itachi time travel to the future fanfiction

Time Travel ~ The Past Meets The Future

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Boruto and Sarada are the best of friends, well sometimes they fight, like Naruto and Sasuke back in those days. They'd do almost everything together. Boruto and Sarada then snuck into the Forbidden Scrolls Library/Room, and accidentally opened a ti...

# boruto # gaiden # kakashi # love # naruto # narutogaiden # sakura # sarada # sasuke # sasusaku # timetravel # uchiha # uzumaki

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All of the Akatsuki members jumped out of suprise.

They all ran towards the source of the sound and found the wall, broken, and Sasori -who was covered in black ashes- standing in the middle, dumbfounded and furious. And....a broken mini-clay bird.

"Yo fucking Sasori," Hidan waved, oblivious to Sasori's state.

Deidara quickly ran to his beloved clay bird, ignoring Sasori, "Darling! Speak to me!!"

"Deidara!!!" Sasori bursted.

Deidara looked at Sasori and growled, "Look what you have done to bang bang bird!"

"Look what that bird had done to me!!" Sasori growled back, pointing to his black-ashes face, "And it's your fault, anyway!! You put it on the floor, right in front of the entrance!!!!"

"Oi, you're ruining your cool mood," Kakuzu pointed out.

"Who the hell cares?!" Sasori exclaimed.

Sarada, who was hiding behind Itachi, looked up at him and tugged his cloak, "Jii-san, are the Akatsuki really as dumb as this?"

Itachi sighed and patted her head, "I'm afraid so."

Everybody looked at both Uchihas and yelled, "WHO ARE YOU CALLING DUMB?"

Sarada scoffed as she folded her arms on her chest, "You of course. Who else."

"Who is this?" Sasori asked, putting on his cool mask again.

"Her name is Sarada, and she's somehow an Uchiha and also has the sharingan. We still don't know the details, so we will investigate her later," Pein answered. "And then take her eyes."

Sarada whimpered and clutched Itachi's cloak tightly, like her life depended on it.

"Papa....mama.....please come," she whispered.

Itachi's eyes softened. He patted Sarada's head once more and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll make sure that your eyes are not taken."

Meanwhile, after hearing Pein's explanation, Sasori nodded and then bickered with Deidara about art, for the how many times this month.....

And Pein, he ordered everyone to fix the wall and clean up the mess, except Itachi and Sarada.

The day went by and night came. It was 11:52 right now, and everyone's asleep, except Itachi. He was guarding the little Uchiha who was sleeping beside him, not letting her out of his sight.

Then he sensed seven chakras nearby, and familiar ones. He instantly knew one of the chakras, well two, which are somehow almost the same, except for the fact that one was stronger than the other.

Well, he was confused, but he knew that the chakras were very similar to Sasuke's. So he shook Sarada up.

"Sarada, wake up," he whispered.

Sarada's eyes fluttered open and sat up, rubbing her eyes, "What's wrong, jii-san?"

"I think your papa is here," he replied, "You should use this chance to escape. But hide your chakra first okay?"

Sarada's eyes glinted, as she put on her glasses, and nodded. She hid her chakra and followed Itachi out of the hideout.

As they reached outside, they saw both Naruto, Sasuke, Sarada and Boruto, standing.

Sarada smiled, and ran to older Sasuke and Sakura, hugging them, "Papa, mama!"

Itachi was confused, but slowly the pieces in his mind joined together, 'Ah....that must be older otouto and his wife.'

He looked at older Naruto, 'And that must be the older Kyuubi's jinchuuriki, Naruto.'

His eyes then landed on younger Sasuke, who was staring at him in shock and bewilderment. He chuckled inwardly.

Older Sasuke broke the hug and looked at Itachi, "Hn. Nii-san."

Itachi looked back at older Sasuke, and nodded, "Otouto. I see that you have finally rebuild our clan."

Older Sasuke looked at Itachi in shock, then glared at Sarada, as if saying 'what-did-you-say-to-him?'.

Sarada rubbed the back of her neck and laughed nervously, "You see, dad. Um, I told him almost everything. Please don't get mad at me." She gave older Sasuke puppy eyes, which she rarely use because she's too embarassed to.

Older Sasuke sighed. Itachi spoke, "Don't worry. I'll make sure the Akatsuki don't know anything about this, otouto. I promise to keep it a secret."

"Hn."

"Now let's get going shall we? I am tired dattebasa," Boruto whined.

Everyone nodded.

Sarada looked at Itachi sadly and ran back towards him, tackling him to a hug, "I will miss you so much, jii-san!"

Itachi returned the hug, "Hn. Me too. Take care and be a good girl, 'kay?"

Sarada broke the hug and nodded, "Hai, jii-san."

Itachi went towards older Sakura and smiled, "Sakura-san, thank you for helping my otouto to rebuild the Uchiha clan."

"It's okay, Itachi-san," older Sakura replied, also smiling at him.

Itachi poked older Sakura on the forehead, "Please take good care of my foolish otouto. Don't let him do anything foolish and stupid."

That made an irk mark appear on older Sasuke's forehead.

Older Sakura chuckled and nodded.

Itachi then went to his last destination, younger Sasuke, and poked him on the forehead, "You already know the truth of our clan right? So behave and no revenge craps again. You know that I will always love you no matter what."

Sasuke looked at Itachi, "Hn. Come back to Konoha with me."

Itachi sighed, "I must not interfere with the future. I have to stay here with the Akatsuki. Sorry Sasuke, maybe next time. "

Sasuke's eyes widened at the too-familiar phrase. "B-but, doesn't that means...you'll die?" His voice was slightly croaked.

"I guess so," Itachi answered, "But don't worry, I'll always be there for you. Now I must go back to the hideout before anyone notice."

Before younger Sasuke could say another word, Itachi disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

Younger Sasuke looked down, sighing, before feeling a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see older Naruto.

"Come on, teme. Let's go to back," Naruto said, trying to cheer him up. Sasuke nodded, and they went back home.

Sasuke sighed once more as he touched his forehead where Itachi had poked him just now, 'Nii-san, will there even be a next time?'

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Okay! I'm sorry that both Naruto and Boruto almost didn't show up in this chapter. By the way, exams are still not over yet and I feel like banging my head on the table and burn the books into ashes.

Vote and comment~☆!

Kaliane Bradley Fell in Love With a Dead Man. The Result Is The Ministry of Time .

In the author’s debut novel, a 19th-century explorer moves in with his 21st-century caretaker. Trouble ensues.

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The 35-year-old Bradley is a British-Cambodian author and an editor at Penguin Press in the U.K., where she’s based the ultimate result of her obsession: an enchanting debut novel called The Ministry of Time . In this genre-breaking time-travel tale of love and identity and destruction, Bradley has reincarnated Graham Gore, or at least a version of him who might charm 21st-century Britain with his anachronisms. Transplanted from the brink of death in the Arctic to a near-future London—along with a group of fellow historical “expats” from various centuries—Gore warms to his British-Cambodian “bridge,” a modern civil servant meant to steer his safe assimilation into a new era. As Bradley writes in Ministry , “He didn’t understand my use of the term ‘classical music,’ which meant something to do with formal classicism to him and meant, to me, that it had violins. He hated ‘text’ as a verb, ‘sex’ as an act, ‘tomato’ as a salad product. One afternoon he came in from a walk and asked me, very thoughtfully, ‘Some charming young women—out on the heath—addressed me quite boisterously—what is a ‘DILF’?”

The Ministry of Time by Kaliane Bradley

Ministry , as you might have inferred, is very funny. It was also never really intended to exist. Bradley first fell down her polar expedition rabbit hole during the pandemic, as she watched the AMC television series The Terror , in which Gore shows up as a minor character. Several Google searches (and a lot of staring at that daguerreotype) later, Bradley discovered a community of polar expedition enthusiasts online, for which she started writing clever little vignettes about Gore brushing up against the absurdity of an England changed beyond his recognition: encountering washing machines and climate change and political correctness. She wrote a chapter a week for these new online friends, simply “to entertain them.” Her “serious” work was a far more traditionally literary novel, “the big novel about the Khmer Rouge, about Cambodia, about the refugee experience, about the British-Cambodian experience,” as Bradley calls it. “I thought I had a duty to write it,” she tells me, but admits, “No good writing comes out of the sense of duty of telling yourself, ‘Well, I have to do this because this is the only thing I should be doing and it’s the only thing I have any right to talk about.’ That novel just didn’t work. It was a miserable experience.”

Her polar expedition friends saw the potential in the Graham Gore stories, however ridiculous. They told her this was the novel, the British-Cambodian novel, and they were, of course, correct. Bradley put a solid draft together—initially written in second-person—in a matter of weeks, cleaning up her copy in the evenings and sending the manuscript off with a pseudonym she later dropped for her real name. When the book sold, it did so in a 48-hour bidding deal. Ministry has since enjoyed a significant marketing push from Avid Reader Press, part of Simon & Schuster, in the U.S.; it’s a GMA Book Club pick ; translation rights were sold in 17 different languages; and a TV show is already in development with A24 and the BBC .

When I ask Bradley why she chose to publish under her real (and full) name, rather than “Ka” Bradley, as she’s often referred to at work, she replies, “That’s a good question. Vanity?” Eventually, she concludes, “I wrote some of my very, very, very early stories under the name Ka Bradley, because I used the name Ka Bradley in publishing, and my mother, who is Cambodian, was always a bit baffled that I wouldn’t use the Cambodian name that she’d given me, and I do understand that. I imagine it felt very strange for her, and increasingly it felt strange for me to be using this fake name.”

This precise dissonance runs throughout many of the thought processes and interactions endured by Bradley’s unnamed narrator in Ministry , also a British-Cambodian woman whose relationship to British institutions (and “British”-ness as a concept) warps as the novel goes on. Bradley, who herself grew up in Northeast London, jokes often about writing the book as a way to navigate her love for Graham Gore, but The Ministry of Time is much more of an indictment of colonial empire than a sweet escapist romance. The book frequently chooses painful and unsettling paths to tread, its humor less a soothing balm than a razor’s edge. The late sci-fi legend Terry Pratchett taught a young Bradley, enthralled by his Discworld series, that humor could be a weapon. During our own conversation, Bradley paraphrases a quote of Pratchett’s : “Funny is not the opposite of serious; the opposite of funny is unfunny. The opposite of serious is unserious. You can be funny, but also be talking about very serious things.”

This similarly explains Bradley’s own tendency to coat her language with a wry drop of very dark (and very British) humor. I ask what it’s like to witness such unusual ceremony around her debut novel, and how she’s envisioning the book on the BBC screen, and she blanches. “I am always so worried that if I, in any way, anticipate something joyful or exciting, the universe will take it away from me,” she says. “I was brought up a Buddhist, and I think I’ve taken the idea of karma, and I’ve made it something to punish me specifically. [The book] will be adapted. I keep on thinking it probably won’t be, though. Maybe the BBC will vanish into the Earth.”

Even if such a tragedy comes to pass, at least Bradley will have the love of her life by her side: She and her partner, Sam, plan to wed later this summer. But for anyone particularly attached to her ongoing Graham Gore affair, she insists she’s keeping him close at hand. An “enormous” portrait of the Victorian sailor hangs over her home office in London as she drafts her second novel. “I just look at him,” she says, “and I think, ‘Did this for you, baby.’”

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