Work Text:
He’d thought of this for too long.
The first time was in passing: barely a flash, a contour of memory lodged somewhere behind mission reports and surgical data, behind half-burned ANBU profiles and rumors passed between corpses.
Itachi Uchiha.
The ghost that kept killing.
The boy who left a clan in ribbons, walked into Akatsuki like it was his second skin, and never once looked back.
Kabuto remembered him from the ROOT archives.
The cleanest file with the most blood attached to it. Genjutsu prodigy. Tactical elite. Noted for silence, obedience, and the kind of intellect that didn’t require praise, only precision.
He remembered reading the profile and thinking, briefly, clinically, that it was almost beautiful. A life made entirely of subtraction. Every impulse, every excess, carved away until only the weapon remained.
He’d been thinking about him ever since.
Not consciously. Not at first.
But something stayed.
The name. The concept. The absence.
You didn’t forget someone like that, not if you were wired the way Kabuto was. You filed it under interesting and came back when the time was right.
Now it was.
He stood over the desk, maps splayed like entrails beneath his fingers, scattered notes, behavioral models, chakra decay readings, Akatsuki movement logs, intercepted communications. Every page a piece of the construct. Every margin packed with scrawled speculation.
None of it guesswork.
Kabuto didn’t guess.
He modeled.
He calculated.
He pried out data with steady hands and cold light.
And this… this wasn’t a kidnapping. It was a controlled test environment. A closed loop.
Subject Uchiha, Itachi.
Parameters defined.
Risk margins logged.
Everything locked.
His fingers tapped once against the edge of the blueprint, a compound design etched in black ink and obsessive detail. Non-linear escape routes, rotating chakra barrier frequencies, a chakra-suppressing field embedded in the floor. No restraints. Nothing primitive. Nothing crude.
Control wasn’t about chains. It was about conditions.
Itachi wouldn’t need to be restrained if the math was sound.
And the math was sound.
It always was.
He’d studied the Akatsuki’s patterns for months.
Watched Itachi move like a shadow stitched into Nagato’s broader design. He wasn’t the unpredictable one; his partner was.
Kisame. Loud. Brash. Easy to work around.
When they split, they always did so for exactly forty-three minutes on average, and Itachi’s path could be predicted by his primary mission priority: avoid unnecessary contact. Evade confrontation. Minimize presence.
Every ghost moved in a pattern if you knew where to look.
Kabuto had reconstructed seventeen of them.
And now he had the window.
He adjusted his glasses, eyes flicking to the third scroll on the wall, a chakra sensor grid coded to Itachi’s last known frequency.
Dull. Muted. Tired.
The Uchiha wasn’t sick yet, at least, not terminal, but Kabuto had seen the irregularities stacking. Minor blood changes. Fatigue shifts. Chakra thinning at the edges. Whatever illness Itachi carried, it was progressing. Not fast enough to remove him from play, but enough to slow his guard. Enough to pull the weight from his steps when no one was looking.
Kabuto had watched the way he coughed once after a high-velocity engagement. Had isolated the sound from a surveillance scroll and played it back for hours.
Not because of the breath.
But because of what came after.
Nothing.
No pause. No visible consequence.
Just a man re-sealing his cloak and walking into mist.
That’s when Kabuto knew.
The only way to reach someone like that, someone already half-dead, was to interrupt.
Not kill. Not attack. Interrupt.
There would be no violence. No spectacle. That wasn’t the point.
He would wait until Itachi was alone, thirty minutes into a split mission, in transit, shielded by forest or mist, and strike with something clean.
A precision mixture. Toxin-laced chakra. Enough to stun the nervous system and mimic a simple lapse in circulation.
Just long enough to move him. Not enough to damage.
Because Kabuto wasn’t here to harm.
He was here to witness.
To observe.
To finally touch what he’d been circling for years in maps and printouts and secondhand data.
And yes, study.
Measure the body up close. Catalog chakra fluctuations at rest. Understand how someone that fractured moved without breaking.
That’s what he told himself.
The rest… the way his hand trembled once when finishing the fourth dosage; the way he redrafted the architecture of the compound to include a temperature-stabilized chamber for prolonged exposure; the way he replayed a single still-frame of Itachi looking over his shoulder on a blood-slicked battlefield… wasn’t relevant.
It wasn’t desire.
That would imply weakness.
And this wasn’t weakness.
It was pursuit. Scientific interest. An itch of unsolved genius.
Kabuto exhaled slowly, setting the final formula down beside the surgical kit. Aphrodisiac blend, customized. Non-invasive. No loss of motor function, no psychological compromise.
Not a tool for dominance.
That would’ve been easy.
He’d used that approach a dozen times, in different labs, different targets. This wasn’t the same.
This wasn’t about breaking Itachi.
This was about being allowed to see what no one else had.
To kneel under him.
To be taken.
His cock stirred at the thought, low in his gut, the heat of it buried under layers of denial and sterile protocol.
But he didn’t touch it. Didn’t indulge it.
Not yet.
There would be time later.
Time when Itachi was there, quiet and real in the room Kabuto built for him. When the drug took effect and the Uchiha’s eyes sharpened just slightly from their usual apathy, when he reached—
Kabuto bit the inside of his cheek.
No. Focus.
He reran the checklist.
Chakra dampeners: active.
Compound: ready.
Containment: cooled and pressure-sealed.
Emergency measures: non-lethal, auto-triggered.
Escape contingencies: irrelevant. He wasn’t going to fail.
Not with this.
He’d rehearsed it a hundred times.
Not because he was afraid.
Because he was precise.
Because Itachi was not a man you stole by force. He was a man you invited, slowly, carefully, with the illusion of control.
And Kabuto was very good at illusions.
The last thought came unbidden, sharp and unwelcome:
Why do you need him to want it?
Kabuto’s jaw tightened. He closed the scroll, locked it, stored the compound, and adjusted his coat with clinical efficiency.
There was no need for that question. It had no logical bearing. The objective was set. The conditions were clean.
The subject would be secured within the hour.
And whatever came after, data, reaction, release, would be catalogued accordingly.
He was ready.
He’d been ready for years.
2.
It began at 02:43 local time.
Western range, mid-altitude, low civilian density.
Kabuto knew the topography by heart: he’d spent twelve hours reconstructing it from ANBU-era mission reports, factoring in the last five Akatsuki sightings, and tracking chakra fluctuations through a field of white-noise interference designed to scramble normal sensors.
He wasn't using normal sensors.
The hairline fracture in the terrain beneath his sandals matched the elevation data to the meter.
Just beyond the ridge: target presence, confirmed. Solo.
Kisame was gone, split off four minutes ago, chakra signature veering east. A calculated divergence. Routine. Kabuto had predicted it to within an acceptable five-minute window.
Itachi’s path remained linear. Quiet. Predictable.
But not careless.
Never careless.
That’s what made the nerves worse.
He’d masked his chakra completely. Dropped to negative pulse rhythm, slowed breath rate, matched the thrum of tree-bound insects. Any skilled shinobi would’ve had trouble clocking him now.
But Itachi Uchiha was not just skilled.
He was what came after.
Kabuto moved under the tree line, not running. Not rushing. Just... gliding between covers, each step measured. Each shadow was scanned. His hands stayed loose at his sides, coat weighted to dampen motion, glasses catching no reflection.
He followed the subject for eighteen minutes.
Watched the turn of his head, the steady pace, the absence of variation.
No wasted motion. No glances back. No flickers of suspicion.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
His stomach twisted once, tight, shallow, but he pressed it down.
Physical response. Nothing more.
Anticipation, not fear.
Excitement misrouted.
He adjusted his posture.
Watched Itachi pause at the river’s edge.
Twenty meters ahead.
The clearing opened wide, a gap in the trees and a break in the sound, like the forest itself held its breath for him. Kabuto’s own didn’t catch, but something in him tightened.
Some useless, ancient muscle deep beneath thought.
He lowered himself to a crouch, one knee in damp earth. The sedative compound sat in his pocket, untriggered. The mechanism was pressure-based. One squeeze, one twitch of chakra, and it would deploy in less than a blink: airborne, targeted, fast.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t strike.
Just watched.
Itachi tilted his face slightly toward the water. Not far. Barely anything. As if listening to something low beneath the surface.
And for one moment, one second of clarity in the chemical fog of focus, Kabuto wondered what it would feel like to be seen.
Not as a threat.
Not as a spy.
Not as a tool.
But as himself. Just... himself.
His heart skipped. Then stuttered. Then recalibrated.
Useless.
He dug his nails into the meat of his palm and refocused.
Observation: Itachi's stance still relaxed. No defensive posture. No tension in the spine. No activation of the Sharingan.
Possibility one: Kabuto’s stealth was flawless.
Possibility two: Itachi was allowing it.
Kabuto exhaled.
No.
That was ego talking. Paranoia disguised as narcissism. He was a former ROOT operative with a near-perfect infiltration record, chosen by the strongest Sannin for his abilities and intellect, decisive strength, potential.
This wasn’t a mission.
It was secured success.
He reached slowly into his coat. One hand touched the injector.
He imagined the touch of Itachi’s fingers instead.
Heat surged low in his gut, quick, cruel, and unwelcome. He shoved it aside. Not now. He couldn’t afford to be compromised.
This was about completion.
The plan.
The system.
He’d trained for this. Built it. Refined it.
But his mouth had gone dry. His thoughts scattered.
He blinked hard.
One squeeze and it would begin.
One press and Itachi would drop to his knees, not in pain, not in agony, just… still.
Fogged. Fogged enough to move.
To touch.
To speak.
Kabuto gripped the mechanism tighter, knuckles white through glove-leather.
Why are you shaking?
He didn’t know.
He hated that he didn’t know.
ROOT taught him that emotion was chemical static. It meant nothing unless it compromised efficiency. He’d measured his own cortisol levels. Monitored pulse. Regulated serotonin. None of this should’ve touched him.
And yet…
He imagined Itachi looking at him, not with contempt, not even with interest, just… with attention.
Direct. Calm.
Still.
His cock stirred again, almost imperceptibly, but he noticed. Every micro-change catalogued. Every failure of his body's neutrality written into the margins of his mind like shame.
He should've triggered it then.
But he hesitated.
For one more second, he let himself watch.
The fall of Itachi’s hair. The faint curve of his spine. The total, effortless calm.
You think you're in control of this, he told himself. You think the scalpel makes you the surgeon. But you're the one shaking, and he hasn't even moved.
His jaw clenched.
Then, finally, he stood.
Silent.
One step forward.
Another.
He raised his hand.
The injector clicked in his palm.
Itachi turned.
Just slightly.
Not alarmed.
Not surprised.
Not even interested.
Just a single look over the shoulder. Flat. Blank. As if watching the weather.
Kabuto's throat locked. He moved the final step forward and triggered the release.
Itachi blinked.
No resistance.
No violence.
No attempt to dodge.
And Kabuto knew, right then, as the world softened around the edges and the Uchiha lowered to one knee… this wasn’t control.
It was permission.
But he took it anyway.
3.
He laid the body down with surgical care.
It wasn't reverence.
Kabuto didn't believe in reverence. Reverence was the illusion of weakness dressed up in ritual. No, this was procedure. This was preparation.
Subject placement had to be exact. Shoulder alignment against the surface, head at the correct angle, wrists positioned with the bind points accessible but not overly taut.
Room temperature: regulated.
Surface pressure: optimal for circulation.
Chakra field dampeners: synchronized to the subject’s resting frequency.
Everything clean. Sterile. Controlled.
Itachi didn’t stir.
Not once.
Kabuto's hands moved automatically, the way they always did.
He’d done this thousands of times before, securing a body, threading binding seals with medical precision. There was a rhythm to it. The right chakra pulse at the right pressure point.
He felt for resistance, and there was none. No twitch, no breath hitch, no instinctive recoil.
Just stillness.
Kabuto paused.
Let his gaze trace the curve of Itachi’s collarbone, pale against the metal surface. His chest barely moved with breath, so slow, so faint, he had to look twice to confirm it was there at all. He catalogued vitals. Heat signature. Chakra circulation. Everything aligned. Everything silent.
Itachi Uchiha, bound to his table.
Kabuto’s table.
He swallowed.
A flicker of static moved through him, like feedback in a system too fine-tuned. His fingers trembled when they shouldn’t have. There was no cause. No chemical imbalance. No failure in the seal array.
And yet his pulse spiked, irrational and loud in his ears.
The final chakra binding clicked into place over the sternum.
He stared at it for too long.
He should’ve moved on, begun the analysis, collected samples, run the standard chakra disruption sequence.
That was the plan.
But he couldn’t stop looking.
The way the body lay, so still. So offered. Like it was waiting.
Not limp. Not dead.
Available.
His breath hitched, sharp and useless.
He stood too fast, the scrape of his chair loud against the floor.
No. No, this was wrong.
Not the procedure.
Him.
His hands were shaking.
He stared at them like they were foreign.
He couldn’t be shaking.
Not now.
Not after months of construction. After all the simulation, the trial scenarios, the protocols. This moment was his. Everything was in place. The room, the bindings, the atmospheric control.
Everything.
But Itachi was right there.
And he looked…
His.
Kabuto turned on his heel and left the room.
The door sealed behind him with a hiss.
//
The corridor was dim and narrow, designed that way on purpose. No windows. No stimuli. Just stone and silence and the echo of breath. He leaned against the wall, pressing his hands flat to the surface like he needed something real to remind him of gravity.
He hadn’t expected this.
He hadn’t expected to feel…
Lust?
No, not lust. That was too base, too readable.
He could’ve handled that.
This was hunger. This was an ache.
Something molecular.
Not in his dick, not even in his chest, but deeper: cellular.
Like every version of himself that had ever existed had wanted this moment, and none of them had known how to hold it.
He pressed the heel of his palm to his temple.
Get it together.
He was a shinobi. A medic. A spy. He’d cut his own empathy out years ago with chakra scalpel and silence.
He didn’t feel.
He studied.
He dissected.
He understood.
But his stomach was churning, the wrong kind of heat building low in his abdomen, and when he closed his eyes all he could see was that pale body on the table, mouth slightly parted from sedation, long lashes over still eyes, chest barely moving under the seal… too fucking beautiful for any of this to make sense.
Kabuto bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.
Iron. Blood. Something solid.
It didn’t help.
He could still feel.
His cock was half-hard already and he hated it.
Hated the way his body betrayed him, the way arousal curled through him like it had agency of its own. He hadn’t planned to react.
This was supposed to be clinical. Detached.
The aphrodisiac wasn’t for him.
It was for the subject.
His hands curled into fists.
He stood like that for twenty-seven seconds. Breathing. Regulating. Fighting his own system like it was an enemy.
Then, slowly, precisely, he turned.
Stepped back into the lab.
//
The room hadn’t changed.
Still sterile. Still sealed.
Still his.
Only one thing had moved.
Itachi.
His head was turned.
Eyes open.
Looking at him.
Kabuto stopped moving.
His heart stopped with him.
The Uchiha didn’t speak. Didn’t twitch. Just stared, blank and detached, like he’d been awake the entire time and simply hadn’t bothered to announce it. His expression didn’t shift; not amusement, not curiosity, not even disdain.
Just that bottomless, unbearable stillness.
Like Kabuto wasn’t even interesting enough to react to.
And the bindings?
Still in place.
He could’ve broken them. Kabuto knew he could’ve. The seal grid wasn’t foolproof, not against the Mangekyō. Not against someone willing.
But they held.
Not because they were strong.
Because Itachi allowed it.
Kabuto’s breath caught, raw in his throat.
The silence stretched. A canyon between them.
And in that silence, Kabuto realized something worse than fear.
This had never been his game.
4.
He walked ahead of Kisame, not because he wanted to, but because it was easier that way.
The mist was shallow in this part of the forest, clinging low to the ground, weaving between ankle-height underbrush and dead limbs. A passable cover. Their mission parameters didn’t require secrecy, only completion.
Another extraction.
Another man who wouldn’t talk.
Another witness to erase from the map.
Itachi didn’t care about the details.
The mission was what it always was: a step. Then another. One foot in front of the other. A body obeying motion. A mind partitioned into essential functions.
His thoughts were quiet.
Not gone, never gone, but stored elsewhere. Contained. Labeled.
He’d learned how to compartmentalize long before Akatsuki, before ANBU, before breath had ever been a luxury. Everything not necessary to the objective lived in the cold part of his mind.
The part untouched by heat or feeling.
He could think about the target’s location, the terrain spread, the most efficient pressure points to apply once they reached the safehouse.
He could also think about Sasuke, wonder, even.
About how much chakra he himself had left.
About the shape of Kisame’s footsteps behind him, heavier today, dragging slightly, like the swordsman was injured and hadn’t said anything.
He thought about all of it.
He felt none of it.
//
Kisame spoke. Itachi let him.
He didn’t register most of it. Something about bloodlines. About Jinchūriki and their "inevitable waste of potential," which Itachi had heard at least four variations of over the last month alone.
His partner cycled obsessions like the rest of them changed weapons. Today it was hosts. Last week it had been how chakra systems evolved under duress.
It didn’t matter. It never did.
Itachi’s eyes stayed forward, steps even, the terrain folding away beneath his sandals like it had been expecting him. His body moved with a precision that wasn’t effort, just programming. The kind that made rest obsolete and sleep more of a phantom limb than a need. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. He wouldn’t sleep for twenty more. His body could go longer.
Kisame’s voice filled the space between trees like vapor, too casual for the kind of violence they left in their wake. He liked to talk. It filled the air. Covered the absence.
Sometimes Itachi thought he did it for himself, a form of tethering, keeping his mind from sinking too deep. Other times, it felt performative, like the other was reminding Itachi he was still human, just in case he forgot.
As if anything about this life could be light.
Itachi made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, acknowledgment without agreement, and kept walking.
He didn’t dislike his partner. That would’ve taken energy. The man had been useful. Reliable. Efficient, in his own way. Loud, yes, but not careless. Brutal, but not sloppy.
More importantly, he never asked questions.
Not about the eyes.
Not about the missions.
Not about the way Itachi sometimes didn’t speak for days unless forced.
That alone earned him something resembling trust.
They were twelve minutes from the fork. That’s where they’d split. Divide and conquer.
Two targets. Two ghosts.
They’d done this enough to make it routine. Their paths were different, but their arrival times synced to the second. Always were.
Kisame was already winding down his monologue, sensing the upcoming break.
-I don’t even think these fuckers believe we exist… But that’s fine. Makes it easier to disappear them when the time comes.
Itachi glanced once, sideways.
Kisame grinned, breaking off at the split, a nod and a lazy wave, muttering insults about paperwork to himself.
The Uchiha kept walking. Slower now.
Alone.
The silence was welcome.
The forest took over, sharp with the sound of insects, the damp click of branches moving in patterns.
He liked quiet.
But he liked clarity more.
And the mission was clear. The route was set. He let the rhythm of his steps dictate the rest.
Left foot. Right foot. Breathe. Listen. Watch.
He kept his hands loose at his sides.
Felt the shift in the air four steps later.
Small.
Barely noticeable.
But there.
The presence registered like a faint breath against the skin, not noise, not chakra.
Just intent. Moving parallel. Shadowing.
Not a threat.
Not yet.
Itachi didn’t change pace. He let his breath pass steadily, even. Watched the movement in his periphery. Too far back to be seen. Close enough to matter.
He considered it. Let the data filter through without emotion.
Could be a hunter-nin. Could be a trap from the target ahead. Could be—
No.
The rhythm was wrong. Too careful.
The distance not meant to close in but to observe.
Curious.
He let it continue.
Listened to it.
It thought itself quiet. Masked. Invisible.
It wasn't.
Not to him.
There were a hundred ways to conceal a body. A thousand ways to regulate breath.
But intent—that was harder to hide.
And this one had it.
Deliberate. Focused.
Not hateful.
Not frantic.
Just... hungry.
It made him pause.
Not in fear. Not even caution. Just consideration.
What did it want?
A fight? Information? Was it revenge? Surveillance? A contract he hadn’t been warned about?
He could’ve turned.
Could’ve launched some genjutsu through the trees and dropped the figure like a pin in a dish.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he adjusted the tilt of his head. Let the angle of his shoulder fall back a degree. Gave them the space to act.
If you're going to do something, he thought, do it.
Not because he wanted to be attacked. But because he was curious.
About them.
Whoever was out there… they were good. Not great. Not good enough to fool him. But almost.
He could respect almost.
More than that: he could use it.
It had been a long time since someone tried to reach him directly. Most didn’t get that close. Most didn’t want to. They avoided him like plague, like death. Or worshipped him from a distance like a god no one dared touch.
But this one...
This one wanted something.
And Itachi, for all his detachment, liked puzzles. Even small ones. Especially ones that moved like this.
He kept walking.
Kept his posture neutral.
Didn’t activate the Sharingan.
Didn’t stop them.
Let them follow.
If they thought they were clever, good.
Let them play.
He’d see how far they’d go.
And if they reached for more than they could hold, he’d take it back.
//
The river wasn’t important.
Not tactically. Not logistically.
Just a natural shape in the landscape, a curve of water tracing rock and sediment, bleeding sound into the otherwise flat quiet.
Itachi stepped toward the edge and let his eyes settle on the current.
Not watching. Not thinking. Just cataloguing movement.
In his periphery, the presence held.
Still following.
Still thinking itself unseen.
Amateurish, but not incompetent.
Not reckless.
There was intention to the distance. The kind of spacing taught in hunter programs.
He could feel the shape of it now, the chakra signature just low enough to avoid triggering alerts, just quiet enough to mimic ambient noise.
A good mimicry. Almost seamless.
If Itachi had been tired, if he’d been truly distracted, it might’ve passed undetected.
But he was neither.
Not tired.
Not unaware.
Only... observant.
There was a difference.
He let his posture soften. Let the shape of his breathing change, deepening, slowing. The way a body moved when it forgot to be alert. He didn’t turn around, no tension visible.
Just let stillness drape over him like water.
He felt the wind shift behind him.
A pulse of chakra.
Small. Precise.
Then, dispersion.
An airborne compound.
He could smell it before it hit him. Bitter, sharp at the edge, something synthetic and vaguely floral, meant to blend with natural terrain.
Fast-acting, high-absorption. Inhalation-based.
Sedative class.
No paralysis.
Too delicate for that.
He let it pass through him. Let his lungs fill with it.
Felt it thread through his bloodstream like fog.
So this is what you came for.
Not to kill.
To take.
He considered it.
Not for long.
He’d been trained for this. This exact kind of infiltration.
Not against aphrodisiacs specifically, but against coercion.
Against toxins meant to seduce, to loosen the grip on intention. ANBU didn’t call them aphrodisiacs. They called them leverage compounds. Agents that rewrote the body’s priorities: need over discipline.
Want over mission.
Itachi had read the profiles. Had dissected the training procedures. But he hadn’t needed the intel to know how to counter it.
His body obeyed a different kind of programming.
The moment the compound entered his bloodstream, he pulled his chakra inward. Not a suppression, not an expulsion: a partition.
He isolated his circulatory system into closed loops, severing the flow to the cerebral nodes that governed arousal and reflexive response. Heartbeat lowered.
Skin conductivity altered.
Oxygen output restricted to brain, lungs, liver, every secondary zone flooded instead with dormant chakra fields designed to intercept signal interference.
He did it all in three breaths.
His body remained warm.
His skin remained flushed.
But the response, the heat, the ache, the collapse into sensation, that wouldn’t happen.
To the outside eye, it would look like the aphrodisiac had worked: a softening of the muscles, a gentle dilate of the eyes, the long, still breath of surrender. A pliable body, suspended in a state of dormancy that would soon dissolve, giving way to an insatiable need, illogical, animalistic.
But inside, he was untouched.
Feel nothing, he thought. Let them think they’ve won.
He wasn’t trained to play dead.
That kind of deception belonged to the weak, to the desperate.
He was trained to become unreadable.
To vanish in plain sight.
It started with breath. Shallow. Even. Measured in patterns a medic couldn’t trace. Then the temperature, slightly dropped. Nervous system lulled to dormancy. Every twitch, every reflex sealed down.
He could slow his heart rate to near-stillness.
The effect was exact.
To any eye but his own, he would appear sedated.
Unconscious.
Powerless.
Perfect.
//
He didn’t move when the footsteps approached.
Didn’t move when gloved hands touched his wrist.
Didn’t move when the fingers checked his pulse, found what they were looking for, and paused.
Just briefly, long enough to process the thrill of perceived victory.
Itachi felt it.
Not the touch.
The tremor in the hands.
The sudden tension in the breath behind him.
Like the figure couldn’t believe it had worked.
Like they’d caught something too rare, too impossible.
You think this is yours now. You’re wrong.
But he didn’t stop them.
//
He let his body go slack.
Let his limbs move like dead weight, perfectly balanced between lifeless and responsive.
He counted the lift: six seconds to shift the shoulders, another four to lower the spine, then the legs. Whoever it was, they were efficient.
Strong.
Someone who’d learned how to take without asking.
He catalogued the chakra once again, still dampened, still masked, but not invisible.
Sharp. Clean. Intricate.
Too meticulous to be unpracticed.
The scent clung to the gloves, disinfectant, steel, something medicinal under the skin.
He memorized that too.
//
They moved quickly.
Not panicked. Not rushed.
Just... eager.
Itachi let his eyes stay closed. Let the motion carry him. Stone beneath him. Air. Then containment: chakra suppressors embedded in the floor, he could feel them even through sleep-mimicry.
Technology not standard. Self-made.
Wherever they were going, it was custom.
Personal.
He wondered why.
What this stranger thought they were doing.
Capturing?
Studying?
Using?
He felt none of it as a threat. None of it was fear.
Just... data.
Another field to map. Another variable.
He catalogued the hands again. The breath. The shake in the fingers that returned after each confident movement.
You’re nervous, he thought. Why?
He was already planning to find out.
5.
They laid him down with care.
Too much of it.
It wasn’t reverent, but it was close, something bordering on caution masquerading as control. The kind of care that revealed more than it concealed. He felt the touch along his spine, the minute adjustments at his wrists, the precision in chakra seal placement.
Not rough. Not careless.
Just... practiced.
He tracked it all through closed eyes.
The figure, male, most likely, chakra tight and dense in the chest, hands deft but shaking, breathed too loud. Shallow exhales. Controlled, but faltering at the edges.
Overthinking each movement.
Itachi filed it away.
Breath count, scent, tremor. Trace chemical: dried blood, sterilizer, something faintly floral clinging under his nails.
Medical.
Not someone he recognized.
But familiar in blueprint.
He let the restraints seal around his body without resistance.
If he wanted to, he could’ve broken free in a breath. A flicker of his Mangekyō. A displacement seal. Even just the flex of enough raw chakra would’ve shattered the grid.
But that wasn’t the point.
Not yet.
//
The room was quiet once the figure left.
Airlock seal. Chakra latch. Door secured.
Itachi waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Then opened his eyes.
The ceiling was plain steel. Unmarked. But reinforced.
He could feel the chakra signature humming low through the structure; a feedback loop, self-correcting, built for long-term dampening.
Efficient. Not standard.
He moved his head slightly, only enough to scan the space.
Twelve feet across. Ventilation node overhead. Pressure sink at the far end. Medical-grade. Clean. Not sanitized like a hospital, but like something personal. Maintained obsessively. Every angle purposeful.
There were no cameras.
No mirrors.
But he was being watched.
That much was certain.
//
He tested the binds at his wrists.
Not for escape. Just to learn the signature.
Custom sealwork. Layered. Precise.
Someone spent a long time building this. For me.
The absurdity of it touched something close to irritation.
Not fear.
Not even caution.
Just quiet, biting contempt.
As if someone had studied his blueprint and come to the conclusion that this, some diluted root-derivative sedative and a few chakra locks, was enough.
That he could be taken like this.
Tied down like this.
Owned like this.
He heard the door cycle.
Didn’t bother turning his head.
Just kept his eyes forward.
Waiting.
//
The man stepped inside with the hesitant precision of someone who wasn’t sure what state his subject would be in. Measured steps. Palms still gloved. Shoulders drawn too high.
He stopped two paces in.
Itachi turned his head.
Met his eyes.
Watched the moment hit, the one where certainty gave out. No tremble. No flinch. Just a pause. A stillness. Like a machine skipping a beat.
Itachi held his gaze. Flat. Neutral.
Then, calm as breath, -Your sedative didn’t work.- Silence. The man said nothing. -It entered my bloodstream. I allowed that. Rerouted chakra flow before full absorption. Restricted autonomic response. Deliberate control. You failed to account for that.-
He looked at the ceiling again, as if the confrontation wasn’t worth eye contact.
-You also made a mistake with the compound. Too volatile. You prioritized delivery speed over accuracy. I could smell the destabilizers before it even hit.
His voice remained soft. Even.
-I don’t respond to chemicals. If you thought I would, you didn’t do enough research. Or misunderstood who I am.
Not anger. Not insult.
Just fact.
He turned his head slightly again. Looked at him this time. Not with contempt, but with a kind of impersonal stillness.
Like watching something being measured and found insufficient.
-Why are we here? Why am I here? Speak plainly.
The silence lingered. It didn’t stretch so much as freeze, stagnant in the space between them, dense with something unspoken. Not tension. Not threat. Just recognition.
Itachi had seen this before.
The moment where someone realized they’d made the wrong calculation, and had no protocol for correction. Where the mind searched for script and found only static.
The man didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even breathe too loudly.
And didn’t meet his eyes.
That, at least, was intelligent.
A baseline precaution, likely drilled into him.
You don’t lock gazes with a Sharingan holder unless you’re suicidal.
Itachi gave him credit for that. But only that.
He shifted. No resistance. The chakra bindings fell apart beneath his fingers with the same weight as brittle paper. Sealwork was good. Clean, even. But not built for someone who knew how to fold chakra beneath the skin, how to unhook each node of a restraint without igniting an alarm.
The man still said nothing.
Itachi sat up.
Swung his legs over the side of the table and let his feet touch the floor.
Still no movement from the other side of the room.
The man stood like someone trying to recall whether or not they’d locked the front door, and now couldn’t move to check it. Rooted. Not with confidence. But with the tension of someone one breath from retreat.
Itachi stood.
The other still didn’t move.
He crossed the room slowly, deliberately. Not rushed. Not threatening. A presence that absorbed space as it moved through it. The way water filled a closed vessel. Silent. Inevitable.
The workbench was covered in notes.
Scrolls, samples, compound vials. Heat-sealed syringes. A breakdown of his own chakra signature, transcribed by hand. Several drafts. A failed sedation sequence. What looked like a hormone reactivity index.
Sloppy.
He picked up the nearest scroll.
Unrolled it.
Lines of kanji, clinical breakdowns, diagrams of circulatory pathways, neurological inhibitors.
He stared at it for a beat.
-You were planning to record my physiological response to the drug?- The man said nothing. -There are more efficient ways to acquire this data. You should know that.-
He moved to the next scroll. A failed mapping of his ocular patterns. The symmetry was incorrect. The assumption about his chakra output under duress was laughable.
He moved on.
Another scroll, this one with projected behavioral models.
Itachi paused.
Read them.
Three of the nine scenarios involved him submitting under stress.
Two involved physical deterioration.
One predicted sexual compliance.
He exhaled, long, controlled.
-This is what you thought would happen.
Not a question.
A statement.
He placed the scroll back on the table.
-You spent time assembling a space like this. Studying files. Building sedatives. Constructing restraints. And at no point did it occur to you that the outcome might be different.
He looked up then. Not at the man’s face, just past him.
His voice didn’t rise. But there was a cold shift in it, something like the temperature dropping.
-What exactly did you plan to do when I woke up?
Nothing.
Still.
Itachi let the silence answer, moved to the next vial. Turned it between his fingers. The fluid inside sloshed gently: violet, thick, artificially sweet. Catalogued it instantly. High concentration. Accelerated libido trigger. Precursor class compound. Highly unstable.
He placed it down without expression.
-This was never going to work.
Then stepped back from the table and crossed the room again, slow, paced. Breathing even.
But the irritation had rooted now.
Not at the man himself.
At the interruption.
He was supposed to be thirty miles east by now. Supposed to be knee-deep in another mission. Another kill. Another objective stripped of meaning. His days followed ritual, assignments, elimination, movement, silence.
He liked it that way.
This wasn’t planned.
This wasn’t welcome.
This was noise.
Unnecessary.
Disrespectful, in its own way.
Not because he felt entitled to peace.
Because he had built peace despite being what he was. And this stranger had walked into it with compounds and shackles and the arrogance of someone who believed desire was leverage.
6.
-Measuring arousal. Testing submission. Simulating control. Was that the intent? Or was that a cover for something else?- Itachi's eyes narrowed faintly.
Kabuto didn’t understand what he was watching.
The Uchiha moved through his space, his lab, his design, his domain of control, like he had all the time in the world. He walked to the bench, quiet, precise, and picked up the vial like it was nothing. Like it was one of a thousand things he could do.
Turned the glass toward the light, studied it, confirmed the content.
Then, without looking at him:
-This is the one you built for me.
Not a question.
Kabuto couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
Every command he'd ever programmed into his own nervous system, the fail-safes, the contingency scripts, the precision handling of fear-responses, collapsed beneath him like wet ash.
His body felt foreign.
His mouth didn’t work.
And Itachi didn’t wait for confirmation.
The Uchiha selected an injector, clean, unused. Slide the vial in. Primed it. Then he rolled up the sleeve of his cloak, and pressed the needle to his arm.
Kabuto’s legs nearly gave out. He registered the need to breathe, the pressure of air in his lungs, but it no longer translated into motion. His stomach twisted in on itself, like something too tightly wound had just snapped under pressure. Blood rushed in his ears. His throat dried out.
All he could do was stand there, watching the man he thought he’d captured move freely through the space he’d built like a shrine, methodical, unbothered, as he injected himself the very drug Kabuto had designed to control him.
This wasn’t surrender.
It wasn’t even out of interest.
It was something else entirely: choice.
Unapologetic, sovereign, terrifying choice.
And Kabuto, the one who thought he’d set the experiment, realized he was the variable. The subject. The unstable one. And with every second that passed, with every breath Itachi took, his grip on the room slipped further, until it wasn’t slipping anymore.
It was gone.
He couldn’t speak because there was nothing left to say that wouldn’t unravel him.
He couldn’t move because movement would be a kind of confession.
So he stood there, inside the echo chamber of his own mind, watching the reality he’d wanted most become real, not for him, but in spite of him, and there was no calculation in the world that could carry him out of it.
He’d imagined administering the aphrodisiac himself, watching Itachi’s control unspool, his silence breaking open in heat and tension.
But this… this was nothing like that.
This was worse.
Because Itachi was choosing it.
Because the syringe wasn’t in Kabuto’s hand.
Because this wasn’t his.
It was given.
And that broke something in him he didn’t know was still intact.
Itachi dropped the empty injector onto the table. It clattered once, loud in the silence. Then he turned back toward him. His expression hadn’t changed.
No lust. No flush. Not yet.
Just calm.
Deliberate.
Measured.
But Kabuto knew the timeline. Knew the absorption rate. Knew the dosage. It was high. Designed to override resistance. To drown inhibition.
If Itachi let it in, it would work.
And it was working.
It was fucking working.
He could see the pulse at the Uchiha’s neck accelerate. The way the chest rose just a little faster. The eyes, still black, not red, began to narrow, not from pain.
From sensation.
Kabuto felt his own knees weaken, but forced himself to stay upright.
He wanted to run.
He wanted to fall to his knees.
He wanted to tell Itachi to stop.
He wanted to tell him not to.
He wanted to be touched.
He wanted to be torn apart.
The shame hit first, old reflexes, old training, screaming in the back of his skull to move, to calculate, to shut this down before it turned into something irreversible.
But it was already too late.
His cock was already hard, aching in his pants, straining against the seam with a dull, pulsing hunger that didn’t feel like his own. Not clinical. Not mechanical. Raw.
He was trembling again.
But he didn’t care.
He couldn’t.
Because Itachi was walking toward him now.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just that same predator silence, the kind that filled the room, seeped into the floor, rewrote the air.
And all Kabuto could think, over and over, louder than blood and breath and shame was:
He’s going to touch me.
He’s going to fuck me.
He’s going to ruin me.
And I’m going to let him.
Because I built this.
Because I asked for this.
Because I need it.
But It happened without a word.
One moment, Itachi was approaching. Silent.
The next, his hand was in Kabuto’s hair. Fistful of it. Tight. Hard. No warning.
He gasped, the sound sharp, breathless, more out of shock than pain, because there was no buildup.
No shift in posture. No preamble.
Just the grip. Like instinct. Like something inside Itachi had reached its threshold and lashed out. Not with violence, but with need.
And then the Uchiha was leaning into him.
Not like a lover. Not like a killer.
Like something cracking.
Kabuto’s back hit the nearest wall, rough against his coat. Itachi wasn’t just touching him.
He was using him.
Body pressed in close, lean muscle drawn tight under the cloak, breath already fraying at the edges. And fuck, Kabuto felt it: the tremor in Itachi’s chest, the shudder in his arms, the way the control was slipping like wet cloth through shaking fingers.
The Uchiha’s face was inches from his, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, breath gusting across Kabuto’s cheek.
Not sharp.
Not clear.
Ragged.
Kabuto had catalogued a dozen possible drug reactions. Hyperstimulation. Dysregulation. Agitation.
None of them looked like this.
None of them looked like a shinobi trained to kill anything that moved, now shaking against him, panting through clenched teeth, like the heat in his blood was going to swallow him whole.
And yet, he couldn’t move.
Couldn’t speak.
Didn’t want to.
Because this… this wasn’t a failure of the compound.
This was a release.
Itachi’s hand tightened in his hair.
His other braced against the wall beside Kabuto’s head, palm flat, tremoring with restraint he didn’t have the strength to maintain. He felt the chakra pulsing through the other, erratic now. Fractured. A storm behind bone.
Then, Itachi’s breath hitched.
Once.
Twice.
A growl tore low in his throat.
Not anger.
Hunger.
And his eyes, god, his eyes, glazed over completely, pupils dilating into black pools rimmed in the faintest red.
No Sharingan. Not yet. Just need.
Kabuto’s cock jumped so hard he nearly groaned.
Because Itachi wasn’t human anymore.
Not the way he’d been in the forest.
Not the quiet weapon.
Not the tired ghost.
This was the other side.
The animal.
The Uchiha’s mouth dropped to his neck, not kissing, not biting, just pressing there, heat and breath and the clench of jaw as though he didn’t trust himself not to tear it open.
Kabuto’s knees buckled.
He heard himself exhale something desperate, some sound he hadn’t meant to make, and Itachi reacted instantly, shoving harder, pinning him, hips grinding once, high and tight and brutal.
Then a voice, barely shaped: -Don’t move.-
Spoken against his skin. Nothing poetic. Just command.
Kabuto didn’t dare disobey. He was already shaking, wrecked from anticipation, from the heat rolling off Itachi like a fever, from the weight of that hand fisted in his hair and the cock hardening between them, pressing up, cruel and sharp through too many layers of clothing.
He let his head fall back, offered his throat, his chest, everything, because this wasn’t sex anymore.
It was the consequence.
Of wanting something impossible.
And being stupid enough to make it real.
Itachi’s fingers left his hair, only for a second.
He barely had time to breathe before he was grabbed again, harder this time, yanked forward with the sharp, bone-deep authority of someone who’d stopped caring about consequences.
The floor hit his knees.
Hard.
A jolt went through his thighs. He didn’t process it.
All he could feel was Itachi’s hand fisting in the back of his scalp, forcing his head back, lining him up.
And then, his other hand was already there. Pulling his cock free.
Kabuto didn’t even see it happen.
One moment, there was breath and heat and pressure. The next, he was staring down the length of it. Long, flushed, hard as violence.
And Itachi… Itachi wasn’t looking at him.
He wasn’t anywhere anymore.
His face was a mask of heat and hunger, nothing human left in it.
Lips parted, breath ragged, his body trembling with rage that had nowhere to land but through him.
He said nothing.
Just shoved.
And Kabuto’s mouth split open on instinct.
There was no warning. No gentle press. No tease.
Just cock.
Heavy, thick, brutal, jammed past his lips in one hard thrust that made his jaw pop. His throat tried to close around it. Reflex. Useless. Itachi growled, deep in his chest, and pulled him down harder.
Kabuto gagged.
His fingers scrabbled for purchase at Itachi’s hips, claws trying to find anchor, but Itachi didn’t stop. He wasn’t going to. His hand locked in Kabuto’s hair, using him, dragging his head forward and back like a machine, like his mouth was nothing but a hole to fuck until it gave out.
-...Fu-uck.
A broken sound.
Snapped from between clenched teeth like it hurt him to feel this much.
Kabuto’s eyes watered instantly. He choked again, air caught, throat locking, but Itachi didn’t give him time to breathe. Just fucked into his face, cock swelling, dragging spit and sound and need out of him with every sharp, punishing thrust.
He was drooling.
Humiliated.
Drenched in the hot slap of the Uchiha’s hips.
And Itachi’s body was shaking.
Not from restraint.
From how badly he needed.
From the drug.
From months—years—of emptiness twisting into something physical.
From how fucking good Kabuto’s mouth felt, hot and wet and there.
He made no effort to hold back.
There were no thoughts in him now, only force, only heat.
Each time Kabuto tried to pull back, Itachi snapped him forward harder, grinding the base of his cock against lips gone red and raw. The back of Kabuto’s throat spasmed again and again, swallowing around him, gagging on him, and Itachi just held him there, buried deep, cock throbbing, fingers locked tight in his hair like the only thing keeping him grounded.
-Shit.
The word came through clenched teeth, half a groan, half a curse. He let up just enough to let the other breathe, then shoved forward again, deeper.
Kabuto moaned around it.
Actually moaned.
Eyes glassy, throat ruined, face a mess of spit and arousal. His cock was leaking, untouched. He wasn’t moving. Just taking it.
Letting Itachi fuck his mouth obediently.
Like a rag.
And loving it.
Itachi’s hips jerked, harder now. Faster. His thighs were trembling, breath snarling through his nose. He was going to come. He knew it. Knew it like a wave building in his spine, nothing to stop it, nothing left but the pulse, the burn, the mouth swallowing everything.
Kabuto gagged once more.
Eyes wide. Waiting.
Inviting.
Begging.
Itachi growled, animal, violent, and came.
Right down his throat.
Hot, thick, brutal.
Kabuto choked on it, swallowed, desperate, drowning, fucked open. His head stayed where Itachi held it, mouth stretched wide, jaw aching, lungs screaming, tongue thick with taste.
And he still moaned around it.
Because this was what he wanted.
This was what he’d built.
Not control.
Not conquer.
This.
Itachi collapsed against the wall, dragging him forward with him, still inside his mouth, cock twitching, leaking.
7.
He barely had time to blink before the Uchiha yanked him up by the collar.
Kabuto’s knees scraped hard against the floor, the movement too rough, too fast. His head spun. His throat burned. He gasped, dragging spit and come into his lungs, still dizzy from choking on it. He couldn’t find the strength to stand.
Itachi lifted him like he weighed nothing.
The next second, his body slammed down across the lab table, papers scattering, glass rattling.
Cold steel under his chest. Heat behind him.
Itachi didn’t speak.
Didn’t give a word, a warning, a name.
Just grabbed. Kabuto’s coat ripped. Shirt slashed open. His bindings next. It was brutal, careless. The wrap around his chest tore in two quick jerks, hands ripping it like paper, the tension of weeks peeled away in seconds.
His whole body burned, nerves raw. His pussy was already slick, soaked through, the pressure of heat between his thighs unbearable. His hips twitched against the table. He didn’t know if it was shame or need.
He didn’t care.
He wanted more.
And he felt Itachi freeze for half a second.
Just enough to process what he’d found.
No cock.
No length.
Just a cunt. Wet, flushed, glistening.
A hole, hot and waiting, trembling under the weight of heat and humiliation.
But there was no hesitation.
Itachi’s hands spread his thighs in one rough pull.
And then, he dropped to his knees.
Kabuto choked on his own breath.
Itachi’s mouth landed on him like he was starving. No build-up. No tease. Just tongue, deep and savage, forcing its way between folds, dragging slick up through the center of his pussy, shoving into the heat, sucking like he was going to drown in it.
Kabuto screamed.
Sharp. Broken.
The first sound that tore out of him without control.
Itachi didn’t slow, he ate like he’d gone mad.
Groaning into the mess, tongue fucking him deep, mouth sealing around the soaked heat of his pussy like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Fingers dug into Kabuto’s thighs, bruising grip pulling him wider, pinning him down to the steel table like prey caught and claimed.
Kabuto was panting. Shaking.
Every breath came out in sobs.
-Nnngh—fuck—Itachi—
His voice cracked on the name.
Itachi growled in response.
The vibration lit up Kabuto’s entire spine, lit something beneath it, dark and primal. He couldn’t stop the moans now. They kept coming, loud, high, needy, his body betraying him, cunt clenching around nothing, slick running down his thighs.
And still, Itachi didn’t stop.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t think.
He was somewhere else.
Beyond reasons.
Beyond awareness.
Lost in the taste of it.
He tongue-fucked Kabuto like a beast in heat, teeth grazing just enough to make Kabuto’s hips jerk, nose buried in the slick, breathing through his cunt, licking up every drop, spit mixing with slick, making it messier, wetter, louder.
Kabuto clawed at the table.
Couldn’t see through his fogged glasses. Could barely think straight. The room was spinning.
He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
He wasn’t supposed to fall apart.
But he was already gone.
-Itachi—fuck—I'm—I'm gonna—oh—oh my—
It hit too fast.
No warning.
No grace.
Just the sharp, catastrophic wave of orgasm, tearing through him like a nerve ending ripped open. His whole body tensed, back arching, mouth open, hands clawing steel, pussy clenching hard around nothing, everything inside him locked up and snapped apart.
He came screaming.
The Uchiha didn’t stop. Not even then.
Tongue still moving. Still drinking from him.
Like he hadn’t even started yet.
And Kabuto barely registered the shift.
One second, Itachi was still between his thighs, mouth wrecking him, tongue unrelenting, heat flooding into him like breathless violence.
Then, he was gone.
Gone from the floor.
Kabuto had only half a second to breathe before a pair of hands grabbed his hips, claws dug into his flesh, anchoring him to the table with bruising force. Itachi's chest pressed into his back, slick with sweat, burning through the thin remnants of clothing.
His breath was a furnace against Kabuto’s neck, ragged, too fast, starving.
Then, he felt it. The press and nudges of Itachi’s fat tip at his entrance.
Heavy. Wet. Blunt.
Sliding between his thighs.Searching. The Uchiha rutted him like an animal.
Kabuto whimpered, sharp, high, involuntary. He has yet to recover from his orgasm. He couldn’t recall when was the last time he had ever-
-No—wait—Itachi—please—
But Itachi wasn’t in the room anymore. He was gone, drowned in instinct, in heat, in the drug that had reduced every shred of shinobi restraint to one pure directive: take.
The tip catched Kabuto’s cunt. He thrust his full length in one stroke.
The sudden stretch and fullness had Kabuto vision nearly whiteout.
Kabuto cried out, loud, helpless, head snapping back as he was split open in one brutal shove. The table scraped an inch across the floor from the force. His arms scrambled forward for something to hold.
Nothing held. Everything shook.
He wasn’t ready.
He’d already come once.
His pussy was too sensitive, too raw, nerves blown wide and twitching.
But Itachi didn’t stop.
Didn’t pause.
Just fucked.
No rhythm, only force.
Every thrust knocked the air out of Kabuto’s lungs, loud wet slaps echoing in the lab, the sharp crack of hips to ass, the stretch was too much, too fast, and perfect. He was sobbing now, wet cheeks grinding into the table, noise spilling from him like breath, broken and high and wet, mouth open, tongue heavy, unable to form a single word.
Overstimulated.
Unraveling.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t beg. Couldn’t process anything but the slick, punishing drag of the Uchiha’s cock hammering inside him, dragging slick out of him in strings down his thighs.
He clenched, reflexed, out of desperation to push out the intruder, and Itachi growled, low and feral, slamming in deeper. Kabuto screamed. His vision blurred.
-Itachi—Itachi I can’t—please—
Another thrust.
Another.
Too deep.
Too fucking deep.
And then, he came again. Fucking shattered. His whole body locked up. His cunt seized around Itachi’s cock so tight he saw stars. White-hot, spreading from the base of his spine to the rest of his body, every nerve lit up.
The cry that left him didn’t sound human.
He couldn’t stop coming.
Itachi didn’t stop fucking.
And in the wreckage of his body, on the cold lab table, Kabuto finally understood what he’d made:
Not a subject.
Not a study.
Not a god.
Just a beast.
And he loved it.
But then he felt it. The stutter in Itachi’s hips. The raw, brutal snap of breath behind his ear. The way his fingers dug deeper into his waist, grip spasming like he was holding himself together by bone alone.
Then, heat.
Spilling deep inside.
A sharp groan cut from the back of Itachi’s throat like it hurt to feel this much. The Uchiha came. Hard. Burying himself to the root, cock twitching deep in Kabuto’s pussy, thick pulses of come filling him so full it dripped out before Itachi had even pulled back.
He moaned, broken, trembling.
It should’ve been over.
But it wasn’t.
Because Itachi didn’t stop.
He stayed buried for a second. Two. Cock throbbing deep inside Kabuto’s welcoming cunt.
Then pulled back just enough to slam in again, cock still hard, still eager, drenched in his own release and Kabuto’s.Filthy, obscene, wet sound resume filled the room
Kabuto’s eyes flew open.His glasses askew.
-No—fuck—fuck, Itachi—
He couldn’t handle any more.
He’d already come twice, once on Itachi’s mouth, once on his cock. His cunt was red, twitching, lips swollen and used, every nerve lit up and raw.
But Itachi didn’t care.
Couldn’t care.
The drug was still in him.
Burning.
Driving him mad.
His hips picked up speed again, fucking faster now, rougher, cock slipping in and out of the mess inside Kabuto with slick, animalistic rhythm. The sound of it echoed in the lab: wet, heavy, relentless.
Kabuto sobbed into the table, face pressed into the steel.
He couldn’t take it.
But he will.
Each thrust jolted through his spine like lightning, hitting overstimulated nerves that fired too hot, too sharp. His legs were shaking, his thighs spread wide and locked open, his hole clenching around cock it couldn’t push out, couldn’t stop.
Another cry ripped from his throat.
Then another.
He didn’t even sound like himself anymore.
Just noise.
Just whimpers.
And still, Itachi fucked him.
Gripped his waist so hard it hurt, forcing him forward with every slam, balls slapping against his ruined pussy with every thrust, moaning low, mouth open, breath brushed against Kabuto’s back.
And his cock.
Still fucking hard.
Still needing.
Still using him.
Kabuto gave up trying to hold on.
He let go.
Let Itachi have everything.
His body.
His cunt.
His voice.
Everything.
If this was what he was built for, to be taken apart, then let it happen.
Let the beast use him.
Let him keep going.
Even after he came.
Even after Kabuto broke.
Especially then.
Gradually Itachi shifted.
Still buried inside him.
Still hard.
Kabuto barely registered it at first.
His mind was already fracturing, vision white at the edges, mouth hanging open with no sound left in it. But then Itachi moved, gripped him under the ribs, and hauled him up like a doll.
Kabuto cried out, cracked and hoarse, arms limp, legs trembling.
Itachi didn’t check if he could take it, just turned him over, laid him on the lab table face-up now, legs spread, hips lifted, cunt open and slick and wrecked, leaking their mess onto the floor.
And kept fucking him.
On his back this time.
Hard.
The angle was deeper somehow.
Kabuto’s glasses were crooked on his face, half-fallen, cracked at the rim. They’d slipped down his nose during the position change, broken glass from the force with which Itachi had slammed his hips into his face just minutes earlier. The world now smeared and fractured, the lab reduced to shapes and motion and light. But through the distortion, he could still see him.
Itachi.
Not the ghost. Not the shinobi.
The thing he’d become.
His weight slammed into Kabuto’s hips with every thrust, raw skin grinding against metal, Itachi's mouth slack with breath, eyes glazed and feral.
He couldn't take it.
He knew it.
Felt it.
And couldn’t scream anymore. His throat was torn raw, sound reduced to breath, whimpers, but his body didn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop.
He was still coming.
Again.
Another full-body seizure of sensation, ripped from him like his cunt didn’t belong to him anymore. Like it belonged to the dick wrecking it. To the man above him. To the beast that refused to stop fucking him even after it stuffed him full.
His clit throbbed despite the lack of touch, no fingers rubbing him, no stimulation he could map or reason through for all the pleasure that was milking out of him. Just the punishing stretch and slam of Itachi’s cock pounding into his cunt, wet, sore, overused, over and over and over until his body went electric from the inside out.
It was unbearable.
And he hated how badly he still wanted more.
The Uchiha’s face was right above Kabuto’s, sweat dripping off his chin, muscles corded and shaking. Hair matted to his jaw. Mouth slack and wet. And his eyes, fuck, his eyes wore the Sharingan, fully activated, bleeding red with spinning tomoe.
Not summoned out of need. Out of instinct.
Kabuto stared into those red hypnotic eyes, moaning, vision shattering.
Itachi looked like a fucking animal.
Unseeing.
Unthinking.
His breath came out in snarls. He fucked like he was going to die if he didn’t. And Kabuto, torn open, legs trembling, cunt gushing, couldn’t take his eyes off him. Even blurred, even doubled through cracked lenses and tears, it was the most beautiful, horrifying thing he’d ever seen.
And it was all for him.
Because he asked for it.
Because he built this.
Even if his legs were numb, pussy raw, dripping, overstretched, swallowing Itachi’s cock again and again, every slam forcing slick out of him, puddling under his ass, the edge of the table cutting into his spine, he fucking loved it. This was his.
And Kabuto kept coming.
The friction alone was enough now.
The stretch.
The sound.
The heat of Itachi’s body rutted into his.
There was no delay, no mercy, just a crash of pleasure that broke through pain like glass, ripping another orgasm out of him so fast he didn’t have time to register the last one ending.
-I—I—fuck—I can’t—Itachi I—please—
He didn’t know what he was begging for.
Release? Mercy? More?
Another thrust.
Another scream.
He came again.
His hips started jerking without rhythm, not from pleasure anymore, but from something deeper, more final.
A full-body short circuit.
And this time, he felt something snap.
His head lolled back. Vision white. Muscles locked. The mess between his thighs was soaking everything, dripping down Itachi’s balls, mixing come and slick and blood and saliva into something filthy.
His cunt clenched hard. Too hard. Desperation tightening around Itachi’s cock like his body couldn’t let go. Every nerve inside him had been emptied and filled too many times. His clit throbbed with pain. His hole spasmed and sucked around the cock driving into it, red and twitching and ruined.
He moaned, but it was faint now.
Mouth half-open.
-Itachi—
But it didn’t even sound like a voice. Just a whisper. A breath. The edge of a nervous system shutting down.
Kabuto blinked one last time.
Caught the sight of that face above him: Sharingan eyes, clenched jaw, teeth bared, spit between his lips, body pounding into him like nothing else mattered.
And then, it went dark.
Kabuto's world blinked out like a blown fuse.
No dreams. No light. No time.
Just the nothingness that comes when the body says, enough.
//
He woke hours later.
Cold.
Sticky.
Alone.
The lab was dim, lights low, some flickering from earlier damage. The table beneath him was slick with dried sweat, slick, blood, and come. His coat was half torn. His legs were parted. His cunt still ached, deep, pulsing, open in a way that felt shameful.
His throat was raw.
His voice gone.
He blinked slowly.
Vision blurry.
Breath thin.
He tried to sit up. Failed.
It took three tries to push himself off the table and onto the floor. His knees hit with a dull, wet sound. Something leaked out of him, and he didn’t look to see what.
The room was quiet.
But not peaceful.
Because Itachi was gone.
No chakra signature.
No warmth.
No message.
Not a note.
Not a word.
Nothing.
Just the empty room, the broken seal scrolls, the scent of sex in the air like smoke that wouldn’t clear.
Kabuto didn’t move for a long time.
He just stayed there, kneeling in the ruin of his own obsession, trembling in a body he no longer recognized, every inch of him filled, used, emptied.
And all he could think was:
He left me alive.