My buddy Aimee begged me for more MadaIta, so here you go. Over one thousand words of unrepentant smut. Okay, so there's SOME plot, but not too much. Mostly smut.
WARNINGS: MadaIta, MadaSasu, incest, yaoi, whatever. You wouldn't be reading this if you didn't want to, so…
Madara knew it was a perverse attraction. He knew it from the first second he found himself desiring the boy. He was only thirteen, for God's sake! That made him nearly a whole century his junior. They were both of the same clan- the same blood that flowed through Madara's veins flowed through Itachi's as well.
Itachi was fragile. He had just murdered everyone close to him. He was alone. He was frightened. It would be immoral to take advantage of him when he was in such a weakened state.
And yet, Madara just couldn't bring himself to care.
Itachi had been with Akatsuki for about four months when Madara first decided to make his claim. He came up to Itachi and asked him to follow him into his bedroom. Itachi, surprisingly, cooperated without hesitation. Perhaps he was still too innocent to know what Madara had in store.
He sat on the edge of Madara's bed, watching him with a vague interest. Madara wondered how to go about this. After all, he hadn't done anything like this since…
…Hashirama was somebody that he would very much like to forget.
It was amazing how some good food and a bottle of sake could loosen up a teenager's inhibitions.
That was why Itachi didn't fight against the first kiss. Why he opened his mouth willingly to Madara's invading tongue, making little moans and gasping sounds that lit his body on fire.
He mumbled something incoherent as Madara pulled away and turned his attention to removing Itachi's clothing.
"Huh? Oh, issnothing," Itachi replied, his speech slurred from the alcohol. "Feelsgood…"
Madara couldn't repress his smirk. He removed the Akatsuki cloak (far too big for him. But they don't have anything smaller) and set to work on the rest of his clothing.
He ghosted his fingers over the exposed planes of Itachi's chest, trailing his hands down to the hem of his underwear. The flush of Itachi's face deepened.
The underwear was gone in one swift, ungraceful motion, tossed somewhere on the floor behind them.
Madara could hardly believe that this beautiful boy writhing underneath him was a mere human being. He heard Sasori talk about art before, but he had never understood it until now.
Itachi was art. Itachi was perfection. His hair was smooth as silk, shining even in the dim light of the Akatsuki headquarters. His eyes were as black as his hair, black as crow's feathers. Smooth, pale skin unmarred, save for the ANBU tattoo they forced on his arm. He devoured the boy with his eyes, touched him with his hands. And yet, he could never get enough.
Yes, this was art. And Madara was about to claim it for himself.
He leaned his head forward and took Itachi into his mouth, inciting a moan that Itachi stifled with his hand.
Itachi knew he shouldn't be feeling this good. Especially not when everything about this was so wrong.
He came in Madara's mouth. He gasped as the pleasure washed over him, overtaking him like a tsunami. He bit down so hard on his hand that blood gushed from the wound he created.
Madara's smirk widened as he pulled himself away, wiping the cum off the corner of his mouth.
"Do you like that, Itachi?" he asked, his voice smug. "Do you like it when I suck on your cock?"
Itachi looked away in embarrassment. Madara spat in his hand and went to work preparing him. Itachi kept his bleeding hand clamped firmly over his mouth as those fingers invaded him. His muscles clamped down on Madara's fingers. He was so warm, and so fucking tight. Madara couldn't wait to feel them wrapped around his cock.
He pulled the fingers out, undoing his pants.
Itachi nodded, almost mechanically. Madara felt a twinge of regret for what he was about to do- namely, stealing this precious gift, this one remaining shard of Itachi's shattered innocence.
All regrets disappeared the moment he forced himself inside.
Madara's mind became hazy as he felt that tight body taking him in, accepting him. Tearing flesh to make more space.
Itachi couldn't suppress his scream. Tears began to stream down his face, against his will.
"Hurts," he whimpered. "It hurts."
Madara wiped the tears away, but more only replaced them.
"Relax," he told him. "Just breathe. It gets better."
Itachi took a few shaky breaths, vainly trying to relax his body.
Madara made no pretense at being gentle. He pulled out and slammed back in as hard as he could, making Itachi scream again. But this time the scream was different.
"H-hit that again!"Found it on the first try, did I?
He pulled out and rammed himself in again.
It's wrong. Even in his drunken state, Itachi knows this is wrong. It isn't right, and yet it feels so so good and he wants to say stop, but his body is begging, no, pleading for more. He can feel Madara's cock throbbing inside him, and he feels dirty, feels more pain than he has in his entire life. But he wants more. Because amongst the pain, there is pleasure. And this pleasure is the most intense thing he has ever felt.
More intense than the burning pain that tore through his body. More intense than the guilt over his clan's murder.
He also knew that such an intense sensation couldn't last. Madara came, cock twitching and emptying into Itachi's lithe, thirteen-year-old body. He pulled out and laid down on the bed.
Itachi was completely drained, falling asleep almost the moment they were finished. Madara lets Itachi sleep snuggled against his chest, knowing that Itachi would be sore, tired, pissed-off and hung over in the morning. The sight of all that dried-up blood (his blood) might even cause him to pass out.
(Itachi never did like the sight of blood.)
But it didn't matter. He was a teenager, after all. His libido got the better of him eventually, and he once again sought out the sinful pleasure of Madara's touch.
He was sober this time around. So he couldn't blame it on the alcohol.
If you could see me now, father, he thought one night. You would say I was disgusting.
And it was true. This act was disgusting. It was depraved. But that didn't change the fact that Madara owned him. No matter how many times he said no more, he always returned later, submitting himself to Madara's use.
Perhaps he couldn't function properly unless he was being used. After all, that had been his lot in life since childhood. Used by the clan, used by the village. The only difference was that now, the use was different, and now, he was getting something pleasurable in return.
It may have just been the way his brain was wired.
Itachi was dying. Madara knew that better than anyone else.
Not that Itachi hadn't fought it. He had fought back with all his strength. And, for a time, it seemed as though he had beaten it.
But not anymore. The fits of coughing that stole his breath and brought up blood, fainting spells that were becoming more and more frequent, splitting headaches that gave him no rest, and an overall weakening of his body screamed one thing in unison:
"You are a dead man."
Madara had watched him waste away like a snowman in springtime. Helpless as this illness ate him alive from the inside out. Helpless to convince him to die in peace.
"Is Sasuke worth it?" Madara asked Itachi one day. To which he replied:
"Sasuke is worth everything."
Madara almost pitied the boy.
No, not a boy anymore. At twenty-one years old, he was very much a man.
And very much dying.
His eyesight had faded, the consequence of Mangekyou Sharingan. His illness would end him, if Sasuke didn't soon.
It didn't seem quite right, but Madara supposed he could see the logic in it. Someone as pure as Itachi, someone so kindhearted, so trusting, so beautiful, couldn't last long in the world. He had tainted his purity, had his innocence taken. He had endured more hardship by age thirteen than any Shinobi should be asked to endure in a lifetime.
Death would be merciful for Itachi. The beauty of his youth forever preserved by his premature death.
His heart had died long before.
Sasuke made more noise than Itachi ever did. Every touch, it seemed, incited a moan. Every thrust causing a scream. He clung to Madara as he pounded into him ruthlessly, until his thighs were beet red and blood poured out from in between his legs.
He knew exactly what to do to incite pleasure. But that was to be expected.
Because Sasuke wasn't a virgin. Orochimaru had made sure of that.
It didn't matter to Madara. He was just another tool. Another toy to fulfil his lust and depraved desires.
And then, once his use had run out, he would be thrown away.
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