[ 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]