Jesus Christ. Are you okay? I was only hit with blue. But I saw yellow in action.
[ Honestly…even if it would have been under the influence of the powders, Stiles wouldn’t have minded to see Itachi affected by yellow. Did the shinobi smile? Who was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of such a rare expression? He envies them. ]
[Relatively speaking. It is easier to compartmentalize what happened as something beyond his control; it isn't a new experience for either one of them. More importantly:]
You said we should disclose intimate exchanges with other people.
[ But can he trust that Itachi would tell him if he wasn’t alright? Stiles doesn’t know. The man is so private, so self-dependent. ]
Right.
Can I go first? I’m going to go first.
[ Even through text, his nervousness is apparent. ]
Okay so I was visiting Sasuke when I was hit with the blue powder. It made me stupidly flirty – well, you already know what the blue powder does. But I was coming on strong to Sasuke the whole time I was with him. I even stripped off in front of him. And then tried to get him to shower with me. We didn’t do anything! I just flirted. A lot. And was naked. A lot. And I’m really sorry.
[The confession doesn't even remotely take him by surprise. In his mind, it was only a matter of time before Stiles crossed his brother's path. If not for the whims of dimensions, he suspects Stiles and Sasuke would have eventually reached a similar situation in Aefenglom; his current relationship with the boy was built on the foundation of loving his younger brother, after all.
So there's no shock, but Itachi is not expecting the subtle tug of complicated emotion within himself as a result of the confession. He doesn't see himself as being capable of jealousy—least of all toward Sasuke, who he would willingly kill and die for without second thought—but some sort of discomfort persists, neatly tied into his own guilt at his behavior toward his brother recently as well as some awareness of imminent loss. He'll need time to ruminate over it. Fortunately, it is even easier to conceal his inner thoughts through this medium.]
Stiles, it's fine. I am not angry. I know you are attracted to him.
[You better be, or else.]
I wouldn't mind if you chose to pursue him in that way.
[ But then there’s no immediate follow-up. Stiles is stunned into silence, an uncomfortable feeling burrowing deep in his heart. He feels oddly…exposed and vulnerable. Like there’s no good response that he can offer here where everyone wins. It’s true; he’s attracted to Sasuke – and has been far longer than his attraction to Itachi. But that was meant to be a chapter closed in his life, one that he’s since moved on from in favor of a new chapter featuring a different starring role. The idea of consciously pursuing Sasuke…even with Itachi’s permission…it doesn’t seem right. ]
You wouldn’t mind, [ he eventually repeats, shifting restlessly on his couch, ] if I had sex with your younger brother.
[If it means Stiles’ affections may be steered back toward his brother and away from him, eventually, that’s an acceptable outcome. Sasuke would deserve it.]
Strictly from the perspective of our current circumstances, even if I asked you not to engage with Sasuke, you could not promise it. The powders affected the greater population of Gembonded.
I am fine with it. Do you trust me?
[Perhaps there’s some truth in what Stiles says. He could be selfish, if he wanted, and deny his brother access to his boyfriend despite the history of their friendship. Even if it is currently onesided, he has little doubt they’ll be drawn to one another again as they were in Aefenglom. He could stop that in its tracks—but as the option occurs to him, the discomfort only worsens. He has no right to claim Stiles as his own, more so with how muddied the lines are becoming between himself and Sasuke as they attempt to redefine their ties to each other.
One thing is certain: his brother needs someone like Stiles in his life. He would never stand in the way of that.]
Behave as you wish with him. We don’t know how much time we will have in this dimension.
[ “We don’t know how much time we will have in this dimension.” Goddammit, Itachi. Heart dropping, Stiles rereads the words again and again – feeling the pressure of that statement like a frozen nail is seconds from being hammered through his chest. He can’t deny it. Given how many precious friends he’s already lost across the dimensions, he knows the indisputable truth of it. ]
I trust you.
[ Another truth, this one easier to swallow, even if sometimes it shouldn’t be. ]
I don’t regret the way things turned out. I’m glad it was you, Itachi. For all of it.
[He stares at those words for a long time. They gain weight and significance, as heavy in his mind as it was to see Sasuke's confession to him through letter. I'm glad it was you. It's almost impossible to reconcile what he reads with the history of their relationship, how they've come to this point by sheer happenstance—a luck he's never believed in before. The immediacy of his own doubt is natural: if the circumstances were different, wouldn't Stiles say the same about Sasuke? Would he be happier, too, with Sasuke—someone more capable of supporting him? It isn't as though Itachi is unaware of his own deficiencies as an intimate partner, let alone a friend. His companionship is poor at best. That reality was never an option; it was easy to discard.
His mind automatically projects all of these other possible scenarios, all other alternatives, looking for holes in how this has evolved and how it will inevitably end. It's as though his brain is trying to find a way to dismiss that gentle admission outright, simply because it's too painful to bear. That word, irreplaceable, digs a deeper shard into his chest. He is beginning to understand the danger of attachment on another level, a dimension outside how he feels toward Sasuke and how he felt toward loved ones already lost—and it is no wonder this sentiment is so valued by his brethren. Valued and cursed. The feeling is ominous, slippery and dark, like he's done something wrong and he's willing to do it again.
He wonders how many people he would kill to keep Stiles safe; it's not even a question of if.
[ There’s no response forthcoming. Stiles shifts his weight restlessly, a sliver of self-consciousness beginning to creep up his throat, hot and acidic like bile. Did he say too much? Two full months haven’t even passed since the day he bullied the other man into a committed relationship. While Stiles has known the extent of his feelings for the shinobi since before then, he can’t say whether or not Itachi is prepared to hear them. It may be too soon. Reticent and private as he is, this is probably overwhelming for his boyfriend.
But as he mulls over these facts, Stiles recognizes that the timing was right; Sasuke is an unknown equation, casting an inevitable shadow of doubt over the legitimacy of their relationship. He needed to be blunt about his sentiments, regardless of if he used that precious three-worded phrase some couples seem to throw around so carelessly. Regret has no place here.
An emotion is building in the distant corner of his awareness, almost impossible to describe. Raw and intense, it eclipses the flare of his own anxiety. Stiles only knows that it isn’t his – that it’s come as if from hundreds of miles away, carried on the winds of longing to bring Itachi’s feelings to him. Breath caught, he stands where he’s been sitting on the balcony of his apartment, gazing off in the direction of the other man’s apartment. Synchrony continues to softly echo the swell of emotion, the gemstone buried in his right shoulder suddenly warm.
[Mere minutes later, Itachi lights down onto the boy's balcony railing, silent as a shadow, perched like an overlarge bird. Truthfully, the confession is overwhelming to a degree he can't yet fully process, but he does recognize his own preference in continuing this conversation in person. He had started off toward Stiles' apartment even before confirmation of the boy's location, as though carried there by a preternatural sense of his whereabouts. It would not be the first time.
Charcoal-colored eyes lower onto Stiles where he stands, and then Itachi shifts his body, sliding off the rail and onto the soles of feet. A breeze whips in, stirring long black hair and forcing a hand up to keep his face clear as he pins the boy with that dark gaze. He came here meaning to continue what they were already discussing—he had intended to share his own encounters with near-strangers, as agreed, influenced by the powders to lower his barriers in a way that had felt extremely uncomfortable once mind and body sobered. Now it seems irrelevant, or less important, faced with Stiles' physical presence. Synchrony is glowing and open between them, lilac light in the grooves of his own collarbones, coloring skin, emotion like plucked and vibrating strings.
Two short steps close the distance still between them, approach meant to shepherd the boy back toward the corner between glass doors. Closing in, he reaches and scoops Stiles' chin with one palm, using both grip and angle to bend his head, sealing a hard kiss. Perhaps this was the goal: after engaging intimately with three separate individuals, he means to rinse out those experiences with Stiles' mouth, lips warm and dry until the hot tip of a tongue licks for entry.]
[ Following his last message, Stiles slips the phone into his back jeans pocket with the confidence that he won’t be receiving another text from Itachi. And then he waits. Anticipation ramps up in the interim, spurred higher and higher by the gossamer threads of Synchrony binding them together. He had no idea that two individuals could Sync over long distance like this. The implications floor him. Synchrony requires a mutual degree of emotional honesty and openness. For him to receive Itachi’s feelings like this, doubting the depth of the man’s affection and attraction to him now seems impossible.
Shivering, he watches the skyline – gazing at swollen clouds that pass by overhead lazily. It’s not long until the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle in warning, warning him of a predator’s approach before the shinobi has even touched down on the balcony railing. Were it anyone else he cared about balanced there, Stiles would have been overwrought with paranoia about them falling; his suite is more than a few levels off the ground floor, after all. But Itachi manages the feat with an acrobat’s nimble grace and finesse, looking unfairly attractive as the breeze tugs free dark locks from its usual tie. Stiles may have stopped breathing. The moment feels loaded enough to warrant it.
That tall, lean, black presence spills over the railing like a waterfall at midnight. Instinct guides his feet back a step when Itachi moves forward, the corner of the wall catching at his shirt as he’s effectively pinned. Before he can speak, lips descend on his with an unrelenting pressure. Stiles melts into the kiss and the grip holding him in place, his own hands automatically reaching for a trim waist to pull their bodies flush. Synchrony continues to loop feedback from each other in a never-ending cycle, pleasure reverberating through the channel as he obediently opens his mouth to admit Itachi’s tongue. It occurs to him that they still have more to discuss – the people Itachi may have gotten involved with during the festival, the torture he performed on Sasuke that Sakura enlightened Stiles about – and yet he pushes it all aside for the time being. All that matters now is the familiar taste of Itachi, the slick slide of their tongues, the heat of the body pressed tight against his. Without breaking free of the kiss, he reaches up to grasp the hair tie at the back of the man’s head, slipping it off and around his wrist to free the long tresses to the wind’s whims.
Eventually, he has to tear his face away to breathe – eyes glassy and unfocused as he pants heavily, a trail of spittle dotting his chin. But after only a moment does he duck his head back in, mouth latching onto Itachi’s neck to suck hard at the delicate skin there, intent on leaving a mark. ]
[Long hair loosened from its tie, the silky black strands are whipped wildly across his face by the next wind off the high balcony, messily tangled in a way that almost distracts from the deep kiss. Itachi ignores it, body flattening against the boy to keep him trapped in the corner—although the physical cage of limbs is not restrictive so much as protective, unwilling to budge backward for the sake of their unfinished conversation. His mouth is a hard seal over Stiles’, tongue plunging into that hot interior to drag across slick teeth and gums and taste every inch willingly offered. He cares little for the need to breathe, separating with grudging reluctance at Stiles’ direction, short of breath, thick lashes lowered over dark eyes in an expression of dreamy, dizzy contentment glazed with hunger.
He exhales sharply when Stiles’ disobedient mouth latches onto his throat, finding tender skin above the collar of his shirt to claim in a sucking bruise. The attention paid to that highly sensitive area sends electric pins-and-needles of pleasure spidering through nerves, a tingling that gathers and sinks heavy into his belly, aching and well-known, a throb that begins to thicken his cock.
After several heavy seconds with Stiles’ wet mouth fastened to his throat, a hand lifts to fist pale knuckles into brown, ruffled hair.]
Stiles. [Quiet and almost urgent, the tone is built with a backbone of usual steel, coming now stilted and panting.] You will— leave a permanent mark if you continue.
[The modest corner of Itachi’s brain flinches away from that sort of intimacy on display for the public eye, yet despite his superior strength, he does not yet pull away.]
[ Their hips slotted together with an architect’s painstaking precision, he feels the physical impact that his ministrations have on the body pressed against his. A ravenous hunger yawns wide open within him in response, his fingers grasping at the other man’s waist brutally – the skin pinched an angry white and red from pressure. He thinks he’d like to fuck Itachi, to pry all sense of control from his boyfriend until the shinobi is little more than a tangle of instinctive need, coming on his cock untouched. Panting harshly, breath ruffling the loose strands of hair not caught in the throes of the wind, Stiles licks a wide, hot stripe over the spot he’s chosen to make his mark and then nettles the area with his teeth. The hand in his own hair may as well not exist for all the consideration he pays it. ]
That’s the point, [ he snarls in a voice brokering peace between violence and passion. ] Let me have this.
[ Please, unspoken and yet audible nonetheless, the word formed by silent lips that return to Itachi’s throat with a single-minded focus. His mouth finds the same spot, skin warmed and damp from his previous attentions. And then he’s sucking, hard enough to hurt, tongue laving over the pinkening blemish in quiet worship. All the while two hands circle around to slip beneath the waistband of pants, cupping Itachi’s backside in his palms and kneading, encouraging that long, dangerous body flush against his with every motion. Groins align for perfect friction, the swelling flesh in his jeans growing more apparent by the second as blood pumps straight to his dick. Stiles grinds down, groaning softly.
Synchrony continues to pour unfiltered emotion, assaulting Itachi with the franticly increasing sense of desperation Stiles has to, in some way, claim him. ]
[The mouth at his throat is a dull pressure, pain of suction and teeth mild enough to be ignored if not for his own state of distraction. It isn't the first time they've experimented with the boundary between pain and pleasure. Like Stiles' hand around his throat, severing his airway, this inspires a similar burn of arousal—willing to allow it to happen when he could so easily put it to an end. The decision to lay down that guard, to permit warm palms under a waistband to seize his ass and drag hips forward, is made stronger by that intention.
Prior to Stiles, no one had truly ever touched him like this. It doesn't occur to him to deny it now, after all the lines they've crossed, even as he might later regret a visible mark on his body; is it any different from the bruises previously? Black eyes turn, chin angled, gaze heavy on the side of Stiles' head. I could stop you. I won't.
Itachi's body doesn't yield too easily despite that, stiffness present in limbs even as he's coaxed to grind against the boy, feeling the hardness of Stiles' cock through layers against his upper thigh. Submission is reluctant in him—but like before, perhaps it is something Stiles needs. He can read it on the channel of Synchrony between them, its constant pulse as hot as the throb of his own dick. Strong fingers slowly release Stiles' scalp and slide down to hold the back of his neck instead. He isn't wary or distrustful, but it remains a reminder of gentle strength. The spot on his throat is burning, and when Stiles is finished, it will glow bright and glossy red on the paleness of skin.]
[ When his mouth finally pops free of that long, elegant throat – a gossamer string of saliva breaking from a reddened mouth – it’s to pull back and take in the sight of his work with a critical gaze. The hand on his neck tells him everything he needs to know in the moment; Itachi may be willing to tolerate his aggressive advances, but ultimately retains control over the situation. Stiles acknowledges the nonverbal permission by turning his head and pressing a quick kiss to the inside of the man’s arm, along the thin, visible rivers of blue veins. All the while, brown eyes watch Itachi from his periphery. Control is overrated, he thinks to himself, his own hands sweeping over bare flesh in a distracted caress. You have to give it up eventually.
The slow wanderings of his fingers eventually find their destination, slipping between cheeks to draw down the invisible line leading to puckered skin. Bolder than he’s ever been, Stiles circles the area with a teasing thumb. He’s curious about how far Itachi will allow him to go, willing to take the opportunity to test the limits of their relationship as arousal continues to steadily bank within his gut. Inspiration strikes, though he has his doubts about how the shinobi will respond. ]
I wanna try something.
[ Hot stare half-lidded, he leans back into the grip at the nape of his neck, inviting it tighter. His foot meanwhile fumbles to find the door to the bedroom, pushing it open with a heel. ]
[Even knowing Stiles has greater sexual experience of the two of them, even trusting his judgment this far into their relationship enough to bend his rein of control—Itachi is unprepared for the fingers that slide into the crease of his ass, deliberately thumbing that untouched hole with precise intention. His spine straightens; muscles tighten; a hot chill threatens to seize his body. It’s impossible to miss the meaning of the caress, although he isn’t sure exactly what Stiles might have in mind with something. If he wanted to fuck him, Itachi suspects he would ask in clearer terms.
More importantly: would he allow Stiles to?
The hand on the boy’s neck has tightened as it was bid to, not permitting Stiles to pull too far away even as he fumbles for the door into the bedroom. He goes with him, momentum surprisingly fluid for the awkward action, as though he’s the one leading Stiles inside rather than the one being led. The room is dark, but he can still see well. Only when they’ve reached the foot of the mattress does he release the hard grip on Stiles’ nape. It’s as though he hasn’t, because the weight of black eyes that pin the boy in place are almost as physically restraining.]
[ The firm hand clamped onto his nape feels like the solid weight of a collar, with the extension of Itachi’s arm being the leash that drives him backward toward the bed. And like a good boy, Stiles goes where directed. When the mattress bumps up against the back of his thighs, he shudders – seared by the heavy look rooting him to the spot. The pale slip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips as his own gaze rakes down his boyfriend with aching slowness, committing the sight to memory. It seems impossible how much he wants this one man. His hunger simmers bright and low in the pit of his stomach, an encompassing arousal that burns him from the inside out just from being in Itachi’s presence. ]
I wanna rim you, [ he answers, voice husky with desire. ] I’ll make it so good for you. Just…
[ Stiles trails off, pausing to pull his shirt off over his head and toss it dismissively to the floor. The jeans stay on as he turns to Itachi’s clothes, reaching out to hook fingers beneath waistbands of loose pants and underclothes. Both are gently eased down, Stiles sweeping into a crouch as he moves. Reddened lips puffy from necking now press soft, lingering kisses against each swath of skin revealed: the flat planes of Itachi’s lower abdomen, the curls of black pubic hair, the proud cock that juts out to greet him – the latter of which earns a few sloppy licks over the head, his tongue dragging hot over the slit.
But before this can devolve into a blowjob, Stiles is straightening and lowering himself onto the bed, crawling back on his elbows to the middle of the mattress. ]
[The offer isn’t immediately understood. His knowledge of sex acts is limited, naturally, by a prudish temperament and lack of experience. Yet even as his mind is rolling over Stiles’ words, the boy is already kneeling in direct mirror of the position he’d once taken during their first encounter in Hell. Reacting to that memory, Itachi is an unmoving pillar of tense expectation—dark lust seems to scrape across every nerve ending, embedded so deep in his belly that it aches at the base of his cock, already swollen, and in the tight balls tucked underneath. He doesn’t stop Stiles from pulling down his clothes. Still, hands flex, reaching to snare into Stiles’ messy hair a moment too late as the boy retreats to the bed, leaving skin slick with cooling spit in the crueler air.
Itachi pursues, each movement as deliberate as a predator’s exacting grace, both knees levering onto the mattress—and as Stiles reclines back it finally dawns on him what he’s asking.
Oh. Like his mind working in peripheral over everything he’d once read through obsessive research in Aefenglom, sudden realization is electric lightning down his back. He wants to say that it is dirty, filthy even to consider it, but he also finds eyes fastened to Stiles’ red and puffy lips, so easily kiss-bruised, spying the flicker of a tongue deeper in. And he imagines what it might feel like on such a private and intimate place; is it really something he could ever deny? Is there anything he could deny this boy, if asked of him with that same certainty?
Itachi strips off shoes and pants with methodical motions before he eases himself further up the bed. His shirt remains on, loose, hem tickling the head of a jutting cock that bobs as he shifts forward. Lean, muscular thighs—the left cut by a jagged, healed, thick white scar—widen over Stiles’ lap, loose hair hanging around slender shoulders from his higher perch. Restrained hesitancy claims him at last, like he can’t determine how best to make the positioning of their bodies work, so he stops and watches Stiles for instruction. Silent the entire time.]
[ Itachi draws one knee onto the mattress, then the other – a move so sinfully sinuous and fluid that the calcified matter of Stiles’ bones melts from the flare of heat lighting up his insides. Hips squirming from side to side in an attempt to alleviate the pressure building at his groin, he watches from beneath dark lashes as the other man efficiently removes shoes and pants. It’s not a strip tease by any means and yet Stiles remains riveted, gaze roaming over toned thighs as they slide closer and closer to his head. He envisions himself trapped between them, feeling the flex of muscle against his temples as he swallows down Itachi’s heavy cock.
But that’s not the goal for tonight. Determined to stay on track, Stiles reaches for Itachi, palms sliding up those thighs in sweet welcome. The rough, gnarled scar tissue beneath his right hand deserves at least a minute of his undivided attention, so he traces the outline lightly with a nail before shifting to place a kiss on the kneecap. ]
We can do it like this, [ he murmurs, hands slipping behind thighs to urge Itachi closer to his face. ] …It’ll be easier if you turn around, though.
[ And already Stiles is encouraging that killer body to twist at the waist, pulling the back of the right thigh while carefully pushing the left away. Once Itachi is in position, kneeling over his head while facing the same direction, Stiles begins to urge him down. ]
Just sit and relax. Here –
[ One hand entwines with Itachi’s, tugging the arm back to thread the man’s fingers into his hair – completing the action that the shinobi had seemed to want to do earlier. ]
[As Stiles guides him into the correct position, he’s struck by the care taken to achieve the act and instruction, gentleness in the way he’s led with the quiet suggestion to relax. Not so simple as a word. Itachi’s thighs are tight as corded wire, so tense they don’t even flex as he turns around to give Stiles a straight view between open thighs and up the loose black shirt, pale back shadowed. The position is inherently vulnerable—far more than he’s expecting as he kneels across Stiles’ upper chest, and a little higher, caging the boy’s head with slender calves and ankles.
He feels extremely exposed, then, with Stiles underneath the heavy hang of balls and the furrow leading back behind them, still hidden by tight cheeks. Itachi is not someone prone to embarrassment or timidity; they’ve never been emotions he could afford, among many others, when he was cutting down bodies and lives. So the experience of his entire face turning hot like a struck match is new, and he bends his chin forward, curtain of sleek hair hiding anything Stiles might be able to see over a rounded shoulder. It feels inelegant, like he’s doing it wrong. He can’t remember the last time he stood out of depth trying something new. Perhaps it has never really happened before. Even picking up a kunai for the first time was rote, known.
The grip is one distraction. Fingers constrict automatically, burrowing into soft and messy hair, blunt nails against scalp. A little too tight, disallowing Stiles much movement at all—contrary to the point. He should say something, and yet speech is the furthest from his mind as thoughts slide into an unfamiliar territory of strange self-consciousness. Eventually he chooses to place his other hand forward on Stiles’ chest—but otherwise remains frozen in place.]
[ In the dim lighting that spills lazily through glass windows, he takes quiet notice of the palpable tension seizing the body hovering over his. Stiles tries to soothe it with hands and voice, petting flanks while softly whispering words of encouragement. “Perfect. That’s it, sweetheart.” In tune with Itachi’s shift in confidence, Synchrony between them dries up to a trivial trickle, their respective gemstones flickering faintly as the connection struggles to reconnect. Nuzzling the inside of a calf, Stiles chooses not to take it personally; he’s asking a lot of the other man, he knows. Nothing about this can feel comfortable for Itachi given his upbringing, profession, and personality. But Stiles is determined to see the shinobi through this – to share the pleasure he’s learned firsthand from previous relationships.
His mouth skims the soft flesh of an inner thigh, exhaled breath tickling the fine hairs there, before turning his attention up. In the interest of starting slow, he focuses on the scrotum hanging above his face, swinging imperceptibly back and forth. With the fingers tight in his hair restricting movement, he’s forced to strain for each lick, head aching almost as much as his dick, trapped beneath denim. Each labored pass of his tongue is like a ghost of pressure, only managing to just graze skin. Stiles moans, a sound of both frustration and excitement that’s reinforced by the greedy hand squeezing the tented erection visible in his jeans. The wet sound of his lips is obscene as they continue to lightly caress the underside of Itachi’s balls, until finally – probably losing some hair in the process – he squirms close enough to suck the curve of one into his mouth.
The taste is undeniably Itachi – sweat and natural musk, heavy on his tongue and overwhelming his senses in the best way. With a low hum, he continues sucking, tongue mapping out the round shape with unflinching dedication to detail. Itachi’s ballsack pops out of his mouth after another moment, Stiles pressing ever onward to push his face up into the perineum and lap at the exposed taint. The hand that had been stroking himself through his pants settles now on his partner’s cock, using it as a gauge to determine Itachi’s level of arousal as he patiently pumps it. ]
Don’t be afraid to sit, [ he gasps out, panting already from fighting the fist in his hair and the twinge in his jaw. ] I know it seems awkward, but just trust me. It’s gonna be good.
[The endearment never seems to lose the potency of its effect on him, sweetheart as evocative and strange as the first time it was murmured between them, locking air in his throat on a tight swallow. He is brightly aware of the location of Stiles’ mouth as it lingers on his inner thigh, breath a humid burst on skin unused to tender human contact. Then up to his balls, the transition of attention eliciting a physical shudder from Itachi as his shoulders pull in, head hanging, both hands curling into responsive fists—one in Stiles’ hair, the other resting atop his bare sternum where a heart pulses steadily below. Vibration accompanying the wet, slippery licks of a tongue isn’t new in the experience of having Stiles’ mouth between his legs, but the intensity of feeling it move from one spot to another in such sensitive terrain is almost overwhelming. And the moment he feels that first suck, sac enveloped in a hot seal of pressure, Itachi actually flinches. His cock twitches where it rests swollen nearly flush to his belly, fresh thread of precome pearling at the slit to drip down with the pull of gravity.
The pleasure is not understated. He hears what Stiles says to him, but it takes his mind seconds to digest it when the velvet drag of a tongue swipes across the tight, taut skin tucked behind balls, mind like a sieve filtering out everything else. He hears himself make a sound—very quiet, swallowed, blocked off in his throat as lips close over it. His hand in front lifts up to latch onto Stiles’ as soon as the boy touches his dick, swollen and throbbing and full to a dull ache. He seems trapped in that position for a moment: rigid, both hands restricting Stiles’ movement, hair draping his face to cover warmed cheeks, strands uncharacteristically thoughtless and messy.
A shaking exhalation later, he manages to ease the bloodless holds on Stiles’ hand and head, one at a time—traveling fingers in a slow caress over the boy’s forearm, allowing knuckles to stroke gently through dark brown hair. His negligible weight lowers carefully, bent knees widening to accommodate the change as he presses himself down onto Stiles’ face.
Put me to work hangs in the foreground of his awareness, though not yet something he takes to action, methodical and cautious even now. Synchrony remains almost shy in its starved, thin trickle, last attempts to grapple some sense of control over his reaction.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Yes. The blue, yellow, red, and purple powders respectively. I assume you were as well.
no subject
[ Honestly…even if it would have been under the influence of the powders, Stiles wouldn’t have minded to see Itachi affected by yellow. Did the shinobi smile? Who was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of such a rare expression? He envies them. ]
no subject
[Relatively speaking. It is easier to compartmentalize what happened as something beyond his control; it isn't a new experience for either one of them. More importantly:]
You said we should disclose intimate exchanges with other people.
no subject
Right.
Can I go first? I’m going to go first.
[ Even through text, his nervousness is apparent. ]
Okay so I was visiting Sasuke when I was hit with the blue powder. It made me stupidly flirty – well, you already know what the blue powder does. But I was coming on strong to Sasuke the whole time I was with him. I even stripped off in front of him. And then tried to get him to shower with me. We didn’t do anything! I just flirted. A lot. And was naked. A lot. And I’m really sorry.
no subject
So there's no shock, but Itachi is not expecting the subtle tug of complicated emotion within himself as a result of the confession. He doesn't see himself as being capable of jealousy—least of all toward Sasuke, who he would willingly kill and die for without second thought—but some sort of discomfort persists, neatly tied into his own guilt at his behavior toward his brother recently as well as some awareness of imminent loss. He'll need time to ruminate over it. Fortunately, it is even easier to conceal his inner thoughts through this medium.]
Stiles, it's fine. I am not angry. I know you are attracted to him.
[You better be, or else.]
I wouldn't mind if you chose to pursue him in that way.
no subject
[ But then there’s no immediate follow-up. Stiles is stunned into silence, an uncomfortable feeling burrowing deep in his heart. He feels oddly…exposed and vulnerable. Like there’s no good response that he can offer here where everyone wins. It’s true; he’s attracted to Sasuke – and has been far longer than his attraction to Itachi. But that was meant to be a chapter closed in his life, one that he’s since moved on from in favor of a new chapter featuring a different starring role. The idea of consciously pursuing Sasuke…even with Itachi’s permission…it doesn’t seem right. ]
You wouldn’t mind, [ he eventually repeats, shifting restlessly on his couch, ] if I had sex with your younger brother.
That’s what you’re agreeing to.
no subject
Does that bother you?
[If it means Stiles’ affections may be steered back toward his brother and away from him, eventually, that’s an acceptable outcome. Sasuke would deserve it.]
no subject
You realize it’s okay for you to say no, right? To put your foot down?
[ But as he types those words, it occurs to him that this isn’t really about him. It’s about Sasuke. ]
Sasuke isn’t interested in me like that. It was completely one-sided. Nothing’s going to happen either way.
I just need you to understand that
you can have something meant just for you
without feeling like you need to share it with Sasuke.
no subject
I am fine with it. Do you trust me?
[Perhaps there’s some truth in what Stiles says. He could be selfish, if he wanted, and deny his brother access to his boyfriend despite the history of their friendship. Even if it is currently onesided, he has little doubt they’ll be drawn to one another again as they were in Aefenglom. He could stop that in its tracks—but as the option occurs to him, the discomfort only worsens. He has no right to claim Stiles as his own, more so with how muddied the lines are becoming between himself and Sasuke as they attempt to redefine their ties to each other.
One thing is certain: his brother needs someone like Stiles in his life. He would never stand in the way of that.]
Behave as you wish with him. We don’t know how much time we will have in this dimension.
no subject
I trust you.
[ Another truth, this one easier to swallow, even if sometimes it shouldn’t be. ]
I don’t regret the way things turned out. I’m glad it was you, Itachi. For all of it.
You’re irreplaceable to me.
so much for a quick text thread
His mind automatically projects all of these other possible scenarios, all other alternatives, looking for holes in how this has evolved and how it will inevitably end. It's as though his brain is trying to find a way to dismiss that gentle admission outright, simply because it's too painful to bear. That word, irreplaceable, digs a deeper shard into his chest. He is beginning to understand the danger of attachment on another level, a dimension outside how he feels toward Sasuke and how he felt toward loved ones already lost—and it is no wonder this sentiment is so valued by his brethren. Valued and cursed. The feeling is ominous, slippery and dark, like he's done something wrong and he's willing to do it again.
He wonders how many people he would kill to keep Stiles safe; it's not even a question of if.
After the wait, his reply is surprisingly short:]
Where are you?
laughs in otp
But as he mulls over these facts, Stiles recognizes that the timing was right; Sasuke is an unknown equation, casting an inevitable shadow of doubt over the legitimacy of their relationship. He needed to be blunt about his sentiments, regardless of if he used that precious three-worded phrase some couples seem to throw around so carelessly. Regret has no place here.
An emotion is building in the distant corner of his awareness, almost impossible to describe. Raw and intense, it eclipses the flare of his own anxiety. Stiles only knows that it isn’t his – that it’s come as if from hundreds of miles away, carried on the winds of longing to bring Itachi’s feelings to him. Breath caught, he stands where he’s been sitting on the balcony of his apartment, gazing off in the direction of the other man’s apartment. Synchrony continues to softly echo the swell of emotion, the gemstone buried in his right shoulder suddenly warm.
He’s ready for when the text finally arrives. ]
My apartment.
no subject
Charcoal-colored eyes lower onto Stiles where he stands, and then Itachi shifts his body, sliding off the rail and onto the soles of feet. A breeze whips in, stirring long black hair and forcing a hand up to keep his face clear as he pins the boy with that dark gaze. He came here meaning to continue what they were already discussing—he had intended to share his own encounters with near-strangers, as agreed, influenced by the powders to lower his barriers in a way that had felt extremely uncomfortable once mind and body sobered. Now it seems irrelevant, or less important, faced with Stiles' physical presence. Synchrony is glowing and open between them, lilac light in the grooves of his own collarbones, coloring skin, emotion like plucked and vibrating strings.
Two short steps close the distance still between them, approach meant to shepherd the boy back toward the corner between glass doors. Closing in, he reaches and scoops Stiles' chin with one palm, using both grip and angle to bend his head, sealing a hard kiss. Perhaps this was the goal: after engaging intimately with three separate individuals, he means to rinse out those experiences with Stiles' mouth, lips warm and dry until the hot tip of a tongue licks for entry.]
no subject
Shivering, he watches the skyline – gazing at swollen clouds that pass by overhead lazily. It’s not long until the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle in warning, warning him of a predator’s approach before the shinobi has even touched down on the balcony railing. Were it anyone else he cared about balanced there, Stiles would have been overwrought with paranoia about them falling; his suite is more than a few levels off the ground floor, after all. But Itachi manages the feat with an acrobat’s nimble grace and finesse, looking unfairly attractive as the breeze tugs free dark locks from its usual tie. Stiles may have stopped breathing. The moment feels loaded enough to warrant it.
That tall, lean, black presence spills over the railing like a waterfall at midnight. Instinct guides his feet back a step when Itachi moves forward, the corner of the wall catching at his shirt as he’s effectively pinned. Before he can speak, lips descend on his with an unrelenting pressure. Stiles melts into the kiss and the grip holding him in place, his own hands automatically reaching for a trim waist to pull their bodies flush. Synchrony continues to loop feedback from each other in a never-ending cycle, pleasure reverberating through the channel as he obediently opens his mouth to admit Itachi’s tongue. It occurs to him that they still have more to discuss – the people Itachi may have gotten involved with during the festival, the torture he performed on Sasuke that Sakura enlightened Stiles about – and yet he pushes it all aside for the time being. All that matters now is the familiar taste of Itachi, the slick slide of their tongues, the heat of the body pressed tight against his. Without breaking free of the kiss, he reaches up to grasp the hair tie at the back of the man’s head, slipping it off and around his wrist to free the long tresses to the wind’s whims.
Eventually, he has to tear his face away to breathe – eyes glassy and unfocused as he pants heavily, a trail of spittle dotting his chin. But after only a moment does he duck his head back in, mouth latching onto Itachi’s neck to suck hard at the delicate skin there, intent on leaving a mark. ]
no subject
He exhales sharply when Stiles’ disobedient mouth latches onto his throat, finding tender skin above the collar of his shirt to claim in a sucking bruise. The attention paid to that highly sensitive area sends electric pins-and-needles of pleasure spidering through nerves, a tingling that gathers and sinks heavy into his belly, aching and well-known, a throb that begins to thicken his cock.
After several heavy seconds with Stiles’ wet mouth fastened to his throat, a hand lifts to fist pale knuckles into brown, ruffled hair.]
Stiles. [Quiet and almost urgent, the tone is built with a backbone of usual steel, coming now stilted and panting.] You will— leave a permanent mark if you continue.
[The modest corner of Itachi’s brain flinches away from that sort of intimacy on display for the public eye, yet despite his superior strength, he does not yet pull away.]
no subject
That’s the point, [ he snarls in a voice brokering peace between violence and passion. ] Let me have this.
[ Please, unspoken and yet audible nonetheless, the word formed by silent lips that return to Itachi’s throat with a single-minded focus. His mouth finds the same spot, skin warmed and damp from his previous attentions. And then he’s sucking, hard enough to hurt, tongue laving over the pinkening blemish in quiet worship. All the while two hands circle around to slip beneath the waistband of pants, cupping Itachi’s backside in his palms and kneading, encouraging that long, dangerous body flush against his with every motion. Groins align for perfect friction, the swelling flesh in his jeans growing more apparent by the second as blood pumps straight to his dick. Stiles grinds down, groaning softly.
Synchrony continues to pour unfiltered emotion, assaulting Itachi with the franticly increasing sense of desperation Stiles has to, in some way, claim him. ]
no subject
Prior to Stiles, no one had truly ever touched him like this. It doesn't occur to him to deny it now, after all the lines they've crossed, even as he might later regret a visible mark on his body; is it any different from the bruises previously? Black eyes turn, chin angled, gaze heavy on the side of Stiles' head. I could stop you. I won't.
Itachi's body doesn't yield too easily despite that, stiffness present in limbs even as he's coaxed to grind against the boy, feeling the hardness of Stiles' cock through layers against his upper thigh. Submission is reluctant in him—but like before, perhaps it is something Stiles needs. He can read it on the channel of Synchrony between them, its constant pulse as hot as the throb of his own dick. Strong fingers slowly release Stiles' scalp and slide down to hold the back of his neck instead. He isn't wary or distrustful, but it remains a reminder of gentle strength. The spot on his throat is burning, and when Stiles is finished, it will glow bright and glossy red on the paleness of skin.]
no subject
The slow wanderings of his fingers eventually find their destination, slipping between cheeks to draw down the invisible line leading to puckered skin. Bolder than he’s ever been, Stiles circles the area with a teasing thumb. He’s curious about how far Itachi will allow him to go, willing to take the opportunity to test the limits of their relationship as arousal continues to steadily bank within his gut. Inspiration strikes, though he has his doubts about how the shinobi will respond. ]
I wanna try something.
[ Hot stare half-lidded, he leans back into the grip at the nape of his neck, inviting it tighter. His foot meanwhile fumbles to find the door to the bedroom, pushing it open with a heel. ]
Let me get on the bed?
no subject
More importantly: would he allow Stiles to?
The hand on the boy’s neck has tightened as it was bid to, not permitting Stiles to pull too far away even as he fumbles for the door into the bedroom. He goes with him, momentum surprisingly fluid for the awkward action, as though he’s the one leading Stiles inside rather than the one being led. The room is dark, but he can still see well. Only when they’ve reached the foot of the mattress does he release the hard grip on Stiles’ nape. It’s as though he hasn’t, because the weight of black eyes that pin the boy in place are almost as physically restraining.]
What do you want to try?
no subject
I wanna rim you, [ he answers, voice husky with desire. ] I’ll make it so good for you. Just…
[ Stiles trails off, pausing to pull his shirt off over his head and toss it dismissively to the floor. The jeans stay on as he turns to Itachi’s clothes, reaching out to hook fingers beneath waistbands of loose pants and underclothes. Both are gently eased down, Stiles sweeping into a crouch as he moves. Reddened lips puffy from necking now press soft, lingering kisses against each swath of skin revealed: the flat planes of Itachi’s lower abdomen, the curls of black pubic hair, the proud cock that juts out to greet him – the latter of which earns a few sloppy licks over the head, his tongue dragging hot over the slit.
But before this can devolve into a blowjob, Stiles is straightening and lowering himself onto the bed, crawling back on his elbows to the middle of the mattress. ]
C’mere.
no subject
Itachi pursues, each movement as deliberate as a predator’s exacting grace, both knees levering onto the mattress—and as Stiles reclines back it finally dawns on him what he’s asking.
Oh. Like his mind working in peripheral over everything he’d once read through obsessive research in Aefenglom, sudden realization is electric lightning down his back. He wants to say that it is dirty, filthy even to consider it, but he also finds eyes fastened to Stiles’ red and puffy lips, so easily kiss-bruised, spying the flicker of a tongue deeper in. And he imagines what it might feel like on such a private and intimate place; is it really something he could ever deny? Is there anything he could deny this boy, if asked of him with that same certainty?
Itachi strips off shoes and pants with methodical motions before he eases himself further up the bed. His shirt remains on, loose, hem tickling the head of a jutting cock that bobs as he shifts forward. Lean, muscular thighs—the left cut by a jagged, healed, thick white scar—widen over Stiles’ lap, loose hair hanging around slender shoulders from his higher perch. Restrained hesitancy claims him at last, like he can’t determine how best to make the positioning of their bodies work, so he stops and watches Stiles for instruction. Silent the entire time.]
no subject
But that’s not the goal for tonight. Determined to stay on track, Stiles reaches for Itachi, palms sliding up those thighs in sweet welcome. The rough, gnarled scar tissue beneath his right hand deserves at least a minute of his undivided attention, so he traces the outline lightly with a nail before shifting to place a kiss on the kneecap. ]
We can do it like this, [ he murmurs, hands slipping behind thighs to urge Itachi closer to his face. ] …It’ll be easier if you turn around, though.
[ And already Stiles is encouraging that killer body to twist at the waist, pulling the back of the right thigh while carefully pushing the left away. Once Itachi is in position, kneeling over his head while facing the same direction, Stiles begins to urge him down. ]
Just sit and relax. Here –
[ One hand entwines with Itachi’s, tugging the arm back to thread the man’s fingers into his hair – completing the action that the shinobi had seemed to want to do earlier. ]
no subject
He feels extremely exposed, then, with Stiles underneath the heavy hang of balls and the furrow leading back behind them, still hidden by tight cheeks. Itachi is not someone prone to embarrassment or timidity; they’ve never been emotions he could afford, among many others, when he was cutting down bodies and lives. So the experience of his entire face turning hot like a struck match is new, and he bends his chin forward, curtain of sleek hair hiding anything Stiles might be able to see over a rounded shoulder. It feels inelegant, like he’s doing it wrong. He can’t remember the last time he stood out of depth trying something new. Perhaps it has never really happened before. Even picking up a kunai for the first time was rote, known.
The grip is one distraction. Fingers constrict automatically, burrowing into soft and messy hair, blunt nails against scalp. A little too tight, disallowing Stiles much movement at all—contrary to the point. He should say something, and yet speech is the furthest from his mind as thoughts slide into an unfamiliar territory of strange self-consciousness. Eventually he chooses to place his other hand forward on Stiles’ chest—but otherwise remains frozen in place.]
no subject
His mouth skims the soft flesh of an inner thigh, exhaled breath tickling the fine hairs there, before turning his attention up. In the interest of starting slow, he focuses on the scrotum hanging above his face, swinging imperceptibly back and forth. With the fingers tight in his hair restricting movement, he’s forced to strain for each lick, head aching almost as much as his dick, trapped beneath denim. Each labored pass of his tongue is like a ghost of pressure, only managing to just graze skin. Stiles moans, a sound of both frustration and excitement that’s reinforced by the greedy hand squeezing the tented erection visible in his jeans. The wet sound of his lips is obscene as they continue to lightly caress the underside of Itachi’s balls, until finally – probably losing some hair in the process – he squirms close enough to suck the curve of one into his mouth.
The taste is undeniably Itachi – sweat and natural musk, heavy on his tongue and overwhelming his senses in the best way. With a low hum, he continues sucking, tongue mapping out the round shape with unflinching dedication to detail. Itachi’s ballsack pops out of his mouth after another moment, Stiles pressing ever onward to push his face up into the perineum and lap at the exposed taint. The hand that had been stroking himself through his pants settles now on his partner’s cock, using it as a gauge to determine Itachi’s level of arousal as he patiently pumps it. ]
Don’t be afraid to sit, [ he gasps out, panting already from fighting the fist in his hair and the twinge in his jaw. ] I know it seems awkward, but just trust me. It’s gonna be good.
Put me to work, Itachi.
no subject
The pleasure is not understated. He hears what Stiles says to him, but it takes his mind seconds to digest it when the velvet drag of a tongue swipes across the tight, taut skin tucked behind balls, mind like a sieve filtering out everything else. He hears himself make a sound—very quiet, swallowed, blocked off in his throat as lips close over it. His hand in front lifts up to latch onto Stiles’ as soon as the boy touches his dick, swollen and throbbing and full to a dull ache. He seems trapped in that position for a moment: rigid, both hands restricting Stiles’ movement, hair draping his face to cover warmed cheeks, strands uncharacteristically thoughtless and messy.
A shaking exhalation later, he manages to ease the bloodless holds on Stiles’ hand and head, one at a time—traveling fingers in a slow caress over the boy’s forearm, allowing knuckles to stroke gently through dark brown hair. His negligible weight lowers carefully, bent knees widening to accommodate the change as he presses himself down onto Stiles’ face.
Put me to work hangs in the foreground of his awareness, though not yet something he takes to action, methodical and cautious even now. Synchrony remains almost shy in its starved, thin trickle, last attempts to grapple some sense of control over his reaction.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
fin!