A/N: If you're squeamish about dub/non-con, this is not the chapter for you.
Crossing the threshold into their new home, the one his brother has built with far too much care, considering how much else there is to be done, Tobirama finds it difficult to keep hold of the tension pulling tight behind his ribs.
He allows himself a moment to brace for what's to come as he slides the door shut. When he turns to face Izuna, he finds she's slipped a kunai from her sleeve as she holds it aloft between them, set to strike. Even in what he knows must be the finest silks she's ever worn, it feels natural to see her with the weapon in her hand. It brings him balance, in a way.
"You will not touch me," she warns.
"I don't look forward to this any more than you do." He steps further into the room and her eyes sharpen as she drops her stance almost imperceptibly. Instinct urges him to give her a reason.
"If that were true, you'd step back."
"You know they'll check. There's no way around this."
"Consummation can be faked. A little blood on the sheets, it's not so difficult." If only it were that simple, but then, neither of them would be here if it were.
"It's not about that." And you know it, he thinks. Why must she make everything that is already difficult so much worse? "You must conceive, Izuna. Like it or not, you cannot do that on your own."
He steps closer and she takes the knife to his throat.
"One more step and it'll be your last. Village be damned." This close, it's become more difficult to avoid her eyes. He focuses on the shape of the words leaving her lips so as not to slip and catch her gaze.
"Are you truly so afraid that you would sacrifice our peace to have your way?" It doesn't land quite as he'd hoped, and it's disgust that contorts her features, rather than the rash anger he'd aimed for.
"You're so eager," she spits.
"I won't shirk my duty simply because I find it distasteful," he corrects. When he swallows, he feels the blade cut into his throat, feels the blood that gathers and drips down his neck. The slow tickle of it falling across his skin gives him something else to turn his attention to as he offers, "It won't be painful, I swear it. I'll make sure you take your pleasure, too."
"You think I could ever enjoy the touch of a Senju?"
"Our bodies hardly care what our names are."
"Is that what you tell yourself when you find your pleasure in thoughts of violating me?"
Her words are enough to tip his temper and he steps back just a fraction.
She carves a deep gash into his right forearm and manages to cut him across his cheek for his troubles, but in the end, however quick she is, he's quicker, and at such a close range his advantage is too strong to be overcome.
His heart rushes in his ears and he tries not to consider too closely the reality of what he's doing as he sweeps her legs out from under her and drives them both to the ground.
•
Tobirama's knee pins the back of her left leg to the ground, anchored by the gravity of his chakra, as his forearm, sleeve wet with the blood she'd drawn, crushes her neck down into the floor by her nape.
She claws and kicks across the wood until her nails tear and her bones bruise, pushing her palms into the ground as hard as she can but unable to find the leverage she needs to escape from under him.
The beat of her heart is climbing, heavy and hard enough she fears it might shatter her ribs and break free. Instinct brings her eyes to life and she curses herself. It does her no good and only serves to ensure she will remember every second that passes between them.
She tries to twist her neck, to catch his eyes. Pins from her hair dig into her skull as she shifts, but when she feels his free hand begin to gather the skirting of her robes, the sensation fades from her mind as adrenalin caves in her chest and she takes the only action she can think of, biting down hard over her tongue with enough force she nearly severs it.
Pain sprawls out through her cheeks and down her throat as her mouth floods with the heat of her own blood and something in her chest comes loose, relaxing at the assurance that he will not have her, no matter the cost.
The pool of blood under her cheek grows quick and behind her, his movements still. Then, he is off her neck and she is being dragged back and up by a calloused hand wrapped tight over her jaw as sparks flit across her vision.
"What have you done?" His voice is rough with frustration and something more she'd rather not think about.
She wants to laugh, to poke and prod and needle as she always does, but the blood in her mouth chokes any sound she tries to make. It's to be expected, she thinks, rather distantly, as she focuses on clawing at his arm, trying to tear herself from his grip and losing strength quickly as the blood pours from her mouth.
Fingers from the hand not already holding her in place force their way into her mouth and push down on her tongue. She burns. With the press of his chakra, knitting her torn muscle back together, and with her shame at having done little more than inconvenience him as he sets out to ruin her so thoroughly.
It's no surprise when he only heals her tongue, does not try to replenish her blood and give her back her strength. Still, she finds enough of it to bite down hard on his fingers against the clutch over her jaw. It's difficult to tell how deep she gets with her mouth already filled with the taste of blood, but he swears harshly behind her and tears his hand from her mouth, shoving her back to the ground.
"That you would go to such extremes—"
It's only a half-second, but his knee leaves her and she moves without hesitation, gathering everything she has to push herself up and it's still not enough. He catches the silk of her obi and drags her under him as she tries to crawl away, the floor slipping out from under her in the mess of their blood, room spinning.
It feels impossible to keep her wherewithal and she ends up on her side as he grabs her wrist and holds it up to keep her there. She tries to sit and finds the weight of his knee once again pressing hers down from the outside, over and across her lower leg which is rendered useless by the position.
He pulls at the part of her kimono, rough enough to lift her body from the ground as he tries to tear it loose. One of the ornaments in her hair falls to the ground.
"Look at you," she rasps, "playing at righteousness, calling us dogs when you're no better. You're worse." She laughs and her lungs burn. "My husband, the rapist. Perhaps those who named you a demon were right, after all."
She assumes he means to expose her but he drops her back to the ground just short of doing so, catching her wrist as she tries to push his hand away. With his other hand, he brings his bloody fingers to her chest and aseal—she assumes—takes shape across her skin. She wonders at its purpose until—
"My chakra—" The flame of it flickers and dies inside of her, the thrum of it receding further into herself than she can reach, and she loathes the fear that colours her voice at its loss.
"It will return." She feels the weight of her situation when he meets her eyes of his own volition. If she searches her memories from childhood til now, he has never done so before.
Without her chakra, he overpowers her easily. Trapping both her wrists against the floor in front of her with his bloody palm as he uses his knee to nudge hers further up, leaving her more easily exposed.
She fights him, of course, fights until her muscles burn and her skin bruises, but she knows it will do no good. She's as powerless as any civilian, now, and he is one of the strongest shinobi the world knows.
He uses his free hand to grab at her hair—carefully avoiding her mouth—and forces her eyes to him.
"Put aside your pride and beg. I will stop." It sounds, strangely, like a plea, and she wonders when he became such an actor.
"You'd love that," she sneers. "To see me beg, to have me put all I have left in your hands and violate me anyway." To take every scrap of her, body, chakra, pride, and crush it. She's no longer surprised at the savagery of his willingness, in this.
"I won't. If this means more to you than your pride, you have my word, I won't take it from you."
"Do you not see yourself?" Whatever game he's playing, she has tired of it. "How much do you think your word is worth when you've already done this much?"
Anger clouds his face at having his offer thrown back at him with so little regard and she has one moment to savour the satisfaction of denying him before he finds the hem of her skirts and pushes beneath them. Without warning, he presses his palm to the seam of her and she realizes in the same moment as he does that she's gone wet between her thighs.
Her hips twist, trying to pull away, but she cannot escape his touch as he holds his palm to the slick centre of her. He keeps her gaze and humiliation forces her to turn her face to the floor, cheeks and chest burning.
"At least your body knows its duty, even if you do not."
Shame and arousal twist tight around her heart and nausea rolls through her stomach. She wants to tear his tongue from his mouth. Cut the smugness away at the root.
He presses the heel of his palm where she's swollen and sensitive and begins to massage her there. She bites her lip and fights the tide of heat which rises inside of her, nausea at its heels. His touch is the first she's known besides her own and she feels vile to have yielded to it so easily.
No noises leave her, she swallows against every sound, every surge of bile that threatens to free itself from her throat, but when he speaks, the words tip past her lips without thought.
"How does it feel?"
"Like a curse."
The worst part is the strength of it. She's found her own pleasure before, of course, but his touch sets her skin on fire in a way hers does not and as the heaviness it spurs in her grows she finds that distinguishing the burn, humiliation from pleasure, becomes impossible.
He drags his hand lower, through the fold of her, and pushes back up with fingers parted to tease at the swell of her nerves. Intense, sharp—almost painful—pleasure lances out under her skin and tugs at her hips.
"Stop." The alarm in her chest rings out through her voice. It's too late to take it back. He does not pause, doesn't relent, only asks, voice hard—
"Will you beg?"
They both know she will not.
He continues to tease, to press, flicking and dragging rough fingers across her nerves until she's left panting against the floor. Pieces of her hair have come loose and when they billow with her breath she feels as though she's seeing it from a distance.
It's impossible to say how long he keeps her like that, stoking the flame under her skin with nimble fingers, but she feels the pressure of her arousal cut across her abdomen, swollen hot and urgent inside of her, the familiar need for—something, something she can never find the words for—and experiences one clear moment of dread before the wave inside of her crests and pleasure sweeps through her body.
A shudder runs over her and the self-loathing it spurs should, at least, diminish the heavy aftershocks of pleasure which have sunk themselves into her bones, but it does not. He pulls his hand away and there is no relief as she hears the soft sound of fabric running across itself and knows what he is doing.
When he pushes her skirts up and she feels the cool air of the room against her skin, further chilled for being wet, she is sickeningly grateful that he does not lean back and try to see her more clearly, now that she's truly exposed.
His weight shifts over her leg, her aching wrists, and then she feels him, stiff and swollen hot against her and has to bite her tongue against the rising urge to give in and beg, no longer sure what for.
Instead, she tries to pull her focus elsewhere. The skin of her chest, her cheek, her chin, gone tight with drying blood. The way her neck still aches from where he'd held his weight over it.
In the privacy of her mind, she begs to any god who will hear her to let this end quickly.
•
The noise which tears from her as he pushes forward echoes the one she'd made when his blade slipped between her ribs and the satisfaction it brings abhors him.
Her body feels molten around him. Unbearably soft and slick, sweet beyond comprehension and he wonders at how something—someone—so vile can spur such pleasure in him despite himself.
Without thought, he pulls back and pushes into her again, revelling in the heat that ripples through him and the wounded noise she makes, wanting to force it from her again and again until her voice goes hoarse.
He curls the hand not pinning her wrists down over the top of her Obi so he can push into her with more force and sets himself to finding a rhythm to settle into. She doesn't fight him anymore, whether it's because she knows it would be useless or because she's accepted that her place here and now is beneath him, he doesn't know.
In retrospect, he thinks, he was right to shy away from the truth of her beauty. He looks at her, hair falling apart, ornate silks torn, bruises blooming under skin painted with both of their blood and thinks that if he'd have known—if he'd have imagined her like this with any real clarity before he'd earned it, it would've driven him to madness.
In some distant part of his mind, he knows he enjoys this more than he should. Not just the power he holds over her, but the sight of her, her presence—the very fact that it's Uchiha Izuna whose body takes him as if she were born to it.
He'd told her that their bodies would not care for their names, but he finds that's not true at all. The truth of it is their names make every difference.
He thinks of her, hissing and spitting and clawing at him, trying to spill his blood all while her body aches for him, growing slick for him before he'd even touched her—
Impossible thoughts carry him away. Is this the first time she's been like this because of him, he wonders, or has it always been this way? If he'd have pushed her down into the dirt when they fought, could he have had her there, in front of whatever gods might be watching and their own brothers? Would her body have welcomed him as it does now?
He's struck by a memory, far off and long buried. They'd grappled as teenagers, out of chakra and having resorted to screaming and hitting and grabbing until he'd felt something else—some horrible, urgent pull that had frightened him enough to break away from her. He'd hated her even more, after that, and she him.
Every noise she makes taunts him. He wants to hear his name in the shape of each sound, but never finds it.
"Izuna," he breathes, running his thumb over her wrists where he holds them.
"Don't—"
"Tell me what you need," he urges. She turns her head to face him, hair strewn over flush cheeks. Her eyes cloud with lust but they still keep their edge, the spite there is familiar.
"You disgust me." Her voice, broken by the thrust of his hips, lacks its usual bite, but her words stir something in him. Volatile need tightens his stomach.
"Why do you still lie?" He releases her hands, in part to prove he can—prove she will stay where she is when he does—and in part to bring his hand down between her thighs to touch her where she's swollen and raw with want. He's momentarily distracted by the impulse to run his fingers along their joining, feel where he fits himself inside of her.
Sharp fingers digging into his chest pull his focus. She's pushed herself up on one forearm and when he slips his hand up to tease her where she's most sensitive, her hand curls into a fist and fabric tears under her touch as her mouth falls open, lips gone swollen and red where she's bitten into them.
She doesn't push him away.
•
The violation is both better and worse than she'd feared it might be. Any pain had faded quickly, and the small, burning edge of it that lingers only serves to intensify the sickening pleasure that swells under her skin.
The sensation, though. The invasive nature of it—she hadn't anticipated the way he would fill her up. She has no point of comparison, but can't imagine anyone else would take so much of her. It feels as though he's pushing the air from her lungs every time their hips come together.
When he lets her go she has every intention of wrapping her hands over his throat with as much force as she can muster, but he pushes his hand between her thighs and her own gets lost halfway, finding his chest instead as a shiver skitters across her skin.
There's no point, she tells herself.
Her head tilts back and she meets his eyes, jaw tightening to the point of pain at the sharp ache in her chest spurred by the intensity of his gaze, so unfamiliar, despite how many times they've seen each other. Red eyes hold hers and the futility of her actions makes her bones grow heavy.
Almost the second she gives in, the swell inside of her bursts and heat draws her body tight. She lets herself collapse down into the fold of her arms as he keeps his pace, drawing out the thick, sweet push of fire through her veins until she feels weak all over.
"Look at me." His pace has quickened and she knows he must be close. Now that her own pleasure has passed, she feels the impact of him against her with clarity that makes her sick with herself for allowing it for even a moment.
He moves to grab her face and she pushes him away but he is still quicker than her and she still lacks her chakra, the second time he tries, he manages easily, and twists her neck towards him as he presses bruises into her jaw. The want in his eyes will haunt her, she's sure of it.
When his hips stutter against hers, hard and deep, panic and revulsion clutch at her lungs and she claws at his throat, knowing she cannot stop him but needing, desperately, to do something. To make sure he understands that she has not accepted this.
Heat fills her and bile rises in her throat.
As he withdraws from her and sits back on his heels, she allows herself to collapse. Without the feeling of him inside of her, there's nothing to distract from the slick, swollen feeling between her legs nor the burn of her lungs, tired from fighting to pull breath against the thick binding of her obi for however long has passed, nor the way her knees and wrists ache from his weight.
She shifts, planning to push herself to sit, but every shift of her legs causes her to feel—keenly—the way he's bruised her and the mess she's made of herself. She's forced to pause so she won't empty her stomach onto her torn silks.
•
"You bled." It sounds stupid, he knows, given all that they've inflicted on each other, and he must look even more so, but—
"You've never been squeamish about my blood before." The breathless pleasure from moments ago has gone, her voice now is rough and bitter and it brings him out of his shock enough to finish putting himself away. "Don't tell me no one explained to you the realities of being the first?"
He swallows. It feels as though there's glass in his throat.
"I'm not—I thought you had already—"
Her laughter is vile. It makes him feel cold.
"You cannot tell me you're so naive," she hisses, "the demon half-wolf of the Senju clan, rumoured to drink the blood of his enemies and kinfolk alike, has to be told not to trust everything people say?" Her voice mocks him and he feels the contempt it gives rise to turn inward.
Possessive satisfaction grips at the edges of his mind at the thought of being her first—her only—and he tries futilely to stamp it to nothing.
"If I had known, I would not have been so—"
"Have you not taken enough from me tonight?" He feels sick with himself, shame draws his eyes to the bruises that circle her wrists and he looks away entirely, unable to bear the sight that showcases so clearly the slip in his control. Unforgivable. "Do not take me for a fool, as well, Tobirama."
•
He drops his gaze in shame, as she'd hoped he might, and she brings her hand to her mouth as if to wipe away the blood there. Careful he does not see, she spits into her palm and uses it to ruin the seal across her chest as she drops it back to her lap.
"I'm—" It hardly matters what he plans to say, as he isn't given the chance to finish. She is ready, and the second his eyes turn to hers, she traps him in the most vicious genjutsu she can conjure from the horrors that haunt his mind.
He falls, unseeing, to the floor and for the first time since the door slid shut behind them, she feels she can breathe.
There are many things to do, to decide, but for now, she fills her burning lungs and, assured of her privacy by the quiet of the house and the strength of her eyes, allows her tears to fall.
A/N: I stg this story has a happy enough ending. It's just gonna be a while 😌