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It started with whispers in the shadows of Konoha's council halls—rumors of unrest along the borders, fragile alliances cracking under the weight of old grudges. Your clan had long been guardians of ancient sealing jutsu, techniques that could bind even the mightiest beasts or unravel forbidden kinjutsu. But power like that came with many enemies, and in the fragile peace after the Third Great Ninja War, isolation was a death sentence.
The Uchiha, too, felt the noose tightening. Whispers of distrust from the village elders, eyes watching their every move. An alliance was needed, something that was unbreakable, sealed in blood and vows. Your clan offered knowledge; theirs offered protection. And you? You were the bridge between them.
You were twenty when the elders summoned you. "For the good of the clan," they said, faces etched with the stern lines of duty. Itachi Uchiha—prodigy, ANBU captain, heir apparent—was your chosen groom. You'd heard of him, of course: the boy who became a chunin at ten, the man who moved like a ghost through missions that would break lesser shinobi. Cold. Efficient. Untouchable.
You'd met him once before, years ago, during a joint training exercise between clans. He'd disarmed you in seconds, Sharingan flaring briefly as he pinned your wrist with effortless precision. "Yield," he'd said, voice flat. No mockery, no warmth. Just fact. You'd nodded, cheeks burning, and he'd released you without another word.
Now, that memory haunted you as the arrangement was finalized. Betrothal scrolls exchanged, dates set. You told yourself it was an honor, that it was for the good of not only your clan, but his. But in the quiet nights leading up to the wedding, doubt crept in like mist off the Naka River. Would he resent you? Hate you? Would he be kind or indifferent? See you as a chain around his neck? Your clan celebrated with feasts and toasts; you smiled through it all, burying the knot in your stomach under the burden of your duty.
Itachi, you later learned through overheard conversations, had accepted without protest. That’s the first thing you two ever agreed upon as husband and wife: duty first, always.
The day dawned crisp and golden, autumn leaves swirling like confetti under a sky too blue for the gravity of it all. The Uchiha compound was transformed—lanterns strung between ancient oaks, incense curling from altars laden with offerings to ancestors. Your wedding kimono was a masterpiece: layers of expensive white and crimson silk embroidered with interlocking clan crests, heavy as armor. It whispered against your skin as attendants fussed over your hair, pinning it with jade combs that caught the light like emeralds.
You were led to the central shrine, heart pounding in rhythm with the taiko drums. Guests murmured—elders from both clans, a few Hokage representatives to witness the union. And there he was: Itachi, standing tall in black haori with the Uchiha fan emblazoned on his back. His hair was tied back, exposing the sharp lines of his face. He looked... composed. Eyes forward, hands clasped loosely at his sides.
As you approached, his gaze flicked to you—brief, assessing. No smile. No warmth. Just a nod, polite and distant. The priest began the rites: purification with salt and water, sips of sake from shared cups that tasted bitter on your tongue. Vows were exchanged—simple, binding words about loyalty, strength, legacy. Your voice barely wavered. His was steady as stone.
When it came time to exchange rings—simple gold bands etched with protective seals—his fingers brushed yours. Cool skin, calloused from years of wielding kunai. A spark jumped between you, chakra flickering unconsciously. You glanced up; his eyes were darker than usual, but he pulled back quickly, as if burned.
The ceremony ended with applause and fireworks—bursts of color against the fading light. A banquet followed: tables groaning with grilled eel, sashimi, and mochi dusted in kinako. You sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, but he spoke only when spoken to. "The food is adequate," he said once, passing you a plate. You thanked him softly. He nodded.
That night, in the bridal chamber, tension hung thick as fog. The futon was laid out, petals scattered like blood drops. You waited, heart in your throat, but he entered only to change into sleep clothes behind a screen. "Rest well," he said, lying down on the far edge, back turned. No touch. No words. Just the sound of his even breathing feigning sleep while you stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was how the rest of your life would unfold.
—----------------------------------------
The summer heat clings to everything like a second skin, turning the air inside the Uchiha compound heavy and slow. Cicadas scream in relentless waves from the trees beyond the garden wall, their chorus rising and falling in time with your pulse. You've grown used to this rhythm over the months—the quiet of the house when Itachi is gone, the soft creak of floorboards under your own feet, the way loneliness settles into your bones without quite breaking them.
You've told yourself a thousand times that this is enough. That duty fulfilled is its own kind of victory. The marriage was sealed in ink and ceremony to bind two bloodlines, to quiet the elders' murmurs about dilution and legacy, to give the clan one more thread of stability in a world already fraying at the edges. You were chosen for your lineage, your composure, your ability to stand beside the prodigy without flinching. Love was never part of the negotiation.
And Itachi... he has never pretended otherwise.
He treats you with impeccable courtesy—the bare minimum required by protocol. A murmured greeting in the morning if your paths cross before he vanishes into the ANBU shadows. A polite inquiry about your day when he returns exhausted and blood-scented. He never raises his voice, never demands anything beyond the shared space of the futon at night. Even then, he keeps to the farthest edge, body rigid as though the mattress were mined. You've memorized the controlled cadence of his breathing, the way he exhales only after he's certain you're asleep.
You've learned not to reach.
Tonight feels different, though. The humidity presses in, making your yukata stick to your back as you sit at the low table, comb moving mechanically through damp strands of hair. The engawa door stands open, letting in the night sounds and the faint metallic tang of approaching rain.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Measured. Unmistakably his.
You don't look up at first. You expect the usual: a brief pause, the rustle of fabric as he changes course toward the bath or his private study, the hallway swallowing him whole.
But he stops in the doorway.
The comb stills midway through a stroke.
You lift your eyes slowly.
Itachi stands framed there, still wearing the dark ANBU armor, though the porcelain mask dangles loosely from his belt like an afterthought. His hair clings to his neck in wet strands—he must have stopped at the outdoor basin to rinse away the day's grime. The lamplight catches the faint sheen of water on his collarbone, the sharp line of his jaw. His Sharingan is dormant, but those dark eyes hold yours with an intensity that feels almost physical.
"You're late," you say, voice barely above the cicadas. Not bitter. Not hopeful. Just... observation.
"I was delayed." The words come out quiet, deliberate, the way he speaks when he's choosing each syllable with care. He doesn't elaborate. He never does.
You nod once and resume brushing, long strokes to hide the sudden tremor in your fingers. Any second now he'll turn away. He always does.
Instead, wood creaks faintly as he steps across the threshold. The sliding door closes behind him with a soft click—small, but it echoes like a seal being set. The room feels smaller instantly, the air thicker.
Your hand freezes again, comb suspended.
He removes his gloves first, methodical, placing them on the low shelf near the door. Then the forearm guards. Each motion is precise, unhurried, but there's something different in the quality of his silence tonight—less like absence, more like anticipation held tightly in check.
He crosses the tatami in stocking feet, stopping a respectful distance away. Close enough that you can smell cedar soap and the faint copper of old blood beneath it. Close enough that you feel the shift in temperature when his shadow falls across the table.
"You haven't eaten," he says. Not a question.
"I wasn't hungry."
A pause. Then, quieter: "You should."
You finally look up at him fully. His expression is unreadable as always, but there's a faint tension at the corners of his eyes, a line of strain that wasn't there yesterday. Or perhaps it was, and you've simply stopped looking for it.
"Why are you here?" The question slips out before you can temper it. Not accusatory—curious, almost. Vulnerable.
Itachi doesn't answer immediately. He lowers himself to sit across from you, knees folded neatly, hands resting palm-up on his thighs in that unconsciously formal way of his. The futon is still unrolled behind you both; the night stretches ahead, empty as ever.
"I..." He hesitates—actually hesitates—and the sound of it startles you more than his presence ever could. "I find myself questioning the necessity of distance."
Your breath catches.
He continues, voice low and even, though you can hear the careful weight behind each word. "This arrangement was made for the clan. For stability. I believed—still believe—that minimizing entanglement would make it... bearable. For both of us." His gaze drops briefly to the tatami between you. "But I have begun to wonder if I have mistaken necessity for kindness."
The cicadas seem louder suddenly, filling the silence that follows.
You set the comb down with deliberate care. "You've never been unkind."
"No," he agrees softly. "But I have been absent. And absence can wound as deeply as cruelty."
Your throat tightens. Months of parallel lives, of telling yourself you didn't mind the cold, of almost believing the lie. And now this—him, here, speaking truths you've both avoided naming.
"What changed?" you ask.
His eyes meet yours again. Something raw flickers there, quickly banked. "A mission. A child. A reminder that time is not infinite, and choices we defer may one day be made for us." He exhales slowly. "I returned tonight and realized I did not want another evening of silence if silence was no longer required."
Your heart beats too loud in your ears.
He doesn't move closer. Doesn't reach. But he doesn't retreat either.
The summer air presses in, sticky and expectant. Somewhere beyond the compound walls, thunder rumbles—distant, but coming.
You draw a breath. "Then stay," you say quietly. "Just... stay."
Itachi nods once, small but certain.
For the first time in months, he doesn't move to the far side of the futon.
He simply stays.
You wait.
He doesn’t speak.
The silence stretches until it feels like your skin is humming with it—every tiny sound in the room suddenly becomes too loud: the soft drip of rainwater from the eaves outside, the faint creak of the wooden beams cooling after the storm, the unsteady rhythm of your own breathing. You can feel your pulse in your fingertips, in the hollow of your throat, everywhere.
Finally, his voice comes, barely above a whisper, so quiet you almost think you imagined it:
“I’ve been unfair to you.”
You blink, startled out of the haze. “What?”
“I let you believe—” He stops, jaw tightening until a muscle flickers beneath the pale skin. “I let you believe I feel nothing.”
Your heart does something painful and sudden behind your ribs—a sharp, twisting lurch that steals your breath.
“It’s alright,” you say automatically, the words falling out like reflex. “I understand. This was never about—”
“No.” The word is sharp enough to cut you off mid-sentence. His eyes—those endless black eyes—are burning now, not with the cold anger you’ve seen before, but with something raw and barely-leashed, something that makes the air feel thinner. “You don’t understand.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he’s forcing air past a knot lodged deep in his throat.
“Every night,” he says, each word measured, “I lie beside you and tell myself I cannot touch you. That if I do, I will frighten you. That you will look at me the way people look at weapons—necessary, but never wanted. Never chosen.”
Your brush slips from your fingers and clatters softly against the low wooden table, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness.
“I told myself restraint was kindness,” he continues, voice dropping lower. “I told myself waiting was respect. But it was cowardice.” His gaze drops to your mouth—lingers there—then slides lower, tracing the line of your collarbone where the edge of your yukata has slipped open just enough to show skin still flushed from the bath. His eyes snap back up like he’s punishing himself for looking. “I want you. Every day. Every hour. So badly that some nights I leave the house entirely because I don’t trust my own hands not to reach for you in the dark.”
The confession lands like a thrown kunai—clean, precise, shocking. It pierces straight through every careful wall you’ve built.
You stare at him, lips parted, unable to find words.
He mistakes your silence for rejection. His shoulders tense, spine straightening in that familiar, defensive way, already preparing to stand and remove himself from the room, from you.
“I won’t force anything,” he says quickly, the words tumbling out faster than you’ve ever heard him speak. “I never would. If you want separate rooms, if you want me gone from this house—from your life—say it now and I will—”
You reach out before you can think better of it.
Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt—still damp from the rain, clinging to the lean planes of his chest—and you pull.
Not hard. Just enough.
His breath catches, sharp and audible.
You don’t let go.
“I thought you hated me,” you whisper, voice trembling on the last word.
Itachi makes a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so broken—so jagged around the edges.
“Hate you?” He lifts his hand—hesitant, trembling almost imperceptibly—and brushes the backs of his knuckles along your cheek, the touch so light it’s almost not there. “I’ve spent months trying not to devour you whole.”
Heat floods your face, your chest, everywhere at once—rushing under your skin like wildfire.
His thumb traces the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent, as though memorizing the shape.
“I wanted you on our wedding night,” he admits, voice rougher now, fraying at the seams. “I wanted to peel that kimono off you layer by layer until there was nothing left to hide behind. I wanted to hear my name in your throat until you forgot how to speak anything else—until the only sound left was the one I drew out of you.” His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “I still want that. Every time I look at you. Every time you turn over in your sleep and your hair spills across my pillow. Every time you laugh at something small and forget I’m watching.”
You’re breathing too fast. The room feels smaller, warmer, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked cedar and the faint iron-and-smoke trace that always clings to him.
“Then why didn’t you?” you ask, barely audible over the pounding in your ears.
“Because I needed you to choose me.” His forehead drops gently against yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint tremor in his frame he’s trying to hide. “Not because of duty. Not because of the clan. Not because the village or your family or mine decided our fates should be bound. Because you wanted to be touched by me. Because you wanted me.”
The words crack something open inside you—something that’s been closed and quiet and aching for too long.
You slide your hand up, past the damp collar of his shirt, to the back of his neck. Your fingers thread into his still-wet hair, the strands cool and silky against your palm.
“I’m choosing now,” you say.
Itachi goes still.
Completely, utterly still—like a held breath, like the moment before a blade falls.
For one endless heartbeat nothing happens. You can feel his pulse hammering against your fingertips where they rest at the base of his skull.
Then he exhales, ragged, and the sound is almost a groan.
His free hand comes up slowly—giving you every chance to pull away—and cups the side of your face, thumb brushing the shell of your ear. The touch is careful, almost worshipful.
When he speaks again, his voice is so low it vibrates against your skin.
“Say it again.”
You swallow. Your thumb strokes once along the line of his jaw.
“I’m choosing you, Itachi.”
Something in him breaks open at the sound of his name on your lips—not softly, not dutifully, but like a promise.
His mouth finds yours.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Hungry.
It’s six months of restraint breaking all at once—deep, hungry, teeth and tongue clashing in a desperate rhythm, the metallic tang of his earlier-bitten lip mixing with the faint herbal bitterness lingering on his breath. A low, primal sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against your lips like distant thunder trapped beneath his ribs. His hands—long-fingered, scarred from years of steel and seals—find your waist with bruising certainty, pulling you across the scant space between you until you’re straddling his thighs. The thin yukata rides up your legs in soft, whispering folds, silk catching on damp skin. When his calloused palms slide over the bare curve of your hips and up the small of your back, he groans into your mouth—raw, involuntary, the sound muffled against your tongue like he’s tasting salvation for the first time.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to rasp against the fragile skin of your throat, voice wrecked and gravel-rough from months of silence and suppressed want: “Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”
You shake your head, breathless, lungs burning. “Don’t you dare.”
Something feral flickers in his eyes—black depths fracturing with the barest crimson edge, a warning flare of Sharingan that vanishes as quickly as it appears.
He stands in one fluid motion, lifting you with him like you weigh nothing more than mist. Your legs wrap around his waist on pure instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back while his arms band beneath your thighs. The movement is effortless, honed by a lifetime of carrying burdens far heavier than your body. He carries you the few steps to the futon—still neatly made from this morning, the faint scent of sun-dried cotton and cedar clinging to the bedding—and lays you down like something fragile and irreplaceable, even as his hands tremble violently with the monumental effort of holding himself back.
He hovers above you, breathing hard, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. Sweat already beads along his hairline, dark strands sticking to pale skin.
“I’ve imagined this too many times,” he murmurs, voice low and almost reverent, cracked at the edges. “I’m afraid I won’t be… gentle.”
You reach up, cup his face between your palms—feel the feverish heat of his skin, the faint tremor in his jaw.
“Then don’t be.”
That’s all it takes. The last thread of his control snaps.
But Itachi doesn’t rush. Even when the leash is gone, even when your whispered “don’t you dare” still echoes in the humid air between you, he doesn’t simply fall on you like a starved animal. No—he savors the breaking, draws it out like a blade across silk.
He stays above you for one long, trembling heartbeat, black eyes drinking in every inch of your face like he’s committing it to eternal memory—every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, the way your pupils have blown wide in the low lantern light. Then his mouth crashes back to yours—harder this time, teeth catching your lower lip just enough to sting sharply before he soothes the bite with slow, filthy drags of his tongue, tasting the faint copper of your blood mingled with his own.
You arch instinctively, seeking more contact, more pressure, anything. He pins your hips down with one large hand, fingers splaying wide across your pelvis—not letting you chase the friction you’re already desperate for. A low, guttural sound rumbles in his throat when you whimper into his mouth, the vibration traveling straight down your spine.
“Patience,” he murmurs against your lips, the word almost mocking in its gentleness while his own voice is wrecked—gravel and hunger and something dangerously close to pain. “I’ve waited months. You can wait a little longer can’t you?”
But his control is fraying visibly now; the hand not anchoring your hip slides up under the loose edge of your yukata, calloused fingertips skating over the hypersensitive skin of your inner thigh in feather-light strokes that make your muscles jump against his touch. He stops just short of your pussy, where you’re already aching, swollen and slick, embarrassingly drenched for him after nothing more than his kisses and the weight of his stare.
You try to roll your hips upward into his hand, seeking his touch. He presses you flat again, firmer this time, forearm like iron across your lower belly.
“Not yet.”
He pulls back just enough to look down between your bodies. The yukata has fallen open completely; your breasts are bare to the thick, humid air, nipples already tight and aching from nothing more than his heavy-lidded gaze and the ghost of his breath ghosting over them. He watches them rise and fall with your ragged breathing like a man hypnotized, like the sight alone is enough to unravel him further.
Then he lowers his head.
The first pass of his tongue over one peaked nipple is slow—deliberate—circling the areola in lazy spirals before he closes his lips around it and sucks. Hard. The sudden pull sends a jolt straight to your cunt; you cry out, back bowing off the futon in a sharp arch. He switches to the other side without warning, giving it the same ruthless attention—teeth grazing just enough to border pain, then tongue laving in slow, wet circles—while his free hand finally—finally—slides between your thighs.
Two fingers part you open and glide through slick, swollen folds with obscene ease, and stop again—just resting there, feeling how hot and dripping you are, how your entrance flutters helplessly around nothing.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin. The curse—so rare from him, so raw—hits like a spark igniting dry tinder. “You’re soaked. All this time… you’ve been this wet for me?”
You can’t form words anymore.
Your jaw works uselessly, lips parted on shallow, ragged breaths. All you manage is a frantic, repeated nod—chin jerking up and down like a broken marionette—while your fingers claw deeper into the dense muscle capping his shoulders. Nails bite crescent moons into his skin; you feel the faint give of flesh under them, the heat of tiny half-moons you’re leaving behind. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, the sting seems to please him.
He rewards the raw honesty of your body with the slowest possible slide of one long finger.
The intrusion is deliberate, obscene in its patience. You feel every millimeter: the smooth glide of his fingertip parting slick folds, the subtle thickening as the first knuckle breaches you, the faint ridge of the second joint catching just enough to make your inner walls flutter in protest and greed. By the time he’s buried to the hilt, your spine has arched off the futon in a taut, trembling bow.
He curls immediately.
No preamble, no gentleness—just firm, unerring pressure against that swollen, spongy patch inside that turns your vision to static white. Your thighs seize around his wrist like a trap snapping shut; a high, shattered sound punches out of your throat. The muscles in your pelvis jump and twitch involuntarily, trying to chase that bright burst of pleasure even as it threatens to overwhelm you.
“Again,” you rasp, voice cracked and barely human.
He doesn’t make you ask twice.
A second finger joins the first on the next slow withdrawal—two now stretching you wider, the slight burn of the stretch only sharpening the ache. He sets a rhythm that is somehow both cruel and worshipful: long, dragging pulls that leave you hollow and clenching around nothing, followed by hard, deliberate thrusts that bury both digits to the root. Each inward stroke ends with that same precise curl, that same merciless press against your g-spot until your vision swims and your heels dig bruises into the futon.
And then his thumb finally—finally—settles over your clit.
At first the touch is maddeningly light: the barest graze of the pad, almost accidental, tracing lazy circles that make your hips roll up in helpless little jerks. Then he presses down. Firmer. Faster. Relentless little strokes that match the rhythm of his fingers inside you—quick, tight spirals that send white-hot sparks racing up your spine. Your thighs start shaking violently around his forearm; your toes curl so hard the arches of your feet cramp. Every muscle below your navel is strung tight, vibrating, ready to snap.
He doesn’t let you come.
The first time your breath hitches into that telltale staccato, when your walls begin the helpless, rhythmic flutter that signals the edge, he simply… stops.
Fingers still buried deep, he holds perfectly motionless while your body convulses around the denial. You whine—high and wounded—hips bucking uselessly, trying to fuck yourself on his unmoving hand. After an eternity (ten seconds? twenty?) he withdraws completely. The sudden emptiness is devastating; your cunt clenches so hard it almost hurts, slick dripping down the crease of your thigh in a slow, humiliating trickle.
He waits until your breathing slows to something less frantic.
Then he starts again.
The second time is worse.
He builds you faster—thumb working ruthless little circles, fingers curling on every other thrust until your eyes are rolling and your mouth hangs open on wordless, keening sounds. Right as the coil in your pelvis begins its final, irreversible tightening, he pulls free again. This time he spreads his fingers on the way out, stretching you one last cruel inch before leaving you gaping and spasming around nothing. Your sob is broken, animal.
Third denial.
You’re crying now—hot, frustrated tears slipping into your hairline. He kisses them away almost tenderly even as he forces you right back to the brink. Three fingers this time. The stretch burns sweetly; you’re so wet it’s obscene, the wet squelch of his hand loud enough to make shame flare hot in your chest. He scissors gently on the out-stroke, then slams back in with punishing force. His thumb never leaves your clit. You keen high in your throat when the orgasm starts cresting—then choke on a sob when he yanks everything away at the last possible second. Your whole lower body jerks like you’ve been electrocuted; your walls pulse and flutter uselessly around devastating emptiness.
By the fourth time you’re nearly incoherent.
Hips jerking in the air, legs trembling so badly they won’t stay spread, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, his biceps, his hair—anything to anchor you. The pleas fall out in fractured pieces:
“Please—Itachi—please—”
“Need you—can’t—can’t anymore—”
“Inside—need you inside—please—”
He finally kisses you again.
It’s filthy—open-mouthed, messy, all teeth and tongue. He drinks every broken sound you make like they’re precious offerings laid at an altar only he can see. One hand fists in your hair to hold you still while the other cups your jaw, thumb pressing into the soft hollow beneath your ear. When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his Sharingan is bleeding through the black—crimson pinwheels flickering at the edges of blown pupils like embers about to catch. The red glow catches on the wet shine of your mouth, on the tear tracks cutting down your cheeks.
He leans in until his lips brush the shell of your ear.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked in a way that tells you he’s not as unaffected as he pretends. “Completely undone. Mine.”
His fingers slide back inside you—three again—slow, so slow you feel every ridge, every vein, every deliberate flex before he removes them.
“I want to taste you first,” he says, voice hoarse and frayed at the edges like old silk starting to tear. “I’ve dreamed of it. Every night. Every fucking mission when I should have been focused.”
The confession lands like a blade between your ribs—quiet, precise, devastating. Itachi Uchiha, the man who carried the weight of entire clans on the edge of a kunai, admitting that you haunted him in the dark. Before the meaning can fully sink in, before you can even draw breath to answer, he’s already moving.
He slides down your body with predatory grace, palms hot and sure as they hook under your knees. In one smooth motion he spreads you wide—legs draped over the breadth of his shoulders, heels digging uselessly into the flexing muscles of his back. The position folds you open completely: no hiding, no modesty, just your slick, swollen pussy laid bare under the low lantern light. Cool air kisses your drenched folds for half a heartbeat—then his exhale ghosts over you, warm and deliberate, making your entrance clench around nothing and your hips jerk before he’s even touched you.
He looks.
Not a cursory glance. He studies you like a battlefield map, like scripture, dark eyes tracing every glistening fold, the way your clit throbs visibly under his scrutiny, the slow drip of arousal that trails down toward the futon. His throat works on a hard swallow. The sound is loud in the quiet room.
Then he leans in and drags his tongue in one long, slow, filthy stripe—from your weeping entrance all the way up to the oversensitive peak of your clit.
Your hips snap upward so violently he has to slam a forearm across your pelvis, pinning you flat. The corded strength in that single arm trembles—not from effort, but from the sheer force of his own restraint. He groans against you, low and broken, the vibration traveling straight through your cunt. The sound he makes is raw, almost pained—like your taste is salvation and torment in equal measure, better than survival, better than vengeance, better than anything the world ever tried to take from him.
He doesn’t tease after that first taste.
He devours.
His tongue spears inside you—deep, curling thrusts that mimic the rhythm he’d used with his fingers earlier, only wetter, hotter, more obscene. You claw at the bedding; silk rips under your nails with sharp, satisfying tears. When he pulls back it’s only to seal his mouth over your clit and suck—hard, rhythmic pulls that make your vision tunnel and your toes cramp. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth working you fill the room: slick laps, deliberate slurps, the occasional low rumble in his throat when you gush against his tongue.
Your thighs are already shaking, inner muscles jumping every time he flicks the underside of your clit with devastating precision. He feels it—the way your body is starting to crest again—and without breaking rhythm he slides three fingers back inside you. They sink into the knuckles on one smooth, relentless push. The stretch is exquisite, almost too much after so long being denied, and he curls them immediately, hooking that same ruthless spot while his tongue lashes your clit in tight, merciless circles.
You come so hard the world disappears.
It rips through you like lightning grounding itself—back bowing off the futon until only your shoulders and heels touch the bedding, a scream tearing out of your throat that cracks into sobs halfway through. Your walls clamp down on his fingers like a vice, pulsing, milking, slick gushing in hot pulses over his hand, his wrist, his chin. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He works you through every brutal wave—slower now, tongue flattening to broad, soothing laps over your clit, fingers rocking gently inside to draw out the aftershocks until your whole body is one long, shuddering twitch.
You’re oversensitive, wrecked, every nerve singing. Weakly, you push at his head—palms slipping on sweat-damp hair, trying to get him to stop before the pleasure turns sharp and unbearable.
Only then does he lift his head.
His lips are swollen, dark with blood flow. His chin glistens obscenely—coated in you, shining wet in the lantern glow. Strands of your arousal stretch and snap between his mouth and your core when he finally pulls back far enough to meet your eyes.
His Sharingan is dormant again, swallowed by black, but the pupils are blown so wide there’s almost no iris left. Fractured. Wild. The man who once stared down armies without blinking looks like he’s the one coming undone.
He drags the back of his hand across his mouth—slow, deliberate—smearing your release over his lips like war paint before he licks it clean again. The sight sends another helpless aftershock rippling through you; your cunt flutters around nothing.
“You taste like everything I was never supposed to want,” he rasps, voice gravel and reverence. His gaze drops to where you’re still twitching, still leaking for him. “And I’m still not finished with you.”
He crawls back up your body with deliberate slowness, like a predator savoring the aftermath of a kill he never wanted to end. His mouth maps a burning trail over the quivering plane of your stomach—open-mouthed kisses that drag teeth just enough to sting, tongue flicking into the dip of your navel until your muscles jump. He lingers between the swollen curves of your breasts, sucking a bruise into the tender underside of one, then the other, marking territory no one else will ever see. When he reaches the column of your throat your pulse hammers against his lips like a war drum calling him home; he presses his open mouth there and sucks gently, tasting salt and frantic life.
He finally claims your mouth again.
The kiss is slow, obscene—his tongue sliding against yours so you taste yourself, sharp and musky and unmistakably you. You whimper into it, fresh heat pooling low in your belly despite the bone-deep exhaustion already settling in your limbs. Your hands find his hair, tugging weakly, trying to pull him closer even as your body trembles from overstimulation.
You feel him then—hot, thick, leaking—pressing insistently against the soft skin of your inner thigh. He’s been hard for so long the front of his pants is soaked through, dark fabric clinging transparently to the rigid length beneath. The damp heat of his precum smears against your leg when he shifts, and he grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting you feel every rigid inch through that thin, ruined barrier.
“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, a promise draped in sin, breath hot and ragged, voice frayed to threads. “And you’re going to take every second of it.”
He sheds the rest of his clothes in movements that are economical and almost violent—pants shoved down and kicked away, shirt torn over his head and discarded without a glance. Naked now, every lean line of him is bared to you: the pale expanse of skin marred by old scars, the faint tremor in his thighs from holding back for so long, the way his cock stands flushed and heavy between you, dark head glistening, veins standing out stark and angry.
He settles back between your thighs, one hand wrapping around his length—fingers barely meeting around the girth—and guides himself through your folds. The broad head parts your pussy easily, slick and swollen from everything he’s already done to you. He notches himself at your entrance and pauses. Every muscle in his body locks tight—arms cording, jaw clenched, breath sawing in and out like he’s fighting a war with himself.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes snap to his—black, endless, burning with something that looks dangerously close to devotion.
He pushes in—slow—inch by torturous inch.
The stretch is exquisite, almost too much after the edging, after his mouth, after the way he’s already wrecked you once. He’s thick, longer than you expected, and you feel every vein, every subtle throb as he sinks deeper. Your walls flutter and clutch at him involuntarily; he hisses through his teeth, hips rolling in minute, controlled increments until he’s seated fully—hips flush to yours, balls pressed tight against your ass, pubic bone grinding against your oversensitive clit.
You both freeze there. Breathing hard. Sweat dripping from his brow onto your collarbone in slow, warm drops. His arms are shaking—fine tremors running through the biceps that cage you in.
“Too much?” he rasps, voice strained to the breaking point, like speaking costs him everything.
You shake your head frantically, nails digging into his shoulders again. “Move. Please.”
He pulls back almost all the way—until just the weeping tip of his cock remains inside, stretching your entrance taut—then snaps his hips forward in one smooth, brutal thrust.
You cry out, sharp and broken, nails raking down the length of his back hard enough to leave red trails. He groans—low, guttural—the sound punched from deep in his chest.
He sets a punishing rhythm after that: deep, rolling strokes that drag against every sensitive place inside you, hitting that spongy spot over and over until your toes curl and your breath punches out in sharp, helpless gasps. One of his hands braces beside your head, knuckles bleaching white against the futon; the other grips your thigh, hitching it higher over his hip so he can sink even deeper with every punishing drive.
The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room—obscene, rhythmic, echoing off the wooden walls. His breathing turns ragged, broken little grunts escaping every time he bottoms out, the sound torn from him like confession.
You rake your nails down his back again—harder this time. Red lines bloom across his shoulders like fresh war paint. He hisses, hips stuttering for a single heartbeat before the pace turns feral.
“Again,” he growls against your mouth. “Mark me.”
You do.
Over and over—nails carving crimson paths down his back, across his shoulders, claiming him the only way your trembling body knows how. He fucks you harder for it—relentless, unyielding—until the futon shifts beneath you with every thrust, wooden frame creaking in protest like it might give way.
He changes the angle—grinds down on every upward stroke so his pelvis drags over your clit with perfect, grinding pressure. The coil builds fast—too fast—white-hot and unstoppable, pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice wrecked beyond recognition. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
You shatter.
Walls spasming wildly around him, milking him in rhythmic, greedy pulses. Your vision blacks at the edges as pleasure whites out everything else. You sob his name—over and over—begging him to slow down, speed up, anything, everything. He fucks you through it—long, punishing strokes—drawing the orgasm out until you’re shaking, oversensitive, tears slipping into your hair.
He doesn’t slow.
Instead he hooks your legs over his elbows, folds you nearly in half beneath him, and drives even deeper. The new angle has you seeing white—each brutal thrust kissing your cervix, stretching you to the absolute limit. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point—not biting, just pressing, a possessive claim that makes your heart stutter.
“I’m close,” he warns, voice strained to shattering. “Where—”
“Inside,” you gasp without hesitation. “Please—inside—”
That single word—please—snaps the last thread of his restraint.
He slams into you once, twice, then stills—buried to the hilt—as he comes with a broken moan of your name that sounds torn from somewhere deep and ancient and wounded. You feel every hot pulse, every thick twitch inside you, feel him flood you with his cum until it’s leaking out around his cock in slow, obscene trickles that drip down your skin and onto the futon beneath you.
He doesn’t pull out.
He stays there—breathing hard against your throat, his cock still twitching with aftershocks. His arms tremble where they cage you, muscles locked so tight you can feel the fine tremor in every line of him.
Long minutes pass before he finally eases back—just enough to look at your face. Sweat-damp hair clings to his forehead in dark, messy strands. His eyes are soft now—exhausted black, no trace of red, only something raw and unguarded that makes your chest ache.
He brushes a trembling thumb over your cheek, catching a stray tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.
“I love you,” he whispers—like a vow this time, like absolution, like something he’s carried in silence for too many years.
You turn your head, press a shaky kiss to the center of his palm.
“I know,” you murmur, voice hoarse and wrecked. “I love you too.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the night the world first broke him—centuries compressed into one long, shuddering release.
Then he lowers himself carefully, rolling so you’re draped across his chest. His softening cock stays nestled deep inside you, warm and heavy and grounding. Neither of you moves to separate.
The cicadas sing outside in endless, droning waves. Summer air drifts through the open shoji—thick, humid, heavy with the scent of coming rain, cedar smoke, sex, and salt. Your combined sweat cools slowly on your skin.
And for the first time since that wedding night you both pretended didn’t matter—
Itachi holds you like he never intends to let go.
His fingers trace idle, soothing patterns along your spine. His heartbeat slows beneath your ear—steady now, calm in a way you’ve never heard it before.
You think, dimly, that this might be the closest either of you will ever come to peace.