[Sleep falls deep and immediate that night on the heels of physical exhaustion. It is a rare experience for him to sleep this heavy, vivid dreaming an infrequent occurrence alongside it—and even less often is the quality of those dreams pleasant. Better to feel nothing than to face the monsters from the dark. That black veil of unconsciousness shrouds his mind in the comfort of nonexistence, almost a caricature of death; it doesn't last long.
Next he is aware, he is in the bedroom of the small, plain apartment where he had fallen asleep. The light on the wall looks strange. It tilts in through the window like new daylight, yet its color is the bloody red-orange of sunset, casting the room in dark, romantic, apocalyptic hues. He's kneeling at the foot of the mattress. Half-dressed, he realizes that the shirt hanging off his upper torso isn't his own—a few sizes too large, its hem skates the flesh of his bare upper thighs, its collar drooping to reveal most of his shoulder. The scent on fabric is all the confirmation of ownership he needs. His partner bears no obvious markers, usually, but this he knows, he could not mistake it otherwise, that natural musk of a powerful body kept fastidiously clean. Kisame is too close to him not to be recognizable.
That, and the vivid, red, circular bitemark on his exposed shoulder is proof of the rest. He can feel other bites throbbing raw and warm on his body; there's one on his inner thigh, another at the meat of his calf, another on the ridge of his covered sternum. And Kisame himself is right there—laid back on the bed, stripped fully naked, scars on pale display. He has enough reach to be able to touch fingertips to the Japanese inscription of wrath beside Kisame's toned abdomen; one of the few he can read. Impressions left by other people. Where is his own?
Itachi blinks, seeing more details: his partner's strong wrists are tied above his head to the bedpost, and his cock juts up between bare, muscular thighs, swollen and shiny with the evidence of lube. His own hand is slick, sticky; he was using it on Kisame. The bindings cannot be a true confinement—Kisame is too powerful for that—which means he submitted willingly.
Bright, yellow eyes watch him as he shifts up the mattress, straddling his partner's thighs, forced to widen knees to accommodate the position. He's bare from the waist down. There's a wet and slippery feeling between his own legs that he recognizes, and is not humiliated by. Reaching out, a slender hand takes hold of Kisame's cock at the base, where he simply cradles it in the loose cage of fingers, marveling at its size, wondering how it is possibly going to fit inside of him.]
You've held on this far. [It seems natural to speak this way, in a low and velvety voice, dark, humming. It's not the way he would address just anyone, as a phantom of who he pretended to be for years; Kisame is different right now.] How much longer will you last?
[ Kisame's dreams are abstract, fueled by emotion rather than memory or fragmented logic. They are amplified to an unrealistic degree, allowing him to easily differentiate between the dreaming and waking worlds. So when he finds himself in Itachi's apartment, stretched out on the same bed in which he once curled with his partner, he does not suspect that this is a dream. Nor is there a twitch of tension when he realizes his position, or a crawling sense of self-awareness at how he is on display. Instead, there is only half-giddy anticipation, and beneath it, a quieter feeling akin to peace.
This feels natural. This feels right. This is precisely where he wants to be.
The tip of his tongue traces sharp teeth as he takes in that bold bite marking Itachi's shoulder. The memory of inflicting it (and many others) seems clear, sitting at the edge of his thoughts — but Kisame does not reach for it. Why would he? It is so much better to remain in this moment. So much better to drink in the sensation of slender fingers brushing a precious scar. So much better to watch, entranced, as Itachi moves up the mattress, the oversized shirt failing to mask smooth, controlled motions. It is his shirt, Kisame knows, and that fact fills him with heat — some in his chest, light and fluttering, and some pooling at the crux of his thighs, making his cock ache with longing.
A part of Kisame desperately wishes to reach out and touch Itachi, to slide his hands up those pale, widened thighs and nudge aside the hem of his shirt, exposing the lovely cock tenting dark fabric. But although his wrists test their bonds, Kisame does not break them. There is freedom in this confinement, in this surrender to his partner, and he does not wish to relinquish it.
Still, he cannot entirely suppress the way his hips twitch, muscles flexing with the restrained urge to thrust up into Itachi's slick, teasingly light grip — or rather, Itachi's touch, as it can hardly be called a "grip" yet. He exhales a laugh that masks nothing; at this moment, he is genuinely happy. ]
Oh, I don't know… Quite a while, perhaps. [ His tone is light, a contrast to his partner's that compliments rather than clashes, underlaid with the slightest tremor betraying the depth of his desire. ] I'm sure that you could change that if you tried. But is that really what you want to test…?
[There should really be no difference between this dream and reality—except for the fact that neither of them has discussed this. Perhaps the need isn't there. They read and interpret each other's actions smooth as silk, hardly pressed for communication on the battlefield; of course that would apply now, together in bed. He doesn't feel any urgency to think about what he's doing as a hand spans Kisame's hip to keep him still, to prevent a bid for more friction. It doesn't seem to matter. Kisame is corralling himself, that much is clear. And all for him.
Heady with this knowledge—that he need only touch the other man to be understood—Itachi allows the ring of his fingers to tighten. The span of Kisame's cock is huge, and only just manages to fit into his hand. This fact sticks in his mind. A leisurely pull of touch from root to tip gives Kisame some pleasure while collecting the clear fluid that has leaked from the slit, greasing it over hard flesh. Sticky, slick precome in addition to the lubricant he's already used. For Kisame's size, he has to.]
No. It isn't. [His voice is low, dark, familiar. A slight lean forward, and dark hair slips off the narrow line of his shoulders, long enough almost to tickle Kisame's bare chest. Still looming out of reach, a lithe shadow that has claimed this place like a throne.] Not yet, at least.
[As well as he knows his partner's personality, it is intoxicating to hear that tremor in a voice usually so composed, so polite. How much more can he shred Kisame's self-control? Has anyone yet tried? If they have, could they do it with the same knife-like precision targeting all of Kisame's weaknesses as he does? Itachi shifts his weight forward, finally, straddling the other man's waist with a flex of muscular thighs, sitting with Kisame's cock now tucked into the crevice of his ass. Fingers reach around to guide the tip—thick, too huge, aligned now with that tight, unyielding entrance. Even preparing himself prior to this, it feels impossible. His hand has relinquished hold of Kisame's hips. His breath catches in his lungs; it's a strain to speak.]
Can you keep still, or are you too eager to be inside of me?
[ The touch to Kisame's hip is all it takes; Itachi's meaning is as clear as if the words were spoken aloud. Clearer, perhaps, stripped of the messy ambiguities of words. And Kisame obeys, keeping his body pressed firmly against the mattress — though not without some effort. Stillness in bed is as unnatural to Kisame as stillness in combat. His every instinct tells him to move, to touch, to hold, to taste. But instead, his abdominal muscles tighten and thighs tense, forcibly subduing a reflexive jerk as Itachi strokes his length, base to tip.
Those hands are among the deadliest that Kisame has ever known. Yet as they touch him, he trusts them more than anyone else's. It is a feeling that ought to terrify him. Here and now, he does not question it.
A breath that is not quite a giggle escapes, trailing off as Itachi leans in, a shadow that has haunted countless nightmares. Kisame merely grins, wide and eager, wishing that silky hair was just a bit closer. Perhaps it is greedy to want that feather-light touch when Itachi already has his cock in hand, slender fingers keeping him slick, keeping him ready. But truthfully, Kisame cannot help but feel greedy when it comes to his partner. He is always hungry for more with Itachi, even if "more" is simply an upward curve of those solemn lips.
Itachi moves, then, thighs spread wide, his hand directing Kisame's cock until it presses against his entrance. Itachi has prepared himself, Kisame knows, but it hardly feels like it. His thoughts swim, yellow eyes dropping to the hem of Itachi's (his) shirt where it tantalizingly conceals what he most wants to see. His muscles have gone rigid with the effort to remain still. If Itachi's entrance feels this tight, what will it be like once Kisame is sheathed inside…?
The slight catch of Itachi's breath brings Kisame's gaze back to his partner's. The strange sunlight, fresh and bloody all at once, captures strands of Itachi's hair, framing his pale face with red and gold. It is beautiful. Itachi is beautiful. How is it that after all these years, that simple fact can still render Kisame speechless?
He laughs again, softer now, a little breathless but no less happy. ]
Can't both be true? [ His tongue darts out to moisten his lips before he adds, ] I can keep still for you, Itachi.
[There is discipline in the way Kisame obeys him. Discipline, and deference, that no other Akatsuki coupling has seen—or will ever see again, once they both are gone from the world. It seems to him that Kisame fills all of the corners of his life before, shielding every weakness and enhancing every strength. It was not what he expected when he left Konoha. He surrendered himself to an existence alone, and he knew he deserved no better than miserable solitude up to the point of death. Yet Kisame had stepped in to occupy the place at his side without question or demand. And he settled there so perfectly.
The past rises up inside of Itachi, but only for a moment—it causes him to pause and sweep a look across their surroundings, as if the smallness of the room has finally occurred to him, the strange redness, the dream-like spell of quiet. It passes quickly. Kisame's voice, that breathy laughter, draw him back in. If it was anyone else... But he can trust Kisame, and he's loathe to leave this moment, real or not. Suspicion dissolves into hot, glazed pleasure.]
Good.
[And the eyes that turn down onto the other man are bright red, whirling Sharingan like a weapon laid across his throat—not yet threatening, but a promise, or a dare. It is an intimacy few have experienced, and none with the full and total knowledge of what he's capable. Kisame is one of the very few who have ever looked him in the eye, after all.]
I know you can, [comes out in a slow exhale, a sigh of relief as he fits himself over Kisame's cock, nudging the crown into place, feeling it breach that tight ring of muscle. He's forced to place one hand flat to Kisame's broad chest for support of his own slight weight.] Still, there are times I would rather hear you say it.
[It feels impossibly tight, impossibly too much, as he pauses with Kisame's cock barely an inch inside of him. He inhales a rattling breath. Another inch, slower, greased enough to slide with the movement—his expression cracks at the burn of penetration. Just the subtlest flinch to an impassive, composed face.]
[ Just when Kisame thinks his partner could be no more beautiful, Itachi proves him wrong. Scarlet eyes gleam down at him, glittering like a blade carved from the most precious of jewels. It is the greatest weapon of any Uchiha — the greatest, perhaps, of all Konoha. But when Kisame trembles before it, a shiver that is unmistakable with no clothes to conceal, there is no fear in him. Instead, his eyes are filled with wonder, his smile euphoric.
Perhaps there is something twisted in him, some flaw in his survival instincts that makes the Sharingan so alluring. Or perhaps the reason is both simpler and far more dangerous than that. Those eyes could burn him alive in an instant, but they are Itachi's, and Kisame trusts his partner.
Then Itachi begins to lower himself, enveloping Kisame's cock in an agonizingly slow slide, the tight, molten heat so much more intoxicating than Kisame could have imagined. His wrists flex above his head, hands curling into fists, painted fingernails biting into his palms. It is no sign of anger; it is a sign of how much he wishes to grasp the hand laid upon his chest, entwining slender fingers with his own, or else wrap his hands around Itachi's waist. He can imagine it vividly: the breadth that he would cover, the way his fingertips would press in just hard enough to leave the faintest of bruises, a compliment to crimson bites. Yet his restraint holds, and he does not snap his bonds. ]
You… You feel perfect. I've wondered for so long…
[ Words spilled out of him like a confession. Encouraged, perhaps, by that crack in his partner's composure, the subtle sign that Kisame burns into his memory. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@samebito (nsfw)
Next he is aware, he is in the bedroom of the small, plain apartment where he had fallen asleep. The light on the wall looks strange. It tilts in through the window like new daylight, yet its color is the bloody red-orange of sunset, casting the room in dark, romantic, apocalyptic hues. He's kneeling at the foot of the mattress. Half-dressed, he realizes that the shirt hanging off his upper torso isn't his own—a few sizes too large, its hem skates the flesh of his bare upper thighs, its collar drooping to reveal most of his shoulder. The scent on fabric is all the confirmation of ownership he needs. His partner bears no obvious markers, usually, but this he knows, he could not mistake it otherwise, that natural musk of a powerful body kept fastidiously clean. Kisame is too close to him not to be recognizable.
That, and the vivid, red, circular bitemark on his exposed shoulder is proof of the rest. He can feel other bites throbbing raw and warm on his body; there's one on his inner thigh, another at the meat of his calf, another on the ridge of his covered sternum. And Kisame himself is right there—laid back on the bed, stripped fully naked, scars on pale display. He has enough reach to be able to touch fingertips to the Japanese inscription of wrath beside Kisame's toned abdomen; one of the few he can read. Impressions left by other people. Where is his own?
Itachi blinks, seeing more details: his partner's strong wrists are tied above his head to the bedpost, and his cock juts up between bare, muscular thighs, swollen and shiny with the evidence of lube. His own hand is slick, sticky; he was using it on Kisame. The bindings cannot be a true confinement—Kisame is too powerful for that—which means he submitted willingly.
Bright, yellow eyes watch him as he shifts up the mattress, straddling his partner's thighs, forced to widen knees to accommodate the position. He's bare from the waist down. There's a wet and slippery feeling between his own legs that he recognizes, and is not humiliated by. Reaching out, a slender hand takes hold of Kisame's cock at the base, where he simply cradles it in the loose cage of fingers, marveling at its size, wondering how it is possibly going to fit inside of him.]
You've held on this far. [It seems natural to speak this way, in a low and velvety voice, dark, humming. It's not the way he would address just anyone, as a phantom of who he pretended to be for years; Kisame is different right now.] How much longer will you last?
no subject
This feels natural. This feels right. This is precisely where he wants to be.
The tip of his tongue traces sharp teeth as he takes in that bold bite marking Itachi's shoulder. The memory of inflicting it (and many others) seems clear, sitting at the edge of his thoughts — but Kisame does not reach for it. Why would he? It is so much better to remain in this moment. So much better to drink in the sensation of slender fingers brushing a precious scar. So much better to watch, entranced, as Itachi moves up the mattress, the oversized shirt failing to mask smooth, controlled motions. It is his shirt, Kisame knows, and that fact fills him with heat — some in his chest, light and fluttering, and some pooling at the crux of his thighs, making his cock ache with longing.
A part of Kisame desperately wishes to reach out and touch Itachi, to slide his hands up those pale, widened thighs and nudge aside the hem of his shirt, exposing the lovely cock tenting dark fabric. But although his wrists test their bonds, Kisame does not break them. There is freedom in this confinement, in this surrender to his partner, and he does not wish to relinquish it.
Still, he cannot entirely suppress the way his hips twitch, muscles flexing with the restrained urge to thrust up into Itachi's slick, teasingly light grip — or rather, Itachi's touch, as it can hardly be called a "grip" yet. He exhales a laugh that masks nothing; at this moment, he is genuinely happy. ]
Oh, I don't know… Quite a while, perhaps. [ His tone is light, a contrast to his partner's that compliments rather than clashes, underlaid with the slightest tremor betraying the depth of his desire. ] I'm sure that you could change that if you tried. But is that really what you want to test…?
no subject
Heady with this knowledge—that he need only touch the other man to be understood—Itachi allows the ring of his fingers to tighten. The span of Kisame's cock is huge, and only just manages to fit into his hand. This fact sticks in his mind. A leisurely pull of touch from root to tip gives Kisame some pleasure while collecting the clear fluid that has leaked from the slit, greasing it over hard flesh. Sticky, slick precome in addition to the lubricant he's already used. For Kisame's size, he has to.]
No. It isn't. [His voice is low, dark, familiar. A slight lean forward, and dark hair slips off the narrow line of his shoulders, long enough almost to tickle Kisame's bare chest. Still looming out of reach, a lithe shadow that has claimed this place like a throne.] Not yet, at least.
[As well as he knows his partner's personality, it is intoxicating to hear that tremor in a voice usually so composed, so polite. How much more can he shred Kisame's self-control? Has anyone yet tried? If they have, could they do it with the same knife-like precision targeting all of Kisame's weaknesses as he does? Itachi shifts his weight forward, finally, straddling the other man's waist with a flex of muscular thighs, sitting with Kisame's cock now tucked into the crevice of his ass. Fingers reach around to guide the tip—thick, too huge, aligned now with that tight, unyielding entrance. Even preparing himself prior to this, it feels impossible. His hand has relinquished hold of Kisame's hips. His breath catches in his lungs; it's a strain to speak.]
Can you keep still, or are you too eager to be inside of me?
no subject
Those hands are among the deadliest that Kisame has ever known. Yet as they touch him, he trusts them more than anyone else's. It is a feeling that ought to terrify him. Here and now, he does not question it.
A breath that is not quite a giggle escapes, trailing off as Itachi leans in, a shadow that has haunted countless nightmares. Kisame merely grins, wide and eager, wishing that silky hair was just a bit closer. Perhaps it is greedy to want that feather-light touch when Itachi already has his cock in hand, slender fingers keeping him slick, keeping him ready. But truthfully, Kisame cannot help but feel greedy when it comes to his partner. He is always hungry for more with Itachi, even if "more" is simply an upward curve of those solemn lips.
Itachi moves, then, thighs spread wide, his hand directing Kisame's cock until it presses against his entrance. Itachi has prepared himself, Kisame knows, but it hardly feels like it. His thoughts swim, yellow eyes dropping to the hem of Itachi's (his) shirt where it tantalizingly conceals what he most wants to see. His muscles have gone rigid with the effort to remain still. If Itachi's entrance feels this tight, what will it be like once Kisame is sheathed inside…?
The slight catch of Itachi's breath brings Kisame's gaze back to his partner's. The strange sunlight, fresh and bloody all at once, captures strands of Itachi's hair, framing his pale face with red and gold. It is beautiful. Itachi is beautiful. How is it that after all these years, that simple fact can still render Kisame speechless?
He laughs again, softer now, a little breathless but no less happy. ]
Can't both be true? [ His tongue darts out to moisten his lips before he adds, ] I can keep still for you, Itachi.
no subject
The past rises up inside of Itachi, but only for a moment—it causes him to pause and sweep a look across their surroundings, as if the smallness of the room has finally occurred to him, the strange redness, the dream-like spell of quiet. It passes quickly. Kisame's voice, that breathy laughter, draw him back in. If it was anyone else... But he can trust Kisame, and he's loathe to leave this moment, real or not. Suspicion dissolves into hot, glazed pleasure.]
Good.
[And the eyes that turn down onto the other man are bright red, whirling Sharingan like a weapon laid across his throat—not yet threatening, but a promise, or a dare. It is an intimacy few have experienced, and none with the full and total knowledge of what he's capable. Kisame is one of the very few who have ever looked him in the eye, after all.]
I know you can, [comes out in a slow exhale, a sigh of relief as he fits himself over Kisame's cock, nudging the crown into place, feeling it breach that tight ring of muscle. He's forced to place one hand flat to Kisame's broad chest for support of his own slight weight.] Still, there are times I would rather hear you say it.
[It feels impossibly tight, impossibly too much, as he pauses with Kisame's cock barely an inch inside of him. He inhales a rattling breath. Another inch, slower, greased enough to slide with the movement—his expression cracks at the burn of penetration. Just the subtlest flinch to an impassive, composed face.]
no subject
Perhaps there is something twisted in him, some flaw in his survival instincts that makes the Sharingan so alluring. Or perhaps the reason is both simpler and far more dangerous than that. Those eyes could burn him alive in an instant, but they are Itachi's, and Kisame trusts his partner.
Then Itachi begins to lower himself, enveloping Kisame's cock in an agonizingly slow slide, the tight, molten heat so much more intoxicating than Kisame could have imagined. His wrists flex above his head, hands curling into fists, painted fingernails biting into his palms. It is no sign of anger; it is a sign of how much he wishes to grasp the hand laid upon his chest, entwining slender fingers with his own, or else wrap his hands around Itachi's waist. He can imagine it vividly: the breadth that he would cover, the way his fingertips would press in just hard enough to leave the faintest of bruises, a compliment to crimson bites. Yet his restraint holds, and he does not snap his bonds. ]
You… You feel perfect. I've wondered for so long…
[ Words spilled out of him like a confession. Encouraged, perhaps, by that crack in his partner's composure, the subtle sign that Kisame burns into his memory. ]