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Beauty+Stupid

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Useful as it is to have a skill that other people can't mimic, every once in a while Kisame wishes that Itachi's damn Sharingan could copy his chakra absorption ability. Oh, he'd regret it most of the time, probably. But it would come in handy at times like this, when he's still in great shape but Itachi's worn right out. Sealing two tailed beasts back to back was a little much for him. Probably for most of the guys, really, but Itachi's the one that Kisame's gotta work with.

"Well, that's the day shot," Kisame says, as he gets up to stretch muscles that have been doing nothing for too long. He'd sort of like to get moving right away, but he knows Itachi's too stubborn to say stop when he needs to. Better to act like there's no question of moving on now. "Have to make sure we're up at first light to keep moving, huh?"

Itachi smiles that tiny smile of his, the one that curves his lips a little but does nothing to his eyes. "You could move on now with no problem."

"Stupid Sharingan," Kisame says. "Don't try to tell me you have plenty of chakra left."

"I wouldn't say that," Itachi says. Sometimes it's infuriating how he can be so quiet and polite.

"And I'm not going to be your seeing eye dog when you run out," Kisame says. "So we sit tight here until morning." Here is a little safe house in a shitty village nobody cares much about. They've been cooped up here for days, funneling chakra to the sealing ritual. One more night won't kill them.

Itachi seems to get that. He nods. "First light," he agrees, and gets up to stretch himself. He moves like a damn dancer. Kisame wonders how many people have lost fights with the Uchiha because all that pretty made them stupid.

"Yeah, so get some good sleep, right?" he says.

"I will," Itachi says. "You won't be my seeing eye dog, but you'll be my nursemaid?"

Kisame opens his mouth to argue and Itachi slips off his Akatsuki cloak. Lots of people must have lost fights this way. The way his shoulders move—the bones of his back, shadowed by his mesh—"Damn," Kisame says.

Itachi looks back over his shoulder, all smoldering Sharingan eyes. Can he see it with that thing when he gets a guy hard? "I might not be entirely exhausted yet," he says.

"You should rest your eyes," Kisame makes himself say.

Itachi turns to face him. "Better?" he asks. He blinks slowly, and his eyes go pure black.

Kisame watches him for any kind of sign that his attention has shifted, but Itachi's too careful for that. Wouldn't want to make it obvious that he can't see his opponent's next move.

There's no focus in those black eyes as Kisame moves closer, though. The price of power, right? Nothing as fancy as the Mangekyou Sharingan comes without a cost in blood.

Knowing that Itachi must be listening makes Kisame think about the sounds he's making: the quiet tread of his feet against the floorboards, the whisper of cloth as he raises his arm. The way his breath is audible between his teeth when Itachi's lips part. It's not helplessness, that soft-faced open-mouthed waiting expression, but it looks almost the same, enough to get Kisame's body confused even if his mind's not that dumb.

"You and your fucking illusions," he says, and Itachi's lips curl like he knows exactly what Kisame meant by that. Kisame kisses him before they can do another round of trading barbed words instead. Itachi kisses with his eyes open, blank and distant—in contrast to the agile flicker of his tongue, too careful to get cut on Kisame's mouthful of razors. His hands are moving constantly, unfastening the clasps of Kisame's cloak, pushing it off his shoulders, teasing at the secondary gill slits there.

Kisame growls a warning, because those are sensitive, damnit. Which Itachi already knows, of course, and it doesn't stop him: he ignores the noise, and ignores the tightening of Kisame's hands around his hips, his fingertips coaxing the gills open and stroking the thin membranes that line them. Kisame has to pull away from the kiss to keep himself from biting. "You—"

"I'm not the one who's going stir crazy," Itachi says. "Don't fight me."

"You got something in mind," Kisame says.

Itachi arches an eyebrow just for a second, and Kisame shrugs. Sure, yeah, Itachi always has something in mind. "Let's go to bed," he says.

He'll reveal his plans in his own damn time, he means. "It's a good idea now that you're suggesting it, huh?" Kisame says. And gets down on the futon all the same. He tugs the drawstring on his pants undone, and then Itachi is kneeling between his legs to pull them off him—totally graceful, totally comfortable, his eyes still flat black straight through.

"Let me," he says. Kisame would complain—if he's the one who's stir crazy, shouldn't he get to move?—but he usually likes Itachi's ideas. And this one seems to start with Itachi spread out on top of him, cool hands and warm mouth mapping his skin like he's going to need the knowledge for a mission. Kisame tries half-heartedly to get Itachi naked, too, because goddamn is he gorgeous, but he's shrugging off the attempts and it doesn't seem worth pushing the issue. Itachi's blunt teeth rake the skin of Kisame's throat, his mesh rucked up enough for Kisame's cock to rub against his bare stomach.

The jittery feeling isn't going away, though. "Come on," Kisame says, rocking his hips. "More."

Itachi sits back on his heels, smirking, blind eyes unerringly meeting Kisame's. "Of course," he says. There's a jar of thick lube in one of his pouches—no wonder he wanted to stay dressed—and the stuff glistens on his fingers when he slicks them. "Tell me if I go too fast."

"Tch," Kisame says, "who do you think you're ta—nnnh," and he's damned if that's less than three fingers Itachi's pushing up his ass. "Bastard," he says appreciatively, rocking down toward Itachi's hand and spreading his legs wider. It's not too fast or too much—he's tough, and Itachi has delicate pretty-boy hands—but it's right on the edge of both. Like the son of a bitch doesn't even need the Sharingan to be perfectly, blisteringly accurate.

And his smile, goddamn. "It takes a lot to reach your limits, doesn't it?" Itachi asks. "I'm nowhere near them yet."

Kisame grins. "That what you're going for?" Already he's relaxing into the fingers Itachi's given him so far, taking the stretch easily. He thinks about curling a hand around his cock to match the rhythm of Itachi's fingers up his ass, but no, he can wait for now. See what the plan is. "You'd better work for it, then."

"I would never wish to let my partner down," Itachi says—more of that goddamn ridiculous politeness—and twists his fingers, pressing upward and making Kisame growl at the crackle of pleasure through his nerves. He's—okay, this is the thing about Itachi that throws people off: he's not big and tough looking, but he's fucking merciless when he puts his mind to something. And right now he's decided that what he wants to do is drive Kisame out of his goddamn mind, rubbing at that spot with these tiny focused strokes that don't give him any room to breathe, until he's clenching his fists in the sheets and then tearing the damn sheets because it feels like Itachi's rubbing the base of his cock from the inside—he can't stand it and he can't get away from it and he can't help himself, coming without a hand on him.

Itachi eases off the pressure just as it's starting to get uncomfortable—not pulling out yet, but giving Kisame a chance to catch his breath at least. "Damn," Kisame says, and he can see Itachi's poker face slip for just a second, a little flicker of pleasure at the reaction he's gotten.

"A good start, then," he says. "I'm glad." He leans down between Kisame's legs slowly, his cheek brushing the shaft of Kisame's cock, nuzzling his way upward until he finds the wet smear of Kisame's come. He laps it up like a goddamn cat, fucking fastidious little licks, the kind of shit that shouldn't be as hot as it is when Kisame has just gotten off.

Well. He does have a lot of energy to burn. "Hey," he says, "while you're down there...."

Itachi laughs. "Don't worry," he says, and licks a slow line up the underside of Kisame's cock. "I know you still need more."

That's the point where an ordinary guy would put his mouth to work, trying to get his jaw to stretch wide enough to suck Kisame's cock. Not bragging, or anything—Kisame's been around enough to know how he compares, and his chakra level's not the only way he's got a lot to offer.

So he could almost tell himself it's intimidation when Itachi doesn't go there, if the idea of Uchiha fucking Itachi being intimidated by anything weren't ridiculous. No, with Itachi it's that he's got some other bastard plan: he cocks his head like he's listening for a reaction, and starts to rock his fingers in Kisame's ass again. It's almost too soon, almost but not quite, and if that makes Kisame growl, well, he's pretty sure Itachi will know it's a compliment.

"There," Itachi says. "Much more relaxed." His hand twists again and there's a brief moment when Kisame feels the stretch and then it's just good, fullness, heat, and he didn't really have time to go all the way soft but he's definitely getting hard again.

"How much you got up there?" Kisame asks. "That's all four, isn't it?"

Itachi nods, this tiny little elegant gesture. "And you can take more."

Kisame rocks his hips, pushing down, and he can feel where Itachi's knuckles press against his asshole, the way when he pushes that burns just a little. Feels like a challenge. "Fuck yes, I can take more," he says. "And you already know it."

"I do." With his free hand Itachi is scooping more lube out of the jar, slipping that hand down between Kisame's thighs too, painting more thick grease over his knuckles and Kisame's asshole. The friction makes Kisame want to squirm, want to growl, and Itachi's face is doing the minimalist version of delighted. "You do seem to have quite the appetite."

The slide from teasing and slicking up into Itachi's next push is so fucking subtle that Kisame can't pinpoint where it changes, just knows that this pressure is going to wreck him if it keeps up and it better keep up—and then there's the moment when Itachi's knuckles slip in, when the widest part of his hand gets past Kisame's body's resistance, and it's like a fucking wave cresting, relief flooding in behind it at the ease of only—only—having his ass stretched around the thickness of Itachi's wrist.

Kisame groans as Itachi's hand folds up inside him, shuddering at each tiny twist and flex. Every sensation feels amplified, every movement more intense, when it's happening inside him. He can barely stand to move himself, feeling this sensitized, but he makes himself try—a little hitch in his hips and the answering wash of pleasure all through his chakra network leaves him boneless.

"If you don't want me watching," Itachi murmurs, "I would appreciate it if you made more noise."

It's not that he doesn't want Itachi watching, Kisame takes a breath to say. Itachi's hand does some kind of rolling motion and he gives up on the words. He pants, moans, growls at the things Itachi does to him, these subtle explosive gestures. Any time he thinks he's going to manage to say something more than "Fuck," or "More," or "Yes," Itachi wrecks his concentration again.

He's going to need more than this to come a second time, though. It's hot as hell to have Itachi fistfucking him, sure, but it keeps his nerves a little too on edge, a little too unsettled. Kisame wraps a hand around his cock and gives it a rough stroke.

Itachi raises an eyebrow, like he heard that, or felt the motion, or whatever. "Still more?" he says. He brings his free hand up to take hold of Kisame's cock himself, his fingers still greasy and slick. His stroke slows Kisame's down, the tight control maddening.

"You bastard," Kisame says, squirming as much as he can, trying to catch Itachi's hand in his. "Come on."

Itachi won't let himself be hurried, but he will at least stroke harder, rough and demanding—and in time with the flex and twist of his hand in Kisame's ass, so it's an assault on two fronts, dragging Kisame closer to orgasm at a teeth-grindingly slow and steady pace. He's strung tight as a trip wire, every muscle shaking taut and screaming with energy, his breath hissing between his teeth and his gills flexing instinctively as if they could pull more oxygen from the air, as if that would give him what he needs right now.

When he comes it feels nothing like the first time—that was a sudden, sharp peak, where this is a thrumming, drawn-out thing: he can't hit the climax as hard with Itachi holding him open like that, but it won't end, either, crackling and humming through his nerves until he can barely breathe, until he's bitten his lip bloody and finished ruining the sheets and Itachi has milked his cock dry.

His gills are still fluttering uselessly when Itachi finally eases off. Kisame takes deep, rasping breaths, trying to find his voice.

"Relax," Itachi reminds him softly, and on Kisame's next exhale he slides his hand out smoothly.

Kisame's legs feel like jelly. It won't last, but right now it's fucking impressive. He lies there feeling fucked stupid and satisfied as Itachi gets up and goes to wash up—probably a good idea, but Kisame's not in a huge hurry just yet. He closes his eyes and listens to the beat of his own blood in his ears, the little echo of the tide that goes with him everywhere.

He cracks an eye open when Itachi comes back. "So hey, what about you?" he says.

Itachi's lips quirk. "I've been told I need to rest," he says.

"Tch," Kisame says, "you can just say you don't feel like it, you know." At least half the time Itachi decides he doesn't want to, which always seems a little weird to Kisame but honestly ranks way at the bottom of the scale of Akatsuki weird and doesn't cost him anything.

This time, though, Itachi's eyes flare Sharingan red for a second, and he says, "You can pay me back in the morning, before we leave."

So they'll get a late start tomorrow. Kisame doesn't think he cares. "Sure," he says. "I'll do that."