For the Ones We Love

This is just a quick little thing I came up with and figured I might share. This was supposed to be much dirtier than it actually was, but I’ve found that things are never really obscenely dirty when I write in Itachi’s PoV. Damn first person perspective.

While short on the sexy-sexy smut, I think you guys may enjoy it, and if you don’t, I’ll be making up for it soon. You see, I’m planning a multi-chaptered fic centered around the Uchiha, and there’ll definitely be smut in that one. Oh, and plot. Yeah, plot. Kinda need that.

Anyway, enjoy!

***

My name is Itachi Uchiha, and I love my younger brother more than anything else in the world.

Nothing is too much when it comes to protecting Sasuke, not even death. As a matter of fact, death is my goal. In order for Sasuke to live happily, I have to die. I don’t mind.

But as it stands, it is not my time to die just yet. There are things I have to do in this life, things I have to protect him from.

Things… and people.

One in particular is Madara Uchiha. Yes, you heard right. Madara Uchiha, one of Konoha’s founding fathers, thought to be long dead. Madara is very much alive, I assure you. He and I have become rather close over the years. He helped me murder Uchiha, and we’ve been together ever since.

I say all this like it’s a good thing…

As if it’s a good thing when he stands before me and says, “Take off your clothes,” and I comply.

Like I said, nothing is too much for Sasuke.

How does that have anything to do with Sasuke, you ask? Because, as Madara has so kindly reminded me throughout the years, if I don’t do what he says, he won’t bother asking my brother… I’m sure you know what I mean by that.

So, robotically, I slide my shirt over my head, tossing it off to the side. Next come my pants, then my boxers, all in practiced motions, ones I’d become used to by now. He stares at me; even with a mask covering all but one eye, I can tell he’s eagerly devouring my appearance. I look weak, I know – I am weak, to an extent, compared to Madara.

Not like I would ever fight back.

He lays a gloved hand on my chest – I try not to think about the reality of the situation, how horribly obscene it all is, how exposed and bare and vulnerable I am – and shoves me back. The backs of my knees – with nothing covering them, don’t think about it, just let it happen – hit the edge of the bed, and I fall back, automatically righting myself to lay vertically, my head propped up by too many pillows, almost as if he wants me to look, to see what’s happening to me.

“Spread your legs.”

He always has to tell me this. You’d think that after doing this with him – no, him doing this to me – for so long, I’d do it automatically. No, I still wait, I still force myself to open my legs, almost as if my body thinks that if I keep them closed he might leave me be, that this might be the time-

Such thoughts are worthless. I know he’ll never stop if he doesn’t have to. What reason does he have to stop? That I am unwilling? “Then why do you spread your legs?” he asks me, “Why don’t you try to stop me?”

For Sasuke, that’s the answer, but-

No, it doesn’t matter.

He kneels between my legs, and I feel horribly dirty, like a common whore, like a slut craving his touch. To be touched, to feel needed, no, I have no desire to feel that way. Let the world hate me, that’s the price for Sasuke’s happiness. Let the world use me, like he’s using me now, as a sex toy, a warm body he can use and abuse whenever he feels the need, no strings attached, just a plaything.

He never gets undressed, why should he? I’m not worth the effort, so he just pulls himself out of his pants, and it’s at this point when I look away. I feel him positioning himself at my entrance, and I try my best to relax, but it-

“Ah-!”

-it never matters.

Swiftly, he pushes inside of me, the resistance of my muscles being the only thing that slows him down. There’s no hesitance, no regret, just lust, and the filthy product of that feeling. Gloved hands grip my naked hips, reminding me – intentional or not, I don’t know – that I am the weak one, that he’s the one with the power. Indeed, the only possible weakness he’s shown me is his lust, and thus, the only part of him exposed to me is…

Well.

The pain is nothing new, though I remember when it was. Nothing new, but nothing tame, it’s still just as fiery as ever. What’s changed is my ability to cope with it, – no more begging, “Stop, please stop!” – my ability to grit my teeth, stare at something in the distance, and try to pretend it’s not as bad as it is. He’s changed, too, pounding into me harder, and faster, to try and evoke the old me, the one who banged his fists against his chest, not really attempting to stop anything, but maybe deluding himself into thinking he was.

Is it sick, I’d often wonder, that Sasuke was the main thing on my mind when this was happening? Wide-eyed, innocent Sasuke, without a care in the world. He’s no longer exactly like that, I know, after what I did to him, but Sasuke’s still pure, still innocent, though in a different sense now. He doesn’t know the truth of what happened, and I don’t want him to.

My fingers flex, and I end up grabbing the sheets beneath me, trying to keep my breathing even. Madara notices this; I can practically feel him staring at my hands as my knuckles go white, hear him counting how long it takes for me to inhale and exhale, hoping for some subtle change.

Sasuke, Sasuke, Sasuke. Think about Sasuke. Laughing, smiling, playing with his toys, trying to copy my movements as I train – god, I hate training, I don’t want to fight, fighting leads to wars, like the one I tried to stop, Madara, don’t touch Konoha, stay away from Sasuke, I’m thinking about it again…

Madara’s hands tighten on my hips, and he shudders, my only clues that he’s about to cum. He doesn’t moan, he doesn’t make a sound – that’s above Madara Uchiha, it’s Itachi Uchiha who whimpers, Itachi Uchiha who cries and begs, no, not any more – and I soon feel nauseous as warm liquid fills me. It feels like more than it is, they say it’s not really that much, only a teaspoon or so, but I swear I can feel it extend to my stomach and up my throat, or is that just my body reacting to how filthy I am?

I swallow, and feel that there was nothing in my throat, it was merely an illusion. Reality is perception, after all. Does that mean if I perceive he’s not hovering above me, obviously pleased with himself, that he’ll go away? Many a time I’ve tried, but I have yet to succeed. He shifts, pulling out of me, and there’s a rustling as he cleans himself off – himself, never me, that’s my job, to wash myself off while never feeling truly clean – and tucks himself back into his pants, and then-

Softly, a kiss is pressed to my cheek. The reason for this doesn’t come to me quickly. Tools used for pleasure don’t require affection. He pulls his mask back on, stands up, and walks to the door, pausing only to speak to me once more.

“Is Sasuke worth it?”

Ah yes, that’s why. Mind games, making me wonder, he loves doing those things to me. Is it really worth it, being used by him, giving him complete control, letting him make me think I’m worthless and valuable and pathetic and strong, one after the other, playing with my head, manipulating me until I feel like I’m about to break, but I know I’ll never be allowed, all for Sasuke’s safety?

Is it really-

“Yes.”

He’s staring at me, but I’m not staring at him – I can see Sasuke’s face on the far wall, I can see him smiling, and I can see him crying, and both break my heart. Sasuke has me in the palm of his hand; he controls me, body and soul, more than Madara ever will.

Madara walks away, and when Sasuke smiles, I smile back. Madara’s footsteps grow fainter and fainter, then fade away into nothingness. I know he can’t hear me now; I can barely hear myself.

“Nothing’s ever too much… Sasuke.”