[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.
[ The messaged affirmation strikes him with all the intensity of a white-hot bolt of electricity straight to the dick. Hips jerk upward helplessly, precome gathering in thick beads at the head of his cock and smearing a damp streak of fluid over the skin of his abdomen. Stiles moans, a low, drawn-out sound that’s picked up by the device’s microphone and transferred to Itachi alongside the video feed. Proof of the impact those words have on him. You always are. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to hear Itachi say as much in person – hard-won praise whispered in his ear as the other man ruthlessly fucks him.
Itachi’s next demand has Stiles eagerly fumbling to grasp his neglected cock, all the permission he requires to begin pumping himself in a firm hand. The friction is uncomfortable, so his palm slides over the glans to collect the precome there and spread it over the length of his erection, the slick sound obscene in the silence of his bedroom. Only ragged breathing, becoming increasingly labored, punctures the still quiet.
His reply is slow coming; trying to type out a response while fantasizing about Itachi inside him is proving difficult. ]
Like this. Thinking about you. It’s how I always touch myself now. Since Hell. Since Tsukuyomi.
[The tinny noise over the speaker coaxes Itachi's eyes almost closed, concentration bled by the lure of his own blistering arousal. He wants to hear it again. It feels a small victory every time he fishes vocalizations out of Stiles' throat, contrary to any plea for mercy he's ever received in his life otherwise. The earnestness, noisy and messy—it's enough to crave like a high now.]
You can speak to me aloud. I'll hear you, Stiles.
[Easier than requiring Stiles to tap out a message in response as he's carried further to distraction by what he's doing. Better, too, at satisfying his own selfish need to milk out each whimper and stutter of breathy voice that doesn't carry through plain text. Low-lidded black eyes watch a hand seize that stiff, thickened dick without reservation, precome a shiny glaze over the light-adjusted camera as it drools from the reddened slit, leaking down velvet-thin flesh to grease every tug.]
I enjoyed how I saw you that first time. In the stocks, bound up to be done with as I wished. It hadn't occurred to me then, but it would have been so easy to fuck you.
[ Aloud, a quaver of need worming its way low into his voice: ] Ngh…a-alright.
[ There’s a creak of the mattress as he shifts his weight onto his heels, back arching to drive his weeping cock through his fist again and again. The glans is flushed an angry red now, glistening beneath the lukewarm light that betrays every flex of stomach muscle as Stiles continues to jack himself off. What was originally a quiet act becomes an increasingly noisy one; each tug on his dick is accompanied by the distinctive wet, slippery click of his hand speeding faster and faster, balls bouncing lightly in place where they’re trapped by the waistband of his sweatpants.
When Itachi’s next message arrives, Stiles groans deeply, a noise plucked as if from the chords of his soul. His hand pauses immediately, sliding down to the base of his erection to grip it in a bloodless hand. The tendons in his arms and legs are visible, straining. Stiles is trying not to come. ]
God, I would have let you, [ he hisses out, sounding wrecked. The mental image is too easy to picture. ] I would have let you do anything. I still would. Whatever you want, Itachi. Just tell me what you want.
[Melting into the low, intimate familiarity of Stiles’ voice in his ear, he goes on watching the show meant only for him, studying every twist of a bony wrist as those fingers go to work at self-pleasure, the ruddy wet tip vanishing behind an eager palm on each slide. The sounds are obscene, slick and slippery across the connection; it seems he can only focus on those sensations now that he is denied the physical.]
A dangerous promise. I told you to be more careful around me, Stiles.
[He notices something, then: a little flicker of otherness in the peripheral of his single-minded, driven arousal, as though another presence has squeezed in alongside it. A fainter tether than the permanent Bond of previous dimensions, but reminiscent. If he focuses he can almost feel the hot throb of Stiles’ cock in that tight fist. Perhaps a phantom sensation for how many times he’s experienced it in the flesh. His gem doesn’t glow with that familiar lilac light, barring any full confirmation of Synchrony, but as Stiles continues milking his dick and squirming in full view of his own voyueristic desire, an awareness grows. Stronger than simple audience participation. Like Synchrony, at a distance.
Itachi doesn’t dare to close his eyes, but it’s a near thing. He cannot concentrate on text; the line clicks on his end, voice like a dark ribbon of silk soon heard.]
[ Only once he’s certain that he’s not about to prematurely blow his load (again) does Stiles resume the frantic, brutal pace from before. Each breath is torn from him by the mouthful, the desperate rise and fall of his chest visible in the camera’s lens. The hand that holds the phone trembles faintly, but he doesn’t notice – just like how Stiles fails to notice the gossamer-thin thread binding them mentally, focus too homed in on the arousal pumping through his body. Maybe his own wishful thinking is partially to blame for the psychic link; with every pull on his dick, he keeps thinking, god, if only Itachi was here. If only it were Itachi’s long, experienced fingers trailing spider-soft up the length of him, caressing him, teasing him.
Brown eyes remain locked on the screen of the phone, waiting with keening impatience for Itachi’s response. When it comes, a violent shudder racks his body with all the intensity of a passing hurricane. I meant it, he thinks in weak protest, bedding bunching up at the foot of the bed as he writhes on the mattress like someone possessed. Usually, he can jack off without getting this worked up; masturbating for an audience – for Itachi – has him drenched in a fine layer of sweat, skin glistening under the light. He’s never wanted like this before. Before Itachi.
He wets his lips to speak, palming the glans of his deck with the same frenetic energy, only to be taken off guard by Itachi’s low, silky voice humming out of the device. The demand tears a moan from his throat, just grazing the edge of a whimper, and he feels the moment of orgasm rapidly approaching. ]
I know who you are, [ gasps Stiles, throat working furiously. ] I know what I’m offering. I want you. All of you.
[ Even the part of Itachi that was fucked up enough to be able to massacre his entire clan in the name of the greater good.
And, with that dark thought rattling around inside his head, he climaxes. With a breathy groan, he pumps himself through the stream of pleasure pooling in his groin, Itachi’s name on his lips like a prayer as a rope of come shoots over his bare abdomen, striping him in uneven lines. ]
[There is something to be said of the beauty in watching Stiles succumb to himself, carried away with the deliverance of his own pleasure, thoughtless and unselfconscious in the sprawl of limbs over the bed. He desires nothing more than to drape himself across that lean, fitful body and feel every inch of brutal release as it shakes loose from within Stiles. He can only imagine it, now, from having felt it once around his own cock. Imagination is a powerful component of the mind; he could spin a web out of that fantasy and turn it into something very real if he wishes. Dark contemplations better left for another time.
Stiles' declarations are, as always, a keen intoxication. The words seem to sink under his skin and fasten him more permanently to the bond between them. Synchrony flickers, its ghostly presence hanging in the back of his mind before slowly fading. He admires the milky-white stripes of come on skin freckled with moles, drum-tight belly flinching with the effort of spent orgasm, cock softening in hand. He soon notices the ache of his own groin, dick thickened to a state of need punctuated by the quiet staticky breaths into the receiver. He ignores it; his role is only as audience, this time.
The moment cools down. Itachi has closed his eyes, resting in it, body leaned back against the wall of his bedroom.]
You did well at that. [There might be some edge of humor in his tone, noticeable to Stiles who has come to know him better over the months.] ... I suppose I can now see the appeal.
[ Sprawled boneless on the bed, Stiles pants gently as the tide of orgasm recedes – leaving him keenly aware of how sweaty and disgusting he feels. The sheets will need to be changed, for sure. But for the time being, he has no interest in doing anything except relax here while his pulse gradually slows. The hand that had been gripping his dick releases it to reach for his previously discarded t-shirt. After wiping his fingers off on it, he finally turns the camera around.
A flushed face, hair matted to his forehead from its usual disheveled style, greets Itachi. Brown eyes are still glazed over, barely focused as he gazes into the lens dazedly. His bottom lip has swelled from where he’d nursed it with his teeth during climax, the small impressions visible yet. Stiles looks as wrecked as he sounds.
The shinobi might recognize the hint of black cloth sticking out of the pillowcase that Stiles reclines against.
For now, a vague, dopey smile is stealing over his countenance as he registers the quiet edge of humor in Itachi’s words. ]
S-see? Wha’d I tell ya…
[ Settling more comfortably, Stiles considers the camera from beneath the damp curl of dark eyelashes. ]
Your turn. Are you touching yourself?
[ It doesn’t seem like it, judging by how measured and composed Itachi has remained. Maybe Stiles should have included that instruction earlier when describing sexting. ]
[The relaxed, drowsy expression on Stiles' face is impossible not to stare at. His hand frames the screen, holding it close as though attempting to memorize every line and feature: warm glassy eyes, low lashes, plump bitten lip. If he also sees the hint of black fabric, it's nothing Itachi focuses on. There are more interesting details to study on display.
Yet when the direction of the conversation is instead steered onto him, discomfort prickles to life. He can't easily imagine being so open with himself in the way Stiles just was moments ago—an unrestricted performance of pleasure at opposite odds with his own shuttered, reserved nature. Itachi's mouth forms a thin line; his breath puffs sharply over the call.]
No, I...
[There's a long measure of uninterrupted silence. Then a sudden, sharp click that can only be termination. Yes, he just awkwardly hung up.]
[ Blinking owlishly, Stiles stares at the phone as the screen kindly informs him that the call has been ended. What the hell was that about? Once again, Itachi has chosen to disappear on him instead of communicating like a normal human being. But there’s no way he’ll leave things like that; he switches to text, fingers tapping out a message even as his brain replays the last moments of the phone conversation. Things seemed fine until he turned the focus onto Itachi. ]
You’ve got to use your words, Itachi. What’s wrong?
[The reply is prompt, at least, even if its cause remains a mystery. But Stiles deserves better—so he makes the attempt. They’ve come a ways since their first fumbling, uncertain steps to understand one another, and he knows since their conversation in the shower that Stiles is right, however much communication still poses a challenge.]
... I was not comfortable with doing what you did.
[ Nothing, claims Itachi and Stiles feels a twinge of disappointment unfurling in his chest, with frustration a thorny guest. Heaving a sigh, he drops the phone on the bed to rub tiredly at his face. So much for post-orgasmic bliss. But before he can get too distracted by self-pity, the device vibrates with an incoming message.
The follow-up is all it takes to smooth out the crease between his brows. A soft, sad smile begins to creep over his expression, unbeknownst to Stiles. As enticing as the mental image is of Itachi writhing in the throes of pleasure... ]
I wasn’t going to ask you to do that. I just wanted to help you get off. That’s what I meant by “your turn.” Sorry for not being clear.
[Gaps and leaping assumptions are simply how his mind has learned to work. So, naturally, he'd assumed Stiles expected the same from him that he provided. An equal exchange. He is still only beginning to learn that intimacy is a more complicated web, without clear lines, woven around two individuals.
Itachi's arousal has flagged in the minutes of meditative thought that have followed, and now he sinks down to crouch on the floor, head propped against the wall.]
Save it for the next time we meet. You said it would improve the experience, this sort of exercise. I will allow you to take care of me then.
[ Stiles honestly can’t say what he likes hearing more in that moment – “…the next time we meet,” or “I will allow you to take care of me then.” Both have their own appeal for different reasons. This is a text he’ll be returning to again and again, just to savor the words. For now, though – ]
Deal.
I’m going to clean up. Talk to you later, Itachi.
[ And then, almost a full two minutes after the last message: ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
Itachi’s next demand has Stiles eagerly fumbling to grasp his neglected cock, all the permission he requires to begin pumping himself in a firm hand. The friction is uncomfortable, so his palm slides over the glans to collect the precome there and spread it over the length of his erection, the slick sound obscene in the silence of his bedroom. Only ragged breathing, becoming increasingly labored, punctures the still quiet.
His reply is slow coming; trying to type out a response while fantasizing about Itachi inside him is proving difficult. ]
Like this. Thinking about you. It’s how I always touch myself now. Since Hell. Since Tsukuyomi.
no subject
You can speak to me aloud. I'll hear you, Stiles.
[Easier than requiring Stiles to tap out a message in response as he's carried further to distraction by what he's doing. Better, too, at satisfying his own selfish need to milk out each whimper and stutter of breathy voice that doesn't carry through plain text. Low-lidded black eyes watch a hand seize that stiff, thickened dick without reservation, precome a shiny glaze over the light-adjusted camera as it drools from the reddened slit, leaking down velvet-thin flesh to grease every tug.]
I enjoyed how I saw you that first time. In the stocks, bound up to be done with as I wished. It hadn't occurred to me then, but it would have been so easy to fuck you.
[Stiles said descriptions, didn't he?]
no subject
[ There’s a creak of the mattress as he shifts his weight onto his heels, back arching to drive his weeping cock through his fist again and again. The glans is flushed an angry red now, glistening beneath the lukewarm light that betrays every flex of stomach muscle as Stiles continues to jack himself off. What was originally a quiet act becomes an increasingly noisy one; each tug on his dick is accompanied by the distinctive wet, slippery click of his hand speeding faster and faster, balls bouncing lightly in place where they’re trapped by the waistband of his sweatpants.
When Itachi’s next message arrives, Stiles groans deeply, a noise plucked as if from the chords of his soul. His hand pauses immediately, sliding down to the base of his erection to grip it in a bloodless hand. The tendons in his arms and legs are visible, straining. Stiles is trying not to come. ]
God, I would have let you, [ he hisses out, sounding wrecked. The mental image is too easy to picture. ] I would have let you do anything. I still would. Whatever you want, Itachi. Just tell me what you want.
no subject
A dangerous promise. I told you to be more careful around me, Stiles.
[He notices something, then: a little flicker of otherness in the peripheral of his single-minded, driven arousal, as though another presence has squeezed in alongside it. A fainter tether than the permanent Bond of previous dimensions, but reminiscent. If he focuses he can almost feel the hot throb of Stiles’ cock in that tight fist. Perhaps a phantom sensation for how many times he’s experienced it in the flesh. His gem doesn’t glow with that familiar lilac light, barring any full confirmation of Synchrony, but as Stiles continues milking his dick and squirming in full view of his own voyueristic desire, an awareness grows. Stronger than simple audience participation. Like Synchrony, at a distance.
Itachi doesn’t dare to close his eyes, but it’s a near thing. He cannot concentrate on text; the line clicks on his end, voice like a dark ribbon of silk soon heard.]
I want you to come for me.
no subject
Brown eyes remain locked on the screen of the phone, waiting with keening impatience for Itachi’s response. When it comes, a violent shudder racks his body with all the intensity of a passing hurricane. I meant it, he thinks in weak protest, bedding bunching up at the foot of the bed as he writhes on the mattress like someone possessed. Usually, he can jack off without getting this worked up; masturbating for an audience – for Itachi – has him drenched in a fine layer of sweat, skin glistening under the light. He’s never wanted like this before. Before Itachi.
He wets his lips to speak, palming the glans of his deck with the same frenetic energy, only to be taken off guard by Itachi’s low, silky voice humming out of the device. The demand tears a moan from his throat, just grazing the edge of a whimper, and he feels the moment of orgasm rapidly approaching. ]
I know who you are, [ gasps Stiles, throat working furiously. ] I know what I’m offering. I want you. All of you.
[ Even the part of Itachi that was fucked up enough to be able to massacre his entire clan in the name of the greater good.
And, with that dark thought rattling around inside his head, he climaxes. With a breathy groan, he pumps himself through the stream of pleasure pooling in his groin, Itachi’s name on his lips like a prayer as a rope of come shoots over his bare abdomen, striping him in uneven lines. ]
no subject
Stiles' declarations are, as always, a keen intoxication. The words seem to sink under his skin and fasten him more permanently to the bond between them. Synchrony flickers, its ghostly presence hanging in the back of his mind before slowly fading. He admires the milky-white stripes of come on skin freckled with moles, drum-tight belly flinching with the effort of spent orgasm, cock softening in hand. He soon notices the ache of his own groin, dick thickened to a state of need punctuated by the quiet staticky breaths into the receiver. He ignores it; his role is only as audience, this time.
The moment cools down. Itachi has closed his eyes, resting in it, body leaned back against the wall of his bedroom.]
You did well at that. [There might be some edge of humor in his tone, noticeable to Stiles who has come to know him better over the months.] ... I suppose I can now see the appeal.
no subject
A flushed face, hair matted to his forehead from its usual disheveled style, greets Itachi. Brown eyes are still glazed over, barely focused as he gazes into the lens dazedly. His bottom lip has swelled from where he’d nursed it with his teeth during climax, the small impressions visible yet. Stiles looks as wrecked as he sounds.
The shinobi might recognize the hint of black cloth sticking out of the pillowcase that Stiles reclines against.
For now, a vague, dopey smile is stealing over his countenance as he registers the quiet edge of humor in Itachi’s words. ]
S-see? Wha’d I tell ya…
[ Settling more comfortably, Stiles considers the camera from beneath the damp curl of dark eyelashes. ]
Your turn. Are you touching yourself?
[ It doesn’t seem like it, judging by how measured and composed Itachi has remained. Maybe Stiles should have included that instruction earlier when describing sexting. ]
no subject
Yet when the direction of the conversation is instead steered onto him, discomfort prickles to life. He can't easily imagine being so open with himself in the way Stiles just was moments ago—an unrestricted performance of pleasure at opposite odds with his own shuttered, reserved nature. Itachi's mouth forms a thin line; his breath puffs sharply over the call.]
No, I...
[There's a long measure of uninterrupted silence. Then a sudden, sharp click that can only be termination. Yes, he just awkwardly hung up.]
no subject
You’ve got to use your words, Itachi. What’s wrong?
no subject
[The reply is prompt, at least, even if its cause remains a mystery. But Stiles deserves better—so he makes the attempt. They’ve come a ways since their first fumbling, uncertain steps to understand one another, and he knows since their conversation in the shower that Stiles is right, however much communication still poses a challenge.]
... I was not comfortable with doing what you did.
no subject
The follow-up is all it takes to smooth out the crease between his brows. A soft, sad smile begins to creep over his expression, unbeknownst to Stiles. As enticing as the mental image is of Itachi writhing in the throes of pleasure... ]
I wasn’t going to ask you to do that. I just wanted to help you get off. That’s what I meant by “your turn.” Sorry for not being clear.
no subject
[Gaps and leaping assumptions are simply how his mind has learned to work. So, naturally, he'd assumed Stiles expected the same from him that he provided. An equal exchange. He is still only beginning to learn that intimacy is a more complicated web, without clear lines, woven around two individuals.
Itachi's arousal has flagged in the minutes of meditative thought that have followed, and now he sinks down to crouch on the floor, head propped against the wall.]
Save it for the next time we meet. You said it would improve the experience, this sort of exercise. I will allow you to take care of me then.
fin
Deal.
I’m going to clean up. Talk to you later, Itachi.
[ And then, almost a full two minutes after the last message: ]
Thanks for trying something new with me.
[ Time to wash dried come off his stomach. ]