Do they get jealous? / Uchiha men x Fem!reader
I just needed to get this out of my system, sorry.
featuring: Sasuke Uchiha, Itachi Uchiha, Obito Uchiha, Izuna Uchiha, Shisui Uchiha, Madara Uchiha, Indra Otsutsuki
tw: jealousy, possessive behaviour, like really possessive, some of these men are literally not okay, obsessive behaviour, yandere-ish behaviour, slut shaming, and victim blaming, because madara apparently doesn’t believe in catcalling, slight smut, sexual content, kissing, mildly dubious consent, because this is all so beyond the line of normal relationship behaviour, toxic behaviour, hickeys, marking, referenced bdsm, toxic relationship, these men are just various degrees of unwell, mature content, unreliable narrator bc they are absolutely deranged, mostly their POV, who would’ve thought Sasuke would end up being the sanest of the lot
Everyone in here is depicted as an adult.
Sasuke thinks he’s good at hiding it.
He’s not.
You get a kick out of seeing him green in the face with rising jealousy whenever another man makes the mistake of speaking to you. But he’s so damn proud that he would die before admitting it out loud. He knows he should be stronger, that to lose to such basic instincts speaks of a lesser man than the one he aspires to be. But he can’t help it. Something dark gets hold of him whenever another guy gets near you. And he stares at you from afar, seething, gripping whatever surface he has at his disposal so tight that knuckles start to turn white. It doesn’t matter how well-behaved you are, either—because you are. You always keep a respectable distance from whoever approaches you with deceitful intentions. But you still smile at them while refusing their advances, and he hates that.
He sulks and broods for the rest of the night, only answering your questions in monosyllables. It used to be frustrating for you, but now that you know the reason, it’s become an effective way to shut him up whenever you require some peace and quiet.
Itachi honestly believed himself above it.
Before you came into his life, he never would have thought of himself as the jealous type. It didn’t matter how many men dared crowd around any of his previous partners; he’s always been too confident to feel the crushing vice of resentment slowly seizing his heart at the sight of it. And yet, he can’t stop his gaze from wandering towards you whenever you catch someone else’s eye, now.
The fuckers linger so damn close, too.
What do they get so close for?
He can only imagine what goes through their filthy minds while talking to you, and it eats at him from inside.
He wants to snatch you away from them, wants to dip his fingers into your soft skin so hard that the resulting bruises will be enough of a warning for whoever strolls towards you next.
But he knows that refraining will be much more rewarding.
He will soon have you know just how much he’s suffered, anyway. You will be bare and defenseless by then. You will be his. After all, there’s only one cure for this sickness of his, and it’s in your sweet voice and how it rings in his eardrums when broken by pleasure, moaning his name as if it were your salvation.
Obito is beyond possessive. He knows, and he doesn’t care to correct his ways, either.
But that’s just because all he does is for you. To protect you, to keep you safe from all those disgusting pieces of shit that he’s sure constantly hover around you whenever he’s not around to scare them away.
That’s why you always have his hands on you when you two are out together. Not harsh, never harsh on you—just firm and heavy on your hips, or steadily lingering at the back of your neck, keeping you as close to him as he can manage. Wherever he can touch you, however much is enough to let them all know not to mess with his girl.
Sometimes they don’t get the hint, tho. They shamelessly eye you up in the streets as if you were there to amuse them, too caught up soaking in your astonishing beauty to even notice him. It sends fire running down his veins, an unrestrainable instinct flowing through him.
He squeezes you even closer, then, fingers dipping a bit too hard in your skin when he turns your face his way, pressing hot lips on yours to send a much clearer message. Their gazes finally wander elsewhere with that, and it never fails to have him smirking triumphantly.
Izuna’s not bothered by the weight of their eyes on you whenever you’re with him.
The real problem arises when you’re left on your own, lacking his supervision.
Anytime you tell him you’re gonna go out with your friends, he tenses up immediately, jaw clenching, fingers twitching.
Why do you do this to him? Don’t you know it’s torture for him to know you’re gonna be defenseless against them?
He needs to find a way to protect you. He would go as far as to keep you with him at all times to do that. Or, he could cover your body up completely just to make sure nobody else gets to see your marvelous curves and fantasize about them the way only he can. But you seem to be adamant in opposing that intent whenever you pick an outfit to wear for such occasions.
He can’t have them gooning over you like dogs in heat, tho.
That’s why you’re not allowed out before he’s got his way with you. He will make sure to cover you up completely in the making. And when he’s done, every single inch of your skin that rests exposed to the chilly night air will bear the mark of his canines. He loves you so much more like this, anyway—marred with hickeys and bites that he will make sure to have last for days. No one will look at you without knowing, and they'd better think twice before messing with such a beast. That has to be enough to soothe his soul, for now.
Shisui is desperately jealous, constantly seeking reassurance by dragging his hands on you. And it takes him so little to have you give in. His touch is hopeless and greedy, promptly turning you pliable to whatever he needs from you.
He asks you to tell him you’re his again and again, with his fingers buried inside you, with his teeth gently grazing at your pulse, his voice miserable and broken by pleasure. He’s a mess when the words strain out of his lips for the hundredth time, soft and pleading.
" You're mine?"
You nod, eyes lidded, cheeks flushed, heavy breaths mixing with his. He feels too good to deny. No matter how proud you are, you crumble as if he were an earthquake when he’s got his hands on you, firm muscle twitching with seismic intensity against your flesh.
There’s something about the glint of his eyes whenever you give in that makes shivers crawl up your spine, as if you’d just realized having given your soul up to the devil.
He ravishes you, then. He has to. He needs to feel you drown in pleasure at his hands. That’s the only thing that quiets the voices in his mind, melting that haunting fear of losing you to someone else.
It’s ecstatic, the feeling provided by knowing you won’t run away, not even if he decides to smother you with his undying affection.
Madara holds you responsible for how men behave around you.
You’re too hot, always dressing like a whore as if purposefully trying to lure them in. What else are the poor bastards to do, then? Your perfect curves must sing to them as they do to him, and the softness of your skin is painfully evident when wrapped in that damn leather you have a habit of wearing. It’s only natural that they turn their heads whenever you pass them by.
He’s convinced that you like the attention. All those stares, whistles, and filthy remarks they shower you with.
You think you’re so smitten, parading your body around for everyone to see.
Isn’t his gaze enough to sate you?
He’s fascinated by the magnitude of your greed, really. But regardless of it, he can’t let such behaviour go unpunished.
And that’s why he loves to tie you to his bed late at night, relishes in having you admit to your perversions and endless calls for attention, all while he teases you to no end. By the time he finally decides to grant you a bit of pleasure, you’re sobbing and desperate already. You sniffle and writhe, mascara pitifully running down your plump, flush cheeks, staining you guilty of having played with his heart for way too long. You beg to have him inside, imploring him to be his. That’s just the way it always should have been, anyway.
Indra doesn’t care where you wander to, as long as you always come back to him.
He knows how you like to think you could do better. Every month or so, you throw your usual fit, lashing out at him and leaving him alone for days on end.
But it’s alright, because you always come back. You always appear beneath the bow of the door to his apartment, eyes glossy and desperate for more of him. Because he knows damn well you can’t resist the way he treats you. He's heard you talking about him with your friends: "Gentle, yes, but demanding; endlessly caring but oh, so greedy—practically insatiable."
He bets he touches you better than anyone else ever could. After all, he’s memorized every curve and patch of skin on that perfect little body you keep refusing to admit belongs to him. He’s mapped it out flawlessly over the years. All so that he knows exactly which buttons to push to have you come undone in his arms. Once, twice, three times. He can go on all night long with absolute ease. Until your knees give out. Until you’re void of your useless pride and full of devotion instead. You’re too weak to resist the way he loves you. Doesn’t matter how much you two fight; doesn’t matter if he doesn’t clean his act up like you so badly wish for him to do. He can always count on this. On the fact that you always end up coming back with your tail between your legs. On the way you thread and squirm, too impatient to have his skin pressed against yours. No other man you delude yourself of ever being able to love can bathe his ego in this pitiful display, he’s sure. It makes him feel invincible. You make him feel like the world’s all his, like he’s the sun you will always, inevitably gravitate around.
