#the kakashi muse said No Thx Not Today so here's what happened; im not mad

[revasserium]

ma’am I love the way you write about hands and kakashi, so if you would like, can I ask for kakashi + hand holding headcanons. or anything really ❤️❤️

commissions are open; requests are always open, but i make no promises 

(re)teach kakashi ; 990 words 

from the moment he was taught how to use a kunai, he knew that his hands were made for killing. it fit, somehow, the weight of the dark metal in his palms, the way the cold of it stung his fingers on particularly cold mornings, like a constant reminder of the havoc he can wreak on the world, of the litres and litres of blood he’s capable of spilling. of how he was made for naught else but this -- 

the first time you take his hands in yours, he’s terrified of breaking you, somehow, even though he knows you’re much too strong to be broken; still, he doesn’t trust himself. he wants to tell you be careful he wants to tell you watch out for all the broken glass caught beneath my finger nails he wants to tell you it’ll hurt when i touch you because that’s just what my hands were made to do. 

“you have really nice hands,” you say, running your own, delicate fingers over them -- scarred and callused yes, but beautiful nonetheless. 

he lets out a laugh like a breath of shaking the world from his shoulders -- 

“thanks... they’re... useful.” 

“mm, best shinobi tools, huh?” you lace your fingers through his, letting your head fall back against his shoulders. the pair of you sit on the floor of his apartment, your legs tucked under the lowrise table, the heater beneath the blanket humming, his arms curled around you like a sweater, chin hooked over your shoulder. 

“yep. what with signs and...” he sighs, “well, everything else.” 

you grin, turning your face slightly. 

“you wanna learn how to play piano?” 

“ha?” 

“have you ever played an instrument?” you look down at your interlaced hands, sinking deeper into the warmth of his chest, melting into him like you so often do. it’s a strange thing, for the both of you, to let your guards down so much, to allow him access to the back of your neck where he’s grazing his lips against your skin -- 

to fight down the urge to turn and run when either of you opens the a door that’s not in your immediate line of sight; to let you wander up behind him, wrap your arms around his torso, drag him to the bed, kiss him till he doesn’t remember all the cardinal directions or which way the wind is currently blowing. 

“you should try it.” 

“the... piano --” he hums, and then, he smiles, letting his lips graze the skin of your cheek, “sure, if you’re willing to teach me.” 

you laugh, twisting in his arms to wrap yours around his neck, nosing into the crook of his neck. he shifts to tuck your body more snuggly against his, and then, you both fall into a soft, sweet silence, the kind that’s unweighted by the dregs of duty or expectation. a clean, almost reverent silence, unshielded, unweaponized -- still, and made all the more perfect because of it. 

when you lean up to kiss him, kakashi finds his hands trailing along the dip of your waist, coming to rest on the bend of your hips, and for the first time in possibly forever, they don’t feel like the creatures of destruction they usually are -- you teach him slowly, without words, how to wield them like paint brushes instead of throwing stars, to draw breath instead of blood -- to trade in pleasure and trust rather than lives and deaths. 

you teach him, like learning how to fly, like coaxing wings from his back after a whole eternity of back-aches and too-sore shoulders, wondering why on earth he was made like that, only to realize that oh, maybe... just maybe, he was made for something more. 

“kakashi?” 

“hm?” he turns to face you, the sheets mussed and twisted around your bodies like water made solid. he reaches out to trace a finger along the side of you face, brushing over the soft, smooth plane of your cheeks, all the way up to tug lightly at your ear. he smiles. 

“how do you think you’ll like it?” you turn to face him, your whole body curling beneath the sheets till he can do little else than reach forward and pull you close. it’s not a choice so much as it is a compulsion, to reach for you, to touch you -- to love you. 

“like what?” he’s too distracted by the smell of your skin on his. 

you raise a hand to touch his nose, following the line of it up to his forehead, and then slowly down the left side of his face, tracing the pink, slightly puckered skin of his scar; he lets his sharingan eye flicker open to look at you, and he thinks even if he could peer into the depths of your mind, he wouldn’t -- because he wants to find out slowly, bit by bit, taste it on your lips, steal it from your tongue, derive it from the way your body bends and breaks beneath him, for him, for him. 

he lets his hands dance over the map of your skin, the dots and scars and lingering wounds like landmarks to places he wishes he could see. 

“playing piano,” you say, and his hands pause; he considers you, in the dim light of the half-full moon, filtering through his window, the curtains left open for the night sky to pour in, spilling across the floor like ill-kept secrets. 

he laughs, a sound that shocks even himself. you laugh too, and he thinks there’s no sound more beautiful in the world than the sounds of your mixed laughter, ringing between your bodies -- trickling down your skins like piano music. 

“i think i’ll like it...” he says, leaning in to brush his nose to yours, his hands settling against your body like finding the meaning of ‘meant to be’ -- 

“because it’ll be with you.”