[ 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
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. ]