Hi all,

Some censorship at play here because I've already had some of my fics taken down in the past for explicit material. If there's anything you want to read in full, check my bio for my AO3 username.

Enjoy, xox

-Vivi


x.

It is cold in the dusty, long-abandoned house, but Itachi makes quick work of igniting a pile of old wooden planks in the ryouri as Kisame drapes their soaked cloaks over an old chair.

The clouds had formed quickly and the snow began to fall even faster, piling up a few inches in just an hour. They'd orders from Pein to meet at a rendezvous point, but Itachi could not care less; his thoughts these last few days and especially in the last few hours since Kisame had wiped persimmon juice from his mouth had most certainly not been occupied by business. When they happened upon the run-down house, the both of them had been fighting racking shivers and his partner hadn't gone five full seconds without asking after Itachi's health.

"We're lucky," he'd said as they stepped through the doorway. Part of the ceiling had collapsed some time ago, snow settling in the corner. "Don't think I haven't noticed how prone you are to falling ill."

Daylight is quickly fading, and even as Kisame comes to sit at his side by the fire Itachi cannot stop staring down at his wrist. The image of his partner pressing his lips against his veins and the memory of his thumb against his face are threatening to undo him to the extent that he finds himself struggling now to be so close to him and in such a private space.

"How about we do that again?"

The suggestion worded as politely as anything Kisame's ever said, but it is loaded—especially by that alluring look in his eyes. Itachi has not given much thought to the possibility that this, whatever it was, could be anything real or tangible or substantial in any capacity that truly mattered. It is obvious that Kisame has been feeling similar strange things about Itachi, but what would they make of it? What would be the point? Itachi will not be around for much longer.

...He cannot explain why, then, he has held out his arm to Kisame, who delicately takes his hand instead and presses the back of it to his mouth. It is a thing from fairy tales and stories of the old days, hows sirs would greet their ladies. Then he moves as if possessed, taking his other hand and pushing him slowly to the floor. Itachi's hands are pinned to the floor on either side of his head, his heart beating so hard that it simply must be audible to the other man, too.

All is quiet for a few long moments, and then for a few moments more.

Kisame is so still atop Itachi that he begins to worry, just a bit. Has either of them done something wrong? He is looking everywhere, at Itachi's hair and at his own hands and glancing down at where his knees are trapping his partner to the floor. The tension in the air is so thick that to move may shatter it like glass, but something must be done; Itachi cannot take it anymore.

So he pushes. He has always been quick and uses it to his advantage to catch Kisame off guard and break free of his hold, taking his face in his hands. The fire in the hearth cracks and hisses and there is a sputtering feeling in his chest, but he refuses to let his courage waver here and now and pushes again, their lips finally meeting in a kiss that, to Itachi, feels like the first bite of bread after being starved for days.

His arms wrap around Kisame's neck. He pulls, and though the other man's body is far stronger he relents and follows suit, gripping at Itachi's waist in the process. Their kiss is sloppy—Itachi has never had a real one until now—but where he feels inexperienced, he is left with the impression that Kisame doesn't know much more of what he's doing, either.

But how can he allow anyone else to make him feel good? Itachi is a monster of the worst kind—but then, he supposes, Kisame is the same. He can allow it, just this once, just for now, but...not without stipulation. There must be penance of some sort to ensure that he is not getting more than he deserves.

The bite he gives to Kisame's lower lip gets him a smirk that is so sexy it cannot be real. He's pulled back and is playfully glaring down at Itachi, assessing the situation not unlike he's done in the heat of battle. When he cocks his head to the side and leans down, he is all confidence as he growls a quiet question into Itachi's ear:

"So that's the sort of thing you like?"

Itachi's first answer is to grind his hips up into Kisame's stomach. The aching pressure of his erection is tearing him apart from the inside out and it simply must be relieved, and his stomach flips in a foreign way to feel Kisame's own hardness pressing into his thigh. The moan from him is short and strained and he rolls his head in a way so that his teeth are right against where Itachi's neck meets his skull.

"Perhaps," he murmurs his second answer, "such an action should be punished."

It is risky, he knows. He hasn't so much as kissed another person, let alone fucked another person or been fucked by another person or trusted another person enough to hurt him with his consent. But he can feel the sharp edges of those teeth and Kisame's hot breath at his neck and knows without a shadow of a doubt that he wants, badly, the line between his pain and pleasure to be blurred.

Kisame has felt that determination, but he is kind nearly to fault. "A shark's bite is meant to kill, Itachi-san," comes his warning, which does nothing but make Itachi's need burn hotter than ever. "It will hurt."

"Yes." He whispered it up into his ear, trails his hand sweetly along the wide expanse of his back. Kisame pulls away to search his face intently, his brows knitted together in his concern. "I want it to hurt; it's what I deserve, isn't it? And...I thought you knew..."

Their breaths are synchronized and heavy, and he can tell the other man just needs one more push to finally send him off and into the unknown and give Itachi everything his desperate mind has been conjuring for months now.

He props himself up on his elbows. Directly into Kisame's ear he finishes his thought. "Passion does not mean to wax euphoric. It means to suffer."

And it is the truth: the word for passion is comprised of the two characters for feeling and fever, both of which Itachi is intimately familiar. Their combination is never pleasant, and he is so twisted up inside that it's as if his heart is full to fucking bursting.

The sentiment hangs in the space between them until the very next moment he is pushed back onto the old worn floor. Kisame pulls Itachi's shirt up and over his head with little care, flinging his own off before diving back down. They kiss again and it is somehow even more hungry and frenzied than before, and Kisame has grown bold enough to palm at Itachi's cock through his pants. He trails his tongue along his jaw and finally plants his first bite at the swoop where his neck meets his collarbone. The sting of it is bliss enough on its own, but then Kisame suckles at the spot until it is tender and raw.

His hands are so big that when one dips down into Itachi's waistband it wraps around his hardness with ease; it feels hot within the cage of those curled fingers. He strokes him slowly for only a moment before Itachi shuts his eyes in ecstasy. It feels equal parts both exactly how he'd imagined and so much better. He loses himself in the sensation, arching his back as Kisame's teeth graze over one of his nipples and losing his absolute goddamn mind when he licks and sucks at it thereafter. He takes hold of that hair, blue like churning ocean depths and so soft as it threads through his fingers.

Kisame does not stop there. He leaves trails of parallel scratch marks down Itachi's stomach that bead small drops of blood as they swell pink. The other man is sure to bite in a way that is gentle but assuredly painful, nipping at a spot on his ribs and the soft side of his hip before he—very carefully—slides the pants down enough so that Itachi is exposed.

It is one of the last thing he expects, for Kisame to open his jaw and sink his mouth on him so far that it pushes at his throat. The feeling is unlike any other as he moves his head back and forth. He does not bite and even seems to be deliberately keeping his teeth from scraping the sensitive skin, but it is the thrill of knowing he could at any moment make Itachi's life a torment of pain that is so utterly hot that he shudders there on the floor. Rarely has the Uchiha ever been at anyone's mercy but his own, and as he gasps in pleasure he briefly allows himself to be grateful that he ended up partnered with Kisame after all.

Itachi has lost all sense of who and what and where he is, the only thing mattering here and now being the fact that Kisame is not only giving him head but seems to be extremely goddamn good at it. Perhaps it is a boyish thought, because it's not like he's ever done this before; of course his first will feel the best, but that is only when considering the possibility that it will happen again. Right now it does not matter in the least that he doesn't deserve this even once—it is with that carefree sense in his soul that his climax comes, euphoria pulsing through him so heavily it makes him lightheaded. Subconsciously he rolls his hips up into Kisame, whose breaths are loud but steady through his nose as Itachi feels his essence spill into his mouth. His partner's throat tightens as he swallows down every drop of it.

Though they lie next to the fire in the hearth, he shivers from cold when Kisame pulls up and away. He's smirking as he wipes absentmindedly at his face with the back of his hand, his eyes raking over Itachi lying there half-dressed. An exhaustion settles over Itachi, and though he knows his face is flushed and he's covered in bite marks and hickeys, he does not feel the shame he probably should for just having done something like that with someone who is a deranged business partner at worst, and a friend at best. And for all his poetic talk of the true meaning of passion, he's acutely aware that neither of them had done much in the way of suffering just now.

It simply feels right. That is all the attention he's willing to give to his nagging thoughts for now, for he's seen Kisame's own hardness and a small wet spot at the front of his pants and makes to sit up. But Kisame holds out his hand to stop him.

"Please," he says plainly, "rest for now."

Itachi purses his lips in protest. "A favor like that should be repaid."

"Favor?" He chuckles at that. "It was my pleasure, Itachi-san."

Did he really need to be so nice? It just does not add up: half man and half shark, killer of comrades, wild and powerful in battle and always eager to spill blood—measuring all of that power and keeping his bloodlust in check so as not to actually harm Itachi even when biting him, blowing him, swallowing him whole. And then to deny reciprocation as if he were the demure type?

Though in a strange way it suits him, and unfortunately that only stokes the flames of Itachi's newfound fire.

"I want you," he murmurs, the truth of it dizzying to be spoken aloud. He glances up, too shy to clarify. It is selfish, but he wants him more and more with each passing second. Wants to feel him inside of him and wants to be inside of him again and wants to know what makes him moan and swear and come undone.

"You will have me," Kisame assures with a grin. Little beads of sweat are drying on his shoulders and chest and stomach, his skin all but glowing there in the small light of the hearth. "But only after you rest. Then, I am happy to be at your mercy—or make you be at my own once more."