Mito and Hashirama insist on having the two of them and Madara visit to share a meal with little enough subtlety that no one is particularly surprised when they announce Mito's pregnancy, far along enough it's safe to assume she will bear it to term so long as she's careful. Izuna has no doubt every caution will be taken, can only imagine how insufferably doting her husband must be.
They celebrate with the fine liquor that hasn't been drunk since the night the village was named, all of them understand the added significance of the pregnancy. They believe this peace will last.
Izuna is delighted for her friend, truly. Not because it's what's done, but because it means Mito has found the feeling here that Izuna wishes for herself. Safety.
What Izuna is not delighted by is the seemingly endless stream of villagers who, despite having never spoken a word to her, for reasons beyond her comprehension, have taken Mito's pregnancy as permission to inquire as to her own plans to bear children and assure her she'll fall pregnant in no time, as if she'd asked. It's insufferable and she does not always care to manage the politeness she knows she should, given her position, when she checks them for it.
They settle in Izuna's study. Mito is still healthy, but to keep her that way the physicians have advised that she reduce the stress she puts her body through, so they've begun to split their time spent training more evenly between physical practice and theoretical study. Typically, they do this in the Senju library.
Today, they are in Izuna's study. The inquisitive expression that settles into Mito's features reminds her why that is rarely the case.
"I can't help noticing—"
"I think you could if you tried." Mito ignores her.
"—that there is no longer a futon in this room."
"Such a keen eye you have. Perhaps you should turn it towards your scroll and not the state of my furnishings?" Mito does not hide her grin and Izuna keeps her gaze, willing her face not to heat with the flush that creeps up her chest.
The following day, Mito arrives bearing a gift Izuna immediately distrusts.
"What is that?" Izuna feels the dread in her own voice, knows she tempts fate by even asking that much.
"I think you'd prefer I show you inside."
"Wonderful." It is anything but.
Once inside, Mito reveals a shallow wooden box filled with cotton and a small stone canister tucked into one corner. It has a seal for preservation painted over the top and when opened, the canister contains a sweet-smelling mixture of honey and lemon. Izuna can guess at its use.
"This truly isn't necessary," she tries, "Tobirama has kept to his word that he will not touch me unless asked and I'm nowhere near the desire for his child."
"And if you'd like to ask for pleasure alone?" Izuna's face burns. There's no way, of course, that she knows about the encounter they'd had the night Mito had pointed out her husband's jealousy, but— "Izuna, take it. If you don't, I'll only have it sent over when you're not home and whoever brings it to you might look and discover you desire your husband. Imagine the shame."
Her tone is teasing but the threat is very much real and Izuna has no doubt she will do just that.
"Fine," she relents. "I cannot stand you." Mito doesn't look at all bothered and her shamelessness reminds her terribly of her brother. It's not until Mito is gone that she realizes she's forgotten to correct her assumption and has to comfort herself with the knowledge that it likely wouldn't have made much difference if she had.
•
Tobirama is afforded the rare luxury of an early day—made rarer still by the fact he allows himself to take advantage of it. A scarce allowance even now the village can afford it, but the rain had begun pouring while he and Kagami trained and he's covered in enough mud it feels forgivable to go home and bathe.
He stops, first, to gather fresh clothes to change into—once he's made sure he won't track mud over the floors—and in their room he finds a shallow wooden box lying haphazardly on the floor.
Nothing about it feels sinister, and when he takes it from the ground he finds one corner weighed down much more than the rest. Upon opening, there is only loose cotton and a small stone canister. Some kind of salve, perhaps. Izuna is prone to injury.
"Going through my things?" She does not sound truly irritated, but there is something there. Some underlying tension he'd like to know the cause of.
"It did not seem private." Izuna stands just inside of the room with a scroll in hand. He can guess what she'd meant to do with it. "You meant to hide it from me." It's not a question. He doesn't want to allow her the room to cover her intentions.
"For a while," she admits. "I have no wish to deceive you again, I was only concerned it might give the wrong impression." She still looks as though she'd like to reach out and snatch the box from his hands. He looks back to it and sees a preservation seal written over the stone. Strange.
"Meaning?" He watches as resignation sets itself into her shoulders before she answers him.
"It's—a per-use contraceptive. One that will not make me sick." His heart kicks in his chest and—has he not held to his word?
"I haven't—"
"I know, and I trust that you won't. Only—Mito saw the futon had gone from my study and she assumed I might consider asking for some reason outside of children." That does nothing at all to help the heat that's risen in his chest, though it does alter the shape of it.
"I see. A baseless assumption." It's not meant to be a question, but it feels like one when he says it.
"Not quite so baseless that I'd throw it away," she allows.
He closes the box and lays it by her side of the bed. Izuna returns the unused scroll to her study.
•
Izuna watches on in amusement as the eldest daughter of the Daimyō flashes her loveliest smile at her husband and wonders if he can truly be so poor at flirting or if he refuses the attention for Izuna's own sake. Though, surely if that were the cause, he could try to be less rigid in his refusal, in the name of good relations, if nothing else.
His rebuffs aren't awkward so much as they are painful, containing only enough politeness as not to cause any outright insult, given they are guests in this home. Even the alcohol seems not to have relaxed him enough to behave more casually. Izuna has never had a mind to flirt with him, the thought feels laughable, and now she can't help wondering how he behaves when he's willing to show interest.
When they retire to their room for the night, his words run circles through her mind.
I do not want you to feel deprived by our marriage.
It is frowned upon, to a degree, for men of his status and supposed virtue to be unfaithful to their wives. It is also expected. Among the Senju, who see themselves as righteous, perhaps less so, but even still, no one would be shocked.
Izuna believes herself to be realistic in most things. Her husband is a Senju with an Uchiha wife he did not want, one who refuses his touch outright. Is he not deprived by their marriage? It's not something she's cared enough to think of until now, but once the thought has taken root, she cannot help wondering. Does he see other women? He's strict with himself, enough that if he did decide to seek relief elsewhere, he'd likely never do so in the village. He cares about his honour, his reputation too much to go where he might be easily found out.
In a way, she might be relieved if he were to seek his pleasure with others. It would alleviate her of the pressure she feels, stronger every day she hates him less, to try. To give some part of herself he'd once taken by force, regardless of the risk involved.
Another part of her loathes the thought, but Izuna knows herself well enough that much is expected. Izuna doesn't believe herself selfish or material, but she's never liked sharing what's truly hers, and despite her best efforts, she's begun to see him as such.
"I hope you didn't turn her down for my sake." It is, quite immediately, the wrong thing to say. She suspected it might be, but whether that's his offence at her lack of care or defence at having been caught out remains to be seen. He's gone still at the small table across from the futon where she's settled with a blank scroll, recording the day's events for their brothers.
"Why would you say that?" His voice is hard.
"I only mean to say I cannot imagine any grown man is so poor a flirt—though if I could, it may be you, in all fairness—and I hoped you weren't so for my sake." She keeps her tone as light, as unaffected as she can manage.
"Izuna." He turns to face her. Even without meeting her eyes, she can see the heavy set of his own.
"Tobirama," she replies, "I'm not so naive as to think you've tolerated going untouched for months for the sake of a wife you did not want. Surely you take your pleasures outside of the village, when you get a chance? Answer honestly, if you care for my deprivation at all, you must also care for your own." She curls the word deprivation over her tongue and turns it into a tease, as though she hadn't allowed herself to give in to whatever reason he'd offered. As though she'd been above it.
"You twist my intentions and show how little regard you hold for my attention in one breath."
"Are you saying you do not?"
"I thought we understood each other in this, Izuna." She can hear the beginnings of true upset underlying the frustration in his voice, but she cannot stop herself from pushing.
"Tobirama, many men do. You would be no exceptional deviant."
"Many men do," he agrees. "I do not."
"How have I forgotten for even a moment how you like to think yourself so much above others?" It's an attempt to lighten the conversation, it does quite the opposite. Izuna feels troublingly wrong-footed.
"You would be so untroubled by my straying that you've taken it for granted and said nothing? For months?" Tobirama, in turn, has shown himself to be very troubled indeed by the idea of her doing the same. She'd assumed it was pride, but—perhaps not. It could be that he feels the same unwilling possession she does.
Izuna is very aware of the choices laid out before her. It would be easiest to follow her instincts. To hold to her nonchalance and insist she does not—could never—care what he does or who with, and insult him further. Accuse him of lying and allow their argument to spiral as they often do. It's familiar territory, but it feels exhausting in a way that's new.
"I do not like the thought of your hands on anyone else," she confesses. The words come as easily as pulling one's teeth. "It only seemed naive to think you would deprive yourself of pleasure for my sake. The thought had never occurred to me until tonight and I—I could not hold my tongue, I suppose."
Rather than her own embarrassment at the admission, she focuses on the look that's settled across his face. She can't quite place what's behind it—something that happens less often, now—but it doesn't feel like anger.
"Izuna," his voice is stripped of all pretence, "I am your husband. I do not want the thought of me with another woman to inspire no reaction in you."
"Can I ask honestly, why have you not?" There's no accusation to it, she truly wishes to know. The thought feels too improbable.
"The thought never occurred to me." She laughs without thinking.
"How can it be possible?"
"Can I answer honestly, in turn?"
"I would like you to, yes."
"If things had remained entirely as they were," volatile, she thinks, cold, "I may have sought someone out, but I do not think I'm wrong in saying our situation has improved."
"You're not."
"And my hope is that you might permit my touch, in the future. If we are to have a felicitous marriage, in time, I would be happier for it to have been a faithful one, all the way through."
"The Demon Senju is secretly a romantic."
"You know well I abhor that name." The irritation in his voice is a comfort, safe ground. The look on his face, as if he knows exactly what she's doing, is not.
"I do." Izuna sighs, relenting to the moment. "I would prefer the same."
"I could guess as much. You wear jealousy quite well."
"I was hardly jealous—"
"I beg to differ. Should I warn the Daimyō of my wicked wife? Who cannot stand the thought of—"
"Do not think our marriage has improved so much I won't bleed you where you stand for finishing that sentence."
"I'm only teasing. Wasn't it you who said I had to improve before you'd consider flirting?"
"I think I prefer you stunted. Your tongue becomes too loose when you drink."
"It did not seem such a problem to you last time."
"For both our sakes, please remember we have to face each other sober, tomorrow. I'm going to bed." He is far too pleased with himself for her tastes. It seems her husband is not such an abominable flirt, after all.
•
He doesn't allow himself to think when he reaches out to catch her ankle before she can slip below the duvet, nor when she allows her legs to fall open, just enough that he understands. Nor even when he follows the current between them and presses his lips to the soft skin of her thighs, dips to taste the line of her hip and bites down over the knot of it.
The liquor hasn't clouded his mind, only loosened his tongue, as she'd mentioned, and he has no intention of allowing them the excuse of it come morning.
Every indulgence he'd resisted the first time is allowed between them now. Bruises pressed into toned thighs, kisses pressed at the edge of her curls, deft fingers twisted tight in his hair as he licks into her. The sharp pull over his scalp sends want lancing sharp down his spine to settle heavy in his groin and spurs him on deeper, messier, careless beyond what he'll give to hear his name fall from her lips like something divine.
As many times as she'll allow it, he drives her over the edge of her own pleasure. When she pushes him away, he goes and assumes he'll be excused for taking care of himself. She sits up, breathless and flush with her thighs still resting over his, and pushes his hand away.
When she takes him in hand he almost loses himself to it. Every part of him pulls tight, straining inward towards her touch. If the tension weren't enough, the thought, the sight of Izuna's hand on him of her own will would be enough to do him in. An open acknowledgement of her want, hard-fought and won over months of his own.
Release takes him and he grips her waist hard enough to bruise through the fabric of her yukata, burying his face in her neck while she says nothing, only settles her hand over his nape and strokes him through it.
•
Tobirama sleeps soundly next to her and Izuna feels more awake than ever. It's not the pleasure between them that's unsettled her—allowing herself to want him, to have him tease her out and show her not just want but affection had felt terrifying, but thrilling. Comforting, to a degree.
When she'd taken him in hand, the feel of him had been pleasant enough, weighty and softer than she'd expected, but more than that—Izuna has always enjoyed drawing a reaction from him, even when she loathed every breath he took.
All of that, every moment that passed between them more open and intimate than any before, and he still hasn't looked her in the eyes. He still doesn't trust her. It sours the memory of his touch, not enough for regret, but close enough to leave her troubled.
A/N: IS this the same chapter twice? Maybe. Or, maybe I just think eating pussy is vital to one's spiritual and emotional development. You be the judge 😌