You can do this as a short writing thing or maybe include it in one of your fics but I think little morning fluff is really cute. If you did wanna do it I would recommend itachi (just cuz I’m in love with him) but if you don’t wanna use that idea that’s fine too.
I gotchu pookie 🥰🤞
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The first thing you register is warmth—steady, enveloping, the kind that makes your limbs feel heavy and boneless in the best way. Itachi’s arm is draped across your waist, palm flat against your stomach, fingers splayed like he’s still anchoring you to him even in sleep. His breath fans slow and even against the nape of your neck, stirring the baby hairs there every few exhales.
You don’t want to move.
You do it anyway, just enough to roll over inside the circle of his arms. His lashes flutter once, twice—long and dark against pale skin—before obsidian eyes crack open, soft and unfocused in the pale morning light leaking through the curtains.
“...Morning,” he murmurs, voice still gravel-rough from sleep. The tiniest smile tugs one corner of his mouth when you tuck your face against his throat.
“Morning.” You nose along his collarbone, breathing in clean skin and the faint rosemary-and-smoke scent that always clings to him. “You’re warm.”
“You’re cold.” One large hand slides up your spine, cupping the back of your head to keep you close. “Always stealing my heat.”
“Lies. You like it.”
He hums—neither agreement nor denial—just a low, contented sound that vibrates through his chest into yours. For several long minutes neither of you speaks. Just breathing, tangled together under the quilt, legs slotted together, his heartbeat steady under your palm.
Eventually you feel him press the softest kiss to your hairline.
“...We should eat,” he says reluctantly.
You groan into his neck. “Five more minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Did not.”
“You did.” Another kiss, this one to your temple. “I counted.”
You grumble, deciding to ignore him in favor of trying to burrow yourself further into his chest.
But he’s already shifting—slow, careful, like he’s trying not to disturb you even though he’s the one getting up. You cling dramatically for a second before letting him roll out of bed, Itachi pulling your shared quilt with him. The cool air hits your front immediately and you whine, yanking the quilt up to your chin.
Itachi glances back at you from the doorway, hair mussed and falling into his eyes, wearing nothing but low-slung black sleep pants. The early sun catches the faint scars across his shoulders and ribs—familiar topography now—and somehow makes him look softer instead of harder.
“You’re pouting,” he observes, voice fond.
“I’m freezing.”
He pads back to the bed, leans down, and tugs the quilt up higher until only your eyes and the top of your head are visible.
“Better?”
“...Still better if you stayed.”
A quiet huff of laughter. “I’ll make tea. And eggs. Come out when you’re ready to stop hibernating.”
You wait exactly long enough for him to disappear down the hall before you burrow deeper into his pillow, inhaling the scent of him that’s soaked into the fabric. Five minutes. Maybe ten.
The smell of butter and toasted rice pulls you out eventually.
When you shuffle into the kitchen in one of his old clan tunics (sleeves rolled six times so your hands can actually emerge), Itachi is standing at the stove, hair still sleep-tousled, sleep pants riding low of his hips. Two mugs of green tea steam gently on the counter. A small pan sizzles with eggs; beside it, a plate already holds perfectly golden tamagoyaki slices and a neat pile of grilled mackerel.
You come up behind him and wrap both arms around his middle, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.
“Smells good.”
“You’re clingy in the mornings,” he says without turning around. There’s a smile in his voice.
“You like it.”
“I do.”
You feel the moment he exhales, shoulders dropping minutely as he relaxes back into your hold. One of his hands covers yours where they’re linked over his stomach—thumb brushing slow arcs across your knuckles.
“Sit,” he says after a minute. “Before you fall asleep on me again.”
“‘m not gonna fall asleep.”
“You said that last Saturday. Then I carried you back to bed.”
“...That was different. You were too comfortable.”
He turns off the burner, plates the food with economical movements, then pivots in your arms so you’re chest-to-chest. His hands settle warm on your hips.
“Eat first,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Then you can use me as a pillow again.”
You lean up on your toes and kiss the underside of his jaw—soft, lingering.
“Promise?”
Itachi tilts his head down until your foreheads rest together. His nose nudges yours.
“Promise.”
Breakfast is quiet and unhurried.
You sit across from each other at the small table, knees brushing under the wood. He pushes the little dish of pickled radish toward you without being asked. You steal bites of tamagoyaki off his plate when you think he isn’t looking; he pretends not to notice until the fourth time, then simply moves his plate closer so you don’t have to stretch.
Sunlight creeps across the floorboards, warming your bare feet. The kettle clicks as it cools. Somewhere outside, birds argue in the pines.
When the plates are mostly empty and the tea is drunk down to the leaves, you stand, stretch, and wander around the table. Itachi watches you approach with that calm, steady gaze that always makes your chest feel too full.
You don’t say anything—just climb into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, arms looping around his neck. He accommodates instantly, hands settling on your lower back, supporting your weight like it’s nothing.
“Sleepy now?” he asks softly.
You hide your face in the crook of his shoulder. “Little bit.”
He rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades. “Bed or couch?”
“Couch,” you mumble. “You’re warmer there in the sun.”
A quiet laugh—barely more than an exhale. He stands with you still wrapped around him, effortless, and carries you the few steps to the living room. The blanket that always rests over the arm of the couch gets dragged over both of you as he settles lengthwise on the cushions, tucking you against his chest.
Your legs tangle. His heartbeat thumps steady under your ear. One of his hands finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers threading together.
“Love you,” you whisper into his collarbone.
Itachi’s lips brush your hair.
“Love you too.”
The morning drifts on slow and golden, wrapped up in each other, in soft breathing and warmer skin and the simple, perfect fact of being here—together—where nothing else needs to reach you yet.
