[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.]
[ Something, ephemeral yet poignant, had coursed powerfully through their shared connection, a bitter taste of poison in a glass of otherwise perfectly aged wine. Stiles wants to push the issue. Communication is key between them – not only because they’re now officially in a relationship, but also because Itachi is an intensely private individual who has a nasty habit of keeping important details to himself. That said, the bulk of his concerns are alleviated when the man entwines their fingers, Synchrony confirming Itachi’s claim in a clear, melodious song of contentment. So, in the interest of keeping the peace, he allows the subject to drop instead of hounding it like a dog for once. ]
Definitely.
[ However, Stiles remains where he is, splayed out on the mattress with come slowly dribbling from his ass. Every attempt to move, muscles tensing to react to his will, has him sinking further into the bedding with exhaustion. ]
…Think I’m gonna need a boost outta bed, though, [ he admits, rubbing his free hand over his face wearily. ] My legs feel like jelly.
[ Hips wiggling in an entirely non-sexual manner, he tries to wrestle himself toward the bottom of the bed. ]
[A brow hikes at the humorous display, any thoughts linked to previous emotions washed out in the face of this moment now: relaxed, amusing, pleasantly warm. Sentiments he rarely felt prior to his exposure to this particular boy. Strange to recognize, even now. And still brightly new—he has no count of the days that have passed since Tsukuyomi, since Club Penance and all that transpired during their stay in Hell, but he knows the number is lower than even he can guess at.
Itachi rises fluidly from the bed, smirk shaping his mouth from its usual neutral line.]
I'll have to remember that next time you request that I don't hold back. [Low, subtle teasing.] Perhaps I overestimated what you could endure.
[He reaches for Stiles, pulling, grip firming in a hold that soon hauls him up into leanly powerful arms, sweeping his weight into a bridal carry, uncaring of the mess between them. One hand strays dangerously and purposely close to the boy's ass, dripping slick with his own come, just to squeeze over the faint blue-bruised marks coloring to life. Then he heads toward the adjoined bathroom with his stolen burden.]
[ A squawk of genuine surprise is jettisoned from his throat as he’s swept up into a pair of arms, his own automatically moving to loop around Itachi’s slender neck. The cruel, pointed pressure against his forming bruises has him jolting in place, eyes wide with shock when it summons the pained dregs of desire in his groin. God, even after all that, his overworked body is still balancing precariously on the edge of arousal. He wants to claim that he couldn’t possibly come again, that he’s been wrung dry, but as Itachi purposefully presses long fingers into his blue-and-purpling skin – well, Stiles has always been a bit of a masochist.
What really causes his breath to catch though is that quietly sly smirk playing at a mouth that’s usually constrained to cool, dispassionate emotions. Stiles swallows, heart fluttering rapidly in his chest, and then squirms to close the distance between their faces, pressing his lips to the underside of an angular jaw. ]
Oh, shut up, [ he grumbles unconvincingly, resting his head against Itachi’s shoulder. ] I totally endured. My mortal body just needs a little bit to recharge.
[ Confidently, Stiles continues: ] I could’ve taken more punishment. Don’t underestimate me, pal.
[In the short distance between bed and bathroom, Itachi's hold tightens, a possessive cradle of the boy's body against his own lean front that he is not wholly conscious of doing, chin tucked over the crown of a head. Only when they reach their destination and he's lit the interior with a bony jab of an elbow at the lightswitch does he relinquish the grip, easing Stiles down onto his own bare feet where he may more easily use the wall for support.]
So you say.
[Smoothly sliding off the drawstring slacks he still wears, these are folded over the counter of the sink. Then he crosses tile to turn on the shower, knob twisted hot, glass door slid open, naked body stretched forward in the gap to reach. His voice carries in the acoustic space.]
Can you manage to stand on your own, or will I need to carry you inside as well?
[ In spite of the bold words, Stiles is shaky on his feet when returned to them. His legs tremble noticeably, back arched and shoulders hunched as if he were still stuck in the same position from when they were fucking. Hand on the wall for support, he tries smoothing out the bowlegged stance one limb at a time, ignoring the sensation of cooling come drying on the inside of his thighs. Naturally, his attention wanders the moment that Itachi fully undresses, brown eyes greedily drinking in the sight of the other man naked with hair loose and disheveled.
Itachi is, undeniably, beautiful.
Feet slapping noisily on the tile as he approaches, Stiles slumps over that long, lean body with his own, nestling his hips firmly against Itachi’s backside and hands clasping in front of the shinobi. It’s an intimate embrace, partially ruined by his need for physical support as the blood flow returns to his legs. ]
Such a smartass, [ he remarks fondly, sinking his teeth into the man’s shoulder in a playful nip that leaves a reddened imprint behind. ] Just get in the damn shower already. I’m dripping all over your floor.
[ And then he’s pushing forward, urging Itachi forward into the water’s spray with his hips. ]
[Although he hears the slap of heels on tile at Stiles' approach, that loose and lazy embrace still manages to successfully disarm him, warmth pooling at every point of contact between bare bodies as he allows himself to be ushered into the glass stall from behind. Stiles' hips nudging at the small of his back - in combination with that blunt pinch of teeth - summon arousal into his belly, as though he hadn't glutted his appetite mere minutes ago in bed.
Itachi tests the temperature with one hand, fingers splayed, then slides beneath the rain of water obligingly. It skews on the hotter end of the spectrum; their skin flushes pale pink in moments, a scalding spray that soothes shoulders into a loose and pliant slope. It also brightens the flesh around the bite marks in his throat, which Itachi deliberately tilts out of direct contact with the hot water.]
... Earlier, I hadn't responded, but this injury came from Guanshan. He was feral due to Malachite's influence and attacked me. [His voice remains low and calm in the small space, cheek slightly turned, dark eyes seeking sight of Stiles at his back. Black hair is soon soaked and plastered down nape and spine.] I was forced to incapacitate him until he calmed down and returned to normal. Nothing significant happened between us otherwise.
[A clarification that targets Stiles' insinuation before, that it might have been sexual in nature.]
[ Steam gathers in the shower stall as a cloud of moisture, rising heavily off flesh from where heated bullets of water pelt them. The temperature is ruthless. Perfect. Enjoying the sensation of sore muscles gradually loosening beneath the spray, Stiles stretches languidly – movement that briefly peels his body away from Itachi’s before he crowds close once again, purposefully aligning their hips. Even spent as he is, Stiles remains overcome by an emotional need to suffocate all distance separating them. He clings, uncaring of how needy it may come across as. And if he rubs himself slowly against the other man’s backside, flaccid dick dragging up and down the pinkening swell of ass cheeks? Who can possibly blame him. Stiles is young, horny, and in love; a recipe for disaster. ]
What a jackass.
[ Finger pads drift over the bite wound, as if he could soothe the injury away, and then he’s turning his attention toward the water-logged hair spilling down smooth shoulders. Stiles carefully angles Itachi’s head directly under the showerhead, then sets his fingers to the other man’s scalp, gently massaging as dark strands stick to his wrists.
It’s hard to think, stuck in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss as he is. But the relief Stiles feels should be palpable through Synchrony; he’s glad Itachi isn’t deliberately keeping him in the dark. As for Guanshan – the redhead got his comeuppance when Stiles encountered him. One feral bite for another. Too bad Stiles’ packed more of a punch. ]
While we’re clearing things up… Why’d you leave the closet, that time on the space station? I get that you came back now, but at the time…I thought you were taking off on me.
[Glass goes opaque with the heat of water, tiny droplets tracking lines his eyes follow as Stiles molds against his spine in a warm and slippery press. Somehow the embrace is more intimate than anything they've yet shared, a brand of physical affection he abides for the first time in his life. No necessity in the proximity. The way Stiles' soft cock tucks into the crease of his ass, body hair tickling skin, hips framed together—Synchrony is a constant low pulse between them, mingling vestigial emotion in a wide channel like an open vein. The light of purple and green gems casts a pretty, electric-colored pattern on the white tile.
As hands push into the wet, heavy strands of hair plastered to his face and neck, Itachi's head obediently tips forward beneath the spray. His eyes close. The moment is a relaxed eternity. Stiles' words hang unanswered for an endured period of time; his slight weight leans, using the boy for support as much as he himself is used.]
Mmm. [The sound gives the vague impression of a cat purring. A lifetime's burden of tension seems to ease from the tight angle of slim shoulders, chin lowered to his chest. Speaking is slow and measured when it eventually comes.] ... I had to clean off. You'd managed to dirty my face and hair.
[There's no blame in the statement, only quietly threaded amusement and drowsiness.]
[ In the pregnant silence that follows his question, Stiles simply exists – enjoying the quiet victory of successful teamwork as they prop each other up through leaning against one another, weight gently seesawing back and forth between them. He tips at the perfect angle to nuzzle the skin joining neck to shoulder, mouth pressing lazy kisses there. It would be easy, too easy, to nod off like this. The idea tempts him as he cards his hands through wet tresses, raking the dried sweat out of Itachi’s hair in slow, methodical passes.
Ask about the tattoo, he thinks sleepily, exhaustion steadily claiming him even as his hips ambitiously roll forward into a firm backside. You always forget to ask about it.
But then Itachi speaks, low voice almost hypnotic in the curtain of steam and water pulled around them. It makes sense, given the man’s track record; after almost all their instances of intimacy, Itachi has made a point to shower afterward. Fastidious to a fault, it seems. Stiles sighs in exasperation, thinking back on his own teenage angst over why the shinobi had so abruptly departed from the storage closet, and then drops one hand to vengefully pinch a nipple. ]
You need to communicate that kind of thing, [ he admonishes without heat, fingers thumbing over the irritated, peaked nipple with the same care that his other hand still strokes through dark locks. ] I thought I did something wrong.
The shirt, though… [ Stiles trails off, pausing to consider how to answer. ] I wanted something of yours to keep. What can I say? I’m a sentimental guy.
[ Despite the nonchalant humor he injects into these words, there’s a slight tension to his body that hadn’t been present before. ]
Gonna let me have it? I’ll buy you a new one, if you want.
[A hiss answers the pinch, body flinching as fingers tweak at a sensitive nipple; his hand raises automatically to leash Stiles' wrist in a strong squeeze in case he should pursue other similar avenues of revenge. It hadn't even occurred to him to tell Stiles before he left - he assumed he would return soon enough, and the boy would be waiting. Yet it isn't the first time Stiles has ever acted against his expectations. It was easier to predict behavior in combat; this realm of interpersonal intimacy, on the other hand, is entirely new.
He could also argue that coming in his hair was a misstep, but it would not be true. At least not with the gravity Stiles suggests.]
No, that's all right. [The comment comes after a pause, as he considers what Stiles' attachment to such an arbitrary belonging as his shirt means. The clothing holds no significant meaning to him. It is easily replaced, less valuable by far than the boy's evident desire to possess it. A slight shift of movement has Itachi turning around in the shower, gently disengaging from hands in wet hair, so that they stand face to face. Eye to eye. His expression is relaxed, undemanding of an explanation. Pale fingers lift to pass once through Stiles' own hair, slick and short, almost black where it has pasted to temples and forehead.] I don't need it. Though I hope you've washed it since then.
[Soft, accusatory humor as he reaches next for soap to soak a clean hand cloth and begin lathering his own body.]
What conclusion did you come to, that time we were discussing Donovan? [Itachi's voice reverts to sober seriousness like the snap of a band. His mind has lingered on this question for days, now.] Was what I allowed too much?
[ The tension that had started to wind through his slender, trim frame abruptly unspools from his body upon hearing that Itachi will allow him to keep the shirt. Brown eyes slide shut, Stiles sighing in quiet contentment as a hand cards through his hair – tilting his head back to expose his flushed throat, the white scar there standing out in stark contrast to the pinkened skin.
It’s a relief that the other man chose not to pursue a line of questioning over the stolen article of clothing. Stiles isn’t quite ready to put into words his human need to own something real and tangible of Itachi’s. Something to keep him company at night when he wakes up from the nightmares. Something to hold when the homesickness begins to chafe his heart too raw. Something to cherish should Itachi ever vanish without warning from this dimension. If he could, he’d carry along with him a piece of everyone dear to his heart – his dad, Jonas, Sasuke, Itachi, Fenris. Oh, if only he could.
Stiles opens his eyes. ]
No, [ he answers softly, expression twisting with a bittersweet smile. ] It wasn’t too much.
[ For a moment, he watches the shinobi lather the soap in silence. Then he reaches toward the unfamiliar bottles sitting on the shelf, checking both before selecting the one labeled shampoo. Pouring a generous amount on his palm, he begins the painstaking process of washing Itachi’s hair. Both hands knead the mixture into the scalp, tendons flexing in his arms as he pays especially close yet gentle attention to the roots. ]
I don’t remember how much I’ve explained to you, but I broke up with Malia and my best friend Scott over what happened with Donovan. [ Somehow, what should be a fraught memory is recalled calmly, the bulk of his attention dedicated to what his hands are doing. ] Scott accused me of murdering Donovan in cold blood and refused to let me explain what actually went down. I guess part of me is still reconciling the fact I’ll never be what Scott wants me to be. I’m…different.
[ Touched by the Nogitsune, nursing a dangerous darkness in his soul. Stiles used to regret it; after Itachi, he’s not so sure he wants to, anymore. ]
[If Itachi notices the easing tension in that posture, he makes no comment of it. The reasons may still be nebulous to him, but that doesn't mean he'll deny any sentimentality attached to the boy's behavior. At this point it would make him an outright hypocrite. His simple indulgence in everything Stiles -- this shower, their relationship, the activities that had occured in his bedroom tonight -- is all driven by that same trench of sentiment. The measure of its expression is less important.
As Stiles goes on to explain, he angles his head obediently for careful hands at a sensitive scalp, chin jutted up to avoid any soap sliding into eyes. The moment is slow, quiet, meditative. Relaxation spreads through his limbs with a diffusive lull. It feels impossible to imagine turning someone away for murder, especially in the defense of one's own life; he reminds himself that their worlds are not the same. Their experiences are not shared.
He does not know Scott, but even though the tug of dislike is small, he still notices it.]
Stiles. [Low and calm in its certainty.] If you were not different, it's unlikely you and I would be here now.
[He transfers the sudsy cloth to Stiles' body, cleaning it off in meticulous drags, down arms and across shoulders, over his chest and flat belly.]
[ The tone of Itachi’s voice when he speaks commands Stiles’ attention. Fingers slipping away from the scalp that’s been thoroughly shampooed, he stares across the short distance separating them and listens to what the other man has to say. A strong emotion swells up in his chest, hotter than even the water descending on them from the showerhead. Had he the energy for it, Stiles might have cried. The idea that, after everything he’s done, there remains someone close to him who prefers him to be himself – no matter how fucked up he may have become – is honestly overwhelming. With a shuddery exhale, he leans forward to prop his forehead against Itachi’s shoulder. ]
…Thanks, [ he chokes out, throat tight, even as his thoughts instead form the words I love you with fierce, unyielding devotion. ] I…
[ Stiles trails off, unable to finish the sentence. But Synchrony conveys some of what he wants to admit, pouring a small flood of affection and gratitude over their open channel like thickened syrup. In the end, there’s little more to say; they continue to wash each other with methodical care, then eventually retire to the bedroom. Though Itachi presents him with his back, Stiles wastes no time in curling up against it, loosely curled fists pressed to skin and face nuzzling a shoulder. He sleeps better than he has in months that night, evidently too exhausted for nightmares or sleep walking. And when he wakes up and finds Itachi still in bed with him?
Smiling to himself, he gazes at the back of the man’s head on the pillow, black hair fanned out like rivers of spilt ink, and thinks those dangerous three words again. ]
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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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Definitely.
[ However, Stiles remains where he is, splayed out on the mattress with come slowly dribbling from his ass. Every attempt to move, muscles tensing to react to his will, has him sinking further into the bedding with exhaustion. ]
…Think I’m gonna need a boost outta bed, though, [ he admits, rubbing his free hand over his face wearily. ] My legs feel like jelly.
[ Hips wiggling in an entirely non-sexual manner, he tries to wrestle himself toward the bottom of the bed. ]
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Itachi rises fluidly from the bed, smirk shaping his mouth from its usual neutral line.]
I'll have to remember that next time you request that I don't hold back. [Low, subtle teasing.] Perhaps I overestimated what you could endure.
[He reaches for Stiles, pulling, grip firming in a hold that soon hauls him up into leanly powerful arms, sweeping his weight into a bridal carry, uncaring of the mess between them. One hand strays dangerously and purposely close to the boy's ass, dripping slick with his own come, just to squeeze over the faint blue-bruised marks coloring to life. Then he heads toward the adjoined bathroom with his stolen burden.]
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What really causes his breath to catch though is that quietly sly smirk playing at a mouth that’s usually constrained to cool, dispassionate emotions. Stiles swallows, heart fluttering rapidly in his chest, and then squirms to close the distance between their faces, pressing his lips to the underside of an angular jaw. ]
Oh, shut up, [ he grumbles unconvincingly, resting his head against Itachi’s shoulder. ] I totally endured. My mortal body just needs a little bit to recharge.
[ Confidently, Stiles continues: ] I could’ve taken more punishment. Don’t underestimate me, pal.
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So you say.
[Smoothly sliding off the drawstring slacks he still wears, these are folded over the counter of the sink. Then he crosses tile to turn on the shower, knob twisted hot, glass door slid open, naked body stretched forward in the gap to reach. His voice carries in the acoustic space.]
Can you manage to stand on your own, or will I need to carry you inside as well?
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Itachi is, undeniably, beautiful.
Feet slapping noisily on the tile as he approaches, Stiles slumps over that long, lean body with his own, nestling his hips firmly against Itachi’s backside and hands clasping in front of the shinobi. It’s an intimate embrace, partially ruined by his need for physical support as the blood flow returns to his legs. ]
Such a smartass, [ he remarks fondly, sinking his teeth into the man’s shoulder in a playful nip that leaves a reddened imprint behind. ] Just get in the damn shower already. I’m dripping all over your floor.
[ And then he’s pushing forward, urging Itachi forward into the water’s spray with his hips. ]
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Itachi tests the temperature with one hand, fingers splayed, then slides beneath the rain of water obligingly. It skews on the hotter end of the spectrum; their skin flushes pale pink in moments, a scalding spray that soothes shoulders into a loose and pliant slope. It also brightens the flesh around the bite marks in his throat, which Itachi deliberately tilts out of direct contact with the hot water.]
... Earlier, I hadn't responded, but this injury came from Guanshan. He was feral due to Malachite's influence and attacked me. [His voice remains low and calm in the small space, cheek slightly turned, dark eyes seeking sight of Stiles at his back. Black hair is soon soaked and plastered down nape and spine.] I was forced to incapacitate him until he calmed down and returned to normal. Nothing significant happened between us otherwise.
[A clarification that targets Stiles' insinuation before, that it might have been sexual in nature.]
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What a jackass.
[ Finger pads drift over the bite wound, as if he could soothe the injury away, and then he’s turning his attention toward the water-logged hair spilling down smooth shoulders. Stiles carefully angles Itachi’s head directly under the showerhead, then sets his fingers to the other man’s scalp, gently massaging as dark strands stick to his wrists.
It’s hard to think, stuck in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss as he is. But the relief Stiles feels should be palpable through Synchrony; he’s glad Itachi isn’t deliberately keeping him in the dark. As for Guanshan – the redhead got his comeuppance when Stiles encountered him. One feral bite for another. Too bad Stiles’ packed more of a punch. ]
While we’re clearing things up… Why’d you leave the closet, that time on the space station? I get that you came back now, but at the time…I thought you were taking off on me.
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As hands push into the wet, heavy strands of hair plastered to his face and neck, Itachi's head obediently tips forward beneath the spray. His eyes close. The moment is a relaxed eternity. Stiles' words hang unanswered for an endured period of time; his slight weight leans, using the boy for support as much as he himself is used.]
Mmm. [The sound gives the vague impression of a cat purring. A lifetime's burden of tension seems to ease from the tight angle of slim shoulders, chin lowered to his chest. Speaking is slow and measured when it eventually comes.] ... I had to clean off. You'd managed to dirty my face and hair.
[There's no blame in the statement, only quietly threaded amusement and drowsiness.]
Why did you take my shirt?
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Ask about the tattoo, he thinks sleepily, exhaustion steadily claiming him even as his hips ambitiously roll forward into a firm backside. You always forget to ask about it.
But then Itachi speaks, low voice almost hypnotic in the curtain of steam and water pulled around them. It makes sense, given the man’s track record; after almost all their instances of intimacy, Itachi has made a point to shower afterward. Fastidious to a fault, it seems. Stiles sighs in exasperation, thinking back on his own teenage angst over why the shinobi had so abruptly departed from the storage closet, and then drops one hand to vengefully pinch a nipple. ]
You need to communicate that kind of thing, [ he admonishes without heat, fingers thumbing over the irritated, peaked nipple with the same care that his other hand still strokes through dark locks. ] I thought I did something wrong.
The shirt, though… [ Stiles trails off, pausing to consider how to answer. ] I wanted something of yours to keep. What can I say? I’m a sentimental guy.
[ Despite the nonchalant humor he injects into these words, there’s a slight tension to his body that hadn’t been present before. ]
Gonna let me have it? I’ll buy you a new one, if you want.
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He could also argue that coming in his hair was a misstep, but it would not be true. At least not with the gravity Stiles suggests.]
No, that's all right. [The comment comes after a pause, as he considers what Stiles' attachment to such an arbitrary belonging as his shirt means. The clothing holds no significant meaning to him. It is easily replaced, less valuable by far than the boy's evident desire to possess it. A slight shift of movement has Itachi turning around in the shower, gently disengaging from hands in wet hair, so that they stand face to face. Eye to eye. His expression is relaxed, undemanding of an explanation. Pale fingers lift to pass once through Stiles' own hair, slick and short, almost black where it has pasted to temples and forehead.] I don't need it. Though I hope you've washed it since then.
[Soft, accusatory humor as he reaches next for soap to soak a clean hand cloth and begin lathering his own body.]
What conclusion did you come to, that time we were discussing Donovan? [Itachi's voice reverts to sober seriousness like the snap of a band. His mind has lingered on this question for days, now.] Was what I allowed too much?
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It’s a relief that the other man chose not to pursue a line of questioning over the stolen article of clothing. Stiles isn’t quite ready to put into words his human need to own something real and tangible of Itachi’s. Something to keep him company at night when he wakes up from the nightmares. Something to hold when the homesickness begins to chafe his heart too raw. Something to cherish should Itachi ever vanish without warning from this dimension. If he could, he’d carry along with him a piece of everyone dear to his heart – his dad, Jonas, Sasuke, Itachi, Fenris. Oh, if only he could.
Stiles opens his eyes. ]
No, [ he answers softly, expression twisting with a bittersweet smile. ] It wasn’t too much.
[ For a moment, he watches the shinobi lather the soap in silence. Then he reaches toward the unfamiliar bottles sitting on the shelf, checking both before selecting the one labeled shampoo. Pouring a generous amount on his palm, he begins the painstaking process of washing Itachi’s hair. Both hands knead the mixture into the scalp, tendons flexing in his arms as he pays especially close yet gentle attention to the roots. ]
I don’t remember how much I’ve explained to you, but I broke up with Malia and my best friend Scott over what happened with Donovan. [ Somehow, what should be a fraught memory is recalled calmly, the bulk of his attention dedicated to what his hands are doing. ] Scott accused me of murdering Donovan in cold blood and refused to let me explain what actually went down. I guess part of me is still reconciling the fact I’ll never be what Scott wants me to be. I’m…different.
[ Touched by the Nogitsune, nursing a dangerous darkness in his soul. Stiles used to regret it; after Itachi, he’s not so sure he wants to, anymore. ]
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As Stiles goes on to explain, he angles his head obediently for careful hands at a sensitive scalp, chin jutted up to avoid any soap sliding into eyes. The moment is slow, quiet, meditative. Relaxation spreads through his limbs with a diffusive lull. It feels impossible to imagine turning someone away for murder, especially in the defense of one's own life; he reminds himself that their worlds are not the same. Their experiences are not shared.
He does not know Scott, but even though the tug of dislike is small, he still notices it.]
Stiles. [Low and calm in its certainty.] If you were not different, it's unlikely you and I would be here now.
[He transfers the sudsy cloth to Stiles' body, cleaning it off in meticulous drags, down arms and across shoulders, over his chest and flat belly.]
I wouldn't change that.
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…Thanks, [ he chokes out, throat tight, even as his thoughts instead form the words I love you with fierce, unyielding devotion. ] I…
[ Stiles trails off, unable to finish the sentence. But Synchrony conveys some of what he wants to admit, pouring a small flood of affection and gratitude over their open channel like thickened syrup. In the end, there’s little more to say; they continue to wash each other with methodical care, then eventually retire to the bedroom. Though Itachi presents him with his back, Stiles wastes no time in curling up against it, loosely curled fists pressed to skin and face nuzzling a shoulder. He sleeps better than he has in months that night, evidently too exhausted for nightmares or sleep walking. And when he wakes up and finds Itachi still in bed with him?
Smiling to himself, he gazes at the back of the man’s head on the pillow, black hair fanned out like rivers of spilt ink, and thinks those dangerous three words again. ]