best friend's brother (18+)
Synopsis: Itachi Uchiha has spent a lifetime mastering control. Discipline. Restraint. The iron doors in his mind that keep every dark impulse locked away.
Then you move into his apartment.
You're Sasuke’s best friend from college—and every filthy fantasy Itachi has spent a decade burying. You rinse your dishes, text when you’ll be late, and walk around in thin sleep shirts that barely cover anything. You never notice the way he watches. The “accidents” he stages just to see you bend. The bathroom door he leaves unlocked. The pairs of your worn panties that go missing from the hamper and return the next morning, carefully folded, still faintly warm from his hands.
Or so he believes.
Warnings: Itachi Uchiha/Reader, Modern AU, age gap (reader is 22, Itachi is 32), oral sex (f! receiving), p in v sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, multiple positions, cum play, creampie/unprotected sex, voyeurism, light non con/dub con elements (Itachi is a pervert but it's okay bc you're into it), dirty talk, panty theft, light degradation, slightly possessive behavior, scent kink, light ass play
Word Count: 10.6k
Author's Note: it's finally done; lowkey hate this but if I spend any longer on it I'm going to throw my laptop out of my window and then run it over with my car for good measure
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Itachi Uchiha had always prided himself on control. Discipline. Restraint. The kind of man who could sit through hours of silence without shifting once, who measured every decision against consequence, who had spent years perfecting the art of appearing untouchable to others.
That version of himself had died the day you moved into his apartment.
Sasuke had called it a favor. A temporary arrangement while his friend found an apartment of her own. She’s quiet, polite, and pays rent on time. You’ll barely notice she’s there. Itachi had agreed without hesitation; anything for Sasuke. He had even prepared the spare room himself—fresh sheets folded with military precision, a desk lamp with a brand new lightbulb, space cleared in the bathroom cabinet for whatever toiletries you might bring. He had told himself it was simply practical. Hospitable. The least he could do for someone who was so important to his little brother.
What Sasuke had neglected to mention was that his best friend from college was twenty-two, soft-voiced, and built like every filthy fantasy Itachi had spent the last decade locking away behind iron doors in his mind.
You were polite. You were quiet. You were considerate to a fault—always rinsing your dishes the moment you finished eating, always texting before you came home late so he wouldn’t worry, always asking if he needed anything from the store even though he rarely did. And you were so fucking pretty it made his cock ache at inconvenient hours. Pretty face. A soft mouth that curved into small, private smiles when you thought no one was looking. Curves that filled out every soft sweater and pair of sleep shorts you owned. An ass that swayed when you walked to the kitchen barefoot in the mornings. Tits that shifted under thin fabric when you stretched your arms over your head and arched your back until something in your spine popped. Itachi had watched all of it. Catalogued it. Obsessed over it in the dark of his room while the rest of the city slept and the only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional distant siren.
He started small.
A sock “accidentally” left under the couch so you’d have to kneel and dig for it, ass high, the soft cotton of your sleep shorts stretching tight across the full curves of your cheeks. A book placed deliberately on the highest shelf in the living room so you’d have to rise onto your toes, back arched, shirt riding up to expose a strip of soft stomach. He’d stand in the doorway of the kitchen with a glass of water he didn’t need, watching the way your ass rounded when you bent to unload the dishwasher. Watching the soft bounce of your tits when you reached for a mug on the top shelf. Watching the way the morning light caught the fine hairs along the nape of your neck when you tilted your head to the side. Every small movement felt like it was designed to short-circuit the careful wiring of his brain.
It got worse.
He began timing his own mornings around yours. Waking earlier so he could already be in the kitchen when you shuffled out, hair messy, eyes half-lidded, voice still thick with sleep as you murmured a quiet good morning. He’d lean against the counter in nothing but black sweatpants low on his hips, the sharp cut of his V-line on full display, and pretend he didn’t notice the way your gaze sometimes lingered a second too long to be considered polite. He’d offer you coffee the way he made it for himself—strong, black, no sugar—and watch your throat work as you took the first sip. Sometimes you’d make a soft little sound of appreciation, and the sound would sink straight into his gut like a hook.
The nights were harder.
He would lie in bed and listen to the quiet sounds of you moving around the apartment. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. The whisper of fabric as you changed. Once, through the thin wall that separated your rooms, he heard the faint creak of your mattress and the smallest, muffled noise—half sigh, half something else he refused to think about too deeply—and his cock had gone so hard so fast it almost hurt. He had pressed the heel of his palm against himself through the sheets and breathed through it like a man enduring pain, refusing to touch, refusing to give in, until the ache finally dulled into something sharper and meaner.
He started leaving the bathroom door unlocked when he showered.
Not fully open. Just enough that if you happened to walk past and glance in, you’d catch the fogged glass and the vague, dark outline of his body under the spray. He timed it carefully. Waited until he heard you in the hallway. Then he’d turn just so, water running down the lean planes of his back, the curve of his ass, the heavy hang of his cock between his thighs. He never looked over his shoulder. Never acknowledged the possibility that you might be watching. But the thought of it—your eyes on him, that soft mouth parted in surprise—made his blood run thick and hot.
One morning you came into the kitchen wearing one of those thin, oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh and nothing underneath that he could see. The hem shifted with every step. When you bent to open the fridge, the fabric rode up just enough to show the soft underside of one cheek. Itachi’s fingers tightened around his mug until the ceramic creaked. He set it down carefully, forced his voice into something neutral, and asked if you wanted eggs. You said yes, soft and grateful, and the simple domesticity of it—him cooking while you sat on the counter swinging your legs, thighs pressing together—felt like the most dangerous thing he had ever done.
He started inventing reasons to be close.
Passing behind you in the narrow hallway, body angled just enough that the front of his sweatpants brushed the curve of your ass for half a second too long. Reaching past you for something in the cabinet, chest nearly against your back, the heat of him soaking through the thin fabric of your shirt. You’d go still every time. Not pulling away. Not leaning in. Just… still. And the quiet tension of it made his pulse hammer in his throat.
One evening you fell asleep on the couch with a book open on your chest. Itachi stood in the doorway for a long time, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the way the soft fabric of your tank top clung to the shape of your breasts, the relaxed parting of your thighs. He told himself he was only going to drape a blanket over you. Instead he sat on the edge of the coffee table and looked. Catalogued the faint flush on your cheeks, the way your lips parted on every exhale, the soft dark of your nipples just visible through the thin cotton. His hand flexed against his thigh. He imagined sliding it up between your knees, pushing them gently apart, seeing if you were already wet from whatever dream you were having. Imagined the quiet, startled sound you’d make if you woke to find him touching you. Imagined pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh and breathing you in.
He stood up before he did something irreversible. Covered you with the blanket. Went to his room and took himself in hand with brutal, silent strokes, coming hard into a tissue with your name locked behind his teeth.
The next day he left another “accident.”
His black t-shirt, still warm from his body, draped over the back of the couch where you’d have to pick it up to sit down. When you did, you held it for a second longer than necessary, fingers curling into the fabric. He watched from the kitchen, pulse thick in his throat, and wondered if you could still smell him on it.
That night he didn’t lock his door either.
He lay in bed with the sheets pushed down to his hips, one arm behind his head, listening to the quiet sounds of the apartment settling. Listening for the soft creak of your footsteps. Imagining what it would feel like if you pushed the door open just a little. If you stood there in the dark and looked at him the way he looked at you. If you crossed the room, climbed onto the bed, and let him pull you down until that soft mouth was against his and those full, pretty thighs were straddling his hips.
He didn’t sleep much; he hadn’t since the day you moved in.
You never called him out on any of it.
That was the most dangerous part.
Because every time you smiled at him—soft, unguarded, trusting—every time you brushed past him in the narrow hallway and the scent of your shampoo hit him like a drug, every time you sat on the couch with your legs tucked under you and your thigh pressed against his by accident and didn’t move away, the iron doors in his mind groaned under the pressure.
He wanted to ruin that politeness.
He wanted to see what you’d look like with those soft little manners stripped away. Wanted to hear that quiet voice break on a moan. Wanted to watch those careful hands fist in his sheets instead of rinsing dishes. Wanted to know what sounds you’d make if he pinned you against the kitchen counter one morning and finally put his mouth where he’d been staring for weeks.
Control had always been his armor.
But you were undoing the buckles one by one, without even trying.
He slowly got bolder.
Your bedroom door didn’t always latch properly. Sometimes it sat cracked an inch or two after you came out of the shower. Itachi learned the exact creak of the floorboard three steps from your door. He learned the precise rhythm of your evenings—the soft hiss of the shower turning off, the muted thud of bare feet on tile, the quiet drag of a towel across skin. He learned how long you took to towel off, how you hummed under your breath while you rubbed lotion into your legs, the slow upward stroke of your hands from ankle to thigh, the way you paused at the softest parts of yourself as if savoring the glide of the cream. He learned how you stood in front of the mirror and lifted your arms to twist your damp hair up into a messy bun, the motion making your tits lift and settle, nipples still faintly tight from the cool air. He’d stand there in the shadowed hallway, cock already half-hard in his sweatpants, and watch the soft sway of your body until the guilt finally clawed its way up his throat and forced him back to his own room.
Some nights he didn’t make it that far.
Some nights he stayed until you turned off the light and climbed into bed, until the soft rustle of sheets told him you were settling in. He’d remain frozen in the dark, breathing shallow, listening to the quiet shift of your body as you found a comfortable position. Once he heard the faint, unmistakable sound of you sighing—low, content, almost sleepy—and his cock jerked so hard against the front of his pants that he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stay silent. Only then would he retreat, hand already shoved down the front of his pants, stroking himself with frantic, silent urgency while he replayed every glimpse he’d stolen. The curve of your ass as you bent to pick up a dropped towel. The soft bounce of your tits when you reached for the lotion on the high shelf. The way the dim hallway light caught the wet sheen of water still clinging to the backs of your thighs.
The panty theft started three weeks ago.
You’d left a small pile of laundry in the hamper by the bathroom door—nothing dramatic, just the usual mix of soft cotton and delicate lace. One pair had been worn the day before. He could tell by the way the fabric still held the faint shape of you, by the warmer, deeper scent that rose when he lifted them carefully between two fingers. He’d stood there for a long minute, pulse loud in his ears, before he folded them with almost reverent care and carried them to his room like a man committing a quiet, irreversible crime.
That night he locked his door, sat on the edge of his bed, and pressed the crotch of your panties to his face while he stroked himself slow and filthy. The scent of you—skin and faint detergent and the deeper, warmer smell of your cunt—made him come harder than he had in years. Thick ropes of cum painted the soft fabric. He wiped himself clean with it, folded the ruined pair carefully, and slipped them back into the hamper the next morning before you woke, heart hammering the entire time.
He did it again two days later. Then again. Sometimes one pair. Sometimes two. Sometimes he wrapped the soft material around his cock and fucked into the tight heat of it while he imagined it was your mouth, your cunt, the press of your soft thighs. He whispered your name against the fabric like a prayer he had no right to speak. He came so hard his vision whited out. He started saving a particular pair—soft pale pink cotton, slightly stretched at the waistband—because the scent of you clung to it longer. He kept it folded in the back of his top drawer and used it almost every night, burying his face in it while he jerked off with long, desperate strokes, imagining your body under his, your voice broken and needy, your cunt fluttering around him as you came.
He was careful. He was quiet. He was certain he would never be caught.
But the more he took, the more he needed.
He began timing his thefts with precision. Waiting until you were in the shower, the water running loud enough to cover any soft sound of the hamper lid lifting. He’d select the pair that looked most recently worn—sometimes the delicate black lace that barely covered anything, sometimes the soft gray cotton that still held the faint imprint of your body—and carry them back to his room with careful, almost ceremonial focus. On nights when the scent was especially strong, he’d press the fabric to his nose and inhale until his head spun, until the smell of you filled his lungs and settled low in his gut like a living thing. He’d stroke himself slowly at first, dragging the soft material along the length of his cock, watching the way the fabric darkened where it touched the leaking head. Then faster. Harder. Until he was fucking into the tight circle of your panties with short, brutal thrusts, hips stuttering, breath breaking, coming with a muffled groan against the fabric as if he could somehow bury the sound of your name inside it.
Sometimes he didn’t come right away.
Sometimes he edged himself for nearly an hour, the pink pair pressed to his mouth, the black lace wrapped around the base of his cock, the gray cotton clenched in his free hand. He’d imagine different things each time. Your soft mouth stretched around him while you looked up with those quiet, polite eyes. Your thighs parted on his bed, the same sheets he had folded so carefully the day you moved in, your cunt wet and open and waiting. The way you’d sound if he pushed two fingers into you while you were still asleep and drowsy, how your body might tighten around the intrusion before you even fully woke. The thought of it made him ache. Made him stroke harder. Made him come so violently that his thighs shook and his vision blurred at the edges.
He always cleaned up meticulously afterward.
Always returned what he could. Always made sure the hamper looked undisturbed. But the pink pair stayed in his drawer. He told himself it was only temporary. That he would put it back eventually. That this was just a phase, a temporary lapse in the rigid self-control that had defined him for so long.
He was lying to himself.
One night his routine fractured.
You’d gone out with friends. Texted him a polite, thoughtful message around ten—Don’t wait up, I’ll be quiet when I get back. He’d stared at the screen longer than he should have, thumb hovering over the keyboard before he finally typed a simple Be safe and set the phone face-down on the nightstand. The apartment felt too quiet without the soft sounds of you moving around. Too empty. The absence of your footsteps, the lack of that quiet hum you made when you were alone, the missing rustle of fabric as you moved from room to room—it all pressed in on him like a physical weight. He lasted twenty-three minutes before he was in the bathroom, lifting the lid of the hamper with the same careful reverence he always used.
Tonight’s prize was black lace. Delicate. Still faintly warm from your body. The crotch was slightly darker, a little damp, and the scent that rose from it was stronger than usual—richer, muskier, the unmistakable smell of you after a long day. His cock twitched hard against the inside of his thigh. He carried them back to his room like contraband, locked the door, and stripped out of his clothes with mechanical efficiency. Black sweatpants dropped to the floor. Shirt discarded without care. The cool air of the room kissed bare skin that already felt overheated.
He didn’t bother with the bed this time.
He stood in the middle of the room, one hand braced against the wall, the other wrapping the lace around the thick length of his cock. The fabric was soft, slightly cool at first, then warming quickly as he began to stroke. Slow. Deliberate. The delicate material stretched around him, the thin band of lace at the edges biting faintly into the sensitive skin of his shaft. He brought the crotch of the panties to his face and inhaled deeply, eyes half-lidded, a low sound catching in his throat. The scent of you flooded his lungs—skin and sweat and the deeper, intimate musk of your cunt after hours of movement, of sitting, of existing in the world without him. His hips jerked forward once, twice, fucking into the tight tunnel of lace and his own fist.
In his mind you were on your knees.
In his mind you were looking up at him with that soft, sweet mouth already open, waiting. In his mind he was the one who’d put that faint flush on your cheeks, the one who’d made the lace between your thighs this damp. He imagined the wet heat of your cunt, the way it would clench around him if he pushed inside, the broken little sounds you’d make when he bottomed out. He imagined the stretch of you around the thickest part of him, the way your soft thighs would tremble against his hips, the way your hands might curl into the sheets or against his back. He imagined you trying to stay quiet—always so careful, always so considerate—and failing, voice catching on his name as he fucked you through the mattress. He imagined the polite, soft-spoken version of you unraveling completely, reduced to breathless little gasps and the wet, filthy sound of his cock driving into you over and over.
His strokes grew faster. Rougher. The lace was already slick with pre-come, the delicate material stretched and ruined around the dark, flushed head of his cock. Every pass of his fist dragged the soft, damp fabric along the most sensitive places, the scent of you thick in every breath he took. He pressed the fabric harder against his cock and came with a sharp, bitten-off groan. Thick, heavy pulses painted the inside of the lace, dripping down over his knuckles in slow, sticky ropes. His thighs trembled. For a long moment he just stood there, forehead against the wall, chest heaving, the ruined panties still wrapped around his spent cock. The scent of sex and you filled the small space between his face and the wall. His free hand flexed against the plaster. He could still feel the phantom heat of your imagined body around him.
He cleaned them the way he always did—careful, almost tender—rinsing the worst of it under cool water in the bathroom sink, blotting the fabric dry with a clean towel, then folding them with the same precise care he used for everything else. He returned them to the hamper before you came home, arranging the other clothes just so, making sure nothing looked disturbed. The apartment still smelled faintly of sex when your key turned in the lock an hour later. He was already in bed, lights off, breathing deliberately even, listening to the soft sounds of you moving through the dark. The quiet click of the front door. The soft pad of your footsteps. The faint rustle of you setting your bag down. The careful way you moved, trying not to wake him.
You never noticed.
Or if you did, you never said a word.
That was the problem.
Because the more he got away with it, the more the hunger sharpened. The more he started testing the edges of what he could take. A longer look through the cracked door—standing there until his cock was fully hard and aching, until the guilt was a distant, useless thing compared to the sight of you towel-drying your hair, soft and bare and completely unaware. A slower, filthier stroke while he watched you sleep, the door open just enough for him to see the shape of you under the sheets, the rise and fall of your breathing, the way one of your legs had kicked free of the blanket so that the soft curve of your thigh was visible in the low light. A night when he almost—almost—walked into your room instead of back to his own. Hand on the doorframe. Pulse loud in his ears. The soft sound of your breathing pulling him forward like a hook in his chest.
He had stood there for nearly a full minute that night, cock hard and leaking against the front of his sweatpants, imagining what it would feel like to cross the remaining distance. To ease the sheets down. To settle between your thighs and press his mouth to the soft, sleep-warm skin of your inner thigh. To wake you with his tongue instead of his voice. The thought alone had nearly undone him. He had retreated only when the floorboard creaked under his weight and the risk of waking you became too real. Back in his own room he had come so hard into the pink pair that his vision grayed at the edges, your name a broken sound against the fabric.
The control he had once prized so highly was gone.
What remained was something quieter and far more dangerous—an obsession that no longer asked permission, that no longer waited for the perfect moment. Only for the next opportunity.
—-----------------------------------------------
Finally, the floorboard betrayed him.
It was a Thursday night. You’d come home late from work, quiet as always, keys soft in the lock, the soft thud of your bag being set down by the door. You’d gone straight to your room. The shower had run for twelve minutes. The soft sounds of lotion being rubbed into skin had followed. The low hum of the jazz playlist you favored leaked faintly through the cracked door. Itachi had waited twenty full minutes—long enough for the steam to clear, long enough for you to be comfortable and unguarded—before he moved.
Three careful steps. The fourth one sang out like a gunshot in the silence.
The creak was loud enough that your head snapped up. Your eyes met his through the two-inch gap in the door.
You were standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a towel wrapped low around your hips. Your tits were bare. Soft. Full. Nipples still faintly pink from the heat of the shower, the tips slightly tightened in the cooler air of the bedroom. One hand was mid-motion, rubbing lotion into the soft underside of your left breast. The other held the towel closed at your hip. A single drop of water still clung to the curve of your collarbone, trembling with every shallow breath you took.
For a long, terrible second neither of you moved.
Itachi expected the scream. The slap. The sharp, furious demand that he get the fuck out and never look at you again. He expected you to call Sasuke. He expected the end of everything—his carefully constructed life, his relationship with his brother, the fragile peace he had built around the simple fact of having you under his roof. His pulse slammed against his throat. His hands stayed frozen at his sides. The front of his sweatpants was already beginning to tent from the sheer, catastrophic sight of you.
Instead, your lips parted. A slow flush climbed your throat and spread across your cheeks, blooming pink under the soft light of the bedside lamp. And then—quiet, almost curious—you said:
“…How long have you been watching?”
His mouth was dry. The words scraped out of him like something torn. “Long enough.”
You didn’t cover yourself. You didn’t reach for a shirt or clutch the towel higher. You simply tilted your head, studying him the way someone might study a particularly interesting puzzle, eyes dark and steady, and then you let the towel drop.
It hit the floor with a soft, final sound.
You were naked. Completely. Soft stomach, the gentle curve of your hips, the neat triangle of hair between your legs already looking damp. Your thighs pressed together for half a second before you deliberately shifted your weight, opening them just enough that he could see the soft, flushed folds of your cunt. The lotion on your skin made you gleam faintly in the low light. A second drop of water slid down the slope of one breast and caught on the tip of your nipple before falling. You made no move to hide any of it.
“I’ve known,” you said, voice low and steady. “About the panties. About the way you watch me bend over. About the door.” A small, wicked smile curved your mouth. “I leave it cracked on purpose sometimes. I leave the dirty ones on top of the hamper on purpose. I’ve been waiting to see how far you’d go.”
Itachi’s cock throbbed so hard it hurt. The front of his sweatpants was already tented obscenely, the thick outline of him unmistakable even in the dim hallway light. His hands flexed once at his sides, then stilled again. The careful control he had clung to for weeks was gone—shattered the moment your eyes met his through that narrow gap.
“You’re Sasuke’s best friend,” he said, the words rough, almost desperate. “You’re twenty-two. I’m—”
“Thirty-two. I know.” You took one step closer to the door, still fully bare, still watching him with that same calm, hungry curiosity. The movement made your tits sway softly. The scent of your lotion—something light and clean and faintly sweet—reached him across the short distance. “I’m not an idiot, Itachi. I’ve been waiting for you to get caught.”
He pushed the door open the rest of the way.
You didn’t flinch.
The soft light from the bedside lamp spilled over him as he stepped into the room, bare feet silent on the floorboards that had betrayed him only moments before. His gaze dragged over you with open, hungry intensity—your flushed cheeks, the soft rise and fall of your bare chest, the way your nipples had tightened further under his stare, the gleam of lotion on your skin, the deliberate parting of your thighs that showed him everything. His cock strained against the fabric of his sweatpants, the head already damp enough to leave a dark spot near the waistband.
“You knew,” he said, voice low and rough, almost disbelieving. “The entire time.”
“Most of it.” You took another small step closer, close enough now that he could feel the faint heat of your body. “I wasn’t sure at first. Then I noticed the way you looked at me in the mornings. The way you’d stand in the kitchen doorway for no reason. The way certain pairs of my underwear would smell like… something else when I went to wash them.” Your eyes dropped briefly to the obvious bulge in his pants, then lifted again. “I started leaving the door open on purpose after that. Started putting the ones I’d worn that day right on top. I wanted to see if you’d keep going.”
His hand rose without conscious thought. Fingers brushed the side of your neck, tracing the path of that single drop of water that had clung to your collarbone. Your skin was still warm from the shower, soft under the calluses of his fingertips. You leaned into the touch just slightly—barely a shift of weight—but it was enough to make his breath catch.
“And now that I’ve been caught?” he asked, the question quiet, almost dangerous.
Your smile deepened, wicked and soft at the same time. You reached down, took his wrist, and guided his hand lower—over the slope of your breast, the soft weight of it filling his palm, the tightened peak of your nipple pressing against the center of his hand. Your voice dropped even further.
“Now you don’t have to steal them anymore.”
Itachi’s control snapped with an almost audible sound in his own head.
His other hand came up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you forward the last remaining inches until your bare body was flush against the front of his still-clothed one. The thick, hard line of his cock pressed against your soft stomach through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He could feel the heat of you, the way your tits crushed softly against his chest, the way your thighs brushed his. Your breath hitched—quiet, but unmistakable—and the sound of it went straight to the base of his spine.
“You’re sure,” he said, the words strained, giving you one last chance to stop this even as his thumb stroked over your nipple and his hips pressed forward against you. “Once I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
You rose onto your toes, soft mouth brushing the edge of his jaw, and whispered against his skin:
“Then don’t.”
You reached for him—fingers curling into the front of his soft black shirt, pulling him down until his mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was messy. Desperate. All teeth and tongue and the low, broken sound he made when you nipped his bottom lip hard enough to sting. Your bare tits pressed against his chest. The soft give of them made his head spin. The warmth of your skin soaked through the thin fabric of his shirt, the faint slick of lotion still on your body mixing with the heat of him. His hands found your waist, then your ass, then the soft backs of your thighs as he lifted you like you weighed nothing at all. The strength in his arms was effortless, controlled even now, but the way his fingers dug into the plush flesh of your thighs betrayed how close he was to losing the last of that control.
You wrapped your legs around him without being asked, ankles locking at the small of his back. The heat of your cunt pressed against the hard line of his cock through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He could feel how wet you already were—the damp warmth of you soaking through the soft cotton, the way your folds parted slightly against the thick ridge of him with every small shift of his hold. A low, almost pained sound vibrated in his chest. He carried you the three steps to your bed and dropped you onto the mattress hard enough that you bounced, the sheets cool against your overheated skin.
Before you could sit up he was already on you—mouth open against your throat, sucking a dark, possessive mark just above your collarbone while one hand shoved between your legs. His fingers slid through the slick heat of your cunt and he groaned like he’d been punched in the gut. The wetness coated his fingers immediately, thick and warm, the scent of you rising between your bodies sharp and intimate.
“Fuck. You’re soaked.”
“I’ve been wet since I heard the floorboard,” you breathed, hips already rolling up against his hand. “Since I realized you were finally going to stop pretending to be polite.”
He pushed two fingers into you without warning. Thick. Deep. The stretch made your back arch and a sharp little sound escape your throat. Your walls clenched around the sudden intrusion, soft and hot and greedy. He curled them immediately, searching with the precision of a man who had spent weeks imagining exactly how you would feel, mapping the inside of you with focused, ruthless care. When he found the spot that made your thighs shake he stayed there—rubbing firm, relentless circles while his mouth moved down to your tit. He sucked your nipple into his mouth hard enough to make you cry out, tongue flicking over the peaked tip, teeth grazing just enough to sting in the best way. The dual sensation—hot mouth and thick fingers—sent sparks racing down your spine. His other hand pinned your wrist above your head, holding you open and vulnerable while he worked you with devastating focus. The strength in that single grip was absolute; you could feel the restrained power in every tendon of his forearm.
You were already close. Weeks of tension and stolen glances and the knowledge that he’d been getting off to your used panties had wound you so tight that the first real touch of his hands threatened to snap you in half. Every pull of his mouth sent another pulse of wetness between your legs, coating his knuckles, dripping down onto the sheets.
He added a third finger without slowing, stretching you wider, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room. The burn of the stretch melted almost instantly into pure, overwhelming pleasure. His thumb found your clit and pressed down in tight, mean circles that made your legs jerk. Every time you tried to close your thighs he forced them back open with his knee, keeping you spread and exposed for him. The cool air of the room kissed the slick folds of your cunt every time his fingers withdrew, only for the heat of his hand to return a second later, filling you again.
“Look at you,” he muttered against your skin, voice rough and dark. “All that quiet politeness and you’re dripping down my wrist already. Does this feel good sweetheart?”
“Yes—” The word broke on a moan as he curled his fingers harder. “Fuck–yes.”
A low, almost feral sound left him. He bit down on the soft underside of your breast hard enough to leave another mark, then soothed it with his tongue before moving to the other nipple, giving it the same ruthless attention. His fingers never stopped. They fucked into you in a steady, filthy rhythm, curling and scissoring and pressing against that perfect spot until your hips were rolling helplessly to meet every thrust. The wet, rhythmic sound of it filled the room—obscene and unmistakable. Your free hand clenched harder in his hair. Your pinned wrist flexed uselessly against his grip. The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, every stroke of his fingers and every hard suck of his mouth winding you higher.
“Don’t you dare come yet, pretty girl,” he muttered against your skin, voice dark and rough. “Not until I’ve tasted you. Not until I’ve had my mouth on this pretty cunt I’ve been dreaming about for weeks.”
He pulled his fingers free with a wet sound that made your hips jerk in protest. For a second he simply looked at them—slick and shining in the low light—before bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate pull. His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time. The low, appreciative sound he made as he tasted you went straight through you like a current.
Then he was moving lower.
His hands gripped the soft insides of your thighs and pushed them wider, spreading you open completely. He settled between your legs with the same focused intensity he brought to everything, long black hair falling forward to brush against your hips. For a long moment he simply looked—eyes dark, hungry, cataloguing every detail of the flushed, glistening folds of your cunt, the way your clit was already swollen and peeking out from its hood, the slow drip of wetness sliding down toward the sheets.
“Beautiful,” he said, the word almost reverent, almost broken. Then he lowered his mouth and dragged the flat of his tongue through you in one long, filthy stroke from entrance to clit.
Your back arched hard off the mattress. A sharp, helpless cry tore from your throat. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open and still as he did it again—slower this time, savoring, the tip of his tongue teasing at your entrance before sliding up to circle your clit with devastating precision. He groaned against you, the vibration traveling straight through your core, and the sound of it was pure, unrestrained hunger.
He licked into you like a man starving. Like every stolen pair of panties and every secret, frantic stroke of his own hand had only been a pale imitation of this. His tongue fucked into your entrance in short, deep thrusts before returning to your clit, sucking the swollen bud between his lips and flicking it with the tip of his tongue until your thighs trembled violently in his grip. One of his hands left your thigh only long enough to push two fingers back inside you, curling them against that same perfect spot while his mouth worked your clit with ruthless focus.
“Itachi—” Your voice broke on his name, hips rolling up against his face despite the firm hold of his hands. “Fuck—please—”
He hummed against you in answer, the sound dark and approving, and redoubled his efforts. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the room. Your free hand flew down to tangle in his hair again, holding him against you as the tension in your belly wound impossibly tighter. Every drag of his tongue, every curl of his fingers, every hard suck on your clit pushed you closer to the edge he had forbidden you to cross.
He lifted his mouth just enough to speak, lips shiny and voice wrecked.
“Not yet love; hold it for me. You can do that for me, can’t you?”
He licked your cunt with devastating patience—flat tongue from entrance to clit, then pointed and precise as he circled the swollen bud until your hips were twitching and your thighs were trembling on either side of his head. He sucked. He hummed low in his throat so the vibration traveled straight through you, the low sound rolling against your most sensitive places like a second pulse. He pushed his tongue inside you and fucked you with it while two fingers slid back in and curled against that perfect spot, the dual sensation of soft, wet muscle and thick, insistent fingers making your vision blur at the edges. The wet, filthy sounds of him eating you filled the room—obscene, rhythmic, wet. The slick noise of his mouth and the soft, wet drag of his fingers against your walls mixed with the quiet, broken sounds spilling from your own throat. You fisted the sheets and tried not to scream. Your heels dug into the mattress. Your back arched so hard it almost hurt, the stretch of your spine pulling a sharp little cry from you as another wave of pleasure rolled through your core.
When you came it was with his name broken on your tongue and your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back. The orgasm tore through you in waves, cunt pulsing around his tongue and fingers, thighs shaking violently. Your free hand flew down to grip his hair hard enough that it must have stung, holding him against you as your body seized and fluttered and spilled more slick against his mouth. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, slower, softer, lapping up every drop of slick that spilled from you until the aftershocks faded and you were trembling and oversensitive, trying to squirm away from the intensity. Every gentle pass of his tongue over your swollen clit made your hips jerk; every soft suck made a fresh whimper catch in your throat. He stayed there until the last tremor left you, until your thighs finally loosened their desperate grip and your body sank back into the mattress, boneless and wrecked.
Only then did he sit up, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and look at you like he’d just committed every sin he’d ever been warned against. His lips were shiny. His chin was wet. His eyes were almost black with want, the careful, restrained man who had once prided himself on control nowhere to be found.
“I want to fuck you,” he said, voice completely wrecked. “I need to be inside you, love, please.”
“Then do it,” you whispered. “Please. I’ve been waiting.”
He stood long enough to shove his sweatpants and boxers down in one rough motion. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking a steady bead of precum that dripped onto the sheets between your thighs. You stared. He was bigger than you’d imagined when you’d touched yourself to the thought of him, longer and thicker, the vein along the underside standing out in sharp relief. The head was swollen and dark, shiny with precum, the shaft heavy and flushed. He stroked himself once, slow, spreading the precum down the shaft until it gleamed, the motion deliberate and almost reverent, as if he were showing you exactly what he was about to put inside you. Then he climbed back over you, settling between your spread thighs, the heat of his bare skin finally against yours.
The first press of him against your entrance made both of you go still.
The blunt, slick head of his cock nudged against your soaked folds, parting them easily. He didn’t push in yet. He dragged himself up and down through the mess he’d already made of you—coating the thick length in your slick, rubbing the head over your oversensitive clit until your hips twitched and a broken little whimper escaped your throat. Every slow drag of him through your folds sent fresh sparks of sensation through your still-sensitive body. The heat of him was intense, the weight of his cock heavy and insistent as he painted himself in your wetness.
“Look at me sweetheart,” he ordered, voice low and rough.
You did. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and intense, the last of that careful control finally gone. One of his hands braced beside your head. The other reached down, gripping the base of his cock to hold himself steady as he began to press inside.
He pushed in inch by inch, watching your face the entire time, eyes locked on yours. The stretch burned in the best way—thick and insistent, forcing your body to open for him. You could feel every ridge, every subtle pulse of him as he sank deeper. Your walls fluttered around the intrusion, soft and hot and already clenching as if trying to pull him further in. He paused halfway, breathing hard through his nose, giving you a moment to adjust before he continued. The burn melted into a deep, overwhelming fullness as he kept going, slow and relentless, until the last inch of him slid home.
You were wet enough that he slid deep on a single long thrust, bottoming out with a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your throat. For a moment he just stayed there—buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, breathing like he’d run miles. You could feel every pulse of his cock inside you, every throb of his heartbeat, the way the thick base of him stretched you just a little more with every subtle shift of his hips. Your legs trembled around his waist. Your hands found his back, nails digging lightly into the lean muscle there as your body adjusted to the sheer size of him.
“You feel,” he started, then cut himself off with a harsh, almost broken laugh. “You feel like every filthy thing I’ve ever wanted. Fuck, you’re perfect.”
He stayed still for another long breath, as if memorizing the exact way your cunt gripped him, the way your walls fluttered and clenched around the thick length of him. Then he drew back—slow, deliberate, the drag of his cock against your sensitive walls making your breath hitch—and pushed back in with a single, deep thrust that forced a sharp, helpless sound from your throat.
The rhythm he set was devastating.
Not frantic. Not rushed. Deep. Controlled. Every stroke deliberate and thorough, as if he were trying to map the inside of you with his cock the same way he had mapped it with his fingers and tongue. The wet, rhythmic sound of him fucking into you filled the quiet room—skin against skin, the soft, filthy noise of your slick coating him with every thrust. His hips rolled with precise, powerful movements, the thick head of his cock dragging over that perfect spot inside you on every stroke until your toes curled and your nails scraped down his back.
“Itachi—” Your voice broke on his name again, hips lifting to meet every deep thrust. “Harder—please—”
A dark, almost feral sound left him. His hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher, opening you further so he could sink even deeper. The new angle made stars burst behind your eyes. He fucked into you harder, the controlled precision giving way to something hungrier, something that matched the weeks of stolen glances and ruined panties and desperate, silent orgasms. His mouth found yours again—messy, open, all tongue and teeth and the low, broken sounds he made every time your cunt clenched around him.
“You have no idea,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough and wrecked, “how many times I imagined this. How many times I came with your panties against my face thinking about burying myself inside you just like this. You’re mine now sweet girl. This pretty cunt is mine. These soft tits—” His hand left your thigh long enough to squeeze one, thumb dragging roughly over the still-sensitive nipple. “—mine. Every soft little sound you make is mine.”
He punctuated each claim with a deeper, harder thrust, driving into you until the headboard tapped softly against the wall and your body rocked beneath him with every movement. The stretch of him, the heat of him, the relentless, focused way he fucked you pushed you higher again, the second orgasm already building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every deep stroke.
You came again with him buried deep, cunt clenching so tight around him that he swore and had to still for a second, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard through the rippling heat of your orgasm. The rhythmic flutter of your walls around the thick length of him was almost enough to pull him over the edge with you. He gritted his teeth, hips locked flush against yours, feeling every pulse, every desperate squeeze of your body trying to milk him. Only when the worst of the aftershocks faded did he move again.
He didn’t give you time to recover. The second your trembling eased he flipped you onto your stomach with effortless strength, one arm under your waist, the other gripping your hip. The world tilted; the sheets rushed up to meet your cheek. He yanked your hips up until you were on your knees with your face pressed into the pillow, ass high, back arched, completely open for him. Then he drove back into you from behind in one smooth, brutal thrust.
The new angle was devastating.
He hit that perfect spot on every single stroke, the thick head of his cock dragging against it with ruthless precision. The stretch felt deeper like this, heavier, the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress with every powerful roll of his hips. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back just enough that your back arched deeply, the other reached around to rub tight, merciless circles over your clit. The dual sensation—deep, punishing thrusts and those mean little circles on your already oversensitive clit—ripped high, broken sounds from your throat that you barely recognized as your own. Shameless. Almost continuous. Wet and desperate.
He fucked you harder for it.
The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, rhythmic and filthy. The bed creaked in protest under the force of his hips. Every thrust drove you forward a little on the mattress; every pull of his hand in your hair kept you arched and open. You could feel the soft give of your own ass against his hips, the way the thick base of him stretched you on every inward stroke, the way your slick coated his cock and made every movement louder, wetter, more obscene.
“That’s it,” he groaned against the back of your neck, voice dark and wrecked. “Take it. Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be full of me?”
You came a third time with a broken sob, vision whiting out at the edges, cunt fluttering and pulsing around him so hard it almost forced him out. The orgasm crashed through you in violent waves, your thighs shaking, your fingers clawing at the sheets, your voice cracking on his name. He held you through it, hips grinding in deep, filthy circles, fingers still working your oversensitive clit until you were shaking and begging him to stop and keep going in the same breath. The overstimulation was almost too much—every circle of his fingers sent sharp, electric sparks through your core; every grind of his cock against that perfect spot made fresh tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
When he came it was with a low, broken groan against the back of your neck and his cock pulsing deep inside you, flooding you with thick heat. The hot flood of him made you shiver. You could feel every spurt, every heavy pulse as he emptied himself inside you, the warmth of it spreading, filling you until there was nowhere left for it to go. He kept moving through it—shallow, filthy little thrusts that pushed his cum deeper, that forced it to leak out around his cock and drip down your thighs in thick, warm trails—until he finally stilled, buried to the root, breathing hard against your skin.
For a long minute the only sound was the two of you breathing.
He pulled out slowly. The thick length of him dragged against your sensitive walls, and the moment the head of his cock slipped free you felt the warm trickle of him immediately—thick and messy, sliding down your inner thighs in slow, sticky rivulets. He watched it with dark, possessive eyes, then reached down and pushed two fingers back into you, scooping some of the mess and spreading it over your clit like he couldn’t stand to waste a single drop. He rubbed it in slow circles until you were twitching again, overstimulated and aching, your hips giving helpless little jolts against his hand.
“We’re not done,” he said quietly, voice still rough. “Not even close.”
He kept his fingers inside you, curling them lazily, stirring the thick mixture of his cum and your slick while you trembled on your knees. The wet sound of it was obscene—soft, filthy squelches that filled the quiet room. He leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the small of your back, then higher, trailing his tongue along the length of your spine until his mouth was at the nape of your neck. His breath was still uneven. His cock, still half-hard, brushed against the back of your thigh.
“I’ve thought about this exact view every time you walked to the kitchen barefoot,” he murmured against your skin. “I used to stand in the doorway with a glass of water I didn’t need just so I could watch you. Just so I could imagine bending you over the counter and fucking you until you couldn’t stand.”
His fingers scissored gently inside you, stretching, collecting more of the mess, then spreading it higher—over the tight furl of your ass, rubbing slow, deliberate circles there until your breath hitched. The slick heat of his cum made the touch filthy and intimate. He pressed just the pad of his fingertip against the tight ring of muscle, not pushing in, only circling, teasing, letting you feel the threat of it.
“I’m going to take you again,” he continued, voice low and calm in the way that only made it filthier. “But first I’m going to clean up some of this mess with my mouth. And then I’m going to put more in. Until it’s dripping out of you every time you move. Until you can’t sit down without feeling me.”
He pulled his fingers free and used both hands to spread you open, exposing the shiny, well-fucked state of your cunt. A thick bead of his cum welled up and began to slide down. He leaned in and caught it with his tongue before it could fall, licking a long, filthy stripe through your folds, gathering everything—his release, your slick, the taste of both of you mixed together. He groaned against you like it was the best thing he’d ever had in his mouth.
He didn’t stop at a single lick.
He settled more firmly behind you, hands gripping the soft cheeks of your ass and spreading you wider, and began to eat you out with the same devastating focus he had shown earlier—only filthier now, messier, the wet sounds of his mouth mixed with the soft, helpless noises you couldn’t stop making. He licked deep, tongue pushing into you to scoop out more of his own cum, then dragging it up over your clit in slow, thorough strokes. He sucked gently at your entrance, then higher, then back down again, cleaning every trace of the mess he had left inside you only to replace it with the wet heat of his mouth. Every so often he would pause to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tight furl of your ass, tongue flicking once, twice, before returning to your cunt like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted more.
Your thighs trembled. Your fingers twisted in the sheets. The overstimulation had faded into a deep, aching need again, your body already responding to the slow, filthy worship of his mouth despite how thoroughly he had already used you.
“Itachi—” His name came out broken, almost a sob.
“I know,” he murmured against your cunt, the vibration making your hips jerk. “One more pretty girl. Give me one more like this and then I’ll fuck it back into you, I promise.”
He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked hard while two fingers slid back inside, curling immediately against that swollen spot. The dual sensation was too much—hot, wet suction and the thick, precise press of his fingers against the place that made your vision spark. You came with a high, shattered cry, face pressed into the pillow, thighs trembling violently around his head. Your body locked up, cunt pulsing hard around his fingers, slick spilling against his mouth as the orgasm rolled through you in long, shaking waves. He licked you through every pulse, slower and softer this time, tongue gentle against your oversensitive clit, fingers stilling inside you but staying buried until the aftershocks finally faded and you were a trembling, dripping mess on the mattress.
Only then did he sit up.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he looked at the state of you—flushed, shaking, thighs shiny, the soft curve of your ass still lifted slightly as if your body hadn’t quite remembered how to uncurl. Then he sat against the headboard, long legs stretched out, and pulled you into his lap with careful hands. He guided you down onto his half-hard cock until you were seated fully and he was thickening inside you again, the residual slick and cum making the slide filthy and easy. The stretch was still there, a deep, familiar ache that made your breath catch as he filled you once more.
You rode him slowly at first—rolling your hips in deep, deliberate circles, watching his face, letting him suck dark marks into your tits while you clenched around him just to feel the way his breath hitched. His mouth was open against the soft underside of one breast, tongue dragging over the marks he’d already left, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. Every slow roll of your hips made him thicken further inside you until he was fully hard again, the thick length of him pressing deep with every downward grind.
When he got fully hard again he took over.
His hands settled on your waist, fingers digging into soft flesh, and he began lifting and dropping you onto his cock in a rhythm that made the bed creak and your tits bounce. The wet, filthy sounds of him moving inside you were obscene—slick and rhythmic, the soft slap of your skin against his, the quiet, broken noises that spilled from both of you. He watched every bounce, every jiggle, every flash of where his cock disappeared into you, eyes dark with pure possession. The thick base of him stretched you on every downward stroke; the head of him dragged against that perfect spot on every upward lift. Your hands braced against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath your palms, the steady, powerful rise and fall of his breathing.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and reverent and filthy all at once. “Riding me like you were made for it. Your cunt is still full of me and you’re taking me again like you can’t get enough. Such a perfect, sweet girl.”
You came a fourth time with your face buried in his neck and his fingers digging bruises into your hips, cunt clenching so hard around him that he followed you over the edge with a broken groan, flooding you a second time. The heat of it made your vision blur. Thick pulses of him spilled deep inside you, the warmth spreading until you could feel it leaking out around the base of his cock with every small, involuntary clench of your body. You slumped against his chest, both of you trembling, his cock still twitching inside you as the last pulses of his orgasm faded. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly against him, one hand stroking slow, soothing lines down your spine while the other stayed possessively on your hip.
Afterward he cleaned you up with a warm washcloth he went and got from the bathroom, careful and quiet, wiping between your thighs with a gentleness that somehow felt more intimate than anything that had come before. He took his time—soft, thorough strokes that cleaned the mess without rushing, the warm cloth soothing against oversensitive skin. When he was finished he pulled you against his chest under the covers, one long arm wrapped around you, hand stroking slow patterns down your spine. The sheets were cool against your heated skin. The city noise filtered faintly through the window—distant sirens, the low hum of traffic—but inside the room everything felt still.
For a while neither of you spoke. The only sound was the soft rhythm of his breathing and the quiet shift of fabric as he held you closer.
Then, soft against your hair:
“Sasuke can never know.”
You smiled against his skin. “Obviously.”
“I’m going to keep stealing your panties.”
“I’m going to keep leaving the dirty ones on top.”
His chest shook with a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth. His hand slid down to rest possessively on the curve of your ass, fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the soft flesh.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m never going to stop wanting you. I’ve wanted you since the day you walked through the door. I’ve jerked off to the thought of you more times than I can count. I’ve come in your panties and then put them back in the hamper like a fucking degenerate. And now that I’ve had you—” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I’m not giving this up. Not for anything.”
You shifted closer, one leg sliding over his, and felt him already starting to harden again against your thigh. The residual mess between your legs made the slide of skin against skin slick and filthy. His cock thickened slowly against you, the heat of him unmistakable.
“Then prove it,” you whispered.
He did.
He rolled you onto your back again, settled between your thighs, and pushed into you slow and deep, watching your face the entire time. This round was different—less frantic, more thorough. He fucked you with long, rolling thrusts that ground against your clit on every stroke, mouth open against yours, swallowing every soft sound you made. The stretch was familiar now, the fullness of him a deep, aching pleasure that built slowly instead of crashing. He told you how good you felt, how perfect, how he’d been dreaming of this exact moment for weeks—voice low and rough against your lips between kisses. He made you come twice more before he finally spilled inside you a third time, hips stuttering, a low, broken sound torn from his throat as he filled you again. The heat of him flooded you once more, thick and heavy, and you clung to him through it, legs wrapped around his waist, face pressed into the side of his neck as the last pulses faded.
When he finally pulled out for the last time that night, you were trembling and oversensitive and thoroughly marked—hickeys on your throat and the tops of your tits, bruises in the shape of his fingers on your hips, his cum leaking slowly from your well-used cunt. He cleaned you up again, gentler this time, the warm cloth moving with careful attention between your thighs until the worst of the mess was gone. Then he pulled you back against his chest and held you like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. One long arm stayed locked around your waist. His other hand rested on the curve of your ass, possessive even in the quiet aftermath.
Outside, the city kept moving. Inside the quiet apartment, the floorboard outside your door stayed silent.
And every night after that, whenever the soft creak of wood sounded in the hallway, you left the door open a little wider.