Chapter Text
Hatake Kakashi is not a fan of the ins-and-outs of political subterfuge. Too many bells and whistles and delicate maneuvering to waste his time on, honestly. Even as the heir to a dying clan- it’s far too much work to worry about social intricacies. It's far easier to be upfront. Forward. Honesty- even the brutal kind- is best policy.
But even thinking that…
(By the Sage, she’s huge! )
The spring air is hot against his temple- high sun beating at his dark clothes like a wrath-ridden spirit. A hot flush rolls from his cheeks and down his chest.
She smiles kindly at the vendor again. There's a little confused tinge to it- a drop of sweat rolling down her temple and tracing sweetly against her jawline. Trailing down her neck and collarbone and down into her shirt- right between the smooth swell of her sun-bitten cleavage. She towers over everyone in the crowded market like a graceful, imposing god. He watches the tight muscles in her arms coil as she readjusts the basket at her hip and damn-near chokes at how dry his mouth is.
She bends slightly to meet the vendor's eye more easily (because good heavens is she a towering woman- almost taller than the market stall ) and Kakashi comes the the sudden realization that he's stopped walking-
He burrows his face deeper into Icha-Icha and repeats himself a little more forcefully. Kakashi is not a fan of politics- Not a fan of politics- not ever going to deal with the intricacies of social maneuvering- the stratagems of a clan heir involving himself with one undeniably tall, hot Kumo immigrant- he would never-
-----
The hair must be at least 3 feet long.
Long, thick, healthy. Black like jet lignite. Completely free-flowing in the cherry-ridden wind. Waves of impossibly lengthy, dark hair that falls so far that it obscures half of her body. So goddamned long that it definitely strikes jealousy in any merchant’s wife. Would drive a noblewoman from the capital mad with envy. Would probably make any one of the three Sennin down-right resentful.
It billows like silk in the wind and soft scents of sweet citrus drift away.
It would be far too easy to tangle a hand in it, pull, cover her mouth- and she’d never be seen again. Just another single civilian immigrant forgotte-
“Yes, thanks to you so much. Have a good day.” She nods heavily at the spices merchant, tone kind but accent awkward. And then she stands straight up.
Morino Ibiki stills- far too obvious in his staring.
(Something deep, dark, and suppressed rises in him. A cheeky, sly coil of something hot in his chest. The reigned-in urge to blush like a fucking academy student- slack-jawed and wanting- )
She smiles with raspberry lips at the older gentleman, waiting politely as he returns small-talk sentiments. Her steady, calloused fingers tuck back stray strands from her face.
His hands twitch at his sides. His chin is tilted up. He’s… He’s staring up at her. Because she’s taller than him. Him- Morino Ibiki. Renown for his monstrous height and build. And she’s even greater than that.
The muscles in her neck flicker when she nods again- arms straining delightfully against a full wicker basket. There's a heat-bite flush against her cheekbones and shoulders- the bridge of her nose pink. She shifts to start turning and powerful calves bunch wonderfully from where they're bared under knee-length pants.
Gods, His tongue is swollen in his mouth, What a woman…
He bites down on it.
This was a quick reconnaissance mission. Just an investigation on one of the many new civilian immigrants in this village. Necessary because she was a failed-out academy student and now she was living in Konoha freshly after a war. He simply had to gather information periodically and leave.
Yellow eyes catch him staring across the market.
They narrow, minutely. Briefly. A flicker of suspicion. Standing heads above the main crowd. She must be at least 6'6". Taller than him by half a head, possibly-
(He wonders for a fleeting moment what it would be like beneath such a big, strong woman. The thought almost makes him short circuit. Looming- cascading hair- pressing his wrists to the sheets-)
No-!
Morino Ibiki fortifies. He is not the youngest ever Head of T&I for nothing . Mental games were his fucking specialty.
He glares back.
To her credit- she holds the glare for moments-standing completely still even as other civilians jostle around her. Her eyes flick up to his forehead- not a single wandering eye to the scars across his face.
The look on her face softens. Keen eyes but smoothed-out eyebrows, sloped shoulders (and beautiful, tanned triceps glistening with sweat-) .
His mouth goes dry when she starts determinedly walking his way.
Her walk is hardly hindered- she’s so goddamned tall that damn-near all of the civvies bustling around in the crowded market street move out of her way. The amount of sneers and grimaces she gains is inspiring. Not a single one of them makes her falter.
(
What a woman-)
She pauses almost uncomfortably close.
Not enough to be considered incredibly improper- especially in a crowded market street- but also not enough to be socially acceptable for an unmarried civilian woman. She stands just close enough that his nose is flooded with the scent of citrus and something else fruity- probably a Kumo fruit. Close enough that it accentuates that insane height of hers- accentuates that she’s wearing geta .
His forehead is level with her chin.
(What a
fucking
woman- Good Gods- Ibiki has never had a type before but
holy shit-
)
“Ninja-san,” She stares (down) at him with focused eyes. Her voice is smooth, husky- not high and pitched and nasally like most Konoha women had a tendency to force. His chest rattles even while his face is slate-dead.
Her cherry-slicked lips part again and what comes out is a waterfall of hissing syllables. “ I assume you must understand Piichigo if you were assigned to me. Is there a problem at all? Or did Sarutobi-Ho require something of me?”
He hesitates- only for a second, fingers twitching and jaw clenching. Peach tongue- yes, he’d technically learned Lightning Country’s language and surrounding dialects. But hearing it used outside of broken men bleeding and begging for their lives throws him for a loop.
Her eyes are far too smart for a failed-out academy student. Any extra words would be twisted- picked apart and studied like a stolen scroll.
“Not quite, Mochizuki.” Is all he offers. He keeps his tone firm and eyes steady even as his peripheral struggles not to soak in the dormant power in her toned arms- the drop in her neckline and so, so much cleavage just a mere foot from him.
Her chin dips. And Mochizuki smirks. Curled lips with lidded eyes and What a woman- what a woman- whatawomangoodgods-
His shoulders burn hot under his black trench coat. He was the fucking head of T&I- one little smirk from a (hot, hot- tall, fuckin’ hot) civilian immigrant should not unsteady him like this. The scars on his face twinge anyways- jaw aching with the urge to tighten.
“Oh? Be careful, then. Wandering eyes like yours get into trouble,” And then she leans- looms- way too close to be appropriate and he knows his jaw goes slack- standing over him in a glorious mass of wonderful muscles and citrus scent and so motherfucking tall- “You have a pretty face- and I’m a promiscuous woman. You’ll tempt me.”
She backs away with a polite smile- no traces of anything sly or coy on her face. With a final, dismissive nod, she takes leave. “Shinobi-san.”
She pivots- long hair brushing against his chest. Summer citrus invades his mind like a virus. The cinch of her waist and curve of her backside is revealed for only a second before that long hair falls back down. His wandering eye watches her walk off.
There’s a flush on the high of his cheekbones.
Him- the feared, youngest-ever Head of T&I. Tallest ninja in Konoha. Scar-faced and unbreakable Morino Ibiki.
He swallows dryly.
He wonders if she'd sit on his face if he asked nicely. He’d die happy smothered beneath her, he thinks.
-----
When she was a little girl- no older than 9, she’d gotten herself masterfully kicked out of the Kumo Ninja Academy.
It was hard work for a little bright-minded girl. She was miles away from home- living in a group house with one matron and dozens of other little Peach Children swept from their homes for their potential. She knew she was bright-minded. Inquisitive, Keen, Puzzle-Hungry, and a tiny sponge for ginormous amounts of information. Anything she could get her hands on. And she was always a natural at it.
A prodigy.
Indicted to the Academy at 7, acquitted at 9.
The idea was simple. She missed her parents and brothers. And the security after hours was just overworked career genin sensei grading far too many papers at their desks.
She snuck into the directory, guzzled down rejected student information- and followed a pattern.
At age 9- Mochizuki Yuina was kicked from the Kumo Ninja Academy for lack of potential in Taijutsu and Chakra Control- the two most important things for any ninja. Two weeks travel later- she was in her father’s arms happily- completely free from the possibility of dying in the war like many other tiny, young children.
(Her luggage was packed with stolen books and scrolls. Her mind was packed with everything she pretended to fail at. After all, how would one know how to fail if they first did not know how to succeed?)
She was happy for all of 10 years before the war decimated her family’s farmland. And her family. And she’d been able to do nothing but run with only her stolen knowledge and skill.
Everything burned.
It’s only words on a grapevine that have her reaching out for Konoha.
(How very funny. The same country that terrorized her very happiness- Took everything away from her- becomes her savior. Promises of fertile farmland and sanctuary. A flourishing village.
She stares at the ashen ruins of her home and smiles blankly at the team of genin escorting her to the Leaf village when they ask if she’s okay.
And when she stands resolutely, they stare at her in awe of her height.
(Their Jounin Sensei practically salivates.))
It all becomes worth it any time she wanders through the markets for home goods.
Mochizuki Yuina soaks in the wholehearted desperation every Konoha shinobi oozes in her direction.
It’s cruel of her, she thinks. Her father never raised her to be a lecher- mother careful to make her sweet, enormous daughter seem as docile and gentle as possible. But none of that matters when
(they’re dead)
she’s standing over every single one of those wander-eyes ninja and they broadcast such a bone-deep cry for her touch.
And as she walks away from the man nearly as tall as her- brooding with dark eyes, bunched and bulging muscles, and a wonderful jawline, she thinks-
Yes, she thinks she’ll like Konoha very much.
