, and then the laughter fell away, and the moment stretched taut between you.

You leaned in first. Tentative, soft.

Kakashi froze, his brain screaming to stop, but the need was too much. He kissed you back, first cautious, then desperate, pouring weeks of restraint into one stolen, perfect moment. You melted against him, hands clutching at his jacket, and when you pulled back, cheeks burning, you whispered, “I really like you, Sukea.”

The lie seared through him. But he couldn’t stop. “I like you too,” he said hoarsely, and kissed you again.

The weeks after blurred in sweetness and sin.

You and Sukea became inseparable, sharing meals, secrets, kisses stolen in quiet corners. Sometimes more, when night fell and restraint broke down. He kissed you in shadowed alleys, laughing when you pulled him deeper into the dark. He cooked clumsy breakfasts for you, grinning as though burnt eggs were a triumph. He tangled with you on quiet nights, murmuring your name like a secret he wasn’t meant to know.

Each time, Kakashi swore he’d confess the next day. That he wouldn’t let himself sink deeper into this beautiful, impossible dream. 

But every time you smiled, every time you whispered his false name with such tenderness, he failed.

Because you loved Sukea, and Kakashi Hatake couldn’t bear the thought of losing that love.

It all unraveled on a quiet night.

You hadn’t meant to stop by unannounced, but you’d left something at Sukea’s apartment, the scarf he’d draped around your shoulders when you’d shivered at the festival. The door was unlocked.

Inside, the apartment was dim, papers scattered across a low table. You smiled faintly at the mess until your eyes landed on the wig.

Brown strands of hair, tangled. Purple paint smeared on a cloth. And beside them, a forehead protector gleaming in the lantern light.

The truth struck like a kunai to the chest.

Your scarf slipped from your hands.

When the door opened behind you, you turned slowly, silver hair. A face you knew, but had never truly seen.

Kakashi froze in the doorway, grocery bag dangling from his hand, expression shattering.

“…You,” you whispered, voice raw. “It was you all along.”

The bag slid from his fingers, apples rolling across the floor. “I-” His throat closed. He tried again, softer. “Yes.”

Your hands trembled, “You lied to me.”

His eye squeezed shut, “I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

Your laugh was brittle, breaking. “You made me fall for someone who doesn’t even exist.”

He flinched as though you’d struck him. “It wasn’t a lie,” he said hoarsely, stepping closer. “Every laugh. Every word. Every kiss. That was me. Always me.”

“Then why hide?” Your tears burned, blurring him. “Why couldn’t you just be yourself?”

His chest heaved. “Because you thought so little of me.” The words tore out, raw and ragged. “You believed I was some… perverted, careless man who toyed with women. And I couldn’t bear to see that look in your eyes when it was me. But as Sukea…” His voice broke. “You smiled. You let me close. And I-I couldn’t let it go.”

The silence was sharp, heavy with heartbreak.

Finally, you whispered, “Do you know what hurts most? I did trust you. I told you things I’ve never told anyone. And all this time, it wasn’t trust, it was a trick.”

He swallowed hard, shoulders sagging. “It wasn’t a trick. I never laughed at you, never lied about what I felt. I just… didn’t give you the right name.”

A sob broke from your chest. “That’s not something small, Kakashi.”

His steps faltered closer. He stopped only when you didn’t back away. His gaze was raw, stripped of all masks.

“Then let me fix it.” His voice was low, shaking. He reached up slowly, sliding his mask down until his entire face was bare. His eye, the one he so rarely showed, shone with unshed tears.

“This is me,” he whispered. “No disguises. No masks. Just Kakashi.”

Your breath caught. He looked younger, almost vulnerable, with silver hair tousled, scar standing out stark and human against his skin. He looked like a man offering up his heart with trembling hands.

“Everything I felt as Sukea,” he said, voice cracking, “I feel a thousand times more as myself.”

Tears slipped hot down your cheeks. You searched his face, every line and shadow, for any hint of falsehood, and found only aching sincerity.

And against your better judgment, against the wound in your chest, you stepped forward. Your hand rose, fingertips brushing the scar along his cheek. He shuddered under the touch, breath hitching.

“You’re still a liar,” you whispered.

He gave a broken laugh, closing his eye as though the words cut and soothed at once. “Then let me spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Your lips trembled. And then you kissed him, slow, trembling, but real.

When his arms came around you, holding you as if you might vanish, you knew the wound would take time to heal. But you also knew this: the man you had fallen for, the one who held you under starlight, who laughed too hard at festival games, who kissed you like he’d never get another chance, had always been him.

And now, at last, so was the truth.

Morning sunlight crept in through your window, warm and golden, painting lazy patterns across the sheets.

You stirred first, blinking sleep from your eyes, and for a long moment you simply watched him. Kakashi Hatake, without a mask, hair a tousled silver mess, breathing slow and steady beside you. The scar across his face was softened by the light, his expression unguarded, almost boyish in sleep.

You couldn’t stop staring.

His lashes fluttered, and then his lone grey eye cracked open. For a split second, panic flashed across his face, an instinct honed from years of hiding, but it softened when he saw your expression.

“…Morning,” he rasped, voice rough with sleep.

You smirked. “So you do have a mouth. And it works.”

Color touched his cheeks, faint but undeniable. He dragged a hand over his face with a groan. “I knew this would be the worst part.”

“What, me finally seeing what you look like when you wake up?”

“Yes.” His eye slid shut again, and he muttered, “Should’ve kept the mask.”

You laughed softly, reaching out to push a strand of silver hair from his face. “No. No more masks. I like this Kakashi.”

He froze, then turned his head just enough to press a feather-light kiss to your palm. His lips lingered, warm against your skin.

“…Even if he’s awkward?” he murmured.

“Especially then,” you teased, though your chest ached with something deeper.

His eye opened again, searching yours, still wary, still afraid. And you leaned down, kissing him before he could retreat back behind old walls. It was slow, sweet, with none of the desperate fire from the night before. Just a promise.

When you pulled back, he was smiling, a real smile, small and lopsided, but utterly unmasked.

“Guess I’ll have to work hard to live up to Sukea,” he said, trying for casual, but his voice wavered.

You arched a brow, smirking. “No. You just have to be you.”

His breath caught, and for the first time, he believed you.

Outside, the village stirred to life, but for a while, you stayed tangled in quiet laughter and soft kisses, sunlight and honesty weaving a fragile new beginning.

Kakashi x Reader

Summary: After finding out that you have a crush on Kakashi, Jiraiya concocts a plan to get Kakashi to confess his love to the reader (in one of the most Jiraiya ways possible).

Warnings: Mild suggestive themes, jealousy, romantic tension, playful innuendo, humor.

You didn’t mean to tell Naruto.

Honestly, you hadn’t even realized you had until the words slipped out, light and thoughtless in the golden afternoon, while you sat beneath the old training ground oak, sharing lunch with Naruto, Sakura, and Sasuke.

They’d been pestering you. Who was your type? Who did you like? Did you even have a crush? Do you want to spend your life lonely?

You shrugged, picking at your rice ball.

Sakura grinned wickedly, "Come on, Y/n, you’re not dead. There’s someone, right?”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, maybe a little crush. Happy?”

Naruto leaned in eagerly. “WHO??”

Sasuke, half-bored, half-annoyed, muttered, “It’s probably someone lame.”

And, without thinking, without even meaning to really say it, you mumbled, “Maybe… Kakashi.”

Silence.

You realized too late.

Too loud.

Too honest.

Naruto’s eyes bugged out like ramen bowls, "WHAAAAAAT?!"

“Be quiet,” you hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth, your face blazing hot.

But the damage was done. Sakura gasped. Sasuke’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk. Naruto was practically vibrating.

And Naruto... well. Naruto could never keep a secret for longer than he could go without eating.

You realized how bad it was hours later, when a familiar, booming laugh echoed across the street, making villagers glance around nervously.

Jiraiya.

You turned, and there he was, Jiraiya, the Toad Sage himself, striding towards you with an all-too-knowing grin.

"Y/n," he drawled, tossing an arm over your shoulders, "I hear you're struggling with some matters of the heart."

You stiffened. "I- I don't know what you're talking about."

He only chuckled, deep and sly. "Naruto’s not exactly a vault, you know." His grin widened. "Lucky for you, I'm willing to help."

You frowned. "Help?"

"Simple," he said, winking. "Pretend to be interested in me. Get Kakashi’s blood boiling. Nothing makes a man move faster than a little competition."

You opened your mouth. Shut it. Open again. "That’s insane."

He grinned harder. "Maybe. But are you gonna tell me it’s a bad idea?"

You hesitated.

"I mean," you mumbled, staring at the ground, "I don’t think it’ll work anyway. I’m not exactly... the kind of girl someone like Kakashi would get jealous over."

You said it lightly, joking almost, but it stung. Worse, Jiraiya caught the truth of it immediately.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully, tapping his chin. "Sounds like a good research topic."

You snorted, "Research?"

"Of course." His eyes twinkled. "Let's prove how wrong you are, shall we?"

It started the next day.

You made sure to cross Kakashi’s path at the market, laughing way too loudly at something Jiraiya said. (Jiraiya’s joke had been about a frog falling into a bathhouse; it wasn't even funny, but you laughed like it was comedy gold.)

Kakashi was there. You knew he was there before you even saw him.

You felt him, the quiet tension, the way the lazy, half-lidded stare snapped a little sharper, the subtle turn of his masked face toward you.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even move.

But he was watching.

Good.

Step one: Success.

It continued innocently enough.

You were walking beside Jiraiya, laughing over something stupid Naruto had said earlier in training, probably about ramen or toads or his constant near-death experiences that he somehow turned into punchlines.

Jiraiya’s voice boomed as he chuckled beside you. “You know, I always said that kid was a walking disaster. Takes after me, clearly.”

You snorted, elbowing him. “That’s not something to brag about.”

“You wound me,” Jiraiya said dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. “And here I thought I was charming you with my wit.”

You grinned. “Oh, is that what this is? A seduction attempt?”

He gasped. “Attempt? My dear, I am a living legend.”

You both laughed, really laughed, and as your shoulders bumped, his hand lifted and dropped easily across your upper back. A heavy, teasing weight. Just enough to make you stumble a bit and instinctively reach out, your hand catching his side, your body leaning into his to catch your balance.

It would have been nothing. Would have passed, unnoticed…except Kakashi was across the street.

You didn’t see him right away.

Not until Jiraiya’s hand lingered and he leaned down, teasing, “So, this is how rumors start, hm?”

You arched a brow. “What, you can dish it out but can’t take a little contact, old man?”

“Oh no, I can take it,” he said smoothly, voice dipping low. “In fact, I might request more.”

You laughed, a little breathlessly this time. “Jiraiya, are you flirting with me?”

He smirked. “Are you asking me to stop?”

And that’s when you felt it.

That strange, electric awareness.

You followed the pull of it, across the street, past the bakery cart, to the man in gray, leaning against a post with one hand in his pocket and the other loosely holding his book, unread.

Kakashi.

He wasn’t even pretending to read.

He was watching, still as stone. Eye unreadable, but locked on you.

You straightened a bit, flushing.

Jiraiya noticed the shift in your posture and followed your gaze.

“Ohhh,” he drawled under his breath, grinning, “He’s watching.”

You tried to hide your smile. “It’s not working. He doesn’t even look bothered.”

Jiraiya gave a knowing chuckle. “That man is seething. Trust me. I’ve known Kakashi a long time. His silence? Means he’s losing his mind.”

You cast another glance toward Kakashi. Still motionless. Still staring.

“Think he’ll say something?” you asked softly.

Jiraiya shook his head. “Nope. Not yet. He’s going to stew. You just rocked his foundation, Y/n. Let him marinate in that.”

You groaned. “This is mean. We’re being mean.”

“We’re being educational,” Jiraiya corrected. “You’re showing him what it’s like to want something and think you’ve lost it. That’s the only thing that’ll make him move.”

You looked back again, unable to stop yourself.

Kakashi’s eye shifted, and for one dizzying second, your gazes locked.

You felt it.

A jolt, like chakra crackling under skin.

Then, slowly, his eye narrowed just slightly.

Not angry. Not confused.

Just… sharp. Focused. And possessive.

Your breath hitched, “Oh,” you whispered.

Jiraiya grinned, satisfied. “There it is.”

Naruto’s brilliant idea (“Let’s REALLY make him mad!”) involved dragging you and Jiraiya to Ichiraku Ramen for dinner.

Naruto, Sakura, and Sasuke “coincidentally” showed up too, lurking behind menus like the worst spies in shinobi history. And of course, Kakashi “coincidentally” walked in not long after, the faint smell of rain and cedar clinging to him as he coolly nodded to Teuchi and slid onto a stool two seats down from yours.

You felt his presence before you saw him, the subtle shift in the air, the weight of his gaze brushing against the back of your neck.

You and Jiraiya leaned close, far closer than was strictly necessary, whispering conspiratorially. You could feel Kakashi’s focus on the movement of your shoulder brushing Jiraiya’s sleeve, the way your hair swayed forward like you’d just let your guard down.

You knew Kakashi could hear you.

You knew he wasn’t really reading that book he was pretending to hold.

Your skin prickled with awareness, every nerve on edge. Your heart was hammering against your ribs.

Jiraiya’s voice dropped low enough that only you and Kakashi would catch it.

“Right now,” Jiraiya murmured, lips curling in a knowing smirk, “Kakashi’s thinking about grabbing me by the collar and hauling me outside.”

You almost choked on your noodles, hiding your laugh behind your hand.

“That’s ridiculous,” you whispered back, though your voice betrayed the tiniest hitch.

“Oh no,” Jiraiya said, grinning as if he’d just uncovered a hidden treasure. “It’s not ridiculous at all. He’s calculating how far he can push before you notice. How far he can let me push before he snaps. Because he’s Kakashi… and Kakashi’s a slow burn. He’ll stew. He’ll agonize. Until it breaks him.”

You caught a glimpse of Kakashi’s hand, knuckles white around his chopsticks. His jaw, barely visible under the mask, had gone taut.

“You’re imagining things,” you said softly, though your own chopsticks hesitated halfway to your lips.

“Am I?” Jiraiya leaned even closer, deliberately brushing your hand as he reached for the soy sauce. “Because if I were him, I’d be picturing the two of us in the exact position we’re in now, except his hand would be on the back of your neck. And he’d be making damn sure I got the message.”

The words sent a shiver straight down your spine. You felt Kakashi’s attention sharpen like the edge of a kunai.

“Careful,” you murmured, your pulse thrumming in your throat. “He might just surprise you.”

From two seats away, Kakashi finally turned a page in that book, slow, deliberate, and utterly unnecessary.

“Teuchi,” he said, voice calm but cutting through the air like smoke. “Could you pass the chili oil?”

Teuchi slid it toward him. But instead of setting it on the counter, Kakashi stood and crossed the short distance between you, placing it directly in front of you with a lazy precision that made the hair on your arms stand on end.

“Careful,” he murmured, eyes holding yours over the rim of his mask. “It’s stronger than it looks.”

Your breath caught. Jiraiya smirked into his ramen.

Kakashi’s gaze lingered on you for a beat too long before he returned to his seat, flipping another page without looking down.

It was a page you were willing to bet he’d already read. Twice.

God, this was working.

The tension held like a bowstring until Jiraiya finally clapped a hand on the counter and declared, "Come on, I’ll walk you home."

Kakashi stood up at the exact same time you did. Too casual. Too timed.

"Heading out," he said, voice mild, slipping the book into his pocket.

"Don’t let us keep you," Jiraiya replied cheerfully, steering you toward the street. "I’ll make sure she gets home safe."

"I’m sure you will," Kakashi murmured.

You frowned a little at the edge in his tone, but Jiraiya just looked smug.

The streets were quiet this time of night, lanterns casting long shadows. You walked with your hands in your pockets, Jiraiya matching your stride. Behind you, a faint scuff of footsteps echoed.

"Someone’s following us," you whispered.

"I know." Jiraiya didn’t even look back. "Relax. It’s just your guard dog."

You rolled your eyes. "Kakashi isn’t-"

"Sure," Jiraiya cut in. "And I’m not intentionally making him want to put me through a wall."

You bit back a laugh, "You’re enjoying this way too much."

"Of course I am. He’s a good man, but I can’t let him think you’re too easy to win over. Makes him fight harder."

"You’re insufferable." Your eyes roll in response before you even realize. 

"And yet you’re smiling."

By the time you reached your door, you could still feel the heat of Kakashi’s quiet shadow behind you. Jiraiya paused, hands in his pockets, and gave you a long, deliberate look before stepping in and pulling you into a firm hug.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he murmured.

You hugged him back, warm and fond. But as you stepped away, you caught the barest flicker of movement down the street, silver hair, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other drumming against his thigh in a slow, barely restrained rhythm.

Even at a distance, you could feel the heat rolling off him.

Yeah. He was fuming.

And you were in so much trouble.

Kakashi watched you from behind his mask, trying to reason with himself.

It’s none of your business. You’re her teacher. Her friend. Barely more. She’s free to... be with whoever she wants.

But no matter how hard he tried, the ache in his chest wouldn’t go away.

Seeing Jiraiya lean close, watching you laugh like that, that sweet, open laugh you usually only gave to friends, it made something ugly rise up in him.

He thought he was above this kind of petty jealousy.

Clearly not.

Kakashi wasn’t expecting to see you this early in the morning. He was on his way to the training ground, hands in his pockets, already running through the exercises he wanted to put Team 7 through when… there you were.

Not on the way to the training grounds. Not even in your usual mission gear.

Sitting in the open-air corner of a small tea shop with Jiraiya of all people, your elbows on the table, a cup steaming between your palms. And in front of you, a messy stack of papers bound together with a string, his new manuscript.

You were laughing. The kind of laugh Kakashi had heard maybe three times in his life, bright, unguarded, the kind that made people turn to see what was so funny.

Jiraiya had probably caught you after your morning market run, Kakashi guessed. Convinced you to “just walk with him for a second” under the pretense of asking your opinion on some research, and then somehow talked you into reading his work aloud over tea.

Jiraiya leaned closer to you in the shop, lowering his voice. “Now, if we picture you in this scene-”

You choked on your tea, “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” he asked with mock innocence. “You’ve got the poise, the looks-”

“And the ability to leave,” you interrupted, flipping the page with a sharp snap.

Jiraiya chuckled, but there was something knowing in his gaze, as if he could feel the chakra spike of a certain someone watching from down the street.

“Come on, you have the voice for it,” Kakashi could almost hear Jiraiya say in that teasing tone of his. You’d protest, but your curiosity would get the better of you. And once you got pulled into a story, you didn’t just read it, you lived it.

Right now, you were leaning forward, voice low and dramatic as you read a line that made Jiraiya slap the table in delight. Your lips curved around the words, drawing them out. Your eyes flicked up at him with mock severity when you reached an especially ridiculous romantic metaphor.

Kakashi’s gaze lingered on that tiny smile tugging at your mouth. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

“…She gazed into his eyes,” you read aloud, “and felt the heat of a thousand suns melt her resolve…” You broke off, snorting. “Seriously? Heat of a thousand suns? She’d be ash.”

Jiraiya waved you off like a man above such mortal concerns. “Poetic license, sweetheart. Now keep going. This is the good part.”

Kakashi’s eyes narrowed just slightly. The good part? He didn’t like the sound of that. He stepped toward the shop, just enough for you to notice him in your periphery.

“Oh, Kakashi,” you said, glancing up mid-sentence. “We’re not going to make training today, Jiraiya asked me to help with his draft.”

Jiraiya grinned like a fox who’d stolen a particularly shiny hen. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s not working too hard.”

There was a faint, wry edge to Kakashi’s voice when he replied, “Glad to know where your priorities are.”

You tilted your head, as if trying to gauge if he was joking, and went back to reading.

Jiraiya took a sip of his tea and murmured something to you that made you roll your eyes and swat at his arm.

Kakashi turned away before he could see any more, his book now held higher than usual, pages turning with deliberate care.

He was definitely not thinking about how easily Jiraiya had pulled you away from training. And he was absolutely not annoyed that you were reading to someone else.

Later that day, he cornered Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura after training.

Leaning against a tree with false casualness, he asked, “So, Y/n and Jiraiya. Are they… together?”

Naruto froze.

Sakura stiffened.

Sasuke muttered, "Tch," and looked away.

The worst lying trio in the history of lies.

Naruto, sweating bullets, piped up way too fast, “Y-YEAH. They’re... dating! Super serious! Totally real!”

Sakura elbowed him sharply. “Yeah,” she said weakly. “They’re... in love.”

Sasuke muttered, deadpan, “They’re basically married.”

Kakashi narrowed his eye at them.

He didn’t believe a word.

But what if… What if it was true?

The thought hollowed him out from the inside.

I’m going to lose her, he thought, sudden and sick and sharp.

No. Not without a fight.

You couldn’t sleep.

The sky was bleeding silver outside your window, moonlight painting pale shadows across your floor. The village was quiet, save for the soft rustle of wind in the trees and the occasional whistle of a passing ANBU patrol.

You sat curled on the edge of your couch, nursing a cup of half-cold tea and staring at your reflection in the darkened glass.

What were you doing?

This whole plan… the teasing, the pretending, the flirtation, it had started as a silly, half-serious attempt to get his attention. To crack the shell. To see if he felt anything like what you did.

But now…

Now you felt like you’d broken something.

You exhaled softly, setting the cup down on the table, just as the quiet knock came.

Your breath caught.

Not a loud one. Not hurried.

Just a soft, deliberate knock. Familiar.

You stood slowly. Moved to the door. Opened it.

And there he was.

Kakashi.

No book. No mask. No mission gear. Just him.

Hair tousled by the wind. Face shadowed in the moonlight. His expression unreadable, but his eye?

His eye was burning.

You blinked up at him, stunned. “...Kakashi?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you.

Like he was trying to memorize every inch of your face. Like he’d already forgotten how to speak.

Finally, he said, quietly, raw, “Don’t let him touch you like that again.”

Your stomach dropped. You took a step back. Not away from him, just to breathe.

“I thought you said it wasn’t your business,” you whispered.

“I lied,” he said. “It is my business. It’s been my business for a long time.”

Your fingers curled against the doorframe, “Kakashi-”

He stepped forward once. Into the frame. Into your space, “I can’t watch you pretend to want someone else.” 

His voice was rough, like gravel under silk. “I thought I could. I thought… if it made you happy, I’d survive it. I’d be your friend. I’d smile and nod and let you go.”

You swallowed. “But you didn’t.”

He shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”

There was silence. Thick. Cracking at the seams.

You finally looked at him, really looked, and whispered, “Why now?”

His jaw clenched. “Because I can’t sleep. Because every time I see him with his hands on you, I want to kill him. Because I’m an idiot, and I didn’t say it when I should’ve. And now I don’t know if I’m too late.”

Your heart stuttered painfully. “You’re not.”

His eye snapped to yours. Wide. Bare.

“You’re not too late,” you repeated softly.

For the first time, something in him broke.

He stepped fully into your apartment, kicked the door shut with his heel, and cupped your face with both hands, forehead falling to yours, breath shallow.

His hands trembled.

“I can’t promise I’ll be good at this,” he murmured. “I’ve lost more than I’ve loved. But I’ll try. If you’ll let me. I’ll try for you.”

You closed your eyes. Your heart ached with it, with the sincerity, with the sheer aching restraint in his voice.

“You don’t have to try,” you whispered. “Just stay.”

His breath hitched.

And then he kissed you.

Not a perfect kiss. Not polished or poised or seductive.

But desperate. Real.

Like he’d been holding his breath for weeks, and you were the air. Like he needed to know you weren’t a dream.

His lips moved with restraint, then hesitance, then hunger, tongue flicking against your lower lip like a question he didn’t quite dare ask. His fingers splayed across your jaw, the curve of your neck, trying to memorize the feel of you under them.

When you finally broke apart, he didn’t pull back far.

Just rested his forehead against yours again.

He whispered it like a secret, “I love you.”

You blinked.

He said it again, quieter.

“I don’t know how to do this, but I love you.”

You smiled, tears already threatening. “Then we’ll learn together.”

And he held you there, like the storm had finally passed.

Like, for the first time in years, he wasn’t alone.

You were glowing. You couldn’t help it.

It was subtle, the kind of glow only people who know you very well would catch. A looseness in your shoulders. A softness around your eyes. The way your fingers occasionally brushed your lips like they still remembered something sweet.

You had slept with your head on his chest. His fingers had traced patterns on your back until you dozed off. You’d woken up tangled in each other, with the kind of quiet warmth between you that couldn’t be faked.

Kakashi had pressed one last kiss to your temple before vanishing with a mumbled, “I have to go... before Naruto gets any ideas.”

You hadn’t made it very far.

“SOMETHING HAPPENED,” Naruto announced dramatically, pointing a finger at you the moment you arrived.

You blinked. “Good morning to you, too.”

“No, no, no, don’t change the subject. You’re smiling like someone gave you a lifetime supply of free tea.”

“I smile all the time.” You mutter. 

“Not like that,” Sakura chimed in, arms crossed and eyes gleaming. “That’s post-confession smiling.”

Sasuke raised a brow. “About time.”

You flushed instantly. “Okay, hold on-”

“No way,” Naruto gasped. “Did it work?! Did the plan actually work?! Did sensei- did he- did he kiss you?!”

You smothered your face in your hands.

Sakura grabbed Naruto’s sleeve. “Shh, shut up, what if he’s nearby-”

“He BETTER be nearby, I helped orchestrate this whole thing!” Naruto roared, doing a little victory spin. “I’m practically your matchmaker! I should get to name your kids, ow!”

You swatted him. “Stop yelling!”

But it was too late. A familiar chakra signature flared from behind you.

You turned slowly.

Kakashi. Leaning against a tree. Book in hand. Mask back on. But his visible eye?

Smiling.

You groaned. “You heard all of that, didn’t you?”

He turned a page lazily. “Every word.”

Naruto looked between you both, then pumped his fist into the air like he’d just won free ramen for a year. “YES. I KNEW IT. YOU OWE ME RAMEN, SAKURA.”

She rolled her eyes. “Only if they last more than a week.”

“Bet,” Sasuke muttered.

Kakashi raised a brow at you, clearly amused. “Did you tell them?”

“I didn’t have to,” you grumbled. “Apparently, I’m not subtle.”

Kakashi’s eye softened. “No. You’re just… radiant.”

The group went dead silent.

Naruto’s jaw dropped. “Did he- DID HE JUST-?!”

“Did he say radiant?!” Sakura gasped.

Sasuke looked vaguely ill.

“I’m going to pass out,” Naruto whispered. “Kakashi-sensei is romantic? I’ve been living a LIE-!”

And that was when Jiraiya appeared.

Late. Dramatic. Loud.

“Someone said romantic?” He landed in a swirl of wind and dust, white mane wild, grin huge. “You finally cracked the Copy Ninja? I knew you had it in you.”

You crossed your arms. “You sound disappointed.”

“I’m heartbroken,” Jiraiya said, mock-clutching his chest. “Here I was, offering my wisdom, my charm, my undivided attention-”

“You offered to ‘study me for research,’” you interrupted flatly.

He wagged a finger. “A very noble sacrifice.”

Kakashi had his book open again, but his eye flicked up at that.

Deadpan. Dangerous.

“Sacrifice any harder,” he said evenly, “and you’ll need a hospital bed.”

Everyone froze.

Naruto made a strangled choking sound. “Was that a threat?”

Sakura blinked. “Did he just glare at Jiraiya?”

Jiraiya laughed nervously. “Alright, alright, no need for the murder-eyes. You win, Copy Ninja. I humbly bow out.”

He winked at you. “Unless you change your mind.”

“She won’t,” Kakashi said.

And then, very subtly, like it was nothing, he reached over and took your hand.

Laced your fingers together. In front of everyone.

The trio went feral.

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS-”

 “FINALLY-”

 “SENSEI HAS A GIRLFRIEND-”

Jiraiya sighed like a proud father giving away a bride. “Well, I suppose this will make an excellent chapter for my next novel.”

You groaned. “Please don’t-”

Too late. He was already scribbling.

Kakashi leaned down to murmur near your ear, his voice low, warm, amused, “Still think I wouldn’t get jealous?”

You looked up at him, smiling like a fool. “Maybe just a little more, next time.”

He squeezed your hand. “Careful. I might just throw you over my shoulder next time and make it very obvious.”

And if he kissed your temple right in front of all three of them?

Well, that was fine too.

Naruto screamed.

Sakura cheered.

Sasuke rolled his eyes and muttered, “Took you long enough.”

And you?

You beamed.

Kakashi x Reader

Summary: When three meddling kids decide to play matchmaker, the reader and the famously unreadable Kakashi Hatake, find themselves locked in a room and finally forced to confront the feelings they've both spent far too long ignoring.

Warnings: Comedic meddling and tooth-rotting fluff

You weren't sure who started it.

Maybe it was Naruto,  ever the loud, well-meaning instigator with the subtlety of a kunai through a rice paper wall. Or maybe it was Sakura, a romantic at heart beneath the steel. Perhaps even Sasuke, dragged along with his usual air of apathy, but secretly complicit in the scheme.

Either way, it began with a glance. Just one.

An unremarkable afternoon on the training field. You’d been walking past Kakashi, arms full of reports for the Hokage, when your fingers brushed his by accident. Just skin against skin for a second. A jolt that went deeper than it should have.

You blinked. He didn’t move. The moment passed.

But not for them.

From that day on, it was open season on your love life.

As one of the Hokage’s senior medical jonin, you were used to chaos. Your days were spent elbows-deep in triage reports, chakra scans, high-stakes healing, and defusing ego-laden arguments between veteran shinobi and panicked Genin. Romance wasn’t exactly high on your priority list.

Or so you kept telling yourself.

The first “plan” came fast and shameless. Naruto, bleeding from a shallow scrape across his forearm, wandered into the clinic with the practiced pout of someone who’d clearly milked a paper cut into a battlefield tragedy.

You didn’t realize what was happening until Sakura appeared, far too coincidentally, with two cups of steaming tea.

“Oh no!” she gasped, voice pitched high in faux surprise. “There’s only two!”

She handed you one. The second went directly into Kakashi’s waiting hand as he stepped into the doorway with all the casual grace of someone absolutely in on the joke.

“Well,” Kakashi said mildly, as he settled next to you, shoulders just brushing, “Waste not.”

You tried not to stare. You also tried not to imagine what he looked like under the mask. You failed both attempts.

Naruto was biting his knuckle in the corner, visibly vibrating with the effort not to squeal.

You sighed. “I’m going to kill them.”

“Maybe wait until after tea,” Kakashi replied, and sipped like none of this was even remotely strange.

The next attempt was sneakier. More dramatic.

Sasuke, of all people, cornered you outside the Hokage’s tower, scroll in hand, expression impassive.

“Urgent delivery,” he said. “Top priority.”

You raised an eyebrow. “From the Hokage?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “North training field.”

You should have known.

You did know.

But still, you went.

What you did not expect was to find Kakashi waiting on a blanket, a meticulously arranged picnic spread in front of him like some charming fever dream. Rice balls, sweet dango, and hot tea nestled neatly between two cushions.

"Yo," he greeted, eye curving in that familiar lazy smile. "They said you were bringing dessert."

You stared. At the food. At him. At the unmistakable sound of Naruto high-fiving someone behind a nearby tree.

You said nothing as you sank down beside him, pulse loud in your throat. He handed you a cup without a word. It was the exact way you liked your tea, strong, sweet, just slightly over-steeped.

You sipped. He watched.

Nothing happened.

And yet everything was happening.

By the third or fourth "coincidence," you had perfected the art of glaring while blushing.

Sakura would wave innocently. Naruto would whistle. Sasuke would raise an eyebrow, the universal signal for just kiss already.

You tried to laugh it off, to stay professional, but Kakashi didn’t make it easy. He had a maddening way of standing close, of saying your name softly, of listening with his whole attention, like every word you said mattered more than it should have.

You told yourself not to fall. You were colleagues. Comrades. Adults.

But the truth?

You were already gone.

The final straw came one humid afternoon when you were summoned, rather mysteriously, to the old storage building near the edge of the training grounds.

“Just help us reorganize,” Sakura said. “It’s a disaster in there.”

You’d barely stepped inside when the door slammed behind you.

The lock clicked.

“WHAT—" The words get caught in your throat as you yell out.

“YOU’RE NOT COMING OUT UNTIL YOU CONFESS!” Naruto shouted from the other side.

You stood frozen, heart hammering, as Kakashi stepped out from behind a crate of labeled scrolls.

"They got you too, huh?" he said with a sigh.

You stared at the door. Then at him. Then back at the door.

“This is a hostage situation.” You grumble.

“Technically,” he mused, stepping a little closer, “It’s a group intervention.”

You were going to kill all three of them. Possibly tomorrow. Possibly at dawn.

Kakashi scratched the back of his neck, looking around the storeroom as if trying to find an escape route, then gave up and leaned back against the wall, expression thoughtful.

There was a beat of silence. Then he said, softly, “They’re not wrong, you know.”

You turned. “What?”

His visible eye met yours. 

“I like you,” he said simply. “I’ve liked you. For a while.”

Your breath caught.

The silence between you stretched taut, full of everything unspoken, he near-misses, the quiet glances, the way your fingers always seemed to brush when you passed each other pens or shared a mission file. You’d buried it all so deep, wrapped it in professionalism and denial.

Now there it was. In the open. Undeniable.

You stepped toward him.

“I like you too,” you said. “More than I should’ve let myself.”

A pause.

Then his mask dropped, literally, in one smooth, practiced motion, and before your brain could even catch up, his lips were on yours.

His kiss was quiet and warm and unhurried, like a man savoring something he’d waited far too long to taste. One of his hands came up to cradle your jaw, fingers feather-light. Your hands fisted in his flak vest, your chest pressed to his as the world narrowed to nothing but the shape of him against you.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were slightly pink, and his eye, half-lidded, content, traced your face like a secret he’d never forget.

“You know,” he murmured, “I think this is the first time Naruto’s plan actually worked.”

You laughed, breathless, stunned, happy.

“I’m never telling him that.” You breathe out.

“Agreed.”

From outside the door, Naruto’s voice echoed again, “DID THEY KISS YET?!”

You smiled.

Kakashi did too.

And this time, you kissed him first.

Outside the storeroom, the sun had dipped low enough to cast long gold-streaked shadows across the training field, turning the dust into spun light. Naruto paced in anxious, exaggerated circles, wearing a groove into the grass like a hyperactive dog waiting for a treat.

"It's been ten minutes!" he hissed, stopping suddenly to press his ear against the wooden door as if it might whisper secrets. “What if they’re just sitting there in total silence? Or worse, what if she rejected him?!”

“They kissed,” Sakura said, arms crossed, tone smug but hopeful. “Didn’t you hear that sound? It was like… fireworks. Or… emotional closure.”

Naruto blinked. “You can hear emotional closure?”

“Shut up.”

Sasuke, standing a few steps away beneath the shade of a pine tree, looked entirely done with both of them. His arms were folded across his chest in that practiced Sasuke way, eyes narrowed slightly as if this whole ridiculous operation had personally offended him.

“You two are unbelievable,” he muttered.

“You’re unbelievable,” Naruto muttered back, jamming a kunai into the lock with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer wrapped in explosives.

“Wait—Naruto, no—!” Sakura tried to stop him, but she was too late.

With a victorious click the lock gave way, and Naruto slammed his foot into the door like he was storming a castle.

“KAKASHI-SENSEI! Y/N-SENSEI!” he howled, bursting into the room like the world’s loudest narrator. “OPERATION: LOVELOCK IS A SUC—”

And then he froze.

Sakura, hot on his heels, skidded to a stop so hard her sandals squeaked against the floor.

Even Sasuke looked up.

Because there, in the middle of the dusty, half-lit room, you and Kakashi were very much still wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in a kiss so consuming, so unguarded, it was as though the rest of the world had melted away around you.

You weren’t just kissing.

You were tangled in each other like a secret finally spoken. Your hands were twisted in the soft fabric of his jonin vest, one foot lifted slightly off the ground as if your body had forgotten gravity. Kakashi’s fingers were gently buried in your hair, his mask discarded, lips parted against yours with quiet reverence, like he had waited years for this moment and couldn’t bear to let it pass.

It was not a kiss of impulse.

It was a kiss of arrival.

And it was very thorough.

Naruto made a strangled, high-pitched noise, somewhere between a gasp and a bird dying.

“MY EYES!” he shouted, turning around so fast he spun in a full circle before clapping both hands over his face. “I DIDN’T MEAN TO WALK INTO THAT!”

“Oh my god,” Sakura breathed, face flushing a deep, mortified red. “They’re still going?! This is worse than I thought—NO, I MEAN BETTER, BUT—oh my god—we have to leave!”

She grabbed Naruto by the back of the collar and started dragging him bodily toward the exit, both of them tripping over each other in a heap of flailing limbs and horrified screeching.

“WE’RE SORRY!” she shouted behind her. “CONGRATULATIONS! CARRY ON!”

Sasuke, who had wandered closer by that point, took one look at the scene, the two of you, still locked together like time itself had paused, and gave a rare, slow smirk.

“Took you long enough,” he said quietly, and turned to leave like he hadn’t just witnessed a full-blown romantic drama unfolding between his sensei and the village’s most composed medic.

Inside, the storeroom door swung half-shut again, settling on its hinges with a soft click.

You pulled back from Kakashi, breathless and laughing, cheeks burning as the echo of Naruto’s shriek slowly faded.

“Should we be embarrassed?” you asked, your voice muffled slightly against the dark fabric of his vest.

Kakashi chuckled, low and warm, his hand trailing softly along the back of your neck. “Probably.”

You tilted your face up to him, smiling so wide it hurt. “We should’ve done that years ago.”

His visible eye softened, and the pad of his thumb brushed a slow, reverent line along your jaw.

“I would’ve waited however long it took,” he murmured, “but I’m glad we didn’t waste another day.”

And then he kissed you again, slower, sweeter, like punctuation at the end of a sentence that had been writing itself in stolen glances and missed chances for far too long.

Outside, Naruto’s voice was still echoing faintly across the training ground, “—THEY WERE DEVOURING EACH OTHER, SASUKE! I’M TRAUMATIZED!”

You smiled against Kakashi’s mouth, huffed out a quiet, helpless laugh, and whispered, “Let’s make them wait to find out when we’re dating.”

Kakashi grinned, really grinned, as if the very idea of keeping them in suspense delighted him to his core.