[Dream | Week 5, Day 7]
WARNING: Rated between R and NC17, for sexytiems and shark teeth. Or something. IDEK.
It's warm here, even with the window open. Warmer than you like, the air damp and thick and you can feel the sweat gathering between your shoulder blades; slipping down between your skin and the thin black shirt that you're glad to peel off and discard on the floor.
And there's a warmth in the pit of your belly that has nothing to do with the heat, or with the meal you just ate or the sake that followed it - and everything to do with the woman standing in front of you in a cheap, green dress, all brown eyes and long red hair that curls where it reaches her shoulders. She's pretty, as far as you can tell - under the paint that flushes her cheeks and stains her lips red like cherries. You could wipe it off with a finger in this heat - tell her to wash it off, because you know it'll smell bad and you're the one who's paying. But you don't, and you can taste it when you kiss her; on lips that taste of everything except fruit, smell it on her skin when she reaches a hand up to rest against your cheek - that sickly, greasy stink of the mask she wears as closely as an ANBU.
But if she's playing a part, then so are you. There's blood under your nails that's hidden by the polish, but you know it's there; under your nails and deep in the pores of your skin. She can't tell, but you can smell it, that faint odour of sickly-sweetness that catches at the back of your throat; that you can smell on Itachi's breath when he eats candy and sometimes when he doesn't, when it's just the blood clotting in his lungs.
And to her credit she hides the fear well too, despite that you felt her fingers hesitate when they encountered the gills. As if she thought it would hurt, or maybe that you'd hurt her for touching them. You don't bother to explain, just take hold of her wrist and place her hand there. There's sweat on her palm, salty and damp where it makes contact with them and you breathe it in.
Her tits are small, when you slide your other hand down from her neck and over the thin fabric of the dress, massaging her through the cloth. It barely covers her, the laces holding it together easy to unfasten with just one finger hooked into the bow. It's not real silk, but it's cool under your touch - smooth - and the contrast with the heat of her body and your own is as arousing as hell.
With both hands, it's easy to push the dress back, to slide it down over her shoulders - and she helps things on their way, reaching between you to free her breasts from the fabric and press them against your chest; hands moving to your hips to pull you closer as she grinds against you in a practised movement that ends in a wanton sigh at the feel of your hardening cock through two layers of cloth. There's nothing about this that's innocent, or untested - and you don't mind in the least. For all the value put on chastity, you'd trade fifty virgins for one back street whore who knows how to fuck and be fucked; who'll scream and pant and ride you until her tits bounce with the effort of catching her breath.
She asks your name, her voice breathless, although it's hard to tell if that's real or just part of the show.
"Hozuki Mangetsu." It's a lie; it's not your name or anything close - just the name of a dead kid you knew a decade ago in another place and another life.
"What's yours?" You don't really care, and you don't look at her - more interested in the pale pinkness of her nipples and the way they feel under the rough skin of your thumbs. But you know by now it's the right thing to ask, so you ask it anyway.
"Raku," she breathes it out against your arm as she kisses you there, the warmth of it damp against your skin. You grunt quietly in response. It's a lie too, and you trace the outline of the lips that said it with a finger, watch her slip out her tongue and lick across the knuckle, watch her draw it into her mouth and suck on it while her dark eyes meet yours and her breasts drag across your chest.
It may not be her name, but it's what she's made for; what she sells herself for, and there's an honesty to the choice of it that makes you smile. And she smiles back, with those red lips that are still sucking off your finger while her hands shift to unbutton your pants. It's an unspoken suggestion, but you ignore it, reclaiming your finger from her attentions and leaning down to replace it with your mouth. Her head tips back to accommodate it and she parts her lips with no prompting, letting you taste the sake and sugar and tobacco as your tongue explores her teeth. It's not a bad flavour, as these things go, and she knows how to use her mouth, although the sudden stillness of her hand against your groin is enough to tell you she's not experienced at this enough yet to divide her attention between both the tasks at hand.
A foot between her legs to force them apart and you demonstrate how it should be done, pushing your hand down into the tight space between you, over her belly and lower, fingers tracing the feel of her through the cool, thin fabric of the dress. A minute or two more and she swallows hard, pulling back her head enough that she can speak, thin strands of saliva clinging to red lips, stretching until they break. The kiss broken, her hand moves again when you shift yours away to leave her space to work, sliding its way inside your pants and stroking your cock until you feel it twitch in response.
"What do you like?" Her voice is kind of rough, and her hand shifts again to your hip, the other moving over the muscles of your chest. For a second you consider telling her to shut the fuck up and pay attention, but that would spoil the mood even more than her inability to operate her mouth and her hands at the same time.
"I like to fight." It's an answer to a question she wasn't asking, but it's true all the same, and her fingertips trace the ridged flesh of the scar that curves under your rib cage and that on anyone else would have been fatal. She nods, but in case she doesn't get the message, you close your own too-large hand over her too-small one where it rests there on your hip inside the cloth of your pants and just, press down, fingers curving over hers and forcing her knuckles to bend. It's not enough pressure to hurt her - much - but enough that her nails dig into your skin, hard. You don't blink. You never blink.
With your other hand you reach around and pull her close again, sliding the dress all the way off her shoulders and down to her waist. And this time when she closes her eyes and waits for your lips you don't offer them - instead you press your teeth to the side of her throat and let them drag across her skin, leaving angry marks in their wake. She hisses and this time the nails dig sharply into your hip of their own accord and you know she feels you smile against her skin because she reaches up to tangle fingers in your hair, roughly, more nails leaving tracks across your scalp.
She doesn't weigh much when you lift her, letting her wrap her legs around you as you carry her the short distance to the bed. Her hair smells good through your gills when she presses her head against your shoulder - the lingering trace of soap indicating a recent washing. And when you put her down, pushing her onto her back on a bed cover that's made from the same fake silk as the dress, it pools there on the green like congealing blood on grass.
She looks surprised, when you put a knee on the bed and then lay down beside her, instead of pushing up the cheap dress and fucking her right there and then. When you prop yourself up on one elbow and just look at her for a while, inhaling her scent, spicy and warm, mingling with the sweetness of the peach trees that you know are blossoming somewhere beyond the window. The fear's back again, you can see it in her eyes and in the nervous bite of her lip. This isn't what she expected and she's not sure any more why you're here or what you want. But she doesn't flinch when you reach out to cup a breast, letting your thumb play across her nipple until it hardens again under the friction of rough skin.
You bend your head and let your mouth follow, tongue and teeth on soft flesh, eyes closed as you drink in the smell of her and the taste, the salt from her sweat mingling with the manufactured sweetness of the perfume she's wearing and the tangier scent of her arousal that's starting to soak through the not-silk. She shudders when your teeth brush a nipple, although whether from pleasure, nervousness, or because she knows that's what's expected of her, you can't tell. And you don't much care.
This close, there's the acrid stink of cheap perfume masking the faint odour of unwashed clothes and sheets that still carry the traces of other men in the same way that her skin does - other hands and other lips and other bodies that have pressed against hers before yours did and buried themselves pore deep into her flesh.
But it's not as though you care - or as if you expected anything different. You shift, reaching your right hand down to push up the dress, to slide fingers under the knee that's not pressed against you and lift, until she responds to the suggestion, bending her leg and settling her heel firmly onto the mattress. You let your teeth graze her belly, leaving faint trails of red in their wake as your hand slides down the inside of her thigh. The heat of her is right there, and the hair that catches on the back of your knuckles when you let them brush against her is already wet. No underwear. You register that absently and with no great surprise. It's not as if you bothered with any yourself.
The finger you slide inside her is the same one she had sucked on earlier. But you only push it in to the first knuckle, just enough to test her out; to feel her muscles tense in an involuntary response, before drawing it back up and across her clit, dragging the wetness from inside her with it. When you smirk, and reach back up to smear the finger over her lips she doesn't resist, tasting herself with her tongue and meeting your eyes. There's mild surprise in the brown irises when you follow suit, licking your finger experimentally before deciding that she tastes better than you expected - almost clean, even.
It's almost casual when you push yourself up onto your knees, manhandling her further onto the bed until her head is pressed against the wall and shifting her hips so that her legs are spread either side of yours and the dress is pushed back. And you watch her brace herself to be fucked and you just laugh, shifting back and parting her legs wider, sliding your hands under her hips and using your thumbs to spread her open. The scent of her this close is almost dizzying, salt and sweet and the yeasty aroma of sex. The taste is even better, and you run your tongue over her once, then push into her, as much as you can. There's no urgency to it, and you take your time, enjoying the feel of her hips twitching against you and the soft gasps as you stroke across her clit; the contraction of muscles inside her as you take in every change in her scent through nose and gills. You're pretty sure it's a preference she doesn't run up against very often, and the thought amuses you sufficiently that you wish you could see her face, although the swelling flesh under your tongue tells you enough.
There's half a conflicted groan when you stop; one that's bitten back almost as fast as its uttered, but that only makes you smirk, a predatory half-grin as you run your tongue over the inside of her thigh. There's something of a victory in making a whore moan and knowing she means it, and you savor it like you savor the taste of her on your lips and the feel of your own erection that you've been ignoring but that's almost painful now because fuck you want to be inside her more than anything right about now. And when you kneel up it's like she reads your mind because she hooks her legs around your hips, urging you closer. You could hold back, make her wait, take the time to take off your pants - but you don't, instead just pushing them down before reaching up to grip her waist with both hands.
And this, you know, is what you paid for, because she doesn't flinch when you bury yourself in her with enough force to lift her off the bed if you didn't have a hold of her; when you pull back and then drive into her again, hard. She moans loud enough to wake the dead, but her legs on your hips tighten their grip and pull you in harder, matching your rhythm perfectly.
You stop once, because damn, she looks good like this, panting hard at the effort, eyes wide with damp strands of red hair sticking to her face and her skin flushed, the green dress a crushed, wet mess around her hips. Another frustrated moan, and her thighs contract against you with enough force that she drags an answering sound out of your throat. It's a stupid thing to do - you could name a hundred men who would have broken her jaw for it and kept on fucking her afterwards - but it's enough of a compliment that you just take the hint, pulling back one of your hands and sliding two fingers down through the hot wetness at the the base of your cock; adding some friction against her clit as you jerk your hips into her again.
And when she comes you feel it spasm through her muscles, under your hands and inside her, the sudden tightness an added incentive. Surprisingly, she doesn't make a sound and for a moment you wonder if she passed out, but you don't bother to check, just fuck into her harder, fuck her until you're spent and the hot slide on sensitive flesh is only barely the right side of pleasure. Until it's too much effort to pull out and you just collapse against her, with a lazy laugh at the sound of her heart beating hard enough against your ear that it's almost deafening.
And when Kisame wakes, it's with a curse, and then another when he notices the flashing red light on the hitomi. The feed blinks off almost immediately.
OOC: it occurred to me I should probably note that other than the blue skin, gills on his shoulders and face, and a startling lack of body hair, Kisame looks essentially human here. Just in case anyone was, you know, wondering. I do tend to headcanon that most shinobi have a lovely array of scars from past misadventures and he's no exception - he'd also have no reason to omit them in a dream since they're not something he wishes away or is ashamed of XD
It's warm here, even with the window open. Warmer than you like, the air damp and thick and you can feel the sweat gathering between your shoulder blades; slipping down between your skin and the thin black shirt that you're glad to peel off and discard on the floor.
And there's a warmth in the pit of your belly that has nothing to do with the heat, or with the meal you just ate or the sake that followed it - and everything to do with the woman standing in front of you in a cheap, green dress, all brown eyes and long red hair that curls where it reaches her shoulders. She's pretty, as far as you can tell - under the paint that flushes her cheeks and stains her lips red like cherries. You could wipe it off with a finger in this heat - tell her to wash it off, because you know it'll smell bad and you're the one who's paying. But you don't, and you can taste it when you kiss her; on lips that taste of everything except fruit, smell it on her skin when she reaches a hand up to rest against your cheek - that sickly, greasy stink of the mask she wears as closely as an ANBU.
But if she's playing a part, then so are you. There's blood under your nails that's hidden by the polish, but you know it's there; under your nails and deep in the pores of your skin. She can't tell, but you can smell it, that faint odour of sickly-sweetness that catches at the back of your throat; that you can smell on Itachi's breath when he eats candy and sometimes when he doesn't, when it's just the blood clotting in his lungs.
And to her credit she hides the fear well too, despite that you felt her fingers hesitate when they encountered the gills. As if she thought it would hurt, or maybe that you'd hurt her for touching them. You don't bother to explain, just take hold of her wrist and place her hand there. There's sweat on her palm, salty and damp where it makes contact with them and you breathe it in.
Her tits are small, when you slide your other hand down from her neck and over the thin fabric of the dress, massaging her through the cloth. It barely covers her, the laces holding it together easy to unfasten with just one finger hooked into the bow. It's not real silk, but it's cool under your touch - smooth - and the contrast with the heat of her body and your own is as arousing as hell.
With both hands, it's easy to push the dress back, to slide it down over her shoulders - and she helps things on their way, reaching between you to free her breasts from the fabric and press them against your chest; hands moving to your hips to pull you closer as she grinds against you in a practised movement that ends in a wanton sigh at the feel of your hardening cock through two layers of cloth. There's nothing about this that's innocent, or untested - and you don't mind in the least. For all the value put on chastity, you'd trade fifty virgins for one back street whore who knows how to fuck and be fucked; who'll scream and pant and ride you until her tits bounce with the effort of catching her breath.
She asks your name, her voice breathless, although it's hard to tell if that's real or just part of the show.
"Hozuki Mangetsu." It's a lie; it's not your name or anything close - just the name of a dead kid you knew a decade ago in another place and another life.
"What's yours?" You don't really care, and you don't look at her - more interested in the pale pinkness of her nipples and the way they feel under the rough skin of your thumbs. But you know by now it's the right thing to ask, so you ask it anyway.
"Raku," she breathes it out against your arm as she kisses you there, the warmth of it damp against your skin. You grunt quietly in response. It's a lie too, and you trace the outline of the lips that said it with a finger, watch her slip out her tongue and lick across the knuckle, watch her draw it into her mouth and suck on it while her dark eyes meet yours and her breasts drag across your chest.
It may not be her name, but it's what she's made for; what she sells herself for, and there's an honesty to the choice of it that makes you smile. And she smiles back, with those red lips that are still sucking off your finger while her hands shift to unbutton your pants. It's an unspoken suggestion, but you ignore it, reclaiming your finger from her attentions and leaning down to replace it with your mouth. Her head tips back to accommodate it and she parts her lips with no prompting, letting you taste the sake and sugar and tobacco as your tongue explores her teeth. It's not a bad flavour, as these things go, and she knows how to use her mouth, although the sudden stillness of her hand against your groin is enough to tell you she's not experienced at this enough yet to divide her attention between both the tasks at hand.
A foot between her legs to force them apart and you demonstrate how it should be done, pushing your hand down into the tight space between you, over her belly and lower, fingers tracing the feel of her through the cool, thin fabric of the dress. A minute or two more and she swallows hard, pulling back her head enough that she can speak, thin strands of saliva clinging to red lips, stretching until they break. The kiss broken, her hand moves again when you shift yours away to leave her space to work, sliding its way inside your pants and stroking your cock until you feel it twitch in response.
"What do you like?" Her voice is kind of rough, and her hand shifts again to your hip, the other moving over the muscles of your chest. For a second you consider telling her to shut the fuck up and pay attention, but that would spoil the mood even more than her inability to operate her mouth and her hands at the same time.
"I like to fight." It's an answer to a question she wasn't asking, but it's true all the same, and her fingertips trace the ridged flesh of the scar that curves under your rib cage and that on anyone else would have been fatal. She nods, but in case she doesn't get the message, you close your own too-large hand over her too-small one where it rests there on your hip inside the cloth of your pants and just, press down, fingers curving over hers and forcing her knuckles to bend. It's not enough pressure to hurt her - much - but enough that her nails dig into your skin, hard. You don't blink. You never blink.
With your other hand you reach around and pull her close again, sliding the dress all the way off her shoulders and down to her waist. And this time when she closes her eyes and waits for your lips you don't offer them - instead you press your teeth to the side of her throat and let them drag across her skin, leaving angry marks in their wake. She hisses and this time the nails dig sharply into your hip of their own accord and you know she feels you smile against her skin because she reaches up to tangle fingers in your hair, roughly, more nails leaving tracks across your scalp.
She doesn't weigh much when you lift her, letting her wrap her legs around you as you carry her the short distance to the bed. Her hair smells good through your gills when she presses her head against your shoulder - the lingering trace of soap indicating a recent washing. And when you put her down, pushing her onto her back on a bed cover that's made from the same fake silk as the dress, it pools there on the green like congealing blood on grass.
She looks surprised, when you put a knee on the bed and then lay down beside her, instead of pushing up the cheap dress and fucking her right there and then. When you prop yourself up on one elbow and just look at her for a while, inhaling her scent, spicy and warm, mingling with the sweetness of the peach trees that you know are blossoming somewhere beyond the window. The fear's back again, you can see it in her eyes and in the nervous bite of her lip. This isn't what she expected and she's not sure any more why you're here or what you want. But she doesn't flinch when you reach out to cup a breast, letting your thumb play across her nipple until it hardens again under the friction of rough skin.
You bend your head and let your mouth follow, tongue and teeth on soft flesh, eyes closed as you drink in the smell of her and the taste, the salt from her sweat mingling with the manufactured sweetness of the perfume she's wearing and the tangier scent of her arousal that's starting to soak through the not-silk. She shudders when your teeth brush a nipple, although whether from pleasure, nervousness, or because she knows that's what's expected of her, you can't tell. And you don't much care.
This close, there's the acrid stink of cheap perfume masking the faint odour of unwashed clothes and sheets that still carry the traces of other men in the same way that her skin does - other hands and other lips and other bodies that have pressed against hers before yours did and buried themselves pore deep into her flesh.
But it's not as though you care - or as if you expected anything different. You shift, reaching your right hand down to push up the dress, to slide fingers under the knee that's not pressed against you and lift, until she responds to the suggestion, bending her leg and settling her heel firmly onto the mattress. You let your teeth graze her belly, leaving faint trails of red in their wake as your hand slides down the inside of her thigh. The heat of her is right there, and the hair that catches on the back of your knuckles when you let them brush against her is already wet. No underwear. You register that absently and with no great surprise. It's not as if you bothered with any yourself.
The finger you slide inside her is the same one she had sucked on earlier. But you only push it in to the first knuckle, just enough to test her out; to feel her muscles tense in an involuntary response, before drawing it back up and across her clit, dragging the wetness from inside her with it. When you smirk, and reach back up to smear the finger over her lips she doesn't resist, tasting herself with her tongue and meeting your eyes. There's mild surprise in the brown irises when you follow suit, licking your finger experimentally before deciding that she tastes better than you expected - almost clean, even.
It's almost casual when you push yourself up onto your knees, manhandling her further onto the bed until her head is pressed against the wall and shifting her hips so that her legs are spread either side of yours and the dress is pushed back. And you watch her brace herself to be fucked and you just laugh, shifting back and parting her legs wider, sliding your hands under her hips and using your thumbs to spread her open. The scent of her this close is almost dizzying, salt and sweet and the yeasty aroma of sex. The taste is even better, and you run your tongue over her once, then push into her, as much as you can. There's no urgency to it, and you take your time, enjoying the feel of her hips twitching against you and the soft gasps as you stroke across her clit; the contraction of muscles inside her as you take in every change in her scent through nose and gills. You're pretty sure it's a preference she doesn't run up against very often, and the thought amuses you sufficiently that you wish you could see her face, although the swelling flesh under your tongue tells you enough.
There's half a conflicted groan when you stop; one that's bitten back almost as fast as its uttered, but that only makes you smirk, a predatory half-grin as you run your tongue over the inside of her thigh. There's something of a victory in making a whore moan and knowing she means it, and you savor it like you savor the taste of her on your lips and the feel of your own erection that you've been ignoring but that's almost painful now because fuck you want to be inside her more than anything right about now. And when you kneel up it's like she reads your mind because she hooks her legs around your hips, urging you closer. You could hold back, make her wait, take the time to take off your pants - but you don't, instead just pushing them down before reaching up to grip her waist with both hands.
And this, you know, is what you paid for, because she doesn't flinch when you bury yourself in her with enough force to lift her off the bed if you didn't have a hold of her; when you pull back and then drive into her again, hard. She moans loud enough to wake the dead, but her legs on your hips tighten their grip and pull you in harder, matching your rhythm perfectly.
You stop once, because damn, she looks good like this, panting hard at the effort, eyes wide with damp strands of red hair sticking to her face and her skin flushed, the green dress a crushed, wet mess around her hips. Another frustrated moan, and her thighs contract against you with enough force that she drags an answering sound out of your throat. It's a stupid thing to do - you could name a hundred men who would have broken her jaw for it and kept on fucking her afterwards - but it's enough of a compliment that you just take the hint, pulling back one of your hands and sliding two fingers down through the hot wetness at the the base of your cock; adding some friction against her clit as you jerk your hips into her again.
And when she comes you feel it spasm through her muscles, under your hands and inside her, the sudden tightness an added incentive. Surprisingly, she doesn't make a sound and for a moment you wonder if she passed out, but you don't bother to check, just fuck into her harder, fuck her until you're spent and the hot slide on sensitive flesh is only barely the right side of pleasure. Until it's too much effort to pull out and you just collapse against her, with a lazy laugh at the sound of her heart beating hard enough against your ear that it's almost deafening.
And when Kisame wakes, it's with a curse, and then another when he notices the flashing red light on the hitomi. The feed blinks off almost immediately.
OOC: it occurred to me I should probably note that other than the blue skin, gills on his shoulders and face, and a startling lack of body hair, Kisame looks essentially human here. Just in case anyone was, you know, wondering. I do tend to headcanon that most shinobi have a lovely array of scars from past misadventures and he's no exception - he'd also have no reason to omit them in a dream since they're not something he wishes away or is ashamed of XD