Chapter Text
The hallway is dim when you return, shadows stretched long across the stone floor, the quiet thick enough that it feels deliberate. The lanterns haven’t been lit yet; the air still hums softly from the recent rain, cool and clean in a way the base rarely allows.
Itachi walks beside you.
Not behind.
Not ahead.
Beside.
His steps are soundless, but not evasive this time. Not withdrawn. There’s a steadiness in him — still fragile, still careful, but present in a way that makes something in your chest warm and ache all at once.
He doesn’t speak.
You don’t push.
Your fingers brush once — accidentally.
Neither of you apologizes.
When you reach his door, he stops. You expect him to open it, step inside, murmur something quiet and safe like rest well before closing himself off again.
You brace for it.
But he doesn’t open the door.
He just stands there, facing it, breathing in a slow, measured way you’ve learned to recognize as him wrestling with something inside himself.
His hand lifts — hesitates — and curls into a loose fist instead of reaching for the handle.
“…It’s different now,” he says quietly.
His voice is steady, but softer than it was at the spring. Less masked. Less armored.
You tilt your head. “What is?”
He turns to you, eyes dark and searching in the low light.
“The way I… feel,” he says. “Around you.”
The words land like a warm hand against your sternum — gentle, certain, devastating in their simplicity.
You take a small step closer.
“Itachi,” you say softly, “you’re allowed to feel whatever you feel.”
His gaze flickers to your lips — just for a heartbeat — then returns to your eyes with a sincerity that could undo nations if he ever weaponized it.
“I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” he admits.
You exhale slowly. “You don’t have to be.”
He studies your face carefully, reverently, as though committing it to memory.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “I would… like you to stay. Tonight.”
He opens the door.
Not abruptly.
Not urgently.
A request.
An offering of trust that weighs heavier than the words themselves.
You tilt your head, brushing your thumb along the inside of his wrist — slow, deliberate, giving him every chance to pull away.
He doesn’t.
“I want to stay,” you say gently.
Something unravels in him at that — a subtle easing of his shoulders, a faint shudder of breath, like relief and disbelief colliding in his chest.
He looks at you fully now.
No darting away.
No retreat.
Just honesty.
“Are you sure?” he asks, the question soft but precise.
“I don’t want to… misread you,” he adds, voice low, controlled, each word placed with care. “Or take advantage of a moment that only feels meaningful to me.”
“You’re not misreading me,” you say softly.
His eyes search yours — careful, intent, almost painfully hopeful in a way he doesn’t realize he’s showing.
You step closer, until your breath mingles with his.
“If anything,” you add quietly, “I was hoping you’d ask.”
His inhale is sharp and quiet — controlled, but not enough to hide how deeply that lands.
He doesn’t move.
Just stands there, as if afraid the moment will vanish if he reaches for it.
So you help him.
Your fingertips graze his jaw, feather-light.
He leans into the touch without meaning to — instinctive, unguarded — and finally exhales, long and unsteady.
He steps aside for you to enter first, a gesture old and ingrained, but weighted now with something new — trust offered freely, not out of duty.
You step past him.
The room is dim, lit only by moonlight slipping through the narrow window. It smells faintly of tea, parchment, and the cool mineral scent of wet stone carried in on your clothes.
Itachi closes the door behind you.
The quiet deepens.
Not tense.
Not hesitant.
Just full.
He moves closer — not touching yet, but near enough that you feel the warmth of him, still faintly chilled from the water.
He looks at you like a sealed scroll he’s only just allowed himself to open.
When he speaks, his words are steady, but his breath isn’t.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
You don’t hesitate. “We don’t have to,” you say softly. “We can just sleep. Like before. If that’s all you want.”
His gaze holds yours.
“I know,” he says quietly. “And… I appreciate that.”
His hand lifts, pauses, then lowers again — restraint winning by habit rather than doubt.
“When you kissed me at the spring,” he continues, voice careful, “it felt like a door opening. One I had sealed shut.”
A beat. “I don’t wish to close it again.”
He chooses his next words precisely. “I don’t think there is anyone else I would trust with this.”
Your heart swells.
You take his hand. His fingers are cool, long, and they interlace with yours instinctively.
“Then we go slowly,” you say. “And we stop whenever you want.”
He nods once.
Settled.
Certain.
You kiss the back of his knuckles. Then his palm.
The moment his skin meets yours, his breath stutters — a tiny fracture in composure that feels more intimate than any kiss.
“Kiss me again,” you murmur.
He does.
Not tentative.
Not cautious.
Soft, but sure. His hand finds your waist, grounding himself as the kiss deepens, warmth unfurling between you.
When you part, his forehead rests against yours, eyes half-lidded, cheeks faintly flushed.
“If I misstep,” he says quietly, “tell me.”
“I will.”
He nods.
“…Then let me learn.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, hands sliding from your waist to your hips, drawing you closer until your bodies meet fully. His breath catches in a soft, involuntary sound that makes your toes curl.
Your fingers find the ties of his cloak, loosening them.
He freezes for a heartbeat — reflexive tension, not rejection.
You meet his eyes.
“It’s okay,” you whisper. “You can trust me.”
His throat works in a small swallow. He nods once.
You slide the cloak from his shoulders.
He lets it fall.
Your fingertips trace the line of his jaw, then down his neck, feeling each shiver he tries unsuccessfully to contain. His hands settle at your waist again — warm now, firmer, hesitant but wanting.
He leans in, breath warm against your ear.
You guide his hands gently upward, letting him feel the curve of your body through the fabric, letting him learn you by touch instead of fear.
He exhales shakily, his forehead pressing to your shoulder.
You feel the moment he decides something.
When he lifts his head, his expression has changed — still gentle, still careful, but threaded with something deeper, heavier.
Chosen.
He cups your face with both hands and kisses you again — slow, consuming, hungry in a way he’s too disciplined to let show anywhere else.
It’s not like the kiss at the spring.
That was discovery.
This is intention.
His mouth is soft yet sure, moving over yours with a growing confidence that makes heat pool low in your gut.
Your back finds the edge of the bed.
The futon creaks softly beneath your weight as you settle onto it.
He follows you down with quiet certainty, bracing one hand beside you, the other tracing your ribcage tentatively, reverently, like he’s mapping you into memory.
You guide his touch, encouraging him, showing him what you like.
What makes you gasp softly, arching into him.
You can feel the moment he starts to relax, his body losing some of its tension, his touches becoming more sure.
More confident.
His lips find yours again, and this time there’s no hesitation. No caution.
Filled with longing and want — a silent promise of more to come.
You pull back slightly, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, his neck, his collarbone.
“Can I undress you, Itachi?” you ask softly, sitting up.
He swallows, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Yes,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the uncertainty in his gaze.
Your hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers pushing it up slowly.
His skin is warm beneath your touch, muscles taut and defined from years of training.
You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his sternum, feeling his heart pounding beneath your lips.
He watches you, gaze intent, breath coming a little faster now.
You guide his hands to the straps of your nightgown, encouraging him to undress you as well. He hesitates for a moment, then slides them over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your skin and sending shivers down your spine.
The fabric glides down, pooling at your waist.
His gaze drops to your exposed chest, and his Sharingan flickers to life — a quiet flare of red betraying the desire he doesn’t otherwise show. The question is still there, unspoken, held carefully in his eyes.
“Touch me, Itachi,” you breathe, losing yourself in the crimson spiral, breaking a rule he himself taught you —
because with him, you know it was never a rule meant for fear.
His hands cup your breasts gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp.
He swallows hard, his eyes never leaving yours.
He watches, listens, adjusts — deliberate and exact. The way he adapts to you is so precise it’s hard to believe this is new to him.
You feel the quiet confidence settle into him the moment he realizes he can make you feel like this.
Wanted.
Needed.
Heat builds between your legs, slicking the thin fabric of your underwear. You want to touch him too, to make him feel as good as he’s making you feel. You trail your fingers down his chest, his stomach, until you reach the waistband of his pants.
“Is this okay?” you ask, looking up at him, giving him the choice — the control.
He nods, his throat working in a swallow.
You undo the ties of his pants, sliding them down his legs, leaving him in only his undergarments. There’s a prominent outline of his erection evident through the thin black briefs.
A shiver runs down his spine when you slide your hands down his front, resting them at his groin. He trembles beneath your touch, hyper-aware of every movement.
You begin palming him through his underwear, your index finger tracing his length in feather-light touches.
“I want to take this off,” you sigh, tugging lightly at his waistband.
“Okay,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.
You slide his undergarments off, revealing him fully. He’s hard, slightly above average in size, neatly trimmed.
When you look up at him, you see the vulnerability in his eyes — the fear of being judged, of being found wanting.
It pains you to see him like this.
“You’re beautiful, Itachi,” you breathe, voice full of sincerity. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”
You hesitate, then meet his gaze.
He just stares at you in disbelief.
“Lie down for me, please,” you murmur.
He nods and does, careful even now, hands sinking into the blankets.
You follow him, moving between his legs.
Every shift of your weight draws his attention; you can feel it in the way his breath changes, in the way his shoulders tense and then force themselves to relax again.
You pause there, giving him time to adjust — to retreat, if he needs to.
He doesn’t.
His gaze stays on you — dark, intent, trusting.
You glance up, checking in one last time, your voice quiet and steady.
“Still okay?”
He swallows. “Mhm… keep going, please.”
You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his stomach, then another to his thigh.
Then you take his length into your hand, feeling him twitch beneath your fingers.
He gasps, hips jerking slightly, his hands fisting the blankets beneath him. You look up, checking in, making sure he’s okay.
He nods, eyes dark with desire. “Please,” he whispers.
You start to lick him.
Slow, sensual — your tongue tracing the underside of his shaft, feeling him pulse beneath your touch. His taste is a mix of salt, earth, and something unmistakably Itachi. You feel his body tense, his breath breaking into short gasps.
You take him into your mouth, lips brushing over his tip like you’re tasting something precious. He shivers, hips starting to move in small, involuntary thrusts.
One of his hands finds its way into your hair, brushing damp strands from your face.
The look he gives you is nothing you’ve ever seen before.
Fond.
Tender.
Trusting.
Like offering you something he never intended to give anyone.
His breathing is shallow, quiet — as if making a sound might scare you away.
Saliva slips from the corners of your mouth as you move in a steady rhythm, watching the muscles of his abdomen tighten and relax beneath your pace.
It’s all you can focus on until his breathing grows more ragged and his grip in your hair tightens involuntarily.
You release him, sitting up slightly.
“Look at me, Itachi,” you say, your voice soft in a way you reserve only for him. “Do you want me to keep going?”
His eyes lock with yours, hazy, unfocused — like he’s looking at you through fog.
“I… I don’t think I’m in a position to make a rational decision,” he admits.
You chuckle.
Even like this — undone in a way you’ve never seen — the fact that he still answers with careful honesty makes you smile.
Of course he does.
Of course he’s still Itachi.
“Then let me decide for you.”
He swallows.
You climb off the bed briefly, slipping out of your nightgown and thoroughly soaked underwear.
If focusing on his pleasure alone does this to you, you can only imagine what feeling him inside you will do.
He watches intently, elbows braced against the mattress, gaze never leaving you as you crawl back over him.
You kiss his shoulder.
Then his chest.
His hands settle automatically on your hips as you straddle him, eyes heavy, hooded, urging you onward.
You oblige silently, aligning yourself with him before lowering yourself until only his tip presses into you.
He inhales sharply through his nose, fingernails digging into your skin, certain to leave crescent-shaped marks.
“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t hold back for me. I want to hear you. Tell me what feels good.”
He nods, hesitant.
You lower yourself inch by inch until he fills you completely.
A low, involuntary sound escapes him — barely more than a breath. He stiffens at once, startled by it, as though the loss of control surprises him.
Eyes closed, you take a moment to adjust, letting the ache fade before you begin to move.
“You’re doing really well,” you whisper, smiling softly. “Are you okay? Do you want me to continue?”
He swallows, eyes steady on yours.
“…I do,” he answers. “If you’re willing.”
“I don’t think you know how much I want you, Itachi.”
He shudders at that.
You begin to circle your hips, slow at first, letting him feel every inch of you — letting him learn your body, find his rhythm.
He adapts quickly, guiding your movements with expert hands.
You ride him faster now, lifting yourself with your thighs before sinking back down with ease.
Your hands settle over his, guiding one between your legs.
The way his thumb brushes over your clit makes it hard to believe he’s never done this before.
But you don’t complain.
Quite the opposite.
A long moan escapes you as your head falls back in pleasure.
Compared to the others, sex with Itachi is nothing like what you’ve known.
Hidan takes you like an animal.
Kisame devours you like a starving man.
But Itachi —
Itachi loves you like it’s his last day on earth.
You clench around him. He tenses, choking on the sounds you draw from him before finally allowing himself to let go.
“_____,” your name leaves his lips like a plea.
“I’m close,” he states, voice tight but composed. “I don’t think I can prolong this.”
“You don’t need to,” you murmur warmly. “You’re amazing. You’re making me feel so good — just keep going.”
Color blooms across his cheeks at your praise.
Cute.
You grind against him selfishly now, bracing yourself against his chest, hips moving less carefully.
His thumb rubs your clit in feverish circles while his other hand slides up to cup your breast.
Determined, he shifts his legs, meeting your movements with thrusts of his own.
The sensation hits you like a daze.
Like the way he strikes something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
Itachi.
How this man leaves you speechless again and again is beyond you.
You cling to him, nails biting into his skin, marks surely forming — and all you can think is that you want him. All of him.
Soon the room fills with the sound of breath and skin meeting skin.
“Itachi, I’m—” you cry out as you come, clenching around him as pleasure washes through you.
He watches you with open admiration, face flushed, breathing ragged.
You’re certain he can feel your heart racing as you try to steady yourself.
You lift the hand that touched you to your mouth, sucking his thumb, tasting yourself — indulgent, unashamed.
That’s all it takes.
No warning.
No restraint.
His hips stutter.
A quiet groan slips from him as you feel him pulse inside you.
You brush damp strands of hair from his face, kiss his cheek, then his lips.
When you’re sure he’s spent everything, you collapse beside him on the bed.
The world settles again, softened.
The lantern remains unlit, but the moon has drifted lower, its light gentler now. The room is warm with shared breath and lingering heat, the blankets tangled around your legs as though neither of you ever thought to pause long enough to make them orderly.
Itachi lies beside you.
On his back at first — one hand resting over his sternum, the rise and fall of his chest slower than usual. Almost peaceful.
He turns his head toward you.
The expression on his face nearly undoes you.
Not dazed.
Not overwhelmed.
Just unguarded — like something heavy has finally been set down, and he’s afraid to move too quickly and lose the feeling.
“Are you alright?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
Your breath catches. You shift closer, laying a hand over his.
“I’m more than alright.”
He exhales slowly, as though he’d been holding his breath for your answer.
He turns onto his side to face you fully, hair falling loose across his cheek. His fingers lift hesitantly, brushing your shoulder, your neck, the edge of your jaw — each touch a question.
You lean into him.
His hand settles at your cheek, warm and steady. “I didn’t hurt you?”
“No,” you say softly. “It was perfect.”
He doesn’t smile — not fully — but the corners of his eyes soften in a way that feels more intimate than any grin.
You press closer until your head rests against his chest. His arm curls around you automatically, protective even now.
His heartbeat is slow.
Steady.
Safe.
He threads his fingers through your hair, thoughtful, grounding, tracing slow patterns along your spine.
You feel him relax beneath you, the last of the tension draining from his shoulders.
“Itachi?” you murmur.
“Mm?”
“Thank you for trusting me.”
There’s a pause — full, deliberate — and then his fingers lace with yours beneath the blanket.
“I always have,” he says quietly.
You close your eyes.
He presses a slow kiss into your hairline — gentle, lingering — and it feels like a promise instead of an accident.
The warmth of him, the steady breath against your forehead, the hush of the room — it all pulls you toward sleep.
“Stay tonight,” he murmurs, exhaustion threading his voice.
You smile into his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhales, soft and relieved.
And within minutes, the steady rhythm of his breathing slips into sleep.
You follow soon after, curled together in the center of his bed, the night finally quiet in a way that feels earned.