Knight of SwordsSeries:
Itachi & Nagato/PeinWord Count:
Adult situations, D/s relationship, toys, nudity, mild sexuality.
During my last Read Along (Skype party wherein a bunch of us get together and I read porn), I handed out prizes to a few members of the brave crew on board that crazy train. freedom_1001
won a 500 word drabble from me, myself an I.
Prompt: "Desperate, angsty self-realisation that is both life-changing and uplifting."
Characters: Author's Choice
Free's a fan of my Itachi (most of his backstory is found in "Broken Interlude" and "Deprivation"), and I couldn't think of a better person to have said moment of discovery.Spoilers:
Itachi seeks freedom from the demons of his past.
Itachi’s footsteps echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the home that was more mausoleum than manor. White marble flowed beneath his black boots, white walls arched to a white dome covered in a mosaic depicting the agony of man, and a white doorway with carved ivory trim marked his passing. He turned right and strode with purpose down a long, narrow corridor. The light from the reception hall quickly faded, and the end of the hallway was black as pitch. The handle under his hand was cool and glass, and he pushed open the heavy, oak door that didn’t so much as whisper on its hinges.
Another chamber, more porcelain and Mother of Pearl, and Itachi paused to glance at the bench covered in creamy satin. His fists clenched, his jaw flexed, and his groin throbbed. Ancient ache stirred sleepily through his core, asked in a tired voice if it needed to rouse from slumber once more to claim Itachi’s soul for another minute, hour, day.
Itachi told it to rest. Crooned it back to its cage, and it went without a fight.
Instead of removing his armor made of cotton, silk, and leather, Itachi smoothed his loose hair over his ears. Instead of donning the chains of his own torture and device, he bypassed the gleaming caldron and let the links lie. And instead of kneeling to wait on this side of the white fur curtain with his bare knees going numb, his hands at his back, his chin tipped down, and the hope of retribution thrumming in his veins, he swept aside the shimmering veil and walked into the room beyond it.
The darkness was a shock after the blinding light, and Itachi took a deep breath. Shapes formed from shadows: a table, a rack, a wheel, a hundred ways to hurt along a million lost highways. He’d been down most of them, and he’d left pieces of himself at the end of many.
But no more.
The voice rang church chimes in Itachi’s mind, drove chills down his spine, and craven need rose, ignited, and evaporated. “Your Excellency,” Itachi answered with a curt nod.
Nagato emerged. He held a whip and a length of velvet in calloused hands, and he wore nothing but metal. A gaze of dying suns regarded Itachi for an endless moment, and Nagato sighed. “And so now you are the saint?”
“No,” Itachi answered his Master. “Just a man done with grief.”
Nagato emptied his palms, the tools falling to the floor. He seemed older, frailer, vulnerable, and Itachi crossed to the man Itachi cared about with the crazed love of sinners for saviors. They embraced, and softly Nagato wept. He was a man always comfortable with tears.
“I will mourn you,” Nagato said.
“I know,” Itachi said, kissing long, sleek hair.
“Are you sure?”
“As I can be.”
“You know you can return.”
Their eyes met. “Goodbye, then.” Nagato’s smile was trembling twilight.
And Itachi’s kiss was farewell.
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