A/N: All right. For starters, I'm not a fan of this pairing. Of course, that doesn't mean I'll jip on the story. That's just lazy. So. . .yeah. . .

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto, and I'm not making any money off this

Ratings: PG-13

Genre: Angst/Horror

Warnings: Yaoi, incest, ItaSasu, slight citrus flavor

Main Characters: Itachi and Sasuke

Additional Notes: As I mentioned earlier, I take no pleasure from this pairing. In fact, it creeps me out. A lot. I'm merely writing this because it is stuck in my head, where I'd much rather it not be, and this is possibly the fastest way to get it out. This takes place during the time skip. Enjoy?


He didn't know why he did it. He didn't know why he returned, night after night; it made him sick, after all, what he was doing. And yet, he couldn't stop. It was an addiction. Even days later, he could still feel those hands—those delicate, powerful hands—ghosting across his flesh. He could still taste the man. Sasuke was well aware that this was sick—they were both well aware of the fact. Their churning, clenching stomachs confirmed it every morning after. And still, they couldn't stop, for neither had the resolve, the last bit of self-control, required to sever the grotesque and twisted barbed-wire-bond they had somehow created from what had once been simple. It was a vile addiction that, while it was possible to end, had dug its claws in far too deep for either of them to be free. The only true liberator was death and so that was what they strove for in the light.

He had questioned once why Itachi had come to him that night so long ago, five years after the massacre. His brother had merely looked away, frowning with his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Weakness," he finally said. "I had hoped that you would save me from this—this sickness."

"Pity I share it then," he had replied, his hands fisting in that silky black hair that he had never inherited from his mother and yanking Itachi's head to the side, exposing that pale neck with its gently throbbing blue veins. The taste of blood had been sweet. They had devoured each other that night, and again once every month since.

Always, they found each other under the black, faceless moon as though they themselves had no faces, as though they had no pasts, no relations, no souls. There were no lights allowed for it would not do to see and there were no pleasantries exchanged. This was their time to forget, to pretend, if only for the night. It was rare that they would speak, the night of the lingering question being the sole exception. All was silence and blackness as otherwise the hate would destroy them both. It was a black thing, and so was done in a void. They writhed in heat and hate and shame, their cries and moans wet and pain-filled with warped release. And yet, it was needed—for as much as they loathed it, it was needed. It was the only time they did not feel alone.

Painted nails tore at sensitive skin, lips bruised, and above all there was the sickening rhythm that both lusted for and loathed—and always, the copper taste of the blood they shared.

A/N: Done. Maybe now it'll leave me alone? I certainly hope so. Either way, please review—just no flames though.