[ words that worm their way into his blushing ears and cut the cord on every other sound. he goes deaf to rolling waves, crackle of the dying fire, avian cries, a peel of laughter somewhere far up the beach carried by the wind. his world narrows on a pin, a halting exchange where his gaze pours over Itachi's handsome features: long lashes, fine bone structure, sharp jaw, bloody lips. his heart does something he knew he'd be capable of inspiring and yet it catches him by surprise nonetheless, pressure sneaking up from his guts to close the teeth of his ribs. ]
[ for a boy who's craved little else than understanding and acceptance the better part of a life that already feels too long, it's an arrow ran straight through a red, red epicenter. he processes it slowly, set free with a bolt between the lungs. ]
F... fucking asshole, I can.
[ the animosity is self-aimed, but he's never stopped it from leaking out of every pore. it comes with a boost of roughness, palms finding Itachi's chest and pushing him down onto the soft bed of sand below; Guanshan and all of his pale, freckled, bleeding skin is cast again into the low light of embers barely keeping themselves warm. they warm his colors only somewhat, a body full of autumn and sunsets on a backdrop of sharp, cold dark. ]
But you gotta help.
[ spine in a fine arc around wiry muscle, his body's a stretched and slender triangle whose point seats itself right upon Itachi's erection, forcing him into acknowledgment of it. it comes with reward, how Guanshan's seat rests directly upon the shape of him — how, when slender hips begin to grind and rock in earnest, he brings friction and roiling heat to them both. layers of fabric are all that separates him from being filled up and fucked open; when the veiled tip of his own cock accidentally brushes his wrist as he runs his hands down Itachi's core, he realizes just how damp his clothes have become. ]
Push up in'na me, [ is what he directs around a low moan, swallowing his panting breaths as his back arches for more friction, chin tucked to his chest to keep his eyes on the body he wants to bleed too, ] Like you wanna get as deep as you can...
[He hadn't wanted it to go this far. Flattened to the bed of sand, its grit tickling skin only slightly warmed by fire and body and chilled by everything else in the night, Itachi feels his own breath slip out of his throat like a thread yanked up from the bottom of his chest. It's a rough, startled sound. Guanshan's ass has settled over the tucked line of his cock, a distinct shape through clothing, brought into jagged awareness like a hot shard in his mind. It has always been difficult to ignore the attraction between them—vivid, impressionable, constant interactions like a band snapped against bare skin—but perhaps he could achieve detachment if only Guanshan forced him not to. Reality is a raw and painful thing.
Strong, powerful hands drop to the circle of a narrow waist, fingers applying bruising pressure to the points of hipbones, digging cruelly in with strength half-meant to leash him back. Every grind is wholesale torture. Guanshan's weight dragging across his cock, reminding him over and over that he is aroused by this, that he cannot escape that fact. That it would be so easy to shred fabric apart with the same bloodied blade and fit himself inside of Guanshan's body to fulfill both of their current needs. That, perhaps, he has been goaded to do exactly that over the last several weeks.
Those sharp, copper eyes are on him, lines of muscle stitched with the gold of the fire behind them, attention like the excruciating angle of a magnifying glass in the sun. Itachi releases one hand, lifts it up, and clasps it over the nape of a neck. Then he's hauling Guanshan down, folding him against his own chest, locking their mouths in a kiss that cannot be refused—teeth cutting at Guanshan's lower lip, tongue slick as it bullies inside, sharing the diluted flavor of blood, taking this space if he cannot let himself have the other.
One invasion for another, as meanwhile he obeys the grinding rhythm of hips and pushes up against that taken seat, chasing friction in the illusion of fucking. His world is soon nothing else.]
[ he could be licking cute little tablets or the body of Christ himself into him, neither could improve the zealot's high with which he succumbs. lash for lash, tongue chasing its companion, there's smoke and blood in his teeth and gasoline in the promising roil of his body, sparked by their friction and conflagrating. the only cool is the sand under his palms and between his fingers, great fistfuls of it that attempt to root him to the Earth before he falls right off its edge. it's a tolerable replacement for Itachi's hair as he attempts to maintain his promise, void though it might be for the blistering bloom of Synchrony at their mouths. ]
[ vocal even when he has no words to form, he drives into him those desperate little noises, makes him swallow the bawdy grunts and moans that rise as he approaches that threshold hurriedly, eager. for all the lush color and tone the Manna had engendered during their kiss — Guanshan's desire, satisfaction, curiosity, caution, torrential — it all cuts out abruptly as his body jerks and stutters out of their tempo. knees stutter and thighs clamp, tension drawing to a taut bowstring and snapping back into place with a rapid thrum, his spine curving delectably. ]
Oh fuck, oh— ohh. [ suddenly, he feels nothing. no thought, no emotion, all of it thrown out of him as he's reduced to pure sensation, riding out those last dregs of a cleansing euphoria that permeates his bones. blissful and vulnerable, blank and welcoming, it's a precipice he wants to linger on, still tethered to the man beneath him, expression wrenched into rapture or agony. ]
[ it won't. it can't. with a heavy sigh, he slacks all at once, buckling at the shoulders as though he could no longer support his own weight; his shorts and boxer briefs are spotted with damp heat, a few determined beads of semen sprouting out of the fabric and dappling Itachi's shirt. his afterglow is warm, syrupy bliss, a regal sort of laziness — a panther sprawled and soaking in a spot of sun. sated. eyes flutter and crack open, dark with molten heat for how large his pupils are, panting through his nose and sucking on Itachi's swollen bottom lip in relish. ]
[To hold another warm, soft, shaking body through this never loses its intimacy, each time new and vibrant in the act of losing all composure as pleasure cuts a riptide straight down. He holds Guanshan’s weight uncomplaining, their skin sealed in a stamp of sweat and blood and the gritty remnants of cold sand. He betrays himself immediately by encircling him in a tight embrace at that finish. Like holding someone’s life in his arms—the throes of death comparable to that toe-curling shiver of an orgasm—he cradles Guanshan to the end, tasting the flavor of spit and breath and sharp teeth shared between them. Every noise, too, yanked out of his throat or forced down it by the mingling of air. The moment goes on forever.
He didn’t believe he would come from only this. That initial awareness of hot, sticky dampness against his crotch is mistakenly believed to belong to Guanshan, until he realizes his cock is soft, and the wetness is smeared beneath his own waistband, saturating already dark fabric. It’s stunning—and likely a consequence of the fact that Synchrony has betrayed him after all, linking himself to the sieve of Guanshan’s pleasure spilling out at the seams. He can feel the mutual pulses of bliss and contentment, that gauzy sensation from the tether of their gems aglow, green on lilac, unintentional. It seems that in this act he’s far less in control of himself than expected. It’s become a learned pattern; he wasn’t careful enough.
Guanshan’s weight grows heavy, stretched on top of him like an animal that’s claimed its place to sleep. He first begins by clearing his mind in cold reality. Easier to find in the aftermath, harder when joined to Guanshan’s sated web of emotion—he accomplishes it by sitting up and easing that lean, lanky figure onto the sand at his side. Extricating himself into the sobering chill of physical solitude. Looking away from those blown pupils, that slack expression, a mouth kissed red, the vivid cuts on bare flesh.
Itachi leans away, fingers hunting the kunai from the sand to be repocketed. And he’s up on grounded feet. The shadows around his eyes are more noticeable in the fall of firelight on his body from the campfire, although it has begun to die into untended embers.
He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t look back, walking away with all the composure of a man chipped to pieces now scrambling to put himself together again after narrow escape.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ for a boy who's craved little else than understanding and acceptance the better part of a life that already feels too long, it's an arrow ran straight through a red, red epicenter. he processes it slowly, set free with a bolt between the lungs. ]
F... fucking asshole, I can.
[ the animosity is self-aimed, but he's never stopped it from leaking out of every pore. it comes with a boost of roughness, palms finding Itachi's chest and pushing him down onto the soft bed of sand below; Guanshan and all of his pale, freckled, bleeding skin is cast again into the low light of embers barely keeping themselves warm. they warm his colors only somewhat, a body full of autumn and sunsets on a backdrop of sharp, cold dark. ]
But you gotta help.
[ spine in a fine arc around wiry muscle, his body's a stretched and slender triangle whose point seats itself right upon Itachi's erection, forcing him into acknowledgment of it. it comes with reward, how Guanshan's seat rests directly upon the shape of him — how, when slender hips begin to grind and rock in earnest, he brings friction and roiling heat to them both. layers of fabric are all that separates him from being filled up and fucked open; when the veiled tip of his own cock accidentally brushes his wrist as he runs his hands down Itachi's core, he realizes just how damp his clothes have become. ]
Push up in'na me, [ is what he directs around a low moan, swallowing his panting breaths as his back arches for more friction, chin tucked to his chest to keep his eyes on the body he wants to bleed too, ] Like you wanna get as deep as you can...
[ he's pathetically close at the mere thought. ]
no subject
Strong, powerful hands drop to the circle of a narrow waist, fingers applying bruising pressure to the points of hipbones, digging cruelly in with strength half-meant to leash him back. Every grind is wholesale torture. Guanshan's weight dragging across his cock, reminding him over and over that he is aroused by this, that he cannot escape that fact. That it would be so easy to shred fabric apart with the same bloodied blade and fit himself inside of Guanshan's body to fulfill both of their current needs. That, perhaps, he has been goaded to do exactly that over the last several weeks.
Those sharp, copper eyes are on him, lines of muscle stitched with the gold of the fire behind them, attention like the excruciating angle of a magnifying glass in the sun. Itachi releases one hand, lifts it up, and clasps it over the nape of a neck. Then he's hauling Guanshan down, folding him against his own chest, locking their mouths in a kiss that cannot be refused—teeth cutting at Guanshan's lower lip, tongue slick as it bullies inside, sharing the diluted flavor of blood, taking this space if he cannot let himself have the other.
One invasion for another, as meanwhile he obeys the grinding rhythm of hips and pushes up against that taken seat, chasing friction in the illusion of fucking. His world is soon nothing else.]
no subject
[ vocal even when he has no words to form, he drives into him those desperate little noises, makes him swallow the bawdy grunts and moans that rise as he approaches that threshold hurriedly, eager. for all the lush color and tone the Manna had engendered during their kiss — Guanshan's desire, satisfaction, curiosity, caution, torrential — it all cuts out abruptly as his body jerks and stutters out of their tempo. knees stutter and thighs clamp, tension drawing to a taut bowstring and snapping back into place with a rapid thrum, his spine curving delectably. ]
Oh fuck, oh— ohh. [ suddenly, he feels nothing. no thought, no emotion, all of it thrown out of him as he's reduced to pure sensation, riding out those last dregs of a cleansing euphoria that permeates his bones. blissful and vulnerable, blank and welcoming, it's a precipice he wants to linger on, still tethered to the man beneath him, expression wrenched into rapture or agony. ]
[ it won't. it can't. with a heavy sigh, he slacks all at once, buckling at the shoulders as though he could no longer support his own weight; his shorts and boxer briefs are spotted with damp heat, a few determined beads of semen sprouting out of the fabric and dappling Itachi's shirt. his afterglow is warm, syrupy bliss, a regal sort of laziness — a panther sprawled and soaking in a spot of sun. sated. eyes flutter and crack open, dark with molten heat for how large his pupils are, panting through his nose and sucking on Itachi's swollen bottom lip in relish. ]
itachi running away, the life and story
He didn’t believe he would come from only this. That initial awareness of hot, sticky dampness against his crotch is mistakenly believed to belong to Guanshan, until he realizes his cock is soft, and the wetness is smeared beneath his own waistband, saturating already dark fabric. It’s stunning—and likely a consequence of the fact that Synchrony has betrayed him after all, linking himself to the sieve of Guanshan’s pleasure spilling out at the seams. He can feel the mutual pulses of bliss and contentment, that gauzy sensation from the tether of their gems aglow, green on lilac, unintentional. It seems that in this act he’s far less in control of himself than expected. It’s become a learned pattern; he wasn’t careful enough.
Guanshan’s weight grows heavy, stretched on top of him like an animal that’s claimed its place to sleep. He first begins by clearing his mind in cold reality. Easier to find in the aftermath, harder when joined to Guanshan’s sated web of emotion—he accomplishes it by sitting up and easing that lean, lanky figure onto the sand at his side. Extricating himself into the sobering chill of physical solitude. Looking away from those blown pupils, that slack expression, a mouth kissed red, the vivid cuts on bare flesh.
Itachi leans away, fingers hunting the kunai from the sand to be repocketed. And he’s up on grounded feet. The shadows around his eyes are more noticeable in the fall of firelight on his body from the campfire, although it has begun to die into untended embers.
He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t look back, walking away with all the composure of a man chipped to pieces now scrambling to put himself together again after narrow escape.]