The first time he thought it was a dream. A fever dream from too much stress and late-night curry. Seeing that face again, so strange and inhuman grinning at him as he opens the door. Has to be a dream because he would never smile back and stand there as Kisame shoves him back kicking the door close behind him. Would never just let himself be stripped by hands that could crack his skull with ease mewling like a little slut as they pinch and scratch. An awful dream where he's slammed into the mattress legs forced open and his hands are held above his head as he gasps. Moaning as reason screams somewhere in the back of his head whilst he is being penetrated brusquely. A perfect whore so that the shark man doesn't even feel the need to strip down. Doesn't feel the need to prepare him, to think of him; it's a quick, hard bang and then he's gone.
He wakes blinking to a sunlit room - his bedroom. Lazily, limbs heavy with fatigue he rises knowing it's getting past noon. Sunlight already slides across the far wall taunting him - there's something wrong with the image. Briefly everything is red, briefer still the world is an inverse of black and white. Shivering he marshals his thoughts and slowly, gingerly he peels the fresh, crisp sheets off his salt-encrusted body. Sweat-encrusted body he means, 'but that was just a dream'. Rubbing his burning, bleary eyes he ignores the sore muscles, the still weeping bites and his grimy thighs. Tousled hair in his half-lidded eyes he thinks only on his erection and the cold, cold shower awaiting it. He heals fast and he heals well, soon no one will be able to tell.
The next time he knows it's a nightmare. Cradled in strong, cool arms as lips like soft lies murmur lust and life into his threadbare skin. The sharp, slick teeth just behind them, leaves his flesh giddy with anticipation as he moans as much as he can around the ball gag stretching his lips, forcing his jaws open. He can taste the blood seeping from the cracked corners of his mouth and it only makes him needier. He wishes he could see beyond the velvet darkness of his blindfold scaring him, arousing him so that he ring 'round the base of his cock is needed lest he end this now. Straining against his bonds, he tries to thrust himself under the tracing hands, those damnable light touches to his oversensitive body. He pulses painfully against his slick belly whining at the sudden absence of sensation and before he can hear it, he feels the sharp crack.
Softly out of focus his faded brown eyes take in the ultra-white bathroom lingering on the lurid red towel on the floor. 'I never leave towels around.' His mouth is dry and he feels so lightheaded. 'Red.' All of a sudden he remembers screams. Minutes, hours later he wakes up with his thin brown hands still clutched tightly in his overlong hair. Sitting up with a grimace he moves to leave the cool, roseate water that might some time ago have been ice. His piercing sting though not so much as the welts where the bamboo cane nearly broke skin. It's hard for him to catch his breath. "Why?" The question echoes in the cool tile tomb.
He shivers teeth chattering as he reaches for a towel knowing without checking that it's noon, moving past noon just like always. It's always noon and he can't remember the last time he saw his team. Can't remember the last time he saw anyone outside of his nightmare occurrences with Kisame. The red towel lies on the floor mocking him, with his forgetfulness. What happen before the taste of rough smooth skin and the blood from running his hands where they needn't have been? What led him to now and the milk-silver traces of scars crisscrossing his skin? He quakes not able to reach anything beyond the first time, the first times. Feverish and frightened he removes his ring and grasps himself. The eyes in the mirror pleads with him to stop, but he doesn't know how.
Watching the forbidding red moon riding low in the ink black sky he braces himself against the window. His fingers dig pits into the cherry-wood frame as Kisame pounds cries of desperation from him. The glass is cool against his feverish brow as he admits once and for all that he's really and truly fucked. Desperately he tries to keep his eyes open and his knees straight knowing that if he goes down now he'll stay down on his knees like the bitch he is. The huge hands on his blade-sharp hips are too small by half. Something's wrong, something more then needing this, wanting this. A tired groan crawls from his raw throat as the pregnant sphere grows whilst his eyes rolls into his head and he shrieks passing away into the relative safety of darkness.
He wakes to the sound of water dripping and the feeling his shoulders near dislocation. The sound of his breathing rasps loudly in his ears as he tests his chains. He almost doesn't hear the whisper of heavy cloth over the minute clanging of the chains. He can't turn his head the awkward collar depressing his collarbone and straining his shoulders worse. His toes barely touch the cold stone floor leaving his arms and shoulders to bare his weight. He shudders as a stray draft heavy with moisture strokes his flank. Finally faint images appear as his vision adjusts to the murky area. Enough that he can see he's been stripped, his body thinner then he can remember it ever being. But then he can't admit to really remembering anything anymore.
The scent of sandalwood and dust twines about him as a gentle chuckling sounds by his ear. The person, the man - because he knows well the must of an aroused male - stands behind him running lithe fingers down his back and over his buttocks. Trembling despite himself all his attention is focused on those pale fingers reaching around to sketch tingling paths up his thighs, his chest, to twist one pebble-hard nipple. He hisses between his teeth still aware enough to close his eyes tightly as the man comes around him. That chuckle again teasing him, testing him so that he can feel arousal coiling like a viper in his belly. Cool, pale fingers on his cheek, glide down to his chin grasping it gently.
Tilting back his heavy head their grip spreads and tightens. His only warning is a breath of warm air before thin lips and sharp, strong teeth are at his throat. He can almost feel the vessels breaking as that mouth works hard to leave a visible hickey. The sound rumbling through his chest is not enough to make him open his eyes. The cool, calm hand grasping him firmly is a bit more successful. As it strokes once firmly milking a shaky exhalation from him he wishes he could beg. But he knows well enough that begging isn't anywhere enough for this man, otherwise he'd do it without shame youth be damned. "Open your eyes." This oh, so calm voice should mean nothing to him, but - He opens them as simple as breathing. When did he become so weak?
He feels as if there is something he is forgetting. The light of morning creeps gradually across the white walls. It feels like it hasn't been morning for a long time… The sweet scent of fresh sheets reassures him as much if not more so then the grass-scented breeze from outside. 'This isn't your house.' Stretching slowly within the large bed he feels better then he has in a long time. 'This isn't real.' The other side of the bed dips slightly as the smell of coconut and metal washes over him. "Are you going to wake up now?" Opening his eyes he sees Kakashi smiling at him. Beautiful, sweet quirky Kakashi with his bright blue eyes 'No' and his huge white teeth. 'No.' Kakashi who loves him, has always loved him even when he's Kisame. Even when he's Itachi he loves him. As Kakashi bends over him somewhere inside he begins to scream.
End
Hmm that wasn't nearly as weird as I'd hope it'd be. I must be losing my touch… dang.