He Started It
A Naruto Fanfiction By Little Miss AiLy
Warnings: Yaoi, non-graphic lemon-ish, almost fluff, implications of pedophilia
He is only seventeen.
Seventeen years old -- I can't quite remember where I was at that age, what I was doing, what I was thinking... Was I even with Akatsuki at that point? Did it even exist then? I'm not so sure. I almost want to say no.
When I think about him being only seventeen though, I don't believe he is a child. I don't want to believe he is a child. I was a child at seventeen, but he can't be.
He is only seventeen and I dare not touch him, but he comes to me first. He is oddly and unexpectedly forceful. Then again, it is just like every mission in which he takes charge. Of course though, he is inexperienced so he orders but I lead. Or I suppose it'd be more exact to say that I top. He, however, hates such crude ideas and words, despite our quite obviously crude actions.
He is only seventeen the first night that I take him. I am not trying to cover anything or shift the blame from myself when I say he initiated it. He always does. It hasn't changed since, not now when he is twenty and I thirty-one. Many things haven't changed really.
He is only seventeen when he pushes me into a wall and attacks me viciously with his lips. What can I say? The kid has amazing strength to him, enough that it shocks me. I don't even think to move, to shove back, though I can easily overtake him. I just let him do as he wants. He is angry and insistent upon my lips. His eyes continually flash between red and black, making me wonder if he is threatening me. Thinking back, I don't think he is. I think it has become involuntary, as his lack of eyesight is now and his need to keep the sharingan activated throughout our entire act just so he can see me.
He is only seventeen when he removes me from sucking and nipping and enjoying his neck and collar. Before I look up to meet his eyes, I see in triumph that I have done quite a job on that area of his skin. I chuckle lightly to myself knowing that I've marked him, I've claimed him. I chuckle lightly to myself knowing how that will look in the morning and how he'll either scold me for no reason or ignore me for a long period. I chuckle knowing he doesn't mean a bit of his coldness. I chuckle knowing that he is mine, though I am now more his.
He is only seventeen when I meet his eyes, controlled to their blackness, avoiding the red, and I see the vulnerability underneath for a flash of a second. "Kisame," he says. His voice is breathy. I am glad to know I am the one to make it so, even if it really is barely a noticable difference from its usual light yet strong quality. "I love you Kisame." Now that was an unexpected and the sound is neither desperate nor insistant. It is just stated. It is that way and that is that. It is that way and it will not change. "Do you love me, Kisame?"
He is only seventeen and I twenty-eight when I realize this will never be spoken of again. We will not share these words again because they are unneeded and because they just can't be said again. It is an unspoken rule.
He is only seventeen when I laugh again to myself and he stops, uncertain. And when I say stops, I mean he shuts down all functions. He shuts down all thinking to simply register that I am laughing. He thinks I laugh at the idea. He is so very wrong. His eyes betray this doubt for but a second before I finally speak. "If I didn't love you, would I have waited for you to come to me?" No, I do not answer straight, because I don't find it necessary. And yes, that is right: I have waited for him. I don't know if I have said it enough: he is only seventeen; I am twenty-eight; this is supposed to be wrong. But I can't lie when I say it feels so right each and every time.
He is only seventeen when he yanks my hair upward for my face to be exactly level with his and he hisses to me, "Just say it."
He is only seventeen when I grant him with the most chaste kiss we would ever share and the only kiss I would ever initiate. I laugh into it lightly as I pull just fractionally away and whisper onto his lips, "Of course I love you Itachi." And he nods, accepting my words. His nod is a simple nod, a curt nod, the same nod he gives to acknowledge Leader-sama's order, the same nod he gives to cashiers telling him the cost of his latest snacking endeavors, the same nod he gives to allow me one vicious attack to the enemy, the same nod that he gives to everything. And I just laugh again as he leans in to take my lips to his again.
He is only seventeen when I first see him below me, writhing as I prepare him for this act. His body is well-built, but still graceful, almost lithe, almost feminine. The dip of his waist and slight flair of his hips almost makes him womenly but his erection that rubs against me as he instinctively grinds against me, instinctively draws himself closer to me, tells me a much different story. He is anything but effeminate. He is simply less harsh than I, but no less male. I remind him and coo to him and whisper sweetly, softly too him. "This is going to hurt at first but I know you can take it. Just give it a moment and you'll like it." I promise. But I don't have to tell him that because he knows, even as his mind is growing fuzzy with his eyes.
He is only seventeen when he cries out my name, and not long after I cry his. This is always when I see the most emotion out of him that I ever will. The cry is both passionate and desperate. This whole time, he has clung to me, a child to its protector. He loves me and he wants me there, but more than that, he needs me. As his world is slowly sinking into blacker, inkier depths, I have to be there to hold him. My name on his lips is more beautiful than I've ever heard it. I never really think my name can sound that beautiful until he utters it as so. I learn quickly though that he will not say my name again for a while afterward. This first time, he does not utter my name for a week after. Now it fluctuates with his mood. Sometimes it will be several hours, other times several days, but it hasn't lasted more than a week, never longer or even as long as the first time. I allow him his eccentricities.
He is only seventeen when he lays panting beside me and draws himself close to me, still clinging. Minutes pass and he insists that we clean after ourselves. I laugh and complain to him, but it really has no effort put behind it and I know I will succumb to his neat-freak tendencies all too soon. He washes himself, soaks himself like he did the first time he killed on a mission. Except it is not as urgent and it is not as if he regrets; he just needs to be clean, so I allow him it. He washes me too, threatens that he will not share that bed with me -- there was only a double bed in our hotel room -- unless I am clean. And since I don't quite feel like doing it myself, I let him wash me. I remind him that he should be exhausted now and shouldn't even want to sit up, much less move around and clean. This reminder is partially for myself as well, so I don't choose to repeat our earlier actions in this bathtub. I think of everything to avoid appealing the idea to myself.
He is only seventeen when we are finally clean to his liking and he lies in my arms for the first of many nights. This is the beginning of habit now. From then on, I stay long awake to protect him. I only sleep when I have convinced myself beyond a doubt that we are safe, that no one will come barging in to take our goods, -- too many valuables for our own good, but all "needed" by Leader-sama -- that no one will hurt him. I finally fall asleep long after when I broke the point of being exhausted.
He is only seventeen when he realizes that I stay up for him every night and lets me sleep in. I awake to find him dressed as if he's been out, and he must have been. He has small bags of food scattered on a table on the side of the room. Many are simply the snacks that he enjoys buying from time to time, having seen many people enjoying them, having heard teens and children speak of them. He is interested in the simplest things. It reminds me that he is supposed to be only still a child. Even as he grows, I still have to see him as a child. I am much older than him, perhaps much too much older than him.
He is only seventeen when I notice the slight, almost imperceptible limp with which he walks as he crosses the room and hands me some sort of meat on a stick, breakfast. I laugh slightly upon seeing him and I notice a slight twitch and change in his cheek that may have implied the start of a blush but the coloring of that porcelain never does change. He just walks back to the table and continues shuffling through the bags to see which he shall try next. I approach behind him and enjoy the fact that he does not tense at all as I lay a hand on his shoulder and whisper into his ear, "Thank you, but I don't know if you should be walking."
He is only seventeen when he brushes my hand off his shoulder and orders me, as usual. "Eat. We need to return soon to headquarters." I give an "Aye-aye, captain" before I sink down, sitting, leaning against the chair he sits upon at the table. I nuzzle my head slightly into his shoulder. This will be the only time anything that soft and uninhibited happens between us. His foot nudges my lower back and I look up to see him handing me another skewered food-item. I watch him as I eat and as he slips his hand into another bag, drawing back a stick of dango.
He is only seventeen when he does the most alluring, seductive thing he will ever do purposely to me. He eats the dango knowing full well what he is implying and what he is doing to me. "What? Just eat," he tells me. "Fine, but I don't know if you should be eating such sweets this early," I respond. He raises a curious eyebrow and his lip just barely twitches upwards as he continues sucking and licking upon the snack. That little vixen, I chuckle internally to myself. "Actually, it's almost noon. I let you sleep in." I respond with a great, jovial laugh. Both of his gracefully arched eyebrows rise now, viewing me from just above me, because I am still not too far below his eye-level as I sit on the floor and he sits upon a chair. "Well, I must thank you then, Itachi. I was quite tired. I still can't quite believe you actually had us clean up afterward." His expression remains the same, both eyebrows raised carefully. "You're welcome then..." And he does not say my name. It doesn't bother me.
He is only seventeen when I coax him to rest for a bit longer, to lay in my arms for a bit. I am not able to fall asleep but I can see as he drifts and I enjoy just laying there. When he awakes again and tells me that "we really must leave now," I laugh lightly to myself and I draw him tight, close. I know that we will never be this affectionate again. We will repeat the actions of the night before but that is the most affection we will ever share. As I lift us both off of the bed that he soon makes to perfection, I say softly into his ear, "I hope you know that is the closest you'll ever get to topping -- ordering me around, that is." I laugh again as he raises a skeptical eyebrow and says with no inflection but plenty of intention "We will see." It turns out, I was right about everything.
He is only seventeen and he never does take control and top. I don't think he really wants to. We never lay around affectionately the morning after again. He does still wake up early to get food and he still feeds me, but we do not cuddle, as it is so popularly called. We never say those three words again. We never hold hands. We walk close by, me often just barely behind him and drawn close to him. Our shoulders do not brush, but the cloth of our cloaks do. That tiny connection is all we need. I resist all urges to throw him against a wall and kiss him senseless, because I often have that feeling after I eat... I believe I was once told that just eating is an aphrodisiac for sharks. Anyway, I begin to believe my restraint is more about him and less about his age with time. Then again, at night, as I watch after him, I can't help but still think about it. I think he does too. I think he has to play the restraint game as well. It is fine for me, because I keep reminding myself, keep telling myself:
He is only seventeen and I twenty-eight. With time, he becomes only twenty and I thirty-one. But I can still only think that he is only seventeen and that I probably shouldn't have let him, have had him.
He is only seventeen, but he started it. Yes, I keep telling myself that.
He is only seventeen, but he started it.
He is only seventeen.
Author's Notes: So this is an odd idea I had after reading some fanfiction. It just struck me and I felt that it needed to be posted. This is as graphic as anything I will ever write will get, if I ever really get back into writing fanfiction of writing prose at all really. It was spur of the moment and I just felt the need to get it out. If you don't like yaoi, too bad. I'm not precisely a yaoi fangirl, but I do believe in certain yaoi couples, and this is definately one of them. If you don't like ItaKisa, I'm sorry but that what this is. You should have read my warnings above. Flame if you want I suppose. Maybe I'll use it to cook some skewered food for Kisame, eh? Read, review, do whatever you want to do; you have a free will afterall.
-Little Miss AiLy