Itachi Shirtless Novels & Stories

Receiving threats, or promises all day isn’t my favorite thing to do. The man I came here to kill looks like a model straight out of a magazine. You know, one of those motorcycle ones with the shirtless guy on the front? The one where the model sits with their legs on both sides of the motorcycle, their legs wide and muscular, their hands tatted and tightly gripping the handle as he stares the camera straight in the eye? Making it look like he’s staring through your soul and leaving you hot and bothered? I hate how my breath hitches at the sight of him. Shane is oozing with sex appeal, he looks like someone picked out his wardrobe for him. He’s chosen a black dress shirt that isn’t buttoned.

Where was he? Where was Thane. The whole hall grew silent, and I noticed why, he just walked in. He was shirtless, only in a pair of torn-up jeans; he hadn’t bothered about washing off the blood of the men he had beaten up and killed; his body was covered in blood, and a cold shiver walked it way down my spine. His eyes were cold and empty; he didn’t look up to me once.

The two noticed it was only Yamato. Without his cloak Yamato's heavily tattooed arms could be seen. The most notable tattoos were the kanji on his left arm that read "Even humans can be gods" while on his right it was a man climbing a spider's thread. He was wearing a tight black shirt, black gloves, and black pants. His face had a stern expression that seemed almost frozen with how stiff it was. "Where are the others?" Peter asked. 'You'd think he was a grim with that outfit.' Oliver thought.

- He said. Being that the shirt of his uniform still had the great emblem of his house in which it looked like a large and prominent alchemical symbol, in which it was only with shirts that it symbolized the great symbology of the Arabic language and nothing else covered it other than that Tsuki Miki was the only one completely naked. "I don't want." He tried to say, but was only met by demanding lips and a struggle between wills and dominance of tongues that fought inside their mouths. With the two fingers in his anus going in and out he was greeted with a mixture of heat and coolness.

He simply shrugs off his black-and-gold coat, letting it fall over a nearby chair. The fabric slides down his arms, revealing the crisp white shirt underneath, stretched taut across those powerful shoulders. My mouth goes dry. He begins unbuttoning the shirt with deliberate, unhurried movements. One button. Two. The fabric parts slowly, revealing inch after inch of smooth, golden skin stretched over hard muscle. A dark, elegant tattoo in Japanese script trails down his left ribs, the characters bold and beautiful against his skin. My gaze traces it helplessly. He turns slightly to toss the shirt aside.