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Chapter Text

Sometimes, Sasuke wonders whether they deliberately designed the ANBU uniform to be sexy.

Because it is, and there's no two ways about it. A tight black top, sleeveless to show off the wearer's invariably muscled shoulders and biceps, further highlighted by those long black gloves. Some of the masks are kinda creepy, but they've got kinky potential...yeah, Sasuke's definitely into it.

Now, you're not technically meant to know who's in ANBU: it's on a need-to-know basis only. But after you work with someone for a while and get to know their movements and voice, and then that same voice and those same mannerisms turn up on some supposedly-anonymous masked ANBU...and that's not even accounting for the myriad ways in which one might catch sight of an ANBU tattoo (a practice which Sasuke has never understood the point of, by the way). Itachi's usual high-collared Uchiha shirts have sleeves which cover his tattoo, so no-one thinks anything of it, but it's not like he can hide it from Sasuke when they still share baths.

Itachi looks the best in his uniform, of course, because Itachi looks best in everything. And in nothing, as Sasuke has learnt from the aforementioned baths. He's never seen Itachi get dressed in his ANBU uniform, but he likes to imagine it, especially the smooth stretch of the gloves and the solid weight of the armguards.

And as for what Itachi does in that uniform — images of his brother calmly and efficiently slitting a faceless man's throat make him squirm and touch his fingertips to the inside of his thigh, drawing out the pleasure.

Sasuke thinks of his brother's large, long-fingered hands, and imagines them wrapping around someone's throat; the image is interspersed with the impossible dream of Itachi's hand around Sasuke's cock. Sasuke's in the middle of puberty and growing out of his clothes every few months, but Itachi still has twenty centimetres on him, and his hand would engulf Sasuke from root to tip. He wants it so badly his chest hurts.

The moment he's been waiting for arrives: the front door slides open, making only a whisper of noise, but one which Sasuke is well accustomed to. His brother's footsteps are soundless, but Sasuke can track his progress down the corridor, past Sasuke's room to his own. Sasuke imagines him, all dressed up in his ANBU gear, flak jacket stained with blood, and his pulse quickens. He imagines Itachi pausing in front of Sasuke's room and instead of continuing on to his own, entering Sasuke's.

He listens intently to the rustles and clinks of Itachi's disrobing, and tries to assign each sound to its item of clothing: the clinks of the shuriken holster, headband and armguards, the thump of the jacket and sheathed katana, the snap of the gloves, and finally the rustle of fabric. Sasuke imagines the striptease, the insignia of rank removed to reveal pale flesh until his vision of Itachi stands naked before him, lithe and pale, luminous in the moonlight, his hair unbound over his shoulders.

In the other room, the sheets rustle as Itachi gets into bed; in Sasuke's head, behind closed lids, he crawls into Sasuke's bed, the futon dipping under his weight. Sasuke can almost imagine his body heat.

He gives in at last, imagining Itachi lying beside him as he takes his cock in hand and squirms with pleasure. Itachi - the real Itachi - will know, of course: there's no way he's fallen asleep so quickly. The possibility of his older brother listening in and knowing what he's doing both scares and excites Sasuke, the fear only intensifying the thrill. In any case, there's no way that Itachi could ever know what he's thinking of while he's doing it (but Itachi has always known everything about Sasuke, been able to divine any fact, any secret, just with a glance, so what if - but that's too scary to think about).

Sasuke masturbates himself to climax listening to Itachi's breathing in the next room, steady and just a little too fast for slumber.

Chapter Text

There are things in this rotten world of shinobi that don't make sense. The sending of children as young as twelve into ANBU, for instance; the training of children for war in the first place; war itself; the fact that a twelve-year-old is considered old enough to kill and at thirteen an acceptable ANBU captain, but not old enough for sex.

This last one weighs heavily on his mind when he takes his baths with Sasuke. At twelve, Sasuke has just been put on his genin team under Itachi's former ANBU comrade, the Copy-Nin Kakashi. Not that he's meant to know who was under that feline mask, but Itachi has an excellent memory for voices. It's early days yet, but if he performs as well in his four-man cell as he did at the Academy, they'll be looking to have him follow in his older brother's footsteps and promote him to ANBU as soon as possible - with the added bonus of having another Uchiha kept under close scrutiny. And Sasuke, in his hero-worship of Itachi, will jump at the chance.

They could wait, of course: Itachi has got very good at waiting. But the fact is that he appreciates Sasuke's still-developing body. Sasuke started puberty eight months ago; Itachi had noticed first, of course, sensitive to any change in his little brother, taking note of the increase in testicular capacity which heralds adolescence in boys. The slight thickening of the hair above his penis, which is just beginning to increase in length - all these things Itachi notes and commits to memory, the signs-soon-to-be-relics of Sasuke growing up.

He wants to touch his brother's developing genitals so badly that he finally understands why sexual desire is so often referred to as hunger, a gut-wrenching need turning hot and heavy in his stomach. He wishes he could takes Sasuke's little package all in his hand, so hot, so soft, so vulnerable, the skin sheathing his testicles just beginning to redden.

Or, even better, he thinks he could just about fit the whole lot in his mouth, balls and all, feel the heartbeat against the roof of his mouth, velvety skin on his tongue.

But he knows he must wait, so he settles for the restrained sensual pleasure of washing Sasuke and putting his hands all over him, even though Sasuke is old enough to wash himself. He had once idly, wryly, suggested to Sasuke that it might be embarrassing to be washed by his big brother now that he was practically grown-up, but Sasuke had vigorously denied it. It's our bonding time, he'd said, just the two of us. So Itachi doesn't feel bad.

One day soon, Sasuke will experience his first ejaculation. Itachi would like it to be at his hands, but he accepts that not every first time can belong to him. Better to let Sasuke spend a few months learning and adapting, coming to terms with growing up - not discounting the possibility that Sasuke will come to him of his own volition. He's certainly shared everything else with his big brother. Whichever happens, when Sasuke is ready, Itachi will offer him the same thing that Shisui offered him, and Sasuke will accept, and finally Itachi will kiss him like lovers do and press together their naked bodies and finally, finally get what he wants.

Chapter Text

At twelve, Sasuke was probably too old to still be bathing with his brother, but instead of complaining about how he was growing up now and was old enough to want some privacy like his parents had expected, he'd happily gone on sharing baths with and generally worshipping Itachi. His parents, attention taken by other things like when this planned coup was finally going to come off, let Itachi - their mature, sensible son who had been for all practical purposes an adult since before he hit double digits - deal with it.

Itachi's solution was not to consider it a problem, which worked very well for everyone concerned.

At fifteen, Sasuke is definitely too old to be sharing baths with Itachi and neither of them cares any more than they did three years ago. Sasuke is living out with Itachi because Itachi didn't want to leave him behind and their parents thought it might prepare Sasuke for adulthood. They also, judging by the questions they keep asking Sasuke when he comes by for dinner, wanted someone to keep an eye on Itachi, which Sasuke thinks is understandable; he worries about Itachi being left on his own too, decorated ANBU captain or no. He's not sure why they keep asking him about Itachi's feelings towards the clan and the village, though. They don't talk about any of that.

Their daily routine is pretty simple, everyday tasks fitted around missions when they have them and training when they don't. They eat together when they can. Sasuke spends time with his peer group, particularly his former genin team, and Itachi doesn't socialise at all; he's not been quite the same since Shisui died, though if Sasuke brings Naruto and Sakura over he seems to enjoy their company for a while before politely excusing himself.

They don't always have time for baths: after a mission, however much either might like to unwind in a bath, a quick shower followed by passing out is usually more practical. But Sasuke always perks up at the sound of the bath being run, because it means that Itachi is going to touch him. They always touch, of course, the way any two people sharing a house would: Itachi's hands briefly on Sasuke's hips as he eases past him to get something out of a cabinet, their shoulders brushing as they sit next to each other. But this is touching with intent.

They soap each other up like they've done since they were children, then wash it off with a wet flannel. Hair-washing is done in the shower, alone, because it's easier, but Sasuke relishes the chance to touch Itachi's hair anyway as he pins it up like a woman's to keep it out of the way as he washes his brother's back. He is never so aware of the difference in size as when he does this: Sasuke is perfectly average for his age and still growing, but Itachi has ten centimetres and several kilograms on him, and his broad shoulders reflect that.

With Itachi's back turned to him, bare and inviting, it would be easy for Sasuke to press a kiss to the base of his neck or the muscle of his shoulder. He doesn't, because that's not what they do, but he thinks about it as he runs the cloth over his brother's pale skin. He's careful not to pay any extra attention to Itachi's genitals, because if he starts he doesn't think he'll be able to keep himself from sucking Itachi off there and then.

When it's Itachi's turn to put his hands all over Sasuke, Sasuke can hardly contain himself. Itachi says it's like petting a cat, Sasuke arching into every firm stroke of the textured cloth over his skin. He focusses on his breathing, lets himself sink into it and become hyperaware of the flannel, the rivulets of water, the warmth of Itachi's hand resting idly on his waist. His hypersensitised skin makes the touch of the flannel almost unbearable, leaving tingling in its wake: the sparks when Itachi brushes over his nipples make him jerk and flex his thighs. Itachi just keeps doing, down his chest to his stomach, his abdomen, his cock. He must notice that it's half-hard, every time, but he doesn't pause, just moves onto Sasuke's thighs while Sasuke tries to get his ragged breathing under control.

Thoroughly washed, they move to the tub, which just fits the both of them. It's entirely inappropriate, one adult and one near-adult squashed together in a bath, no matter their blood relation, but this is how they've done it ever since Sasuke can remember, and if it now only works it Sasuke pretty much lies on top of Itachi so they can both stretch out their legs, so be it. Sasuke lies sideways so his erection isn't poking Itachi and they can both pretend its not there, buries his face in the wet crook of Itachi's neck, and closes his eyes, safe in the cradle of his brother's arms.

Chapter Text

Itachi is definitely looking. Sasuke stretches, a little self-consciously, a thrill going through him when Itachi's eyes follow the hem of his shirt when it rides up. He's wearing clothes that are wonderfully soft from wear but also, as has become rapidly apparent, slightly too small. He's not got much broader this past year, but he has got a couple of inches taller, making both the shirt and the shorts unsuitable for wearing out the house. Good for wearing at home in the sunshine and teasing Itachi, though.

Sasuke lies back on the deck, letting his shirt expose still more of his pale stomach. He doesn't know why Itachi's interested - the girls at the Academy all thought he was pretty, but they were his own age and Itachi's an adult. Aren't adults meant to be interested in people who look like adults, not skinny fourteen year olds? Sasuke is: Naruto and Sakura are both, objectively speaking, kinda cute, but they've got nothing on his tall, dark and handsome older brother.

His tall, dark, handsome older brother who's still looking at him. His eyes are flickering between Sasuke's bare stomach and his thighs, exposed by shorts which are a good two inches shorter than they used to be. He could be discreet if he wanted to be, so discreet that Sasuke would never know that he was being watched, but he isn't, which means that he doesn't care whether Sasuke knows he's being ogled.

Maybe he wants Sasuke to know. Itachi's gaze is a physical weight, depthless eyes fixed on Sasuke, and Sasuke feels prickles break out all over his skin. He squirms, feeling the start of an erection which his shirt isn't long enough to hide.

Before he can do anything about it, Mother calls them in for dinner. As they go in, Itachi's hand ghosts over the small of Sasuke's back: the doting older brother, always looking out for his sibling. Sasuke feels goosebumps rise on his arms, and is hardly there for the first few minutes of the meal until Father starts asking him about his possible promotion to ANBU.

In the back of his wardrobe, Sasuke digs out an even older pair of shorts, the ones he wore back when he was first placed on his genin team and ten centimetres shorter. He'll have to do something about the waist, but the legs are just right, tight around his newly-muscled thighs.

The waist, as it turns out, can be 'let out'. It takes him ten minutes to work out that this can be done and another twenty to work out how to do it, but he manages to enlarge it a couple of inches to fit his fourteen-year-old frame. He's deeply grateful that, like most Uchiha, his muscle has made him lean rather than bulky. The legs he cuts off almost entirely, leaving only a couple of inches of inner leg. He tries them on, and surveys his handiwork in the mirror. They're indecent: if a young kunoichi tried to leave the house in these, she'd almost certainly be told to change into something less revealing.

They're perfect. He waits nearly a month for a day when both he and Itachi are at home but both their parents are away, and when he comes back after training he wriggles into the shorts and his slightly-too-small shirt, and makes his way into the living room to find Itachi engrossed in a scroll. He hesitates for a moment - maybe the scroll is important ANBU business and this is a bad time - but then Itachi looks up to greet him with a smile and Sasuke can almost see all thoughts of scrolls fly out the window.

Itachi opens his mouth, closes his mouth, and swallows audibly.

"Sasuke," he says, a little croakily, "come and sit down." He pats the space beside him, and Sasuke sits obligingly. The shorts are so tight you can see the outline of his cock in them, and when he sits with his thighs pressed together they push the bulge out even more. It's obscene, it's embarrassing, and Itachi looks like all his birthdays have come at once.

On the surface, it appears that Itachi has gone back to reading the scroll. Sasuke rests his head on his brother's shoulder, shuffling closer so that his thigh is pressed to Itachi's. Absentmindedly, almost carelessly, Itachi puts a hand on Sasuke's thigh. A thrill, an electric, shocking thrill runs through him, and it takes all his self-control not to jump a foot. Itachi typically runs slightly cool, but his hand on Sasuke's bare thigh is hot as a brand. Sasuke knows his erection is obvious and his breath is short, and he doesn't care. It's always like this: so close, never quite pushing past that last boundary to actual sexual contact, never quite enough.

Itachi's hand squeezes his thigh. Sasuke shudders. They don't do much skin-on-skin contact, and the sudden intimate shock has sensitised him, sending prickles all through him. His erection aches in his shorts. At least Itachi's breathing isn't quite even either.

Sasuke has to fist his hands in the material of the sofa as Itachi keeps squeezing his thigh, kneading the flesh absentmindedly as he reads his scroll. He squirms slightly, scared to move too much in case he dislodges Itachi's hand, but desperate for relief. Just a bit higher —

As if responding to his silent please, Itachi's hand begins to slowly slide up his leg. Sasuke holds his breath. The heel of Itachi's hand now rests at the juncture of leg and hip, so close —

Itachi starts to roll up the scroll with one hand. Sasuke tastes bitter disappointment. Not today, then.

But.

As Itachi makes to stand, as if by accident, his hand slips to Sasuke's inner thigh. And then, in a casual move which can't in any way be called accidental, it cups and squeezes Sasuke's cock. Only for a second, but that firm, tender and utterly intentional grip drives the breath right out of Sasuke's lungs. He thinks he squeaks.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Itachi stands up, briefly clasps his shoulder, and ambles off to presumably his own room, leaving Sasuke open-mouthed and trembling behind him. He hadn't even made eye contact. Another thing to pretend isn't happening, but Sasuke will take it if it means his brother actually touching him.

Itachi is barely out of the room when Sasuke all but tears open the button of his shorts, yanks down the zipper and starts to masturbate frantically, pulling jerkily at his cock. His hand's too small, but for once it doesn't matter. Itachi touched him - groped him even. Itachi can almost certainly hear him panting from his room; maybe he's even listening in, wanting to hear Sasuke touching himself.

Sasuke comes, shuddering, over his own hand, not bothering to muffle himself. He wants Itachi to hear.

When he makes his way back to his own room on shaky legs, he notices as he passes that Itachi's door is slightly ajar.

Chapter Text

Itachi would be rough with him, Sasuke is sure. The man his brother has turned into, the one who broke his wrist so casually, so carelessly - he would throw Sasuke to the floor and have his way with him just like he has in Sasuke's dreams ever since he hit puberty. But now he has the precise impression of what his grown-up brother looks like: the exact height difference, the strong veins in his man's hands, his Sharingan constantly activated. He's so big now, still so much bigger than Sasuke - he could pin him down with his weight and height alone.

(Alone, in his empty and silent apartment, Sasuke wraps a hand around his cock and lets himself slip into fantasy).

Hazy scenarios flash across his mind: that hotel hallway, the training grounds, their old house - but in the end the fantasy takes place on a featureless plain. Itachi has him facedown on a hard floor, one hand holding his wrists above his head, the other sneaking up under his shirt while Itachi sits on his legs.

Itachi's body-heat burns through their clothes (in bed, Sasuke swelters under his blankets), his hand hot on Sasuke's chest as it gropes him roughly, black-painted nails scraping over his nipples. The span of Itachi's two hands could wrap around Sasuke's waist, thumb-to-thumb and pinky-to-pinky.

Itachi's other hand is pulling down Sasuke's shorts, yanking at them until the waistband sits just under his arse, his genitals still covered. Itachi takes one arse-cheek in his hand and squeezes it, molesting the soft white flesh, manipulating it with his long fingers. Sasuke shudders, wriggling as much as he's able.

Itachi's hand slips from his arse and down between his legs to grope his testicles. Sasuke keeps squirming, then freezes at the wet touch of Itachi's tongue on his neck, just where the curse seal sits. He licks at it like he's rubbing it off. Maybe he is - big brother can do anything. Sasuke sighs. Then the licks turn into bites, and he yelps. Itachi twists his nipples roughly and Sasuke cries out (alone in bed, he whimpers).

Itachi's hot, hard cock presses at his hole; Sasuke kicks, but the shorts hinder him and, slowly, Itachi slides home. Sasuke cries and aches (writhing on his futon pretending very hard that his three fingers, thrust in roughly, are equivalent to Itachi's cock), feeling his brother fill him, hard and unforgiving.

"Sasuke," says Itachi in his ear, "Sasuke." Sasuke moans and thrashes beneath him, hips rising to meet Itachi's thrusts.

"Nii-san," he says in a desperate, tearful whine, "nii-san—"

Itachi breaks his wrist.

Sasuke recalls the sickening crunch of bone, the pain that turned his stomach. He doesn't remember screaming, but he's been told that he did.

But he also remembers the brief, burning heat of Itachi's hand on his arm, still so much bigger than his own. And so the fantasy continues, phantom pain shooting up Sasuke's arm as he imagines Itachi fucking him still, not stopping for such a petty thing as his brother's comfort. Sasuke twists himself up in his sheets, rolling this way and that as he jams his fingers up his arse as far and as hard as he can, his own panting harsh in his ears. He rolls back onto his knees with his arse shoved high in the air to muffle himself with the pillow when he comes. He shudders with aftershocks, sprawled on his back, the ceiling of his apartment swimming into cloud patterns.

His wrist aches until he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Itachi takes his brother for extra shuriken practice exactly once after he enters the Academy. He takes him down by the fish-rich Nakano, on the far edge of Uchiha land.

He puts up targets, with Sasuke helping. Itachi lets him carry the blocks and follow him, so that Itachi can take them one by one and stick them high in the trees. He presses close to Itachi, watching the target-setting process intently.

"Will Shisui-nii be coming?" he had asked Itachi earlier, when he had come home to find Itachi waiting there in the genkan, ready to put on his boots.

"No, it's just you and me this time." Sasuke had beamed and all but hauled him out of the house, hot little hand clasped tight in his.

"Good!" he'd said. "This way I get you all to myself." Sasuke has proved to be an unexpectedly jealous little brother. Itachi quite likes it. At least somebody's always happy to see him.

Itachi secures the last target and drops to the ground. When he looks at his brother, Sasuke's eyes are fixed on him.

They practice: Itachi demonstrates, and Sasuke copies. He's good for his age. Not the best in his class, though, not quite: the girl whose parents run the weapons shop is top in shuriken. Itachi knows it bothers him.

Sasuke's weakness is his stamina. It's an Uchiha problem, which will be corrected in Sasuke as it has been in all other Uchiha; but at seven going-on eight, Sasuke tires easily. Eleven sets in, Itachi sees the fatigue set in. If Sasuke were an enemy, this is the point when he'd go in for the kill, the moment concentration fails.

Itachi knows the throw is wrong before the shuriken has even left Sasuke's hand. He lets Sasuke throw it anyway.

"Ah!" The shuriken thuds into a tree, far off course, as Sasuke pulls his hand close to his chest.

"Let me see, Sasuke." Itachi takes hold of his closed fist and gently draws it towards himself so he can inspect the damage. He pries open Sasuke's fingers carefully, and after a moment Sasuke willingly unfurls them.

The wound is only a small nick to Sasuke's finger: bleeding sluggishly, painful and irritating as it heals, but not dangerous. Sasuke will suffer many of them as he advances in weapons practice; you can tell a ninja by his scarred hands.

"Sorry, Itachi-nii," says Sasuke forlornly. The blood beads and trickles slowly down his finger, towards the palm.

Accidents happen, Itachi means to say. As you get more experienced, they will happen less. This is more or less the truth, though training does include a long period in which everything a shinobi learns seems designed to make accidents happen more.

Instead, he dips his head and guides Sasuke's finger to his mouth.

He means, vaguely, to kiss it better. Instead, he opens his mouth and Sasuke's small injured finger slides in. It explodes with salt on his tongue.

"I-Itachi-nii?" Sasuke holds very still. His finger flexes a little inside Itachi's mouth. It feels a little cold, though that's surely only because Itachi's mouth is hot. The metallic taste is his blood, his rich red blood oozing out onto Itachi's tongue.

Itachi flexes his tongue, gently rubbing the wound, cleaning off the blood. It trickles down his throat, thin and sharp but somehow sweet. His finger feels small and thin and fragile in Itachi's mouth, as if he could bite down and snap it clean off.

He cleans the wound tenderly with his tongue, soft undulating strokes. He feels Sasuke trembling, just a little. I love you, he thinks as he sucks and laps at Sasuke's flesh, I love you, little brother. He envisions cutting his own finger and offering it to Sasuke, bonding them further by blood, like renewing a vow.

When at last he lets Sasuke's finger slide out of his mouth, spit-wet and glistening, the wound is barely a thin line. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was almost healed.

Chapter Text

There is a house in Tea Country with tomato plants growing in the backyard.

"I'm home." Sasuke slides the door shut behind himself and bends down to take off his sandals.

"Welcome home, Sasuke." Itachi is there to take his coat. "Won't you sit down? I've made tea." He'll have felt Sasuke's approach and put the kettle on so that the tea would be ready for him when he came in. He always does.

Sasuke follows him to the centre of the house, where a low table holds two cups and a teapot with steam curling from its spout. Itachi takes his seat gracefully, sinking into elegant seiza, before carefully pouring the tea. He doesn't stumble or hesitate or spill a drop of tea, despite his blank, unseeing eyes.

"How was your day, Sasuke?"

"Appalling." Sasuke doesn't want to talk about his day. He wants Itachi to lean forward a little so his navy kimono will gape like it did when he was pouring the tea. "How was yours?"

"Dull, but I've made nikujaga for dinner." Itachi cooks and gardens a lot. It keeps him busy: he can still read if Sasuke infuses the ink of the book with chakra, but it tires him after an hour or so. He prefers that Sasuke recite the text to him.

"Mm." Sasuke waits until Itachi has put down his cup - tea untouched; he was only holding it for warmth - before he steps around the table, bends down and carefully scoops up his older brother. Prepared for this move, Itachi wraps his arms around Sasuke's neck and lets himself be carried to the bedroom.

It's dark, with only the faint glow of the brazier penetrating the screens; but darkness is nothing Sasuke, who knows his brother's body in perfect detail. He lays Itachi on the bed like a bride and disrobes him slowly, pressing tender kisses to Itachi's mouth, cheekbone, ear as he uncovers the pale, scarred skin. When he finally lowers his body to cover Itachi's and their chests press together, their hearts are beating in time.

He makes love to his brother slowly, sweetly. Itachi clutches at his shoulders, but never in pain. He doesn't beg or howl or act undignified: he opens his body to Sasuke like a wife to her husband, and the little hitching gasps breathed into his neck are all Sasuke needs to hear.

In the afterglow, lying in their marital bed, Sasuke murmurs,

"I should buy you a woman's kimono." Itachi would look lovely in plum blossom.

"If you can find one long enough," says Itachi drowsily, which is as good as saying Whatever makes you happy, dear.

Chapter Text

Itachi has some leather gloves.

In fact, Itachi owns multiple pairs of leather gloves, in case a pair get cut, dirtied or lost in the course of his work. He once taught Sasuke how to oil them to prevent the leather from cracking. Sasuke had touched the smooth, supple grain and exclaimed that they felt warm. Itachi had smiled down at him and agreed.

Sasuke had gone to bed that night thinking of those gloves, and determined that one day he too would own a pair. When he was as old as Itachi-nii, he would have a pair of soft leather gloves just like that, smelling of hide and neatsfoot oil.

Itachi took that pair of gloves with him when he left the village, but left his spares. Sasuke had spared a moment to wonder whether he didn't think he would need them - what was he planning on doing? Killing, Sasuke knew. Killing was the only thing Itachi knew how to do.

Sasuke could have burnt Itachi's spare pairs of gloves, but he didn't. Instead, he took them from the compound, from the chest of drawers in Itachi's room which held all his equipment for missions, to the new apartment in which Konoha had housed him. It was nothing like his family's house, and he didn't try to make it look like it. He displayed no personal effects except Itachi's chest of drawers, which was pressed up against one wall, and his family shrine. He'd dragged and carried, respectively, both of these things up to his apartment by himself.

He doesn't take the gloves out often: usually they rest in that chest of drawers, just as they did when the chest sat in Itachi's room. But sometimes, he takes them out to examine, to touch, to smell. They smell just like they did on that day when Itachi taught Sasuke how to oil them. Sasuke presses his nose into the grain and can almost smell Itachi himself, the sweat and skin that must be ingrained in the well-used leather.

He rolls over onto his front on the couch - old, striped and solid - and buries his face in Itachi's glove, overwhelmed by the rich sharp smell of leather. Itachi has killed while wearing these.

Delirious, he slips on one glove, then the other. Itachi was thirteen when he left, as Sasuke is now, and the gloves are almost a perfect fit. He flexes his fingers, his palms, and envisions them on Itachi's graceful long-fingered hands. Itachi wore these, Itachi used these -

One of Sasuke's hands slips down, underneath his belly, down under the waistband of his shorts to grasp his erection. He buries his face in his gloved hand, smelling the leather, licking it, taking it between his teeth to feel the soft leather against his tongue. All he can smell, all he can taste, is Itachi's gloves: leather, neatsfoot oil, and the faintest trace of Itachi's own salt-sweat.

Come gets on the other glove, of course. He licks it off carefully, thoroughly, tongue prodding curiously at the tangy leather. Sweat prickles on his back under his t-shirt.

Itachi has killed so many people while wearing these. It's only fitting that Sasuke should wear them to kill him.

Chapter Text

None of the men were quite right.

Sasuke had made his requirements very clear in the advertisement he'd placed in a certain online periodical. Partner wanted for specific roleplay scenario: 20-25 years old, long hair, 175-180cm tall, slim but muscular. It was a very specific description of a partner, even for this particular periodical; but then, he had a very specific fantasy in mind. For the most part, he could just arrange not to look at his partner's face during the act; but the rest of him needed to be right.

The trickiest criterion to match was at first the hair: so few men wore it past the collar once they were out of their teens, even though it would have been much easier now they no longer had the enforcers of school dresscodes breathing down their necks. Those who did, tended to stop at a host-like mane that waved to the shoulders. Hair long enough for a decent ponytail was rare, and unfortunately essential to Sasuke's requirements.

It was not, however, impossible: Tokyo was just cosmopolitan enough to have a handful of men fitting that description. Three of them described themselves as being heavily involved in kendo and kyuudou; Sasuke saw the implied link, and the coincidental connection with the real object of the exercise was even more titillating.

But only one had the voice.

More than anything else, the substitute had to sound right. He had to have a low, smooth, refined voice to call Sasuke little brother.

He was lucky to find one: Sasuke had a good ear for voices. But the man he finally picked was a twenty-three year old student at Ritsumeikan, over in Kyoto. He was a returnee from Germany who had a great interest in traditional arts, which suited Sasuke just fine. It wasn't as if they were going to chat about his hobbies, but anything to increase the resemblance to the true object of desire was itself desirable. He sent Sasuke pictures with his face blacked out; Sasuke pored over them to pick out the flaws, the parts where he wasn't a perfect match; and then he said yes anyway, because it was as good a substitute as he was going to get. The guy even seemed to have a decent personality, or at least he was amenable to what Sasuke wanted and didn't didn't try to initiate cybersex, which was good enough for Sasuke.

The best place to meet was a hotel, the kind you rented by the hour. Sasuke had never been to one before, but if wasn't as if he could reasonably take the man home with him and be fucked on his childhood bed. Love hotels were anonymous and discreet, and suitably impersonal for what amounted to a business transaction between two consenting adults. Not that any money would change hands, of course. It wasn't that sort of sordid hook-up.

In person, the young man was exactly as he appeared in his photos. Sasuke looked at him across the expanse of a foot of dull carpet, and briefly tried to imagine what kind of person he might be inside, to agree to be a substitute sex-object for a teenager who plainly wanted to fuck his own brother. A novelty-seeker, perhaps; or maybe they were just more open-minded in Germany, where Koutarou swore the people of Berlin sunbathed nude in public parks.

The kissing was the hardest part. It was easy to focus on the differences, especially that Kotarou didn't smell like leather soap, even though he'd bathed with the shower gel that Sasuke had told him to use. But the angle of the jaw was nearly right, and Sasuke could imagine Itachi kissing him in the same careful yet eager manner. He'd told Koutarou to be forceful but not rough, and when he found himself pressed against a wall with a large long-fingered hand cradling the back of his head, he knew he'd picked the right substitute.

The fantasy was easier when he couldn't see Kotarou's face. So he kept his eyes closed as he stroked the soft skin of his back, and when his shirt was pulled off and Koutarou put his sword-callused hands on Sasuke's bare chest it was nearly a perfect match. Yes, Itachi would touch him like this. Sasuke strained into his touch, and even the hot breath that washed over his neck was right.

Kotarou's hand slipped down the back of his pants and Sasuke submitted to it eagerly, to the dry finger trailing down between his ass cheeks to play with his hole. He'd thought about other ways of doing it - he'd had a persistent fantasy of sucking off his brother more or less since puberty - but if he was only going to indulge himself the once, this had to be the way. He was going to get fucked by his brother, or as close as he could get.

Sasuke wasn't completely virginal, but he'd only ever done this twice before. He'd told Kotarou that in their messaging conversation, and he'd seemed excited by the idea of doing somebody so inexperienced. Hopefully it wasn't just to disguise his poor technique. He didn't want to rush things, but there was only so long he could reasonably delay. The longer he immersed himself in the fantasy of having Itachi, the greater the risk that something would break it. He squirmed in Kotarou's grasp as if to say Fuck me, I can't wait any longer, and perhaps Kotarou understood what he meant because when the finger came to probe at his hole again, it was wet. Sasuke sighed and submitted to his not-brother's tongue invading his mouth at the same time.

The fucking itself wasn't difficult, when it came down to it. They used the bed, not the wall, but Sasuke threw himself on it face-down and exulted in the body heat of a man over him. (If it had been really with Itachi, he would have been on his back and eager to kiss Itachi's solemn thin-lipped mouth and stroke his hair from his face). Kotarou had let his hair down and a lock spills over Sasuke's shoulder. It smelled like Itachi's shampoo.

He spread his legs eagerly, not needing to use his imagination to think of Itachi behind him, pressing wet fingers to his hole and playing with him inside, stroking his inner walls and teasing his rim. He strained against the bed and felt a callused hand hold him down with exactly the right amount of strength. He sighed and stretched and let his brother do what he wanted to his body.

When his not-brother pressed the tip of his cock to his hole, bile rose in Sasuke's throat and for a moment he thought he couldn't go through with it. He'd never done this with anybody else, only ever wanted Itachi.

But this was Itachi. This was as close to Itachi as Sasuke was going to get.

So he spread his legs wider and moaned encouragingly into the hotel pillow. That hard blunt heat was entering him, parting his slick entrance, and nothing he'd ever put up there could match the feeling of his brother's cock as it thrust inside him for the first time. Sasuke's legs kicked with how good it felt and he let out a shuddering sigh. Itachi's breath was hot against his ear as he rolled his hips and thrust again and drove Sasuke deeper into their anonymous bed.

It was probably a technically good fuck, but Sasuke hardly noticed. Itachi's scarred body covered him, Itachi's long-fingered callused hands stroked his body and held down his wrists, and Itachi's low voice caught on stifled breathy moans. It was good, so good, to have Itachi inside him at last, their bodies entwined, just as they were meant to be. Years he'd wanted and waited and dreamed and planned, aching years of private lonely love. Now, only this: twin heartbeats pulsing in time, the long-sought consummation, the soft lover's sigh - never to be repeated.

Chapter Text

Uchiha Itachi no longer existed.

Uchiha Itachi had died years ago on the blood-soaked earth of an old clan hideout. What had been brought back to half-life by the Impure World Resurrection was only a shadow, a remnant, not a person.

Accordingly, when it somehow lived beyond the ending of the jutsu that had brought it back, it was not classed as a shinobi of Konohagakure. If it had been acknowledged as a former Leaf shinobi, it would have had to undergo a trial; secrets would have had to be dragged out into the open; and probably it would have to have been executed, no matter how good its defence might be.

Somebody did have to look after it, though: Konoha couldn't have remnants wandering through the town making the residents uncomfortable, or wandering through the countryside and maybe revealing a little too much. So it was given an owner. And who could take better care of what remained of Uchiha Itachi than the newly reformed Uchiha Sasuke?

In some ways, it was like having a mother again. Itachi was a far better cook than he had any right to be, after a lifetime of field rations. He was also adept at laundry, gardening, and all other matters pertaining to running a household smoothly. Sasuke had never felt that his apartment was empty, but it was better with another person in it. Even the white walls seemed brighter and more welcoming. Itachi greeted him at the door like a wife would her husband - even if he'd got in at some unholy hour of the night.

Naruto had commented, with his customary lack of tact, that he was looking much better - "looked-after", he'd said. He'd been right, though Sasuke hadn't been pleased to hear it. He didn't need 'looking after'.

They slept in the same futon, because Sasuke liked it that way. And Itachi was in no position to refuse Sasuke anything. Sasuke could wake up and touch him at any time, touch the cool skin that, when you looked closer, was crazed with the finest web of cracks, like fired porcelain. Sasuke had thought that perhaps Itachi might come back without his eyes, since they'd been transplanted into Sasuke himself; but Itachi's eyes were normal, such dark grey they were almost black, like Sasuke's. He had no access to the Sharingan that he'd given up to Sasuke. But neither did he have the frightening lung disease that had killed him the first time. He was still a shinobi, a strong one, one of the best - but one without a bloodline limit.

It was fortunate: if Itachi had still had access to the Sharingan, he would doubtless have been executed.

Instead he was here, in Sasuke's apartment, with in bed with Sasuke because Sasuke had told him that was how it would be. No matter what Sasuke did with him, he never resisted, never complained beyond a token resistance. Why would he? He belonged to Sasuke. Even the law agreed.

So any time Sasuke liked, he could come up to Itachi and play with his hair or tug on his ponytail, or pull his face down a little for a kiss. Itachi was always willing. If Sasuke demanded to be taken to bed, Itachi would pick him up and cradle him and carry him, just as he was told. Sasuke did exactly as he liked to Itachi: pushed him down, had him roughly or gently depending on his mood, and Itachi was always obliging.

"You have to," Sasuke told him right at the beginning, one hand on Itachi's bare chest, as if holding him down on the double futon. His face was hard, but his voice had a thread of doubt. Could he really force Itachi to do anything he didn't want to do?

They would never find out. Itachi only murmured,

"Of course, little brother," and sank down into the futon. He belonged to Sasuke now.

Chapter Text

Tea Country was fertile and full of verdant foliage, along with the fields of cultivated camellia bushes that gave the area its name. It had no Hidden Village of its own to produce shinobi, so it relied on Leaf shinobi of the neighbouring Fire Country. As a place to keep a retired Leaf shinobi with a taste for dango, it couldn't be bettered.

Itachi kept his hood up in the ubiquitous teahouses: so did other individuals, for far shadier reasons, so it wasn't questioned. He'd returned to life somewhat healthier than he'd left it, but too many people were familiar with Uchiha Itachi's handsome face.

Sasuke visited, when he could. He'd barely escaped a trial himself, thanks only to the influence of the Leaf's new Hokage. Two years on from the Fourth Great Shinobi War, Sasuke was just about trusted to leave the village without an ANBU escort. Naruto knew perfectly well where he was going, anyway.

They took tea together at whichever teahouse Itachi said was good: Sasuke had no opinions on tea or wagashi provided they weren't poisoned, though he had quite liked the time one of the sweets had been shaped and coloured like a little tomato (though filled with anko, per usual). Itachi liked things flavoured with green tea best, so Sasuke saved his matcha wagashi for him. Itachi needed feeding up.

The house Sasuke had bought for Itachi was a small wooden affair, like any comfortable peasant house. It was light and airy, with direct lines of sight and nowhere for an assassin to hide. It was always as clean and neat as a new pin, even though it wasn't as if Itachi could actually see the dust. It looked nothing like the old Uchiha compound. There weren't even shuriken targets in the back garden, to avoid unnecessary attention. There were tomato vines instead, and rows of tubers and bushes of fruit. Few flowers, excepting some strongly scented hardy perennials around the borders, and a dramatic wisteria growing up the front of the little house. After all, as Itachi had pointed out, he couldn't appreciate flowers for their looks.

It was early spring, not yet late enough in the year to be uncomfortably humid. Itachi didn't need Sasuke to lead him back home, but he took the proffered arm anyway. Sasuke would have preferred to hold his hand, but that would have drawn too much attention.

The door shut behind them. Sasuke knelt and pressed a kiss to the strong white hand. Then he helped Itachi take off his boots, even though he could have easily done it himself. Itachi was indulgent enough to let him.

Sometimes, Sasuke liked to carry Itachi, or be carried by him. Sasuke was nearly as tall as Itachi now, so it probably looked ridiculous; neither of them cared. Today, Sasuke just twined his fingers through Itachi's and led him to the bedroom. The futon wasn't unrolled, but they didn't need it. They were on each other in a second. Sasuke wrestled Itachi to the floor, and Itachi helped by stripping Sasuke's loose shirt. They grappled with each other across the floor in a way that might look violent to an onlooker, undressing each other with frantic haste.

Sasuke kissed the ANBU tattoo he'd been envious of as a little child. Under the new Hokage, the practice of tattooing ANBU recruits had been abandoned - it seemed silly to make them more recognisable. He had his own marks from the village.

Itachi kissed his mouth, gentle but insistent. Sasuke cradled his brother's head in his hands, weaving his fingers through the soft spilling hair. Itachi's mouth always opened for him, his whole body welcomed his body. They'd both been virgins before they'd started going to bed together, but Sasuke couldn't imagine it feeling like this with anybody else. This easy, languorous kissing, and the instinctive movement of their bodies. They'd done it a few ways, but this was the way they both liked best: between the spread thighs, rubbing and grinding against each other, mingling panting breaths.

"I'll keep you," Sasuke murmured breathlessly in his brother's ear. Itachi's nails, no longer painted black, dug into his sweat-slick back. Itachi was his now: finally, his big brother belonged to him alone. Finally they were able to love each other in peace, without interruption.

"Yes," said Itachi's low voice into his neck. "Sasuke, yes." Itachi wasn't vocal, but Sasuke treasured the knowledge he'd gained of his brother's body. It was so natural to make it good, to treat Itachi as he ought to be treated. He pulled Itachi's head back by the hair, not too roughly, to expose his throat.

It was something teenagers did, maybe, something immature. But they both knew Itachi liked it when Sasuke sucked a clear red mark into the side of his neck, sweet and soft and slow and deliberate. Itachi wore loose shirts with wide collars, like Sasuke, and the love bite would be clearly visible - Itachi was no longer able to check in a mirror, but he would be able to feel it, raised and a little hot.

Itachi clutched at Sasuke's back, as broad as his own now, and raked his blunt nails down it. Sasuke shuddered, full-bodied, and bit harder at Itachi's neck, his shoulder. He relished the sting, and he wanted the red lines of Itachi's claws to last. He wanted them to make their mark on each other, so nobody could be in any doubt as to what they were to each other: brother and lover in one.

The marks would fade, in time. They would continue to keep the true extent of their relationship a secret. And Itachi and Sasuke would go on making love to each other; they would go on leaving the imprints of their love on each other's bodies.

Chapter Text

When the world around him inverted, Sasuke knew Itachi had caught him in his Tsukuyomi. His stomach lurched and his palms grew clammy with atavistic dread. The last time he'd been on the receiving end of Itachi's genjutsu, he had relieved the night of the massacre again and again. Itachi might return to old favourites: why change it if it works?

Knowing you were caught in Tsukuyomi didn't get you out of it, like it did with some low-level genjutsu. And it didn't make what happened to you feel any less real. You were just trapped in a world that was slightly grey around the edges when you weren't looking at it too closely, a world where dream-logic applied and you couldn't move. All you could do was experience the hell Tsukuyomi had conjured up for you, and endure for as long as you could.

The familiar lines of the Uchiha clan compound took shape around Sasuke. This again. His gorge rose as he looked at the low table at which he, his parents and his brother had taken so many family meals. The first time this had happened - last time - he had re-lived the killings again and again, watched the horrified or resigned faces fall slack in death, watched the sword fall like an executioner's blade. He shouldn't be shocked the second time round. What was there left to be shocked by?

But he was seven again, rooted to the spot on the straw matting of their dining room, and he felt everything just as intensely as he had when he'd first seen it. If anything, time had dulled the flesh-crawling horror and the detail of each family member's death. It didn't seem possible, when he dreamt about it every other night, but time the healer had brushed over some parts, smoothed them out, tried to help him forget the worst. And now he was reminded of it all in lurid, grisly precision.

The genjutsu pulled him through rooms like his body wasn't there, like he was only an eyeball, a passive observer of the action in a book, punctuated by the silver flash of Itachi's tantou. The air was thick with the cloying metallic smell of blood, so thick it coated his tongue. Sound was muted through the thumping of his own heart in his ears.

A man appeared in front of him. It was Itachi, as he was now, a man instead of a boy. Before Tsukuyomi, Sasuke had fought Itachi with all his strength, but Itachi had broken his wrist with his bare hands as if it was nothing to him. His eyes swirled red with the constantly-activated Sharingan. What chakra reserves must he have?

Sasuke was forced to his knees. There was blood on the floor.

Blinding pain lanced through him - his wrist - his mouth opened in a choked gasp of pain - but when his vision cleared, his forearm was straight and whole, even though his ears rang with remembered agony.

Behind him, Itachi spoke.

"Foolish little brother..." His voice was low and warm, like something rotten under the humid earth, encasing him. Sasuke wanted to put his hands over his ears. He was undressed from the waist down, and something a little like the remnants of shame made him want to cover himself, but he still couldn't move. Cheap humiliation, he told himself, and wished he believed it.

He didn't realise what Itachi intended to do with him until he actually did it. Not until Itachi's dick was touching his virgin hole. Even then, for one icy moment of confusion, he had no idea what it was. Pressure? Heat?

Then Itachi slowly pressed into him, and it was Itachi's hands, with black nails, that were pinning his wrists to the bloody floor.

Sasuke's mind went blank. The fragments of control he'd gathered at the ordinary feeling of embarrassment blew away like dust. Itachi's body - his strong, grown-up body - was on top of him, and the deep thrusts jolted him forward and ground his cheek and knees into the tatami. HIs body burned with pain. The thing going into him felt huge and invasive, and he couldn't even struggle. He muffled his pained gasps against the musty-smelling straw.

Sasuke had begun to develop an awareness of this, what it entailed, and what it might feel like; and that it sickened but also fascinated him in a way that girls didn't. That Itachi knew it as well - he felt exposed, like a snail pulled squirming from its shell, as no doubt he was supposed to. He was overpowered, torn apart from the inside. He couldn't muffle the sounds he was making, little sobs and gasps - weakness, uncontrollable weakness that he still hadn't managed to burn out of himself.

"That's right," Itachi murmured in his ear. "Hate me." His thrusts forced his cock into Sasuke again and again, and Sasuke's clawed fingers twitched uselessly at the air. "Hate me, Sasuke."

Chapter Text

He didn't even make a convincing woman. There was nothing short of genjutsu that would make Uchiha Itachi into a convincing woman.

It should probably have been Sasuke dressed up, since he was slightly shorter - there weren't many women around who were nearly a metre eighty tall. But this wasn't for a mission, and they weren't trying to convince anybody that Itachi actually was a woman.

The sad thing was, Itachi did genuinely look fetching in the furisode. Sasuke had helped him get it on, after consulting Sakura about how the hip-fold worked, exactly. Not that he'd told her why he wanted to know. He'd made vague noises about a job, and let her draw her own conclusions. She'd looked all too pleased to imagine him dressed up in women's clothing. So on with the under-robe, and the furisode itself with its long impractical sleeves, and the sash and the cord and everything that went into dressing a respectable young unmarried lady.

From the back, if you squinted, Itachi made a passable woman. His hair, longer than it had ever been, fell loose down his back, and the kimono did its best to conceal his broad shoulders. There was an elegant curve to his neck and a straightness in his posture that suggested that when that figure turned, it would be a demure beauty.

Well, beauty was right - Itachi had even been described as 'pretty' a few times - but no longer of the girlish type Itachi had had in his teens; and nobody had ever thought to apply the adjective 'demure' to Uchiha Itachi at any age. Itachi's inordinately handsome face (or so it seemed to Sasuke) was complimented by the rich navy of the furisode, patterned with red, gold and white cranes. The golden sash was overset by a red scarf and cord. It was an attractive arrangement, even Sasuke could recognise; and the hint of rouge he'd given Itachi to apply to his cheeks and lips gave him a fetchingly dewy flush.

So, no, Itachi didn't look like a woman. But he looked invitingly womanly.

It was, it turned out, slightly complicated to make love in formal kimono. There seemed to be more layers than Sasuke remembered helping put on. But it was exciting to take it slow, to treat the heavy silk carefully, to treat Itachi carefully. Sasuke took his brother in his arms and kissed him leisurely, and found it was Itachi underneath after all - just a little more yielding, like all Jiraiya's stupid romance novels said a wife was to her husband. He fumbled one hand under the layers of silk and took his brother's cock in hand and stroked it slowly - they had all the time in the world now. Itachi twitched in his arms, little involuntary movements that Sasuke drank up greedily. Itachi reached up to cup the back of Sasuke's head, encouraging him.

Itachi looked so wonderfully debauched, lying there in Sasuke's arms, a real flush under the rouge that Sasuke had kissed off his lips to make them redder with biting. His collar had come loose, and there was no suggestion of breasts in the shadow there. It wasn't much like having a woman, no - at least, not what Sasuke thought a woman might be like. The furisode encouraged an air of delicacy that highlighted Itachi's fair complexion, his thickly-lashed clear eyes - but also the man's hands with big wrists peeking out of the long sleeves, the prominent larynx above the collar. It was like an optical illusion: from one angle feminine, and then the light shifted and he was masculine again.

Itachi tugged on his hair and smiled at him, and that was all the encouragement Sasuke needed to kiss him again. How lucky he was to have a big brother like this. How lucky he was to have Itachi with him always, real and whole and perfect.

He hitched up Itachi's kimono, further disarraying the layers he'd smoothed so carefully into place, and took his brother's cock into his mouth, slow and steady all the way to the root. Itachi's strong fingers were gentle in his hair, but tensed and pulled when Sasuke pressed his tongue into the slit or let the head slip down into his throat and swallowed around it. By now, Sasuke knew Itachi's body by heart. Itachi's spread thighs twitched, and his cock pulsed in Sasuke's mouth.

Sasuke swallowed, of course. It would be a shame to make a mess of the furisode when there was so much more fun they could have with it.