[ 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. ]
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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. ]