[He's about to argue further when it occurs to him that the point is not only ancient history, but perhaps hypocritical, when he himself has made executive decisions in the interest of "preventative measures" without explicit permission. Exhibit A: the massacre.
Maybe they are more alike than he wishes to admit.]
[ The response is a long time coming. Stiles has to talk himself into the idea, then take time to set up. Eventually, a picture is sent to Itachi – taken from his perspective, looking down at his reclining body on a bed. Pink, peaked nipples stand at attention in the cool air, his shirt discarded somewhere out of sight. The long, smooth plane of his abdomen gives way to pelvis bones, jutting out from where sweatpants ride dangerously low. One hand has disappeared under the waistband, fingers spread beneath the fabric. ]
[Of course, due to his attraction to Stiles, he is not immune to the image. In fact, the visual stimuli has a greater impact than he could have anticipated — a hot, swooping tug of arousal pulls down into his belly as he studies lines of bare skin and the implication of that hand’s placement. Unfortunately he is not a man of interpersonal acuity or charm, and so the reply is disappointingly blunt:]
Well, yeah. But that requires me getting off my ass to come visit you. And there's something sexy about doing it this way. It'll make seeing each other in person next time even better. Trust my methods.
Itachi's response is somewhat delayed, frozen in the temporary deliberation of how to proceed within new, foreign, uncomfortable territory. He's learned how to be intimate with Stiles through physical action, not through words. After tabbing back to the image sent and studying it with the dark, potent knowledge that is how Stiles looks right now—that is what he is doing at this very moment, all for him—a message finally comes.]
I'm not certain what's expected of me. Describing my clothes cannot be satisfying for you. Should I also send a picture?
[The effort and willingness to try is there; he will simply need Stiles' lead.]
[ For once, Stiles is patient. Nestled in his bed, covers kicked aside, he rereads Itachi’s previous messages while waiting for the man to respond. This is new territory for him; all attempts to sext Malia had crashed and burned spectacularly. But through the distant anxiety of trying something different, there’s a bud of anticipatory excitement too – one that blooms into a familiar warmth of affection when the shinobi finally texts back. ]
You can send a picture if you want. Or you can tell me how it made you feel, seeing that picture of me. Did it turn you on?
[The truth, but it feels insufficient in communicating what he means. He wishes he could see Stiles—the inability to have him physically present is a sudden and acute frustration, blistering hot, unsated. He knows no way of speaking about this eloquently or delicately. The sensation is like a hammer to his patience.
[ Another picture, this time of a different perspective. Stiles is lying on his front, camera staring down the length of his back from over a shoulder – where the waistband of his sweatpants has been hooked beneath his ass, plumping both cheeks. ]
You should know I touch myself everyday, thinking about you.
[Ah. He is beginning to see the point, the combination of that next image—the smooth slope of the boy’s spine down to his backside, ass visible in the soft outline of curves, a reminder of when he’d palmed both cheeks to a bruise in his bare hands days ago—attached to a message. Itachi realizes his knuckles have gone white around the device; he coaxes fingers to relax.
Every day. The admission stuns him, although the frequency is not surprising. He’s noticed Stiles on his mind more and more often. In the absence of the Bond, he’s still adjusting to emptiness, thoughts continually reaching into the dark for some sign of him on the other side.]
[ Instead of obeying, he rolls over onto his back and switches from text to the live video feature. His sweatpants hang dangerously low now on this side, patches of dark pubic hair visible where the waistband has dragged down. For several moments, nothing happens. Stiles does not reach for himself. But then, with an audible sigh off camera, it becomes increasingly obvious that his soft cock is hardening, stretching the fabric of the sweatpants as flesh swells and fattens with blood. A little roll of his hips, like he can’t quite help it; the erection strains to stand at attention, trapped by the loungewear as it is. ]
[When the screen flashes to life, revealing the familiar slant of Stiles’ body, he feels breath catch in the next sharp, hooked inhale. He watches the boy stretch out, the view plunging down angular hips and a flat belly. It begins to feel voyeuristic. As though he is playing invisible audience to this private scene—but he is also the influence, the reason Stiles’ cock thickens into that stiff, full shape beneath fabric.
Without access to the boy’s immediate mind and emotions, he can’t feel any of it, only see it. A new phenomenon. Frustration is a mounting burn straight down to the ache of balls. Itachi wets dry lips with a pass of tongue and sends his next message. If he can’t know, he must demand.]
What are you imagining right now, to make you look like that? Tell me.
[ The video continues. One arm lays on the bed beside his body, fingers fisted in the bedsheets. It clearly requires effort not to reach down and take himself in hand. Minute twitches of his hips – gyrating movements that only emphasize the bobbing weight stuck beneath fabric – are all that Stiles allows. The muscles in his abdomen tense up, a ripple of frustration. ]
You, with your hair down. You’re just watching me. It’s enough.
[ Enough to have him hard and heavy, heels digging trenches into the mattress in an effort to rut his groin against something. ]
You’re going to make me beg for it. Beg for you to touch me. To fuck me. I'd hate it from anyone else. But with you, it's different. I'd beg you.
[This is difficult. Less the passive role of watching, reading each obscene word sent in the messages, and more the effort it takes to articulate a reply. Were they in person he would have Stiles bent under his hands - or his will, at the very least - by now. Instead, this reminds him of crafting an illusion. A fantasy.]
Assuming that even if you begged me for it, I would not still deny you.
[Undeniably, a part of him enjoys this torment. Black eyes are a brand on the sight of Stiles' covered dick, the desperate rut of hips, an unfulfilled need in their distance from one another.]
But you're correct: it is different. I've ignored appeals for mercy in the past. With you, it would be challenging. You would need to make it easier for me, Stiles. I am not always patient.
[ A full-body shudder racks Stiles as he reads the ominous threat of that first sentence, breath escaping him in a small “aah!” of sharp arousal. Were it anyone else, he wouldn’t understand the appeal of being kept wanting and waiting for their touch; it would play havoc with his insecurities, knowing him. But with you, it’s different. Itachi is always the exception to the rule, it seems.
Suddenly, the phone in his hand feels heavy – like he can sense the weight of Itachi’s gaze watching him through the camera lens. With a swallow, Stiles angles it carefully so that the man’s view remains unobstructed as he pulls on the waistband of the sweatpants and briefs beneath. Inch by inch, the length of his cock is revealed, veins straining against flesh and glans swollen a deep red. As soon as it’s freed from the pinch of the waistbands, it bounces up in a hungry curve toward his abdomen, bobbing in place. ]
I’d be good for you, Itachi. Whether you’re merciful or not.
[ The waistbands are hooked under his balls, the pressure beneath his sacs pushing them up into view under the arc of his dick. ]
[There's a difference of context here, almost reminiscent of their encounter in Club Penance, as Stiles obeys the command and tugs down the elastic band of his sweatpants to bare the evidence of his arousal. The heavy weight of Stiles' dick takes all of his attention as it juts up toward a navel, flushed ruddy with color, swollen to a certain ache. He stares, remembering what it feels like in his hand, full and hot. Filling his mouth to the stretch of a jaw. The taste and texture of come on his tongue, choked down his throat.
Itachi releases a thin stream of breath as he feels the answering throb between his own legs, standing rigidly in his own bedroom. He hasn't moved since this direction in the conversation began.]
I know. [Perhaps denial isn't intuitive for Stiles, but for him, it is how he best expresses the depth of his own interest. The intensity of his attention in that unseen gaze through the camera.] You always are.
Put your hand on yourself. Show me how you would do it if I wasn't watching now.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Why do you believe my life was endangered?
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Witches are at their weakest on the night of a full moon. Monsters are prone to go feral those nights. You do the math.
You're welcome.
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If anything, at the time, you were the only threat I encountered. There was no reason to escort me across the city.
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Maybe they are more alike than he wishes to admit.]
Fine.
Was there anything else you wished to ask me?
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Yeah.
What're you wearing?
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NSFW
Tell me what you're wearing.
1/2
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A shirt and pants. Why did you send me that?
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I'm sexting you. Sex texting? As in, initiating long-distance sex through explicit pictures or descriptions.
[ Doubt begins to creep in, but he stubbornly pushes it to the side. Itachi's attracted to him. He knows that. There's no reason to be embarrassed. ]
Interested?
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Do you want to have sex? Wouldn’t you prefer that to happen in reality, instead of from a distance?
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Well, yeah. But that requires me getting off my ass to come visit you. And there's something sexy about doing it this way. It'll make seeing each other in person next time even better. Trust my methods.
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Itachi's response is somewhat delayed, frozen in the temporary deliberation of how to proceed within new, foreign, uncomfortable territory. He's learned how to be intimate with Stiles through physical action, not through words. After tabbing back to the image sent and studying it with the dark, potent knowledge that is how Stiles looks right now—that is what he is doing at this very moment, all for him—a message finally comes.]
I'm not certain what's expected of me. Describing my clothes cannot be satisfying for you. Should I also send a picture?
[The effort and willingness to try is there; he will simply need Stiles' lead.]
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You can send a picture if you want. Or you can tell me how it made you feel, seeing that picture of me. Did it turn you on?
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[The truth, but it feels insufficient in communicating what he means. He wishes he could see Stiles—the inability to have him physically present is a sudden and acute frustration, blistering hot, unsated. He knows no way of speaking about this eloquently or delicately. The sensation is like a hammer to his patience.
How he feels?]
I want to touch you.
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[ Another picture, this time of a different perspective. Stiles is lying on his front, camera staring down the length of his back from over a shoulder – where the waistband of his sweatpants has been hooked beneath his ass, plumping both cheeks. ]
You should know
I touch myself everyday, thinking about you.
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Every day. The admission stuns him, although the frequency is not surprising. He’s noticed Stiles on his mind more and more often. In the absence of the Bond, he’s still adjusting to emptiness, thoughts continually reaching into the dark for some sign of him on the other side.]
Show me. Touch yourself now.
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[ Instead of obeying, he rolls over onto his back and switches from text to the live video feature. His sweatpants hang dangerously low now on this side, patches of dark pubic hair visible where the waistband has dragged down. For several moments, nothing happens. Stiles does not reach for himself. But then, with an audible sigh off camera, it becomes increasingly obvious that his soft cock is hardening, stretching the fabric of the sweatpants as flesh swells and fattens with blood. A little roll of his hips, like he can’t quite help it; the erection strains to stand at attention, trapped by the loungewear as it is. ]
All for you.
Just for you.
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Without access to the boy’s immediate mind and emotions, he can’t feel any of it, only see it. A new phenomenon. Frustration is a mounting burn straight down to the ache of balls. Itachi wets dry lips with a pass of tongue and sends his next message. If he can’t know, he must demand.]
What are you imagining right now, to make you look like that? Tell me.
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You, with your hair down. You’re just watching me. It’s enough.
[ Enough to have him hard and heavy, heels digging trenches into the mattress in an effort to rut his groin against something. ]
You’re going to make me beg for it.
Beg for you to touch me. To fuck me.
I'd hate it from anyone else. But with you, it's different.
I'd beg you.
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Assuming that even if you begged me for it, I would not still deny you.
[Undeniably, a part of him enjoys this torment. Black eyes are a brand on the sight of Stiles' covered dick, the desperate rut of hips, an unfulfilled need in their distance from one another.]
But you're correct: it is different. I've ignored appeals for mercy in the past. With you, it would be challenging. You would need to make it easier for me, Stiles. I am not always patient.
Roll down your waistband.
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Suddenly, the phone in his hand feels heavy – like he can sense the weight of Itachi’s gaze watching him through the camera lens. With a swallow, Stiles angles it carefully so that the man’s view remains unobstructed as he pulls on the waistband of the sweatpants and briefs beneath. Inch by inch, the length of his cock is revealed, veins straining against flesh and glans swollen a deep red. As soon as it’s freed from the pinch of the waistbands, it bounces up in a hungry curve toward his abdomen, bobbing in place. ]
I’d be good for you, Itachi. Whether you’re merciful or not.
[ The waistbands are hooked under his balls, the pressure beneath his sacs pushing them up into view under the arc of his dick. ]
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Itachi releases a thin stream of breath as he feels the answering throb between his own legs, standing rigidly in his own bedroom. He hasn't moved since this direction in the conversation began.]
I know. [Perhaps denial isn't intuitive for Stiles, but for him, it is how he best expresses the depth of his own interest. The intensity of his attention in that unseen gaze through the camera.] You always are.
Put your hand on yourself. Show me how you would do it if I wasn't watching now.
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fin