Elysium on the Red Walls - Kisame, Itachi - Naruto
Title: Elysium on the Red Walls
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Kisame/Itachi
Rating: R
Summary: Itachi suffers; Kisame observes.
Word Count: 1,569
Even in the sharp concentration of light, his eyes are glazed. It's like looking into a glass of carmine wine that has been sitting at room temperature for several hours or days, the dulled surface filming over. And that's exactly what it looks like, Kisame thinks, a smirk lined with razor teeth widening across his lips. He watches because he knows those eyes can't return the intensity anymore, can't mold superiority when sight is so suddenly rendered evanescent. It isn't taking advantage of a fault in the exterior because Itachi already knew this would happen. He'd long ago braced for the fact, accepted the ineludible weakness as his eventual reality.
Which is not to say he will go without a fight.
It's enough to guess what goes on in the Uchiha's mind, because his face is a slated wall built around a manifestation of emptiness. His thoughts aren't expressible and never will be. But Kisame can try. It comes from his own endurable will, determination that is bred from the lust of the battlefield. Kisame is gristly where Itachi is elegant: a platter of raw meat and a glass of fermented wine.
In the flicker of darkness brought by candlelight, the younger's red eyes scan the room, if only half-seeing. Kisame is glad the temporarily rented room is so bland, otherwise he might've pitied the other man for missing the sights. Luckily, these bouts of blindness only came at certain hours of the day (and night, respectively); Kisame had every hour ingrained into his mind and he ran along the schedule like clockwork, mindful of the telltale signs. Itachi may trip, or fumble for the handle of a door, cabinet, drawer - anything. There had been times where Itachi had even lost his footing completely, and times where he'd physically lashed out at Kisame only to miss his target by a gap embarrassingly wide for an Uchiha.
The instances had steadily increased until now.
Itachi sits with his back against the delicate carvings of a dining chair, his hands to each armrest, curled over the wooden embroidery, legs tucked under him. He is wearing little more than his dark underclothes, and he is staring straight ahead at a burning candle. The wax paints the slender sides a rough white while the flame burns dull. There's a thunderstorm beating rhythmically against the walls.
Kisame sets the situation up in his head, callused fingertips stilling in their aimless movements against the lace tablecloth. He wistfully imagines a wine glass: tall, majestic and resilient. The table that the glass is perched precariously upon shakes in steady time with the storm outside and the red liquid helplessly trembles. Tremors disrupt the surface at first, before the quaking heightens into violent upheaval, causing the wine to slosh over the rim and splatter across the table. Eventually the glass itself will fall, too.
Maybe it's insulting to imagine Uchiha Itachi, a man at the very root of a legacy's massacre, to be so fragile. But Kisame deigns it suiting.
The shark nin reclines in his chair, head lolling back and body visibly relaxing. He's much more flexible in stature than his partner and he doesn't mind that those eyes listlessly avoid his predatory gaze, doesn't mind that the man's thoughts are worlds away from where they are seated at this very moment, the remains of a filling dinner situated before them. Room service provided the best of the best with only a few glances afforded the red cloaks fixed across their shoulders, regardless. No one needed to be told twice of the abrupt arrangements made for two nameless travelers. 'The sooner they were in, the sooner they would leave' is the general mentality. And Kisame prefers it that way, prefers the anonymity.
It takes Itachi a long while to draw himself up from his chair, long limbs unfolding from the curled position he'd kept himself in for so long. He appears to hesitate for the briefest of seconds before turning, headed for the bathroom in the far corner. Kisame watches, mindful of his partner's movements. The wooden door clicks shut.
Kisame bides his time following. He toys with the remainder of the food in front of him, the bones of the cooked meat, the lackluster silverware and plates. Finally, he stands to his feet and strides to the door Itachi previously disappeared behind, unsurprised to find it unlocked. Kisame is equally unsurprised to find Itachi standing nude in front of the sink; he watches passively as a white fist collides with the mirror above the counter, shattering it upon contact. The shards shower across the sink and Kisame mindfully steps forward, taking care not to step on any of the mess that has reached the floor.
Itachi hisses something at him, something like "leave," but he doesn't care enough to listen. With admirable caution, Kisame steps up behind his partner and seizes him by the blooded wrist, using his free hand to carefully pluck away the shards from his raw knuckles like a patient parental.
"Relax your grip, Itachi-san." The younger man doesn't obey; instead, he flexes his painted fingers and stares unseeing at the morbid scene before him. The florescent light burns like a dull sun above their heads.
Kisame reaches precariously for a rolled towel some distance away, only to stop short with a surprised hiss of breath when Itachi presses back against him boldly. He wonders at the mess around them, how Itachi's clothes are still tangled around his ankles and he must have been in the process of stepping into the shower only to glance toward the mirror, instantaneously angered because he wasn't able to properly see even the outline of himself. Kisame has pity for him, but more than that, he has respect for Itachi's persevering drive despite his current situation.
It's remarkably difficult to ignore the second provocative grind of slender hips, the action obscenely inappropriate but all the same characterized by the heady scent of copper in the air. Kisame has never been one to deny himself his own instinct brought by his lust for blood; being a missing nin with the background he possessed, it was no wonder.
Body instinctively molding against Itachi's smaller frame in the dimness of the room, the shadows cast by the light above nearly swallow the corners of his vision (he can only imagine how limited Itachi's own sight has become at this point). He hisses a low "Itachi-san" that isn't so much a question of intent as it is a forewarning, because Kisame's hand drops next to the other's prominent hip bone, fingertips closing down in a bruising grip. Itachi pushes back harder, his unrelenting persistence evident.
Amused eyes dart up to regard the distorted, misshapen reflection of their bodies as Kisame clears away the shards on the counter with his bare forearm, easing the younger man's chest down on top of the cold surface. He knows that even if he missed a few fragments of glass, Itachi won't comment on the mild sting.
Pressing a trail of gentle kisses along the other's pale throat, down across his collar bone and to the smooth curve of his shoulder, he halts the movement of Itachi's hips because he knows it will aggravate the man. While Kisame does not regulate control between them, he enjoys the foreplay immensely, enjoys baiting Itachi to see just how far he can push before patience wears too thin. Every step across the boundaries of flesh is an irrevocably exciting one; if Kisame plays his cards expertly, he can draw this out as long as he wants. But he knows Itachi's fuse is shorter tonight than usual, and hastens just enough to sate the other man without ending too abruptly.
The steady thrum of the Uchiha's pulse is alive against his insistent fingertips, the ones still holding onto a slender, bloodied wrist. The blood has managed to roll in thick streams of red down far enough to reach Kisame's skin, and the sight is something exquisite alone. He exhales a heavy breath against the younger man's bowed neck, lips warming across the luminescent flesh where delicate bones show through wiry, corded muscle.
Once Kisame's skin is bared to the cold air, he wastes no time in lengthy preparation because he knows Itachi is too impatient by now to desire it, lining himself up with meticulous care. Sounding a sharp exhale that greatly outweighs the intensity of his partner's own quiet sighs, Kisame establishes an attentive rhythm, working both of them to completion. A breathless moan escalades into a laugh of pure mirth when muscles tighten and he stops, shudders, ignores the bleary glare he senses rather than sees Itachi directing toward him. He can't help the swell of amusement, the giddy sensation of post-coital bliss that doesn't last nearly long enough; in the next moment, Kisame is sent sprawling to the floor, at the mercy of a well-aimed kick.
Itachi's sight returns to him in gradual stages.
But, somehow, Kisame takes immeasurable pleasure in seeing his partner this way, standing on unsteady feat, abdomen pressed against the counter where a bruised line would be sure to appear in time to greet the morning sun. His legs are still partially spread, pearly lines of white streaking his thighs in an obscene and ironic contrast to the drying rivulets staining his knuckles.
Time slows to a lethargic crawl while Kisame breathes in salt and listens to rain.
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Kisame/Itachi
Rating: R
Summary: Itachi suffers; Kisame observes.
Word Count: 1,569
Even in the sharp concentration of light, his eyes are glazed. It's like looking into a glass of carmine wine that has been sitting at room temperature for several hours or days, the dulled surface filming over. And that's exactly what it looks like, Kisame thinks, a smirk lined with razor teeth widening across his lips. He watches because he knows those eyes can't return the intensity anymore, can't mold superiority when sight is so suddenly rendered evanescent. It isn't taking advantage of a fault in the exterior because Itachi already knew this would happen. He'd long ago braced for the fact, accepted the ineludible weakness as his eventual reality.
Which is not to say he will go without a fight.
It's enough to guess what goes on in the Uchiha's mind, because his face is a slated wall built around a manifestation of emptiness. His thoughts aren't expressible and never will be. But Kisame can try. It comes from his own endurable will, determination that is bred from the lust of the battlefield. Kisame is gristly where Itachi is elegant: a platter of raw meat and a glass of fermented wine.
In the flicker of darkness brought by candlelight, the younger's red eyes scan the room, if only half-seeing. Kisame is glad the temporarily rented room is so bland, otherwise he might've pitied the other man for missing the sights. Luckily, these bouts of blindness only came at certain hours of the day (and night, respectively); Kisame had every hour ingrained into his mind and he ran along the schedule like clockwork, mindful of the telltale signs. Itachi may trip, or fumble for the handle of a door, cabinet, drawer - anything. There had been times where Itachi had even lost his footing completely, and times where he'd physically lashed out at Kisame only to miss his target by a gap embarrassingly wide for an Uchiha.
The instances had steadily increased until now.
Itachi sits with his back against the delicate carvings of a dining chair, his hands to each armrest, curled over the wooden embroidery, legs tucked under him. He is wearing little more than his dark underclothes, and he is staring straight ahead at a burning candle. The wax paints the slender sides a rough white while the flame burns dull. There's a thunderstorm beating rhythmically against the walls.
Kisame sets the situation up in his head, callused fingertips stilling in their aimless movements against the lace tablecloth. He wistfully imagines a wine glass: tall, majestic and resilient. The table that the glass is perched precariously upon shakes in steady time with the storm outside and the red liquid helplessly trembles. Tremors disrupt the surface at first, before the quaking heightens into violent upheaval, causing the wine to slosh over the rim and splatter across the table. Eventually the glass itself will fall, too.
Maybe it's insulting to imagine Uchiha Itachi, a man at the very root of a legacy's massacre, to be so fragile. But Kisame deigns it suiting.
The shark nin reclines in his chair, head lolling back and body visibly relaxing. He's much more flexible in stature than his partner and he doesn't mind that those eyes listlessly avoid his predatory gaze, doesn't mind that the man's thoughts are worlds away from where they are seated at this very moment, the remains of a filling dinner situated before them. Room service provided the best of the best with only a few glances afforded the red cloaks fixed across their shoulders, regardless. No one needed to be told twice of the abrupt arrangements made for two nameless travelers. 'The sooner they were in, the sooner they would leave' is the general mentality. And Kisame prefers it that way, prefers the anonymity.
It takes Itachi a long while to draw himself up from his chair, long limbs unfolding from the curled position he'd kept himself in for so long. He appears to hesitate for the briefest of seconds before turning, headed for the bathroom in the far corner. Kisame watches, mindful of his partner's movements. The wooden door clicks shut.
Kisame bides his time following. He toys with the remainder of the food in front of him, the bones of the cooked meat, the lackluster silverware and plates. Finally, he stands to his feet and strides to the door Itachi previously disappeared behind, unsurprised to find it unlocked. Kisame is equally unsurprised to find Itachi standing nude in front of the sink; he watches passively as a white fist collides with the mirror above the counter, shattering it upon contact. The shards shower across the sink and Kisame mindfully steps forward, taking care not to step on any of the mess that has reached the floor.
Itachi hisses something at him, something like "leave," but he doesn't care enough to listen. With admirable caution, Kisame steps up behind his partner and seizes him by the blooded wrist, using his free hand to carefully pluck away the shards from his raw knuckles like a patient parental.
"Relax your grip, Itachi-san." The younger man doesn't obey; instead, he flexes his painted fingers and stares unseeing at the morbid scene before him. The florescent light burns like a dull sun above their heads.
Kisame reaches precariously for a rolled towel some distance away, only to stop short with a surprised hiss of breath when Itachi presses back against him boldly. He wonders at the mess around them, how Itachi's clothes are still tangled around his ankles and he must have been in the process of stepping into the shower only to glance toward the mirror, instantaneously angered because he wasn't able to properly see even the outline of himself. Kisame has pity for him, but more than that, he has respect for Itachi's persevering drive despite his current situation.
It's remarkably difficult to ignore the second provocative grind of slender hips, the action obscenely inappropriate but all the same characterized by the heady scent of copper in the air. Kisame has never been one to deny himself his own instinct brought by his lust for blood; being a missing nin with the background he possessed, it was no wonder.
Body instinctively molding against Itachi's smaller frame in the dimness of the room, the shadows cast by the light above nearly swallow the corners of his vision (he can only imagine how limited Itachi's own sight has become at this point). He hisses a low "Itachi-san" that isn't so much a question of intent as it is a forewarning, because Kisame's hand drops next to the other's prominent hip bone, fingertips closing down in a bruising grip. Itachi pushes back harder, his unrelenting persistence evident.
Amused eyes dart up to regard the distorted, misshapen reflection of their bodies as Kisame clears away the shards on the counter with his bare forearm, easing the younger man's chest down on top of the cold surface. He knows that even if he missed a few fragments of glass, Itachi won't comment on the mild sting.
Pressing a trail of gentle kisses along the other's pale throat, down across his collar bone and to the smooth curve of his shoulder, he halts the movement of Itachi's hips because he knows it will aggravate the man. While Kisame does not regulate control between them, he enjoys the foreplay immensely, enjoys baiting Itachi to see just how far he can push before patience wears too thin. Every step across the boundaries of flesh is an irrevocably exciting one; if Kisame plays his cards expertly, he can draw this out as long as he wants. But he knows Itachi's fuse is shorter tonight than usual, and hastens just enough to sate the other man without ending too abruptly.
The steady thrum of the Uchiha's pulse is alive against his insistent fingertips, the ones still holding onto a slender, bloodied wrist. The blood has managed to roll in thick streams of red down far enough to reach Kisame's skin, and the sight is something exquisite alone. He exhales a heavy breath against the younger man's bowed neck, lips warming across the luminescent flesh where delicate bones show through wiry, corded muscle.
Once Kisame's skin is bared to the cold air, he wastes no time in lengthy preparation because he knows Itachi is too impatient by now to desire it, lining himself up with meticulous care. Sounding a sharp exhale that greatly outweighs the intensity of his partner's own quiet sighs, Kisame establishes an attentive rhythm, working both of them to completion. A breathless moan escalades into a laugh of pure mirth when muscles tighten and he stops, shudders, ignores the bleary glare he senses rather than sees Itachi directing toward him. He can't help the swell of amusement, the giddy sensation of post-coital bliss that doesn't last nearly long enough; in the next moment, Kisame is sent sprawling to the floor, at the mercy of a well-aimed kick.
Itachi's sight returns to him in gradual stages.
But, somehow, Kisame takes immeasurable pleasure in seeing his partner this way, standing on unsteady feat, abdomen pressed against the counter where a bruised line would be sure to appear in time to greet the morning sun. His legs are still partially spread, pearly lines of white streaking his thighs in an obscene and ironic contrast to the drying rivulets staining his knuckles.
Time slows to a lethargic crawl while Kisame breathes in salt and listens to rain.