Again, bitten by the drabblebug c: I was bored and thought of how pretty his hands are. Enjoy and review, please. :D

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Madara's eyes followed Itachi's hand as it moved across the page, filling out the mission report from his latest assignment.

He had pretty hands, Madara had to admit. Long fingered, graceful, delicate looking hands...(though Madara knew that they were far from
delicate.) Itachi had the hands of a gentleman. The hands of a scholar. Better made for holding the pen he was using than the kunai and garroting wire they were so used to using.

Madara glances at the faint scars on the knuckles of Itachi's left hand- the hand he most often used to deliver punches. He remembered when he had trained Itachi, and blood had dripped from the raw, torn flesh.

He also remembered those hands in the heat of desire, those long fingers tangled into red silk sheets, trembling with want and need. Pleading hands that begged without words, even as Itachi moaned his name.

Those hands that grew up too fast. The hands that grew rough and calloused before their time. Hands that knew love and lust in equal measure with hatred and despair.

Hands that murdered.

Hands that held.

Hands that clung.

Hands that let go.

Itachi's hands were Madara's favorite part of him.

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