Don't own Naruto. Seriously. Why the hell would anybody think that the owner of Naruto would slash Itachi and Sasuke together? I mean come on.
Itachi rarely touches him, Sasuke realizes, even though his fingertips leave trails of fire in their wake. He finds that more often than not, it's all about getting off and nothing more. He's noticed by now that he'll never really get much more than that.

Still, he finds himself longing for nothing more than just touch, the faint scratching of painted nails on his skin, the fiery whisper of fingertips anywhere and everywhere and a hot hot breath in his ear that sends shivers down his spine. Despite himself he realizes that he wants something slow, something drawn out and torturous, something that teases him until every nerve in his body sings with that forbidden, burning touch.

And yet, more often than not, he finds that in the face of his brother's lethal grace (voice like sweet, sweet poison), stripped of his clothes and his pride, laid bare for only Itachi to see, he can never ask for it. He wakes, sore and abused and alone every time and he wants that touch but can never ask. He can never ask because the last bit of pride he has refuses to sound so romantic, and he knows that if he did, Itachi would simply laugh at him in that low (intoxicating) voice that he so loves to hear his name in.

Sometimes, sometimes, Sasuke does something Itachi doesn't expect, and it's those times that he feels the most proud. It's those times that he lets a smirk curve his lips even in the face of the Mangekyou because he can safely watch as his brother's eyelids flutter and he lets slip a sound (any sound at all, though Sasuke's favorite is the sound of his name stitched inside a breathy moan) that rushes instantly south.

When he closes his eyes at night, he feels that touch like fire dancing over every inch of his skin and when he comes, he comes hard, screaming Itachi's name to the ceiling and hearing it echo right back at him in the empty, empty room.

When he comes down from the high that follows, though, he can feel nothing but empty longing (empty like his room, like his soul), and he waits with his hollow self for the next visit, the next time that emptiness will be filled and vacated again. He waits, day after day, week after week, for the next chance he'll have to never ask.


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