[ 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.]
[ Syrupy and sticky sweet like melted candy, hot triumph washes through him at that choked off noise – a rare reaction for someone as staunchly bound by self-discipline as Itachi Uchiha. The pressure that his jeans creates on his erection is nearly unbearable now, dick straining to rise against the denim confines. Stiles ignores it; only his boyfriend’s pleasure matters now, an all-consuming desire to gently coax more of those sounds driving him to paint the stretch of skin from scrotum to hole wet with saliva. And if said tongue lingers longer and longer at the edge of puckered skin, who’s to say? Itachi certainly won’t, painstakingly tight-lipped as Stiles can easily imagine him. God, he wishes he could see the man. What a beautiful sight Itachi must make.
But Stiles wouldn’t trade anything for this moment – when fingertips creep down his forearm and knuckles soothe over the previous sting of sharply yanked roots, two gestures that elicit a shiver of delight. Then Itachi’s balance is shifting, the visible light in the room shrinking from his vision as the shinobi finally seats himself. Silenced, Stiles can do nothing but submit to the weight bearing down on his face, eagerly nosing the divide in pale cheeks to guide him. The first lick over that virgin, untouched hole is exploratory, his hand sliding reassuringly over the glossy head of Itachi’s dick, palm disturbing the lazy drool of precome so that it drips in a messy splatter onto his chest. Inspiration strikes; temporarily abandoning the cock, Stiles blindly draws up his shirt to his armpits, allowing the milky prejaculate to instead dribble on his pectoral muscles, nipples erect with avid interest.
He wastes no more time after that.
Both hands work in tandem to spread cheeks, his mouth sealing over the hole with an almost possessive fervency. Each subsequent lick is increasingly sloppier, mapping out individual ridges and tracing them in quiet worship. The humidity of his panting breath has the skin beading with moisture quickly, Itachi’s hole already damp from the force of his ardor. It continues on like that for a time – Stiles dragging his tongue across the wrinkled skin, over and over, ears straining to listen for any hint of a reaction from his boyfriend. Meanwhile, his own hips gyrate in small circles, arousal eating him up alive. Pleasuring Itachi like this? It’s doing it for him. It’s really doing it for him. ]
[Tension doesn't ease when fully seated, when a questing mouth begins to rove further back into the furrow of his ass. His entire body is rigid; legs stiff, knees locked where they are bent around Stiles' head, shoulders one bowed line across. There is no way to prepare for what comes next. There is no description worthy of the sensation of being licked open by a tongue at that tight, secret crevice of his body, laving wet at the seam until he feels a chill flash hot through his system, until the hot tip ventures back to graze at a sensitive hole. He might have flinched and lifted himself immediately at the first pass—the hand on his cock stills this instinctive reaction, soothes him, sends threads of electric pleasure weaving through nerves in hot stinging bursts. No one has ever... He has never, the thought hasn't occurred to him to do something like this, to touch a place so tender and responsive even to the barest, ticklish gust of breath.
He watches Stiles pull up his shirt and uses the opportunity to bend forward, head rolling to allow a sweep of long black hair like rainfall spill across the boy's narrow hips. His weight is held up on both palms; an easy feat threatened only by the continued attention between his thighs. A sudden noise—still quiet, sharp and almost all air bitten between teeth—is wedged out of him as Stiles' hot mouth seals over the entrance to his body, licking across the rim until it's soaked with spit without ever going in. He feels hot through to the center of himself, Synchrony lit up like fire across an oil slick. Hotter still with his hair hanging loose around his face, trapping heat, drawing sweat along the delicate line of his brow. Are his thighs trembling? It's possible, but he can't spare even that detail his attention when caught up in mindless, thoughtless pleasure.
One of Stiles' rutting movements manages to nudge his cock closer, slick with precome, pink-flushed and seeming swollen to a sore point of focus. Impulsively Itachi goes down onto his elbows, curtain of hair sliding over Stiles' belly and upper thighs and even that turgid line of his dick. He doesn't put his mouth on it; instead, humid air fans the length as he allows it to nudge up against his cheek—taunting unthinking caresses more than real contact.]
[ That subtle tremor racking powerful thighs on either side of his head coaxes a low moan of approval from Stiles. Undeniable proof that his boyfriend is enjoying this lurid act of service, that the devotion of his tongue has reached a higher power. With his nose wedged deep in the most private cleft of Itachi’s body, he has to heave each heady pocket of air in through his mouth – a difficult task when he’s so loath to be distracted from his prayers. Panting harshly, he’s eventually forced to drop his head back and take a moment to simply breathe. From this new position, though the lighting is unreliable, he can admire the sight of the debauched, inflamed hole, the skin surrounding it tinged a healthy pink and laved over in a messy film of saliva. The ring of muscle is clenched hard as if in want of something to bear down on, tempting his fingers closer and closer. One index finger lightly traces the puckered rim.
Stiles stiffens, jerked from his dreamy appreciation by the sudden and unexpected tease of silken hair spilling over his lower body. Every hot exhalation tests his patience, fanning out across oversensitive flesh until his cock is weeping from it, desperate for more sensation. He rolls his hips with calculated precision, dragging himself against a warmed cheek again and again until pearls of precome have painted the pale canvas there. It’s not enough. Reaching between legs, he seizes a fistful of inky black hair and twists it around his dick until wound tight, pulling lightly on the ends to squeeze himself in a soft cocoon of disheveled tresses. Better. To forestall any potential complaints from his boyfriend about this misuse of his hair, Stiles buries his face in the seat of Itachi’s ass once again. Except this time, he’s licking his way deeper, inner grooves giving way reluctantly to the pressure of his tongue. And then he’s inside.
The inside of the man’s body is scorching, the very core of him a molten sun for Stiles to burn himself on, and he does – eagerly and enthusiastically. His tongue spears open Itachi, tasting the shinobi where no one has ever touched him before. Slow and cajoling to start but picking up speed until he’s properly fucking his boyfriend, the wet sound of his flickering tongue indecent. All the while he’s silently strangling his own dick with Itachi’s hair, spilling precome into the strands with loving carelessness. ]
[The last frantic, reasonable shreds of thought in his mind are gone, that vacancy allowing an indecency he once believed impossible—could not even begin to fathom for lack of imagination—to flood in. He’s torn somewhere between the sensation of a tongue probing the tight entrance to his body and the sharp, tugging yank of hair at the roots. When he attempts to lift his head, his scalp stings protest, keeping him anchored in a position bent-over Stiles’ lower body, subjugated to the lewd motion of hips rolling upward, wet cock rubbing across his cheek and marking unblemished skin with the drool of precome.
Something closes his throat; it opens a moment later, a sound like sharded glass driven out of it, strangling on the sensation of not being able to move. He has to stifle the urge to wrench his head away with the awareness it would hurt both of them. Loose black hair coiled around that red and swollen dick, Itachi is anchored in place, soon filthied by the steady leak of precome, pasting dark strands to his chin and face and neck with that sticky fluid. Another guttural, quiet sound, though it takes form this time as a name:] Stiles.
[Even he can’t tell if it is truly a protest. If it is, the thorough plunder of a hot tongue washes it away, pleasure beginning as barest shivers down tensely held muscles, building rapidly. Strong hands creep down to close over Stiles’ calves as if seeking that small physical tether. He feels undone, brought to that blistered edge of lust and arousal in a rush, thrown over it with the slick, wet invasion of his body, Stiles’ mouth at the rim of his hole prying it looser, victim to sensitive nerves as never before. Unable to withstand it, he comes hard and gasping, ropes of seed striping down Stiles’ throat and bare chest as every part of him melts into release—buckling forward with his full weight unconsciously and trusting Stiles to hold him up.]
[ The sound of his name, roughened in the height of pleasure, is a benediction that Stiles won’t soon forget. He drives his tongue deep through the furled knot of muscle, teeth scraping gently across the sensitive outer barrier of skin. Synchrony is a wild, living thing between them, writhing with their combined arousal to a point of near simultaneous release. When Itachi tips over that precarious edge, Stiles follows blindly at his heels like a well-trained dog, obedient and loyal in spite of the fall. And what an incredible fall it is – his body jerks violently as if electrocuted at high voltage, limbs locking and expression contorted in a pained grimace of ecstasy. Come spurts over his boyfriend’s face, strings of it painting forehead to lips, the rest of the ejaculate soaked up by the hair still wound around his cock.
Stiles feels winded, jaw and tongue aching from overuse as he bears the dead weight of Itachi without protest. Nuzzling an inner thigh wearily, he takes care to unspool the glossy, black locks from his spent dick, now shiny with streaks of seed. A powerful sense of satisfaction settles upon him then, post-orgasmic bliss ready to lull him to sleep even pinned to the bed as he may be. His arms wiggle out from under Itachi to pet the man’s flank with still trembling hands, ignoring the come tickling his neck and chest as thin rivulets run along the contours of his body. ]
You were perfect, [ he mumbles, voice absolutely wrecked. ] Doin’ okay?
[ If he were able to, Stiles would have enjoyed taking the time to tend to Itachi – to get the man a glass of water, to tenderly clean off the face and hair no doubt dirtied with jizz. For now, knowing the pattern well enough by this point, he simply waits; Itachi will need to shower soon, once the haze of climax fades. And Stiles will join him. Maybe, once the sheets have been changed and they’re back in bed, they can continue the conversation from the text messages. Or maybe not. Right now, it doesn’t seem nearly as important anymore.
They’ll figure it out, just like they always do. ]
[A pocket of humid air has formed where he is bent over Stiles’ lower body, lost to a dizzying moment without thought, dimly aware of the sticky streaks of seed across his mouth and chin. He feels damp and wet everywhere, filthied hair plastered to sweat-slicked skin. Now freed, a turn of his head allows that first gulp of clean, clear air that isn’t stifled into the crux of hips. That familiar voice reaches him only after he’s eased a stiff, joint-locked body into motion and rolled sideways, off of Stiles.
A hand automatically raises to his face—only to smear the mess there, clearing thick, damp eyelashes with a swipe of fingers. His chest expands with every steadying breath, long legs extended out over the sheets.]
… Mm.
[It isn’t much of an answer, but evidently verbal communication is beyond him now. With a lean flex of muscle, Itachi sits up, fishes for the boy’s wrist, and begins dragging him off the mattress toward the bathroom. As if to say: yes, he is all right, and yes, he wishes Stiles to join him in this obsessively meticulous part of his routine.
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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.
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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.
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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.]
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But Stiles wouldn’t trade anything for this moment – when fingertips creep down his forearm and knuckles soothe over the previous sting of sharply yanked roots, two gestures that elicit a shiver of delight. Then Itachi’s balance is shifting, the visible light in the room shrinking from his vision as the shinobi finally seats himself. Silenced, Stiles can do nothing but submit to the weight bearing down on his face, eagerly nosing the divide in pale cheeks to guide him. The first lick over that virgin, untouched hole is exploratory, his hand sliding reassuringly over the glossy head of Itachi’s dick, palm disturbing the lazy drool of precome so that it drips in a messy splatter onto his chest. Inspiration strikes; temporarily abandoning the cock, Stiles blindly draws up his shirt to his armpits, allowing the milky prejaculate to instead dribble on his pectoral muscles, nipples erect with avid interest.
He wastes no more time after that.
Both hands work in tandem to spread cheeks, his mouth sealing over the hole with an almost possessive fervency. Each subsequent lick is increasingly sloppier, mapping out individual ridges and tracing them in quiet worship. The humidity of his panting breath has the skin beading with moisture quickly, Itachi’s hole already damp from the force of his ardor. It continues on like that for a time – Stiles dragging his tongue across the wrinkled skin, over and over, ears straining to listen for any hint of a reaction from his boyfriend. Meanwhile, his own hips gyrate in small circles, arousal eating him up alive. Pleasuring Itachi like this? It’s doing it for him. It’s really doing it for him. ]
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He watches Stiles pull up his shirt and uses the opportunity to bend forward, head rolling to allow a sweep of long black hair like rainfall spill across the boy's narrow hips. His weight is held up on both palms; an easy feat threatened only by the continued attention between his thighs. A sudden noise—still quiet, sharp and almost all air bitten between teeth—is wedged out of him as Stiles' hot mouth seals over the entrance to his body, licking across the rim until it's soaked with spit without ever going in. He feels hot through to the center of himself, Synchrony lit up like fire across an oil slick. Hotter still with his hair hanging loose around his face, trapping heat, drawing sweat along the delicate line of his brow. Are his thighs trembling? It's possible, but he can't spare even that detail his attention when caught up in mindless, thoughtless pleasure.
One of Stiles' rutting movements manages to nudge his cock closer, slick with precome, pink-flushed and seeming swollen to a sore point of focus. Impulsively Itachi goes down onto his elbows, curtain of hair sliding over Stiles' belly and upper thighs and even that turgid line of his dick. He doesn't put his mouth on it; instead, humid air fans the length as he allows it to nudge up against his cheek—taunting unthinking caresses more than real contact.]
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Stiles stiffens, jerked from his dreamy appreciation by the sudden and unexpected tease of silken hair spilling over his lower body. Every hot exhalation tests his patience, fanning out across oversensitive flesh until his cock is weeping from it, desperate for more sensation. He rolls his hips with calculated precision, dragging himself against a warmed cheek again and again until pearls of precome have painted the pale canvas there. It’s not enough. Reaching between legs, he seizes a fistful of inky black hair and twists it around his dick until wound tight, pulling lightly on the ends to squeeze himself in a soft cocoon of disheveled tresses. Better. To forestall any potential complaints from his boyfriend about this misuse of his hair, Stiles buries his face in the seat of Itachi’s ass once again. Except this time, he’s licking his way deeper, inner grooves giving way reluctantly to the pressure of his tongue. And then he’s inside.
The inside of the man’s body is scorching, the very core of him a molten sun for Stiles to burn himself on, and he does – eagerly and enthusiastically. His tongue spears open Itachi, tasting the shinobi where no one has ever touched him before. Slow and cajoling to start but picking up speed until he’s properly fucking his boyfriend, the wet sound of his flickering tongue indecent. All the while he’s silently strangling his own dick with Itachi’s hair, spilling precome into the strands with loving carelessness. ]
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Something closes his throat; it opens a moment later, a sound like sharded glass driven out of it, strangling on the sensation of not being able to move. He has to stifle the urge to wrench his head away with the awareness it would hurt both of them. Loose black hair coiled around that red and swollen dick, Itachi is anchored in place, soon filthied by the steady leak of precome, pasting dark strands to his chin and face and neck with that sticky fluid. Another guttural, quiet sound, though it takes form this time as a name:] Stiles.
[Even he can’t tell if it is truly a protest. If it is, the thorough plunder of a hot tongue washes it away, pleasure beginning as barest shivers down tensely held muscles, building rapidly. Strong hands creep down to close over Stiles’ calves as if seeking that small physical tether. He feels undone, brought to that blistered edge of lust and arousal in a rush, thrown over it with the slick, wet invasion of his body, Stiles’ mouth at the rim of his hole prying it looser, victim to sensitive nerves as never before. Unable to withstand it, he comes hard and gasping, ropes of seed striping down Stiles’ throat and bare chest as every part of him melts into release—buckling forward with his full weight unconsciously and trusting Stiles to hold him up.]
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Stiles feels winded, jaw and tongue aching from overuse as he bears the dead weight of Itachi without protest. Nuzzling an inner thigh wearily, he takes care to unspool the glossy, black locks from his spent dick, now shiny with streaks of seed. A powerful sense of satisfaction settles upon him then, post-orgasmic bliss ready to lull him to sleep even pinned to the bed as he may be. His arms wiggle out from under Itachi to pet the man’s flank with still trembling hands, ignoring the come tickling his neck and chest as thin rivulets run along the contours of his body. ]
You were perfect, [ he mumbles, voice absolutely wrecked. ] Doin’ okay?
[ If he were able to, Stiles would have enjoyed taking the time to tend to Itachi – to get the man a glass of water, to tenderly clean off the face and hair no doubt dirtied with jizz. For now, knowing the pattern well enough by this point, he simply waits; Itachi will need to shower soon, once the haze of climax fades. And Stiles will join him. Maybe, once the sheets have been changed and they’re back in bed, they can continue the conversation from the text messages. Or maybe not. Right now, it doesn’t seem nearly as important anymore.
They’ll figure it out, just like they always do. ]
fin!
A hand automatically raises to his face—only to smear the mess there, clearing thick, damp eyelashes with a swipe of fingers. His chest expands with every steadying breath, long legs extended out over the sheets.]
… Mm.
[It isn’t much of an answer, but evidently verbal communication is beyond him now. With a lean flex of muscle, Itachi sits up, fishes for the boy’s wrist, and begins dragging him off the mattress toward the bathroom. As if to say: yes, he is all right, and yes, he wishes Stiles to join him in this obsessively meticulous part of his routine.
They’ll figure the rest out—later.]