[Recognition bleeds into surprise, and then into a deeper reservoir of arousal. His own encounter with the same boy had felt electrically charged, some inexplicable lure that continually drew them together—he's been made aware of Guanshan's interest even if he does not yet understand it. Perhaps if he had less control over himself, in the woods, Stiles would not be the only one admitting to intimate trespass now. More interesting is the fact they've crossed paths with the same individual, in equally fraught exchanges; Itachi is not often one to believe in coincidence.
Less shocked to hear Stiles' transformation has taken a similar shape as his monstrous designation in Aefenglom, the image described burns bright in his mind. He leans his weight heavily, sealing chests to pelvic bone, eyelids slitting at the fingertips up his flank. Remaining imperially still despite Stiles' bold grind of hips, he tilts his head. The gesture is almost bird-like as it takes his mouth out of proximity in his own version of a tease.]
That does sound like you. [Itachi isn't soon to forget one of their first encounters on that city rooftop, being bound up in silk web and clumsily transported to his younger brother, "for his own good."] Had you ever done anything like that before, as an Arachne?
[ Though he doesn’t give chase, his gaze remains lazily focused on the enticing shape of those lips as they form the words of Itachi’s drawling response. He thinks he could waste a lifetime just like this, breathing in the other man’s scent and recycled air, bodies intertwined like two coiled snakes in the underbrush. The deadly presence shadowing him tames his usual restless fidgeting into domesticity, keeping Stiles uncharacteristically still himself as he reclines in the cage of strong arms and long legs. As much as he wants to kiss Itachi, he’s not ready to beg for it yet. ]
On my birthday. [ There’s a dreamy quality softening his voice now. ] It was a full moon. I hadn’t Bonded with anyone yet, so it was getting harder and harder to control myself. Sasuke and Jonas were having dinner at the cottage.
[ Home away from home, as he’d come to know it. Potential for the memory to take on a darker, melancholier note threatens Stiles only for a moment; the solid, hard press of a body against his, tethering him to reality, prevents him from trailing down the rabbit hole of Jonas’ tragic fate. Nails biting, he drags his fingers back down Itachi’s sides before crawling them up again. ]
Sasuke needed to feed, bad. It was too dangerous to bring Jonas along and I knew he’d come after us if I didn’t do something, so I webbed him to a wall to keep him safe. [ Or maybe, simply to keep. ] Then I took Sasuke to a local pet store, where we wined and dined.
[ Their looming feral nature had lent the night a more sexually charged atmosphere; Stiles remembers how both of them had become hard, feasting on the animals in Sasuke’s thrall. ]
If it happens again, [ he continues in a low, sly tone, referencing the transformation, ] I can’t promise what’ll happen to you.
[Thoughts falling backward into reverie, he wonders if that was the same night Stiles had also delivered him to Sasuke's bed, and if their later interaction—a soft, gentle memory of a tiny, tender-winged bat in his hands—followed directly after the feeding session with Stiles. Yet reflecting further on his younger brother only calls to mind their more recent exchange like a splash of boiling water down his spine: the memory of Sasuke in his arms, scaled snake-tail ropey and possessive around him, a mouth covering his own in the cross over prohibited boundary.
Highly inappropriate in the given context. Itachi shudders, emotional response a static flash through their Synced tether that feels like a snapped rubber band, sharp and brief and stinging, easily disguised as a reaction to Stiles' low-toned insinuation.]
It sounds as though you are threatening me, Stiles, [said in his own quiet murmur, head turning to tuck a cool cheek into the joining of Stiles' throat and shoulder.] What are you suggesting you'd do? Do you think I would allow you to restrict me in webbing as you did once before?
[The idea thrums trepidation, tempered by trust; he's been bound under Stiles' hands now already, though to significantly lesser degree. The shape of Itachi's mouth is felt on skin as it curves into a subtle, unseen smirk.] I'm not easy prey. [Shifting up, his lips graze the delicate shell of the boy's ear before taking the lobe into a gentle pinch of teeth.]
[ That brief albeit vicious bite of unexpected emotion ricocheting through Synchrony leaves Stiles reeling, eyes wide as he stares at Itachi. He wonders if he’s misstepped, if maybe the idea of vulnerability in the hands of an Arachne is asking too much. But then the shinobi moves on as if the moment had never occurred, skin-to-skin contact a balm on his nerves. Gradually, the shoulders that hiked up with tension begin to relax once more. Whatever happened, Itachi doesn’t seem to be too perturbed about it. So, in the interest of seeing where their current conversation leads, Stiles lets it go. For now, at least.
The nibble at his ear may have something to do with his magnanimous decision.
A soft sigh escapes him as he melts into the touch, his head tilting away to bare his throat in silent supplication for Itachi. With his face turned aside, now would be an excellent time to catalogue the space that the shinobi now uses as a base of operations – calling it the man’s home would be a severe misunderstanding of Itachi’s personality and character. And yet Stiles finds his gaze going glassy as the flames of desire lick up his spine. ]
You’re not, [ he agrees appreciatively, hands slipping under the hem of Itachi’s sleeveless shirt to palm smooth hips. ] But I think you’d find the experience…rewarding.
[Incredible to consider how accustomed to physical intimacy he's grown since those first few, tenuous exchanges in Hell. He does not flinch or stiffen beneath the broad stroke of hands over hips, shirt hiked up in a brief glimpse of skin, allowing his guard to ease with desire for the boy in his arms. Itachi drops his head into the slope of that offered throat to inhale the familiar, clean scent of skin, warm against his cheek and flickering eyelids. A push of strength crushes Stiles' waist to the island's cold edge, immobile. His feet nudge apart ankles, bullying for space between knees, aligning their stomachs in one warm press. Then a roll of hips to grind against Stiles' groin with deliberate purpose meant to help in getting him hard.
There's no preliminary flirtation left as Itachi reaches down with both hands to close a powerful grasp under the boy's thighs, intent to clear his feet from the tile and deliver him seated to the counter. Widening legs further to allow himself within them, his own body a solid wall of lean muscle fitting well and with the confidence of belonging.
Stiles' promise hangs in his mind—rewarding, as though he's done something to deserve this sort of feeling and trust and loyalty from someone else—as he lifts a hand and snares short, ruffled brown hair to steer into an abrupt kiss. patience run dry. It forces Stiles to bend down slightly forward to reach. The pressure is solid, mouths sealed corner to tight corner, tongue prying for wet depth almost immediately.]
[ Again Itachi moves with that singular feline grace, all sleek muscle rippling beneath the loose folds of clothing. The dwindling space between them abruptly evaporates, dried up in the flare of heat that banks and builds between them as hips meet. There’s no opportunity to chase the sensation; Stiles is lifted with an ease that goes straight to his dick, the back of his thighs sliding against marble as he’s seated on the island. Without protest he allows his legs to be spread, though knees swing shut on a slender waist imperiously, feet locking at the ankles behind the man – trapping Itachi in the prison of his limbs. Already he’s squirming, inching forward on the counter until he’s flush against the long body before him.
Pliant lips give way under the pressure of a hungry tongue. Stiles groans into the kiss, his own tongue licking up the length of the shinobi’s in an eager greeting. The taste of Itachi is intoxicating, enough to get him drunk off of. His body undulates in want of a groin to grind against, but on the island he’s forced to make do with a navel instead. It reminds him of the preparations he made before coming here, of fingering himself open in the shower while thinking of Itachi, of the tube of lubricant in his back pocket. Scrambling, he reaches for that pocket now, retrieving the item simply to place it pointedly in the palm of Itachi’s hand.
He breaks from the kiss, rubbing their foreheads together. ]
Gonna take care of you tonight. [ Stiles closes Itachi’s hand around the lube. ] You, inside me. You want that, sweetheart?
[Somewhere in the hot collide of tongues and humid breath, devouring the mouth against his own with a familiar hunger reserved only for Stiles—they've had enough practice by now to make the act nearly innate—Itachi's mind wanders to the wild absurdity at what he's just agreed. He questions whether it was the correct decision, if instead he should have refused and turned Stiles out the door with more permanent severance to these uncharted waters of intimacy. It's become challenging to identify the pattern of emotions within himself, as though they've taken on complexity with time, hued in new colors he's never experienced and cannot immediately decipher. He understands that, perhaps, he's acted selfishly. The simple animal desire to have Stiles' up against his body seems to override all reason. It's terrifying, and in a moment of lucidity he acknowledges the danger he's created by allowing this to progress for the simple fact that Stiles has become irreplaceable in his narrow world.
So the inevitable pain of loss, when it does someday occur, will be nothing but deserved.
Itachi's lashes flicker as something solid it pressed into his hand. Reflexively, fingers curl around it. A line creases his brow in bemusement, then clears in a second's comprehension, and his expression darkens with a tide of acute understanding. He manages a short exhale and doesn't move in the trap of legs.] ... You enjoy calling me that. Was this planned? I would imagine, for you to be so prepared.
[The voice he uses is soft, very low, almost rasping and metallic in the whisper, dark gaze fixed on Stiles' face with intensity. He closes his hand into a fist and then circles the arm around Stiles' back, other hand tucking again under one of the boy's thighs, grip like iron in such slender fingers.] Hold onto me. [All the warning he offers before he's hauling Stiles against the front of his body and lifting, removing him from the counter to carry him across the tile, out through the living room, into what is presumably his bedroom. It's very dark past the threshold; curtains are closed on the window. He gets a knee on the mattress edge and delivers Stiles down onto it in one fluid movement.]
[ Itachi’s voice is made for the night, for unspeakable acts of passion lost to the winding dark. It drives a helpless little shiver from Stiles where he sits, trembling inside in want of that voice washing over him a hundred million more times. The command is obeyed without second thought, hypnotized as he is by the sheer magnetism of desire binding them. He drapes his arms over the shape of sculpted shoulders just as he’s yanked off the island in another casual display of strength. Oh, but Stiles can’t help the small noise he makes at that, hips angling forward to rub his stiffening dick against Itachi’s front. The trap of denim doesn’t permit him much movement in that regard, and by the time he’s deposited on the bed there’s a noticeable bulge creasing his jeans. ]
Hoped for, [ he corrects shakily, barely hanging onto the thread of conversation from the kitchen. ] Even stretched myself in the shower, just for you.
[ Brown eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light in the bedroom, Itachi little more than a silhouette menacing him from above. Stiles pulls the man down onto him anyway, this shadow that’s crept into his life, still-locked ankles sliding down the small of Itachi’s back to push impatiently at hips. Arms unwinding, he moves again to cradle the man’s skull and draw their mouths together, only for fingers to brush against the swollen skin of two puncture wounds. Pausing, he tries to scrutinize Itachi in the pitch black, his own expression twisting with uncertain inquisition. An attack, or…? ]
Guess I’m not the only one who was getting frisky.
[ After all, the idea of anyone getting that close to Itachi while aggressive seems impossible – barring Sasuke, of course. Trying not to allow insecurity get the best of him, he moves on from the area, hands instead slipping down the shinobi’s chest to tug the sleeveless shirt off him. ]
Invite me next time, [ jests Stiles with a wink, hoping he doesn’t sound nearly as clingy as he feels. ]
[Before he allows himself to be hauled, a dark gaze memorizes the line of the boy’s cock through stiffly tented denim, made obvious in the splay of legs over the bed. And then he goes down to flatten himself against it. As many times as they may do this, it seems impossible he’d ever grow tired of feeling Stiles pressed to him in a greedy seal of closeness, hips chafing as they drag together, frustrating friction between covered bellies and groins. He’s aware of hooked ankles at his back; he feels touch travel his throat, lighting on the tender, scabbed and healing place where rows of teeth had latched on days ago. The memory feels foggy and lost somewhere far away—Itachi blinks hard at the comment, long lashes flickering.
It wasn’t like that is what he means to say even as reasonable thought evades him again, slippery in the dark. More important is that first admission. Itachi leanly flexes up onto palms so the shirt can be peeled over his head, hair an oil spill around slim shoulders, sliding to tickle Stiles’ face. The contrast of black and white is always stark on him, made starker by uninterrupted planes of pale skin in limited light. The stone in his throat shines brilliant lilac and creates exaggerated shadows. Through Synchrony, Stiles will feel the heady, constant throb of his arousal.
Rather than lower down again, he shifts backward, easily wresting himself from the restraint of limbs to stand on the carpet at the foot of the bed. Slow, methodical hands peel off Stiles’ shoes and socks, dropping each, until he closes his hand around the boy’s smooth heel and gets a firm hold around the slender bones of his ankle, gently stroking a callused thumb along the arch of his foot. Then he drags Stiles inches down the bed to him so they’re closer to the lip, where he comes forward onto his knees in just the slightest depression of weight.]
You opened yourself for me already, [he confirms, tone even but for that telling rasp.] So you hoped that I would fuck you tonight.
[Such a coarse, vulgar word is somehow made coarser on a tongue that rarely shapes it, at the same time a hand reaches to work at the front of those jeans, fully prepared to begin peeling them off, eyes like a physical weight in the intensity of how he watches Stiles.] Show me.
[ A pit of quicksand, yawning open wide, forms in his stomach when his comment about the bitemark isn’t addressed. Stiles swallows, doubt crawling down his throat like an insidious insect. Can he really do this? Not even thirty minutes into this committed open relationship and already he’s drowning in insecurities. Maybe he should stop things now, put a pause on the sex until they can actually discuss this. But even as he thinks it, a part of him shrinks away from the idea – he doesn’t want to stop their momentum, doesn’t want to ruin the moment, doesn’t want to give Itachi reason to believe he can’t handle the ambiguity of the man’s sex life with other people. And the thing is…isn’t trust the most important factor here? If this is going to work, he needs to trust that Itachi will tell him the details when they’re important. And so, though uncertainty briefly bobs up and down in the flow of Synchrony, Stiles strives to put the matter aside.
By the time he stirs from his thoughts, he’s sans socks and shoes. The featherlight pressure teasing the arch of his foot has him shuddering, goosebumps breaking out along legs and arms in anticipation. Within his stomach, the pit gradually shifts into a different kind of weight, one that drops pleasantly to his groin as he recognizes the breadth of Itachi’s arousal flaring across their link. Nothing could prepare him for the unexpected heft of that crude, intimate word from those lips, however. It coaxes a strangled moan from him, loins throbbing in a bright paroxysm of desire. God, he’s turned on.
Instead of responding verbally, he falls silent – eyes finally adjusted to the dark and never once leaving Itachi’s face – to assist in removing the jeans. Slowly, he shimmies from side to side, denim softly hissing as the snug pants are dragged free. Once they’re finally off, he pauses, letting the seconds trudge past as his long, bony hands finger the waistband of his dark-blue boxer briefs. Never would he have thought he was capable of putting on a show for someone else like this, and yet Itachi’s hawklike intensity helps build his confidence. The waistband snaps into place against a trim, slender waist, only a snapshot of his wakening erection visible. Then, with a soft inhale, Stiles divests himself of both the henley and briefs, stark nude on Itachi’s bed.
Lean legs fold inward toward his chest, thighs bracketing the cock straining toward his navel, bulbous head an angry red. Then, a bit awkwardly from a relative lack of flexibility, Stiles reaches down to spread open his hole, where it immediately becomes obvious that some lubricant has already been applied, strings of it weakly breaking. ]
Like this? [ he asks, his own voice gone husky and thick. ]
[As that uncertainty swims at the surface of the connection between them, it nearly sidetracks Itachi with questions of whether Stiles is doubting his decision or his want to do this now; a tide of mutual, doubled desire gradually washes it out, the remainder of his focus fixated on the display the boy makes. Stiles’ body is lean, softer in places where he’s accustomed to muscle and bone in himself, thighs full and solid enough for a bruising hand, skin dappled with moles and dark curls of hair. He’s seen it completely bare twice now. Yet he finds himself staring when Stiles finishes stripping down as if to remember every corner and detail he’s come to learn. No one else’s body is as known to him as Stiles’, and neither has he ever seen such an obscene sight as those fingers—long, bony, almost delicate—prying open the cheeks of his ass to reveal that slick, tight hole between legs, reddened from obvious earlier attention.
It winds Itachi breathless, whose hand lays on his own thigh and twitches, an impatient flex to keep from reaching. He wishes for more light in the room. He blows out air through his nose, consumed with the primal, animal way Stiles makes him feel by showing him that, thighs apart and naked on his bed, underneath him. And the deeper more frightening thread of intimacy in a union like this; it’s something he hasn’t experienced before, hadn’t realized he could want with the ferocity of realization of how long he’s gone without Stiles, and without this.
Unable to answer the question verbally, he climbs down at last, covering the boy from head to toe with the slant of his weight, legs fitted easily in that spread of knees. Hair blankets their faces as he seizes Stiles mouth in a messy kiss, tongue sliding past teeth to get deeper in as he rubs over that jutting, thickened cock where it fits snug against his abdomen, balls catching at the fabric still covering his lower body. A hand is already reaching around and under Stiles’ ass, so he can pass his fingertips across that taut hole to feel it for himself, test how stretched and slippery it remains, though he doesn’t yet push inside.]
[ He could become addicted to that look, Stiles thinks. The look of a man whose appetite will only be whet on one body – his. Under the weight of that heavy gaze, dragging over him as tangibly as a caress, doubt and insecurity diminish into nothingness. Chest heaving on a strained breath of exhilaration, Stiles meets those eyes with a hunger of his own. Itachi is a sharpened weapon in the shape of a man, unearthly beautiful with loose hair flowing like a waterfall at midnight and eyes of warmed obsidian. Even with the brutal scars of battle on display, marring arms and body, the shinobi manages to outshine even perfection.
Itachi settles atop him like he belongs. With a pleading noise he barely recognizes as having come from his own throat, Stiles greets him. The kiss is a wet, vicious thing, the slick collision of their tongues noisy in the still room, interposed with the soft shifting of fabric rustling over his dick and balls. Arousal sinks somewhere in his gut below the navel, pooling a quickening heat in his groin that leaves him increasingly needy for Itachi’s touch. As he sucks on an invasive tongue mapping his mouth, a shiny strand of saliva leaking from his bottom lip, he rumbles appreciation for the finger pads dancing lightly over his spread ass cheeks, just glancing across the hole desperate to be stuffed.
Unable to reach out to Itachi while holding himself open wide like this, he rocks against the older man in search of friction, cock swollen and already beginning to drip fat beads of precome onto his abdomen. It’s not enough. He needs Itachi inside him, stretching him, filling him, joining him. Frustrated, Stiles tries to spear himself on those investigative fingers before finally losing patience and sliding three of his own inside to the knuckle; the pinkened hole swallows them down voraciously with a squelch of lubricant. As he thrusts those fingers shallowly, stymied by the angle, his other hand abandons its post to flatten over the bulge in Itachi’s pants, cupping it. ]
[The sleek curtain of his hair makes their faces hot, hidden by the fall of it as though to conceal this intimacy from the rest of the world, to allow them privacy for themselves. It’s a kiss he pushes too far—to the point of a burning need for air in the seal of lips and wet drool—and only disengages with eventual reluctance. Separated, Itachi is panting, body drawn tense as a palm shapes over the stiff line of his cock where it sits trapped still beneath fabric. He doesn’t allow his own hips to twitch forward, no matter the urge that possesses him to grind against even the barest suggestion of relief. He has self-will enough to wait. He wants to be inside.
Feeling the moment Stiles clever fingers bypass his own curious touch to sink into that tight hole, Itachi lets out a slow stream of breath. A line forms between delicate eyebrows. He can’t see at this angle—in a bid to remedy this, he leans back on bent knees and hikes Stiles’ leg up, propping the boy’s slender calf on his shoulder. The movement stretches him wider open between the legs and provides a better view, though it takes away immediate access to that smart mouth. Itachi can do nothing but look, arrested by the sight: rim tight and pink around the knuckles of three fingers, full cheeks spread open, cock weeping clear precome over the boy’s flat navel, skin flushed everywhere in the pale shades of exposed color. The hunger threatens to take him apart. If anyone has ever seen this before him, they did not deserve it.
Methodically, Itachi reaches one-handed for the bottle of lubricant discarded nearby on top of the blanket. He smears the glossy fluid into the furrow of Stiles’ ass, enough to trickle, then uses the thumb of his other hand to rub it in messily, coating those fingers in a thick layer. The same thumb dips into Stiles’ hole, overfull already, to watch the tight opening stretch just a little more.]
Good. [His voice seems to come from somewhere else, still very low and almost drowsy, an answer belated to earlier’s thread of conversation. Head tilting, he presses a hot cheek against Stiles’ bare ankle.] I could do it now. It doesn’t seem as though you need much more. Do you want that?
[ Calf settled delicately over a shoulder that once bore the fate of an entire hidden village, he doesn’t even register the dull ache in his leg as the limb is extended. The epicenter of his world begins and ends with Itachi, leaning over him with a palpable aura of restrained violence that has Stiles trembling in overwrought desire. I can take it, he wants to tell the man. I can take what you have to give. So, give it all to me. But when he parts reddened, spit-shiny lips to speak, the sound of the lubricant cap snapping open only drags a guttural moan from him. Words are almost beyond him – he’s that wound up, body uninterested in anything except the still-clothed dick cradled in the palm of his hand.
The first touch of cold grease against his skin earns a flinch, though Stiles offers no protest when a thick thumb breaches him. Warmth blooms through his core, heating him up to the point of supernova, muscles instinctively clenching down on that intrusion even as his hole greedily sucks the thumb in. It feels so good to have Itachi inside him in any capacity. Bedsheets are thrown into sharp relief as the gemstone embedded in his right shoulder erupts in a flare of green light, Synchrony weaving a concordant song only they can hear. Stiles fucks himself a few shallow thrusts, struggling to reach his prostate at the awkward angle of his hand, then abandons the effort with a frustrated hiss of breath, fingers popping free of the slickened hole.
“Good,” quietly rumbles Itachi and he writhes like a live wire, panting harshly and sweat glistening at his brow, a wild look of unsaturated need dilating his pupils until brown irises are nearly swallowed up. Stiles thinks he might do anything to hear the shinobi praise him again, cock smearing a puddle of precome over his stomach as it jerks in place. ]
Please, [ he begs in a thready voice barely his own. ] Please.
[ Past the point of patience, he yanks down pants and briefs to expose Itachi’s erection, the straining dick bobbing in the air. Hands briefly pet at the swollen flesh as if in amicable greeting, sliding over velvety foreskin to rub at the crown before tilting it down toward him. ]
[The free air is cool on inches of exposed skin, cock standing up rigid between his legs as Stiles impatiently unveils him, drawstring waistband hooked just beneath the swell of taut balls. Eyelids flicker at the rub of touch; he almost snatches the boy's slender wrist to take it away, balanced so precariously on that height of stimulation—a boundary between human and animal—but fortunately he finds he can weather it without losing the frayed thread of his own control. The display Stiles makes of himself is another danger, though, that plea too sweet on kiss-bruised lips, body begging to be fucked for the open spread of thighs and the sudden, offered emptiness of his hole.
Itachi is momentarily a silent ghost, hovering like predator over fallen prey, posture straight and inflexible. Black devouring eyes, a black curtain of hair, fields of white skin. Then he bends down. Stiles' leg slides off his shoulder to hook in the crook of his elbow, foot dangling. He feels the moment his cock slips into the crevice of the boy's slick ass, dragging through the sticky mess of lubricant, a smear of fluid to grease his dick with an obscenely wet sound unmistakable in the dark room. Hips rock, just rubbing into that slippery furrow of skin—then the flared tip catches at the opening of the boy's body, so much tighter than it had felt around his thumb. Itachi releases an explosive breath at those first sinking inches. An inexorable slide in, gravity does the work as he allows his weight to ease down over Stiles onto hands. His unoccupied arm quickly sweeps up the boy's other leg, coaxing him now spread-eagled to take the full length of his cock.
It seems to take several moments, their faces hanging closer now. His expression is fiercely affected despite the quiet: creased with effort, mouth open and panting, eyes narrowed to slits of concentration, hair a messy dark halo, forehead damp. Biceps strain with muscle as he pins Stiles in the crux of his gaze. Fully seated and locked into the embrace, balls tucked up against the curve of the boy's ass, he doesn't move, as if to become accustomed to such a brutally tight, brutally intimate place.]
[ That fragile, devastating moment before Itachi moves seems to hang on as if by a thread, not unlike a rubber band stretched too taut and on the brink of snapping. Stiles pants wildly, hands falling away from the engorged erection to instead pull on the back of his own thighs, body folded neatly in half for the other man’s perusal. And he waits, still gasping fruitlessly for air when the only breath he manages to take is just as Itachi finally slides home – claiming him at his core, that impossibly dark, secret place that burns so hot. It punctures a cry from him, brown eyes blinking away a wall of overwhelmed tears that spill slowly down the sides of his cheeks toward his ears. Itachi is inside him, sheathed to the hilt, the heavy weight of balls resting snug against his ass. Stiles has never felt so full.
The adjustment winds him. Mouth soundlessly forming unintelligible syllables, he stares up at Itachi in wonder as his body stretches past the initial discomfort to accommodate the considerable girth splitting him open. He finds that he prefers taking it like this, face to face, rather than on his stomach like how Fenris first fucked him; the kaleidoscope of subtle emotion passing over the shinobi’s countenance is nothing short of as breathtaking as the aurora borealis itself. Am I your first? he marvels vaguely, caught in that dreamy space between pleasure and reality. I wish I could be your last too.
Let me keep you.
His body squeezes down on the cock, milking a few beads of precious precome from the ruddy tip. Though he wants to be patient, especially for Itachi, need has him fidgeting restlessly on the mattress, head tossing from side to side and hushed moans leaking from his lips. Itachi’s dick is just grazing his prostate, pressure enough to have Stiles squirming for more. ]
[The sight of tears causes Itachi to go still, hunting on the thread of Synchrony for some sign of pain; finding nothing, he studies the boy’s expression, that red mouth slack around softly panted exhalations and the looseness of wonder in glassy brown eyes. At a loss, he dips his own head down and slides an overwarm cheek through the wet tracks of tears as the only demonstration of comfort he can think to offer.
Sheer, breath-stealing tightness swings his attention to the state of his own body—the brief constriction of that intentional squeeze coaxes a ragged sound out of the back of his throat. The idea of movement feels impossible. It’s too tight, the boy’s ass like a vice around the swell of his cock, eased only by slippery lubricant. Holding Stiles’ legs up, he can’t sweep the curtain of his own hair out of the way, so it hangs again into their faces as his body adjusts one trembling inch at a time to the hot channel of the boy’s body.
Tucked in close to an ear, Itachi’s voice scrapes out:] Stiles. [Half-startled, half-growling. It’s as though he needs to say the name for it to be real. The intimacy of the act is unlike anything he’s experienced. It is the physical manifestation of long months of emotional closeness, bound souls made concrete.
Stiles’ restless squirming finally manages to pull him out of his statuesque reverie. Adjusting his arms, Itachi leans away again and experiments with a shallow, blunt roll of hips, feeling the head of his dick rub that burning-hot interior of muscle, reveling in the stretch. But only just. While it isn’t his intention to go so slowly, or to treat Stiles so gently, he’s not yet accustomed to the sensation.]
[ The gesture surprises a soft, fond chuckle from Stiles, who remains still as Itachi rubs their cheeks together – not unlike a cat, he thinks with no small measure of amusement. Affection swells in his heart. Though the surge of tender emotion threatens to summon more tears to his reddened eyes, he manages to will them away. Itachi doesn’t need mixed signals, now of all times. As wound up as Stiles is, his body can’t take much more waiting.
Then the sound of his name falling from those lips has him shuddering violently, goosebumps pebbling his skin like stones skipping over water. His pelvis jerks in response, dick aching and oozing fluid that rolls up his angled stomach to collect between his pecs. Stiles feels all of thirteen suddenly, desperately fighting off an impending orgasm that builds too hard too soon. Reaching out, he seizes his cock by the base and squeezes, teeth grit. Just in time; the next roll of hips has him tensing up, narrowly avoiding a premature tumble off the figurative cliff. ]
Itachi, [ he pleads on a broken note, voice as raw as sandpaper, ] I’m…
[ Close, dangerously so. Just the simple, beautiful fact that Itachi is inside him – dick nestled impossibly deep, pulsating and leaking precome into that tight, intimate channel – is enough to keep Stiles balanced precariously at the edge. He’s burning up, beads of sweat springing into existence across his naked flesh as he defies the banking climax looming in his loins. But even still, he waits, allowing Itachi to adjust as necessary. ]
[The sound of his own name fishes Itachi out of an intense concentration, everything narrowed on the sensation of the body clenched over his cock, perfectly fitted, unwilling to release him with every shallow rut of hips. Stiles’ incomplete warning is guessed only through the context of Synchrony—that blistering edge of pleasure he recognizes now as the prelude to orgasm. His head lifts, watching Stiles reach to squeeze the plump, heavy weight of his own cock as though to fend it off, precome drooling from the flushed tip to collect on his belly, skin flushed with color and heat and slick with sweat. He’s never seen Stiles like this. Thighs hiked up, split on his cock, panting desperately. Willpower seems to shed in the face of that raw, pretty vulnerability.
Lowering slender legs so they can loop instead around his waist, he seizes both of Stiles’ wrists in each hand to pin his arms down onto the mattress. Then he crushes the line of their bodies together. No movement, not at first, taking the time to feel Stiles’ shuddering inhalations against the flat of his sternum as his face tucks into the boy’s shoulder and turns to mouth at his ear. Stiles will hear the uneven rhythm of his own breath in hot bursts of air, just as wrecked. The slippery mess of Stiles’ cock tucks against his own abdomen, muscle drum-tight, smearing precome between their navels with slickly obscene sound.
With controlled core strength, Itachi begins to fuck him properly, thrusts slow and thorough and as deep as possible to fill him over and over, never leaving Stiles’ tight hole bereft long. If not for the hands locked around Stiles’ wrists to keep his body planted, each brutal thrust—pelvic bone slapping against Stiles’ ass—might have driven him inches up the mattress with force. He intends to fuck Stiles through orgasm with no clear signal he’ll stop when it’s done.]
[ Power disguised behind a deceptively brittle-looking beauty, Itachi pins him to the mattress with a kind of uncompromising finality that has Stiles snarling his approval. When juxtaposed against the first time the man ever made him feel helpless – back in Undermael College’s campus library – it may seem strange that he’s so aroused by it now. But Itachi has won his trust. And so, molten-hot arousal shoots through him violently, fingers to toes, until his entire body trembles. There’s no scenario here where he fends off orgasm a second time. Instead of even trying, he surrenders.
Climax builds on the horizon. Higher as a damp mouth pants raggedly in his ear, causing the fine hairs on the nape of his neck to prickle. Higher still as Itachi finally begins to move, dick dragging out of that tight, reluctant-to-part hole only to slam back in with a breath-stealing severity. Highest as Stiles realizes the force is jerking him bodily in place, kept steady only by the inexorable, intoxicating strength holding him down. Just like that, he’s coming. A strangled shout claws its way up his furiously working throat, Adam’s apple bobbing heavily, and then come is painting their abdomens in thin, translucent ropes. Except he’s come a second too soon, on the pull out rather than the drive in; Itachi slams back into him, rubbing against his prostate on the slide home, and it’s like a current of electricity coursing through his veins. Eyes rolling back, Stiles chokes on an unintelligible noise as his orgasm is prolonged, muscles seizing and dick dribbling every ounce of ejaculate stored.
Post-orgasmic bliss doesn’t sweep him away. Continuing to ruthlessly fuck him, Itachi inadvertently brushes that sweet spot on every thrust, keeping Stiles dangling without gravity to inevitably return him to earth. Spent, his dick spills the last of its load, come leaking down their sides in slow, ticklish rivers. That’s when overstimulation kicks in. He whines lowly, fighting without energy to free himself as the pleasure reaches an intolerable point. ]
It’s…so much. [ Each word is spoken through gritted teeth, tears once again flowing. ] O-ohhh, fu-fuck. Itachi!
[He can feel the moment of that inevitable crash, it would be impossible not to know the instance in its entirety as Stiles' body seizes hot and tight as a glove over his cock, as he trembles in the mess of nerves he's been reduced, pliant and immobile beneath a superior hold. A gasping breath stutters in Itachi's throat. He doesn't still, rhythm unaltered, each rocking in-out thrust delivered with the same devotion, blunt head of his dick dragging across that unintentionally targeted spot now sore and hypersensitized inside Stiles. Come is painted between their bellies, distractedly sticky and slick, but he ignores it in favor of fucking Stiles to sate the immense hunger within himself. Is it not what was asked of him? Tonight, when Stiles visited with the intent to name and identify the emotional and physical connection between them, is this not what he intended?
Stiles knows who and what he is—better, perhaps, than any other living person. So he should not be surprised by the brutal edge of endurance Itachi takes them to, the steely control with which he clamps down onto a blistering need for release like a hot hook in his belly. Arms shift again, pushing underneath Stiles' body in order to embrace him more fully, wrapped around his back and digging nail-crescent marks into the boy's soft hips. It allows him a strong, restraining grasp to meet each rut of hips against a tight ass, every slick rejoining stark in the quiet room with the slap of skin. His noses against Stiles' ear.] Shh. It's all right. [Maddeningly even, despite the wrecked timbre of his voice.] You can take it.
[To soothe some of what he's demanding, or maybe only to taste those little whines, Itachi angles his head into a kiss. Lips seal over lips, tongue prying in, intimate mimicry of every deep slide of his cock. At some point Stiles' tears have smeared into it because he tastes salt. He can't see through the messy silk curtain of hair around their faces; it doesn't matter. Prolonging this moment—pleasure stretched like a gossamer thread between them, burning in a brand through the Sync—is all he can do.]
[ Trapped in place as he is – arms pinned to sides in the suffocating embrace, hips stuck on the thick cock impaling him with every thrust – he can do nothing but submit to the kiss and the white-hot pleasure that courses through his veins. Stiles is undone. His fingers twist violently in the bedsheets, knuckles a bloodless white. Only two animalistic desires exist within him now: to escape the unrelenting, merciless pleasure wracking his hypersensitive body, and to please Itachi. Despite the soft little noises of agony moaned into the other man’s mouth, the latter desire is winning. He can take it. He can take it. Repeating the words in his mind like a mantra, or a desperate prayer, Stiles struggles fruitlessly to focus.
The fact of the matter is, Stiles has had a lot of sex. And while his first time with Malia may not have lasted a movie-montage length of time, he hadn’t blown his load prematurely either. Only the shinobi manages to pry this kind of raw, helpless vulnerability from him. Because it isn’t about the sex when with Itachi; he doesn’t just want to fuck the other man. Stiles wants to be inside him, for Itachi to be inside him in turn, for their two separate bodies to be joined in every sense of the word. He longs to reach that distant nirvana together, through each other, however they can. Love compels him, makes him especially susceptible to the physical pleasure Itachi, and no one else, has to offer. It’s why Stiles doesn’t thrash in the vice grip holding him hostage even as a powerful surge of tingling sensation spreads throughout his body as he dry orgasms.
Teeth bite down, hard. Blood fills his mouth from where he’s cut Itachi’s bottom lip with his incisor, a smear of red like lipstick staining his chin and running from his tears. Dazed, he seizes the other man’s hips with his hands, fingers denting flesh. ]
M’taking it, [ he somehow manages through the haze of pleasure assaulting every nerve ending with electricity. ] I can take you. Promise.
[ It’s a promise of more than he’s saying, a vow he means earnestly. ]
C’mon. C’mon. Stop holding back on me. Give it to me.
[ And he sweeps back in to meet Itachi’s lips in a messy kiss once more, tongue lapping at the slit of a cut he’d made. ]
[That hushed, sweet vow—I can take you—and the smear of brightly metallic blood between their mouths are both vivid sensations, all his mind can grasp and focus on with the onslaught of pleasure at its highest peak, doubled over by Synchrony and the impossibly tight seal of their embrace. Itachi’s thoughts slide into the dark. Language is unfeasible, reduced to panting breath and an endless string of deep, wet kisses, tasting blood and salt and saliva on lips and tongues. He feels hands clamp over his waist and pushes his own down to take palmfuls of Stiles’ ass, to better angle and rock hips forward, cock claiming the tight channel inside with every thrust. The pressure of the grip is enough to bruise tender skin in finger-print marks; he doesn’t feel sorry for it now, doesn’t even think of it, living instead the promise not to hold back.
It isn’t a violent or sudden ending, but still it seems to take Itachi by surprise. Breath bursts on a gasp between them as he comes, forcing Stiles to take the full load with two powerful hands unwilling to release him, dick buried to the brim, seed flooding the boy’s ass in pulses of electric pleasure. Even after the physical tide of orgasm ends, he’s struck with a warm vertigo of syrupy comedown, riding out the waves in Stiles’ arms and between his legs as though reluctant to ever move again. He can feel himself softening in that still-tight, slippery hole, bodies glued together by sticky and cooling fluids. Hair pastes itself to the sides of his face where sweat has congealed in the effort of expending himself.
Everything is throbbing, aching afterward, and when he attempts to finally extricate from Stiles it’s a weak affair, heels and knees dragging on the bed as elbows bend to lift up his weight. Dark eyes search the boy’s face for signs of displeasure or discomfort. It occurs to him, as his mind begins to return, that he’s agreed to let Stiles do this with others—and vice versa—before he had a true concept of what this would be like.
Ignoring the pull that inspires in his gut (surely his emotions are too compromised in this moment to process that logically, and he will feel fine later), Itachi rakes long hair back, attempting to tame the messy strands. Then a thumb wipes the line of blood he sees down Stiles’ jaw.] Are you all right?
[ Itachi comes and the world seems to still, hanging on by a single gossamer thread as the man pumps him full of seed. With a weak groan, Stiles shudders through the sensation. He expects to feel come dripping down his ass from his sore, abused hole only to find that Itachi’s cock has sealed every last drop inside him, that channel too tight to allow even a trickle of ejaculate to pass. There’s a part of him, greedy and obsessive and manic, that revels in this – in keeping the essence of the other man buried deep inside him, molecular proof of a claim Itachi has staked on his body. Another part of him, unromantic and pragmatic, simply wants to shower. Badly.
His breath hitches on a small, pained gasp as Itachi disengages, leg muscles seizing up stiffly from where they’re still locked behind the shinobi’s back. A wince creases his countenance briefly, though it’s quickly eased away by the considerate thumb dragging along the edge of his jaw. Smiling helplessly, he catches that hand to press his mouth against the bloodied finger pad. ]
Ah huh, [ he croaks, pausing to lick the blood away with a slow, hot drag of his tongue. Then, pressing a kiss to Itachi’s palm, Stiles continues, ] Just a little woozy, stud. That was…
[ An effort to leverage himself up onto his elbows is hastily abandoned, his aching body demanding a reprieve from all activity. His smile shifts into a goofy, dazed grin. ]
That was… Wow. [ Finally, his ankles uncross and allow him to slowly lower his legs back down to the mattress, each limb prickling from pins and needles due to the prolonged elevation. ] Kinda blew my mind.
[ But through Synchrony he senses that sharp dip in mood from Itachi, there and gone so quickly he almost wonders if he imagined it. Brows knitting, he reaches out to carefully pull free the sweat-matted strands of hair sticking to Itachi’s face, tucking them behind the man’s ear. ]
[He'd noticed. Though the low swing of mood does not linger, soon sealed out with ease of practice, emotions between them are a rainbowed, patterned familiarity of intimacy. Of course he'd noticed. Itachi moves to shake his head, but is stilled by the touch of fingers at his face. Hair curls over an ear. Eyelashes droop low, gaze venturing over the bare inches of Stiles' body next to him, distraction front and center, palm tingling where Stiles had kissed it in that warm passing gesture.
Eventually Itachi eases backward, legs crossed on the bed. Tension feels looser through his body than usual. In the aftermath of a powerful orgasm, drowsiness is like a gauze over his mind, and it seems irrational to stick on a single fleeting thought—even if his brain follows paths of negativity with ingrained habit.]
Yes, I'm fine. [And he means it. Eternally better at actions than words, he reaches to entangle their fingers, thumb rubbing the silky inside of Stiles' bare wrist. Then he tugs.] Will you shower with me this time?
[It's something he has never done before with another person. In light of novel experiences, he finds that he would like to see Stiles naked and wet and clean under his hands, even in a non-sexual context.]
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Less shocked to hear Stiles' transformation has taken a similar shape as his monstrous designation in Aefenglom, the image described burns bright in his mind. He leans his weight heavily, sealing chests to pelvic bone, eyelids slitting at the fingertips up his flank. Remaining imperially still despite Stiles' bold grind of hips, he tilts his head. The gesture is almost bird-like as it takes his mouth out of proximity in his own version of a tease.]
That does sound like you. [Itachi isn't soon to forget one of their first encounters on that city rooftop, being bound up in silk web and clumsily transported to his younger brother, "for his own good."] Had you ever done anything like that before, as an Arachne?
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On my birthday. [ There’s a dreamy quality softening his voice now. ] It was a full moon. I hadn’t Bonded with anyone yet, so it was getting harder and harder to control myself. Sasuke and Jonas were having dinner at the cottage.
[ Home away from home, as he’d come to know it. Potential for the memory to take on a darker, melancholier note threatens Stiles only for a moment; the solid, hard press of a body against his, tethering him to reality, prevents him from trailing down the rabbit hole of Jonas’ tragic fate. Nails biting, he drags his fingers back down Itachi’s sides before crawling them up again. ]
Sasuke needed to feed, bad. It was too dangerous to bring Jonas along and I knew he’d come after us if I didn’t do something, so I webbed him to a wall to keep him safe. [ Or maybe, simply to keep. ] Then I took Sasuke to a local pet store, where we wined and dined.
[ Their looming feral nature had lent the night a more sexually charged atmosphere; Stiles remembers how both of them had become hard, feasting on the animals in Sasuke’s thrall. ]
If it happens again, [ he continues in a low, sly tone, referencing the transformation, ] I can’t promise what’ll happen to you.
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Highly inappropriate in the given context. Itachi shudders, emotional response a static flash through their Synced tether that feels like a snapped rubber band, sharp and brief and stinging, easily disguised as a reaction to Stiles' low-toned insinuation.]
It sounds as though you are threatening me, Stiles, [said in his own quiet murmur, head turning to tuck a cool cheek into the joining of Stiles' throat and shoulder.] What are you suggesting you'd do? Do you think I would allow you to restrict me in webbing as you did once before?
[The idea thrums trepidation, tempered by trust; he's been bound under Stiles' hands now already, though to significantly lesser degree. The shape of Itachi's mouth is felt on skin as it curves into a subtle, unseen smirk.] I'm not easy prey. [Shifting up, his lips graze the delicate shell of the boy's ear before taking the lobe into a gentle pinch of teeth.]
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The nibble at his ear may have something to do with his magnanimous decision.
A soft sigh escapes him as he melts into the touch, his head tilting away to bare his throat in silent supplication for Itachi. With his face turned aside, now would be an excellent time to catalogue the space that the shinobi now uses as a base of operations – calling it the man’s home would be a severe misunderstanding of Itachi’s personality and character. And yet Stiles finds his gaze going glassy as the flames of desire lick up his spine. ]
You’re not, [ he agrees appreciatively, hands slipping under the hem of Itachi’s sleeveless shirt to palm smooth hips. ] But I think you’d find the experience…rewarding.
[ Unlike Guanshan, may he rest in horny peace. ]
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There's no preliminary flirtation left as Itachi reaches down with both hands to close a powerful grasp under the boy's thighs, intent to clear his feet from the tile and deliver him seated to the counter. Widening legs further to allow himself within them, his own body a solid wall of lean muscle fitting well and with the confidence of belonging.
Stiles' promise hangs in his mind—rewarding, as though he's done something to deserve this sort of feeling and trust and loyalty from someone else—as he lifts a hand and snares short, ruffled brown hair to steer into an abrupt kiss. patience run dry. It forces Stiles to bend down slightly forward to reach. The pressure is solid, mouths sealed corner to tight corner, tongue prying for wet depth almost immediately.]
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Pliant lips give way under the pressure of a hungry tongue. Stiles groans into the kiss, his own tongue licking up the length of the shinobi’s in an eager greeting. The taste of Itachi is intoxicating, enough to get him drunk off of. His body undulates in want of a groin to grind against, but on the island he’s forced to make do with a navel instead. It reminds him of the preparations he made before coming here, of fingering himself open in the shower while thinking of Itachi, of the tube of lubricant in his back pocket. Scrambling, he reaches for that pocket now, retrieving the item simply to place it pointedly in the palm of Itachi’s hand.
He breaks from the kiss, rubbing their foreheads together. ]
Gonna take care of you tonight. [ Stiles closes Itachi’s hand around the lube. ] You, inside me. You want that, sweetheart?
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So the inevitable pain of loss, when it does someday occur, will be nothing but deserved.
Itachi's lashes flicker as something solid it pressed into his hand. Reflexively, fingers curl around it. A line creases his brow in bemusement, then clears in a second's comprehension, and his expression darkens with a tide of acute understanding. He manages a short exhale and doesn't move in the trap of legs.] ... You enjoy calling me that. Was this planned? I would imagine, for you to be so prepared.
[The voice he uses is soft, very low, almost rasping and metallic in the whisper, dark gaze fixed on Stiles' face with intensity. He closes his hand into a fist and then circles the arm around Stiles' back, other hand tucking again under one of the boy's thighs, grip like iron in such slender fingers.] Hold onto me. [All the warning he offers before he's hauling Stiles against the front of his body and lifting, removing him from the counter to carry him across the tile, out through the living room, into what is presumably his bedroom. It's very dark past the threshold; curtains are closed on the window. He gets a knee on the mattress edge and delivers Stiles down onto it in one fluid movement.]
cw: nsfw
Hoped for, [ he corrects shakily, barely hanging onto the thread of conversation from the kitchen. ] Even stretched myself in the shower, just for you.
[ Brown eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light in the bedroom, Itachi little more than a silhouette menacing him from above. Stiles pulls the man down onto him anyway, this shadow that’s crept into his life, still-locked ankles sliding down the small of Itachi’s back to push impatiently at hips. Arms unwinding, he moves again to cradle the man’s skull and draw their mouths together, only for fingers to brush against the swollen skin of two puncture wounds. Pausing, he tries to scrutinize Itachi in the pitch black, his own expression twisting with uncertain inquisition. An attack, or…? ]
Guess I’m not the only one who was getting frisky.
[ After all, the idea of anyone getting that close to Itachi while aggressive seems impossible – barring Sasuke, of course. Trying not to allow insecurity get the best of him, he moves on from the area, hands instead slipping down the shinobi’s chest to tug the sleeveless shirt off him. ]
Invite me next time, [ jests Stiles with a wink, hoping he doesn’t sound nearly as clingy as he feels. ]
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It wasn’t like that is what he means to say even as reasonable thought evades him again, slippery in the dark. More important is that first admission. Itachi leanly flexes up onto palms so the shirt can be peeled over his head, hair an oil spill around slim shoulders, sliding to tickle Stiles’ face. The contrast of black and white is always stark on him, made starker by uninterrupted planes of pale skin in limited light. The stone in his throat shines brilliant lilac and creates exaggerated shadows. Through Synchrony, Stiles will feel the heady, constant throb of his arousal.
Rather than lower down again, he shifts backward, easily wresting himself from the restraint of limbs to stand on the carpet at the foot of the bed. Slow, methodical hands peel off Stiles’ shoes and socks, dropping each, until he closes his hand around the boy’s smooth heel and gets a firm hold around the slender bones of his ankle, gently stroking a callused thumb along the arch of his foot. Then he drags Stiles inches down the bed to him so they’re closer to the lip, where he comes forward onto his knees in just the slightest depression of weight.]
You opened yourself for me already, [he confirms, tone even but for that telling rasp.] So you hoped that I would fuck you tonight.
[Such a coarse, vulgar word is somehow made coarser on a tongue that rarely shapes it, at the same time a hand reaches to work at the front of those jeans, fully prepared to begin peeling them off, eyes like a physical weight in the intensity of how he watches Stiles.] Show me.
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By the time he stirs from his thoughts, he’s sans socks and shoes. The featherlight pressure teasing the arch of his foot has him shuddering, goosebumps breaking out along legs and arms in anticipation. Within his stomach, the pit gradually shifts into a different kind of weight, one that drops pleasantly to his groin as he recognizes the breadth of Itachi’s arousal flaring across their link. Nothing could prepare him for the unexpected heft of that crude, intimate word from those lips, however. It coaxes a strangled moan from him, loins throbbing in a bright paroxysm of desire. God, he’s turned on.
Instead of responding verbally, he falls silent – eyes finally adjusted to the dark and never once leaving Itachi’s face – to assist in removing the jeans. Slowly, he shimmies from side to side, denim softly hissing as the snug pants are dragged free. Once they’re finally off, he pauses, letting the seconds trudge past as his long, bony hands finger the waistband of his dark-blue boxer briefs. Never would he have thought he was capable of putting on a show for someone else like this, and yet Itachi’s hawklike intensity helps build his confidence. The waistband snaps into place against a trim, slender waist, only a snapshot of his wakening erection visible. Then, with a soft inhale, Stiles divests himself of both the henley and briefs, stark nude on Itachi’s bed.
Lean legs fold inward toward his chest, thighs bracketing the cock straining toward his navel, bulbous head an angry red. Then, a bit awkwardly from a relative lack of flexibility, Stiles reaches down to spread open his hole, where it immediately becomes obvious that some lubricant has already been applied, strings of it weakly breaking. ]
Like this? [ he asks, his own voice gone husky and thick. ]
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It winds Itachi breathless, whose hand lays on his own thigh and twitches, an impatient flex to keep from reaching. He wishes for more light in the room. He blows out air through his nose, consumed with the primal, animal way Stiles makes him feel by showing him that, thighs apart and naked on his bed, underneath him. And the deeper more frightening thread of intimacy in a union like this; it’s something he hasn’t experienced before, hadn’t realized he could want with the ferocity of realization of how long he’s gone without Stiles, and without this.
Unable to answer the question verbally, he climbs down at last, covering the boy from head to toe with the slant of his weight, legs fitted easily in that spread of knees. Hair blankets their faces as he seizes Stiles mouth in a messy kiss, tongue sliding past teeth to get deeper in as he rubs over that jutting, thickened cock where it fits snug against his abdomen, balls catching at the fabric still covering his lower body. A hand is already reaching around and under Stiles’ ass, so he can pass his fingertips across that taut hole to feel it for himself, test how stretched and slippery it remains, though he doesn’t yet push inside.]
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Itachi settles atop him like he belongs. With a pleading noise he barely recognizes as having come from his own throat, Stiles greets him. The kiss is a wet, vicious thing, the slick collision of their tongues noisy in the still room, interposed with the soft shifting of fabric rustling over his dick and balls. Arousal sinks somewhere in his gut below the navel, pooling a quickening heat in his groin that leaves him increasingly needy for Itachi’s touch. As he sucks on an invasive tongue mapping his mouth, a shiny strand of saliva leaking from his bottom lip, he rumbles appreciation for the finger pads dancing lightly over his spread ass cheeks, just glancing across the hole desperate to be stuffed.
Unable to reach out to Itachi while holding himself open wide like this, he rocks against the older man in search of friction, cock swollen and already beginning to drip fat beads of precome onto his abdomen. It’s not enough. He needs Itachi inside him, stretching him, filling him, joining him. Frustrated, Stiles tries to spear himself on those investigative fingers before finally losing patience and sliding three of his own inside to the knuckle; the pinkened hole swallows them down voraciously with a squelch of lubricant. As he thrusts those fingers shallowly, stymied by the angle, his other hand abandons its post to flatten over the bulge in Itachi’s pants, cupping it. ]
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Feeling the moment Stiles clever fingers bypass his own curious touch to sink into that tight hole, Itachi lets out a slow stream of breath. A line forms between delicate eyebrows. He can’t see at this angle—in a bid to remedy this, he leans back on bent knees and hikes Stiles’ leg up, propping the boy’s slender calf on his shoulder. The movement stretches him wider open between the legs and provides a better view, though it takes away immediate access to that smart mouth. Itachi can do nothing but look, arrested by the sight: rim tight and pink around the knuckles of three fingers, full cheeks spread open, cock weeping clear precome over the boy’s flat navel, skin flushed everywhere in the pale shades of exposed color. The hunger threatens to take him apart. If anyone has ever seen this before him, they did not deserve it.
Methodically, Itachi reaches one-handed for the bottle of lubricant discarded nearby on top of the blanket. He smears the glossy fluid into the furrow of Stiles’ ass, enough to trickle, then uses the thumb of his other hand to rub it in messily, coating those fingers in a thick layer. The same thumb dips into Stiles’ hole, overfull already, to watch the tight opening stretch just a little more.]
Good. [His voice seems to come from somewhere else, still very low and almost drowsy, an answer belated to earlier’s thread of conversation. Head tilting, he presses a hot cheek against Stiles’ bare ankle.] I could do it now. It doesn’t seem as though you need much more. Do you want that?
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The first touch of cold grease against his skin earns a flinch, though Stiles offers no protest when a thick thumb breaches him. Warmth blooms through his core, heating him up to the point of supernova, muscles instinctively clenching down on that intrusion even as his hole greedily sucks the thumb in. It feels so good to have Itachi inside him in any capacity. Bedsheets are thrown into sharp relief as the gemstone embedded in his right shoulder erupts in a flare of green light, Synchrony weaving a concordant song only they can hear. Stiles fucks himself a few shallow thrusts, struggling to reach his prostate at the awkward angle of his hand, then abandons the effort with a frustrated hiss of breath, fingers popping free of the slickened hole.
“Good,” quietly rumbles Itachi and he writhes like a live wire, panting harshly and sweat glistening at his brow, a wild look of unsaturated need dilating his pupils until brown irises are nearly swallowed up. Stiles thinks he might do anything to hear the shinobi praise him again, cock smearing a puddle of precome over his stomach as it jerks in place. ]
Please, [ he begs in a thready voice barely his own. ] Please.
[ Past the point of patience, he yanks down pants and briefs to expose Itachi’s erection, the straining dick bobbing in the air. Hands briefly pet at the swollen flesh as if in amicable greeting, sliding over velvety foreskin to rub at the crown before tilting it down toward him. ]
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Itachi is momentarily a silent ghost, hovering like predator over fallen prey, posture straight and inflexible. Black devouring eyes, a black curtain of hair, fields of white skin. Then he bends down. Stiles' leg slides off his shoulder to hook in the crook of his elbow, foot dangling. He feels the moment his cock slips into the crevice of the boy's slick ass, dragging through the sticky mess of lubricant, a smear of fluid to grease his dick with an obscenely wet sound unmistakable in the dark room. Hips rock, just rubbing into that slippery furrow of skin—then the flared tip catches at the opening of the boy's body, so much tighter than it had felt around his thumb. Itachi releases an explosive breath at those first sinking inches. An inexorable slide in, gravity does the work as he allows his weight to ease down over Stiles onto hands. His unoccupied arm quickly sweeps up the boy's other leg, coaxing him now spread-eagled to take the full length of his cock.
It seems to take several moments, their faces hanging closer now. His expression is fiercely affected despite the quiet: creased with effort, mouth open and panting, eyes narrowed to slits of concentration, hair a messy dark halo, forehead damp. Biceps strain with muscle as he pins Stiles in the crux of his gaze. Fully seated and locked into the embrace, balls tucked up against the curve of the boy's ass, he doesn't move, as if to become accustomed to such a brutally tight, brutally intimate place.]
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The adjustment winds him. Mouth soundlessly forming unintelligible syllables, he stares up at Itachi in wonder as his body stretches past the initial discomfort to accommodate the considerable girth splitting him open. He finds that he prefers taking it like this, face to face, rather than on his stomach like how Fenris first fucked him; the kaleidoscope of subtle emotion passing over the shinobi’s countenance is nothing short of as breathtaking as the aurora borealis itself. Am I your first? he marvels vaguely, caught in that dreamy space between pleasure and reality. I wish I could be your last too.
Let me keep you.
His body squeezes down on the cock, milking a few beads of precious precome from the ruddy tip. Though he wants to be patient, especially for Itachi, need has him fidgeting restlessly on the mattress, head tossing from side to side and hushed moans leaking from his lips. Itachi’s dick is just grazing his prostate, pressure enough to have Stiles squirming for more. ]
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Sheer, breath-stealing tightness swings his attention to the state of his own body—the brief constriction of that intentional squeeze coaxes a ragged sound out of the back of his throat. The idea of movement feels impossible. It’s too tight, the boy’s ass like a vice around the swell of his cock, eased only by slippery lubricant. Holding Stiles’ legs up, he can’t sweep the curtain of his own hair out of the way, so it hangs again into their faces as his body adjusts one trembling inch at a time to the hot channel of the boy’s body.
Tucked in close to an ear, Itachi’s voice scrapes out:] Stiles. [Half-startled, half-growling. It’s as though he needs to say the name for it to be real. The intimacy of the act is unlike anything he’s experienced. It is the physical manifestation of long months of emotional closeness, bound souls made concrete.
Stiles’ restless squirming finally manages to pull him out of his statuesque reverie. Adjusting his arms, Itachi leans away again and experiments with a shallow, blunt roll of hips, feeling the head of his dick rub that burning-hot interior of muscle, reveling in the stretch. But only just. While it isn’t his intention to go so slowly, or to treat Stiles so gently, he’s not yet accustomed to the sensation.]
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Then the sound of his name falling from those lips has him shuddering violently, goosebumps pebbling his skin like stones skipping over water. His pelvis jerks in response, dick aching and oozing fluid that rolls up his angled stomach to collect between his pecs. Stiles feels all of thirteen suddenly, desperately fighting off an impending orgasm that builds too hard too soon. Reaching out, he seizes his cock by the base and squeezes, teeth grit. Just in time; the next roll of hips has him tensing up, narrowly avoiding a premature tumble off the figurative cliff. ]
Itachi, [ he pleads on a broken note, voice as raw as sandpaper, ] I’m…
[ Close, dangerously so. Just the simple, beautiful fact that Itachi is inside him – dick nestled impossibly deep, pulsating and leaking precome into that tight, intimate channel – is enough to keep Stiles balanced precariously at the edge. He’s burning up, beads of sweat springing into existence across his naked flesh as he defies the banking climax looming in his loins. But even still, he waits, allowing Itachi to adjust as necessary. ]
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Lowering slender legs so they can loop instead around his waist, he seizes both of Stiles’ wrists in each hand to pin his arms down onto the mattress. Then he crushes the line of their bodies together. No movement, not at first, taking the time to feel Stiles’ shuddering inhalations against the flat of his sternum as his face tucks into the boy’s shoulder and turns to mouth at his ear. Stiles will hear the uneven rhythm of his own breath in hot bursts of air, just as wrecked. The slippery mess of Stiles’ cock tucks against his own abdomen, muscle drum-tight, smearing precome between their navels with slickly obscene sound.
With controlled core strength, Itachi begins to fuck him properly, thrusts slow and thorough and as deep as possible to fill him over and over, never leaving Stiles’ tight hole bereft long. If not for the hands locked around Stiles’ wrists to keep his body planted, each brutal thrust—pelvic bone slapping against Stiles’ ass—might have driven him inches up the mattress with force. He intends to fuck Stiles through orgasm with no clear signal he’ll stop when it’s done.]
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Climax builds on the horizon. Higher as a damp mouth pants raggedly in his ear, causing the fine hairs on the nape of his neck to prickle. Higher still as Itachi finally begins to move, dick dragging out of that tight, reluctant-to-part hole only to slam back in with a breath-stealing severity. Highest as Stiles realizes the force is jerking him bodily in place, kept steady only by the inexorable, intoxicating strength holding him down. Just like that, he’s coming. A strangled shout claws its way up his furiously working throat, Adam’s apple bobbing heavily, and then come is painting their abdomens in thin, translucent ropes. Except he’s come a second too soon, on the pull out rather than the drive in; Itachi slams back into him, rubbing against his prostate on the slide home, and it’s like a current of electricity coursing through his veins. Eyes rolling back, Stiles chokes on an unintelligible noise as his orgasm is prolonged, muscles seizing and dick dribbling every ounce of ejaculate stored.
Post-orgasmic bliss doesn’t sweep him away. Continuing to ruthlessly fuck him, Itachi inadvertently brushes that sweet spot on every thrust, keeping Stiles dangling without gravity to inevitably return him to earth. Spent, his dick spills the last of its load, come leaking down their sides in slow, ticklish rivers. That’s when overstimulation kicks in. He whines lowly, fighting without energy to free himself as the pleasure reaches an intolerable point. ]
It’s…so much. [ Each word is spoken through gritted teeth, tears once again flowing. ] O-ohhh, fu-fuck. Itachi!
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Stiles knows who and what he is—better, perhaps, than any other living person. So he should not be surprised by the brutal edge of endurance Itachi takes them to, the steely control with which he clamps down onto a blistering need for release like a hot hook in his belly. Arms shift again, pushing underneath Stiles' body in order to embrace him more fully, wrapped around his back and digging nail-crescent marks into the boy's soft hips. It allows him a strong, restraining grasp to meet each rut of hips against a tight ass, every slick rejoining stark in the quiet room with the slap of skin. His noses against Stiles' ear.] Shh. It's all right. [Maddeningly even, despite the wrecked timbre of his voice.] You can take it.
[To soothe some of what he's demanding, or maybe only to taste those little whines, Itachi angles his head into a kiss. Lips seal over lips, tongue prying in, intimate mimicry of every deep slide of his cock. At some point Stiles' tears have smeared into it because he tastes salt. He can't see through the messy silk curtain of hair around their faces; it doesn't matter. Prolonging this moment—pleasure stretched like a gossamer thread between them, burning in a brand through the Sync—is all he can do.]
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The fact of the matter is, Stiles has had a lot of sex. And while his first time with Malia may not have lasted a movie-montage length of time, he hadn’t blown his load prematurely either. Only the shinobi manages to pry this kind of raw, helpless vulnerability from him. Because it isn’t about the sex when with Itachi; he doesn’t just want to fuck the other man. Stiles wants to be inside him, for Itachi to be inside him in turn, for their two separate bodies to be joined in every sense of the word. He longs to reach that distant nirvana together, through each other, however they can. Love compels him, makes him especially susceptible to the physical pleasure Itachi, and no one else, has to offer. It’s why Stiles doesn’t thrash in the vice grip holding him hostage even as a powerful surge of tingling sensation spreads throughout his body as he dry orgasms.
Teeth bite down, hard. Blood fills his mouth from where he’s cut Itachi’s bottom lip with his incisor, a smear of red like lipstick staining his chin and running from his tears. Dazed, he seizes the other man’s hips with his hands, fingers denting flesh. ]
M’taking it, [ he somehow manages through the haze of pleasure assaulting every nerve ending with electricity. ] I can take you. Promise.
[ It’s a promise of more than he’s saying, a vow he means earnestly. ]
C’mon. C’mon. Stop holding back on me. Give it to me.
[ And he sweeps back in to meet Itachi’s lips in a messy kiss once more, tongue lapping at the slit of a cut he’d made. ]
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It isn’t a violent or sudden ending, but still it seems to take Itachi by surprise. Breath bursts on a gasp between them as he comes, forcing Stiles to take the full load with two powerful hands unwilling to release him, dick buried to the brim, seed flooding the boy’s ass in pulses of electric pleasure. Even after the physical tide of orgasm ends, he’s struck with a warm vertigo of syrupy comedown, riding out the waves in Stiles’ arms and between his legs as though reluctant to ever move again. He can feel himself softening in that still-tight, slippery hole, bodies glued together by sticky and cooling fluids. Hair pastes itself to the sides of his face where sweat has congealed in the effort of expending himself.
Everything is throbbing, aching afterward, and when he attempts to finally extricate from Stiles it’s a weak affair, heels and knees dragging on the bed as elbows bend to lift up his weight. Dark eyes search the boy’s face for signs of displeasure or discomfort. It occurs to him, as his mind begins to return, that he’s agreed to let Stiles do this with others—and vice versa—before he had a true concept of what this would be like.
Ignoring the pull that inspires in his gut (surely his emotions are too compromised in this moment to process that logically, and he will feel fine later), Itachi rakes long hair back, attempting to tame the messy strands. Then a thumb wipes the line of blood he sees down Stiles’ jaw.] Are you all right?
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His breath hitches on a small, pained gasp as Itachi disengages, leg muscles seizing up stiffly from where they’re still locked behind the shinobi’s back. A wince creases his countenance briefly, though it’s quickly eased away by the considerate thumb dragging along the edge of his jaw. Smiling helplessly, he catches that hand to press his mouth against the bloodied finger pad. ]
Ah huh, [ he croaks, pausing to lick the blood away with a slow, hot drag of his tongue. Then, pressing a kiss to Itachi’s palm, Stiles continues, ] Just a little woozy, stud. That was…
[ An effort to leverage himself up onto his elbows is hastily abandoned, his aching body demanding a reprieve from all activity. His smile shifts into a goofy, dazed grin. ]
That was… Wow. [ Finally, his ankles uncross and allow him to slowly lower his legs back down to the mattress, each limb prickling from pins and needles due to the prolonged elevation. ] Kinda blew my mind.
[ But through Synchrony he senses that sharp dip in mood from Itachi, there and gone so quickly he almost wonders if he imagined it. Brows knitting, he reaches out to carefully pull free the sweat-matted strands of hair sticking to Itachi’s face, tucking them behind the man’s ear. ]
How ‘bout you? Everything okay…?
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Eventually Itachi eases backward, legs crossed on the bed. Tension feels looser through his body than usual. In the aftermath of a powerful orgasm, drowsiness is like a gauze over his mind, and it seems irrational to stick on a single fleeting thought—even if his brain follows paths of negativity with ingrained habit.]
Yes, I'm fine. [And he means it. Eternally better at actions than words, he reaches to entangle their fingers, thumb rubbing the silky inside of Stiles' bare wrist. Then he tugs.] Will you shower with me this time?
[It's something he has never done before with another person. In light of novel experiences, he finds that he would like to see Stiles naked and wet and clean under his hands, even in a non-sexual context.]
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