[The distractions of touch earn a mock-baleful glance, red eyes vivid in the dark of the club, irises made more pronounced by the bright stripes of gleaming paint down his throat like color across a monochrome portrait. Easy grace allows him to follow in Stiles' intended direction despite the awkward, backward maneuvering through the crowd, satisfied to see that they're taken to an area less populated. Nerves begin to cool, allowing him to instead concentrate on the body against his own—he much prefers to look than to be looked at, modesty overwhelming any need to broadcast their intimacy.
A stiff and unmoving post against Stiles' demonstration, his brows knit tight together.]
This resembles... [fading off, bright eyes skid to the entangled group of dancers grinding on each other not too far away,] ... Stiles. Is this a cultural expectation? It feels crude.
[It resembles sex, is what he hasn't said: the narrow hips pushing back against his own, the drag of warmth and lean muscle, the seal of their bodies in an embrace lacking timidity or propriety. Already arousal begins to thicken in his belly with a hot, syrupy consistency, melted into the familiar pull of attraction he feels toward Stiles.]
[ A bright and breezy laugh escapes him in response to that candid observation. It’s a surprisingly rare noise from Stiles, who – despite his playful nature – is often too boggled down by anxiety and cynicism to indulge in such a genuine sound of boyish delight. He follows the direction of bloody red eyes toward the mass of other clubgoers, where painted bodies dance in an inextricable tangle of limbs and heat. The commonalities between dimensions are almost exhausting in their predictability. What feels like an age ago, he remembers dancing in a similar setting with Caitlin, the blacklight rave at the loft. Her neon lipstick had left smudged imprints on his mouth and cheek. That fateful night, before things with the Nogitsune had started to pick up, he’d danced without a shred of self-consciousness, high off the atmosphere and the company of a pretty girl.
And yet it’s nothing to how he feels now, body caged between the wall and Itachi’s rigid form, the low resonance of music playing in time to the steady pulse throbbing between his legs. Excitement pounds away at his breast at a hundred miles per hour, encouraging him to sidle closer to his boyfriend until no space separates their hips, until every indecent rocking of his own can be excused as nothing other than shameless grinding. ]
What, did you think the way they danced at Club Penance was specific to Hell?
[ As tempting as it is to get lost in the hypnotizing mesh lines barely concealing Itachi’s slender, muscled chest, the Sharingan demands his full attention. Stiles is happy to give it, gazing boldly in return, Synchrony singing sweet notes of unquestioning trust. ]
If you want me to stop, I can, [ he continues, draping bare arms over the man’s shoulders and hooking his fingers at the nape of a neck, nails lightly scratching. ] But you’re gonna have to pry me off with a crowbar tonight. I need you close.
[Over the months, he's become more accustomed to others looking into the center of the Sharingan—whether out of ignorance or intelligent, misguided decision. It doesn't change the intimacy of the action. Certainly not with the individual who knows better than most what his eyes are capable of doing. Thick lashes hang low, eyelids slitted, a sliver of cherry-red watching Stiles rather than the greater crowd behind him.]
Yes. [To answer the rhetorical question.] They were not human.
[Yet this doesn't appear to be intentionless dancing, the way Stiles grinds their hips together, the way Synchrony blisters with lust bound up in conviction. He can feel the alcohol working through his system, intoxication bleeding into looser, relaxed muscles as they lean against each other, faces tipped close together, figures entirely dark in this tucked-away corner except for streaks of neon paint.]
Does it seem as though I want you to stop? [Tilting forward, their cheeks graze as he speaks directly into Stiles' ear with that low, gravelly voice, both hands now clasped down on hips. He wouldn't think about this normally; he wouldn't be comfortable in such a public setting. That all seems secondary to the friction against his body, to warm familiar intimacy, the ache of his stiffening cock where it presses to Stiles' thigh.] You've already successfully escalated this.
[ The low rumble of that voice is the stuff of midnight, when the pregnant moon has claimed a starless sky and lovers writhe together beneath silken sheets. Stiles is as affected by it now as he always has been, lips parting on a shaky exhale while pupils steadily dilate. Sometimes it seems impossible how attracted he is to the other man, like his arousal is a thing attuned to even the most basic aspects of Itachi’s person. A chemistry he’s never known with anyone else, ready to ignite without kindling into a blazing inferno in his blood.
Chasing that feeling, he takes advantage of their proximity to press warm lips against the Amethyst gemstone tucked away between collarbones. The wet, hot drag of his tongue follows, languidly licking along the divot and then up the long column of a neck, mouth pausing only to suck on the swell of an Adam’s apple. All the while his hips continue to gyrate in rolling circles. Their respective erections graze on each pass, pressure that coaxes his dick to fatten in sympathy. Stiles, drunk on the music and riding the surge of alcohol and desire coiling tight in his belly, thinks he would drop to his knees and blow Itachi right then and there if the man would allow it. ]
Let’s see, [ he begins on a heavy breath, pulling away from Itachi’s throat with a trail of saliva linking them, ] what else I can escalate.
[ The kiss is violent. Crowding in against a lean body, he impatiently pries open the shinobi’s mouth with his own, delving in with an eager tongue to taste the remnants of sake lingering there. One hand slips down, petting over the mesh shirt before sliding into place to palm the heavy cock waiting for him, fingers squeezing the bulge through the dark pants in greeting. ]
[Eyelids flicker at the drag of a tongue across the sensitive gemstone, slick and hot, mouth closed over in brief contact that leaves skin flushed and humid with breath before meandering up his throat. The burn of awareness of where they are—of the strangers at their back, who cannot see the way Stiles licks up his throat in debauched attention—is nearly enough to buckle his knees and send him yanking Stiles from the club. Yet movement now feels impossible, let alone idea of a direction they would go. He is plastered to the boy’s front as though sealed by firm resolution, beholden to the rut of hips working to align the thick shape of Stiles’ cock against his own through thin layers of clothing, stirring him into a higher height of arousal effortlessly.
Saliva gleams a silver line between them, bridging the gap before that aggressive swoop of a kiss. Itachi’s surrender is easy and thoughtless; his mouth splits open, yielding the hot interior to the tongue that slides across teeth and gums, raking intimacy that leaves him hollowed out and aching. Lust feeds into lust through their emotional tether until he finds himself short of air, panting at the creases of the kiss.
Stiles’ hand dips low, squeezes over the bulge of his cock, and he twitches forward with a surge that flattens the boy to the wall. A hand leashes onto Stiles’ skinny wrist—squeezing just long enough to hopefully still movement as a stranger passes close behind them. The covertness of it, the need to stay secret as clever fingers massage him over clothing, all of that wrongness scorches through his mind.]
This… isn’t appropriate here. [Voice painted with a raspy thickness, he does nothing else to dissuade Stiles.] We should relocate.
[ Crushed against the wall behind him and imprisoned there by the unyielding body pressed intimately to his, arousal spikes in a surging crescendo that reduces him to squirming. The otherworldly strength of the shinobi never fails to make his blood sing these days, a response fueled by an unrepentant desire to be overpowered and dominated by someone he implicitly trusts. Once, he would have resented the idea of Itachi throwing him around with effortless nonchalance; now, it serves as a well-referenced bookmark for his headiest fantasies. Though a being of unparalleled chaos, the Nogitsune reinforced an unhealthy need for control within Stiles. Surrendering that sense of control to Itachi is a luxury he can greedily lose himself in, again and again.
Stiles widens his stance to accommodate the man’s legs between his own until their groins are flush, the bite of a sharp, knowing smile curving his lips. Though his movement is limited with the shackle of a finely boned hand around his wrist, he kneads the erection straining into his palm even as another clubber meanders past far too close. The outline of Itachi’s cock fills his hand so well; Stiles wants it heavy and pulsing on his tongue, stretching his mouth, claiming his throat, coating his insides with that salty essence – all while strangers dance the night away nearby, pleasantly oblivious to the debauchery happening in the darkened corner. ]
No one can see us, [ comes the sly, husky reassurance. ] But you better decide where this is happening, fast. Because I’m not stopping until you’ve come in me one way or another, sweetheart.
[ And he twists around, presenting the painted mural of his naked back as he rolls his backside against Itachi’s front. The long length of his spine ripples with the undulation, the swell of his ass cheeks just visible from beneath low-waisted pants. ]
[Whatever semblance of thought he still possesses—mind painted thick with alcohol and the glaze of want—attempts to remain clear-headed, to make a decision in a situation where his faculties are reluctant to cooperate. It is an impossible request. He lost most inhibition where it concerned Stiles a long time ago, an alarming fact he knows better than to examine more closely now. The sound of that affectionate endearment off Stiles' lips, husky and low, serves only to further enchant him. In spite of where they are, a hand cupped over the covered shape of his cock coaxes it to fuller hardness, thickening lust like a tight band deep in the pit of his stomach. Then Stiles has presented his back: smooth, neon-scrawled, mole-freckled territory that leaves tantalizing strips of pale skin visible near sides and hips where the fabric of his shirt shifts to expose. For the second time, Itachi's palms automatically slide to stroke down each flank, squeezing briefly.
His eyes have dropped south, studying the curve of the boy's ass just as another clubber passes too close at his back. Teeth sink into his own lower lip until it swells plump against the blunt self-pain. His mind has finally arrived at a decision. One arm lifts, hand seizing Stiles by the nape and then towing him sideways, steering away from the great open room that hosts bar and dancefloor and into a darkened hall that shoots off from it. The first threshold he finds is hung with a sheer, glimmering curtain; when he yanks it aside, he's met with boxed storage materials labeled in native script.
Itachi doesn't spare a second glance, uncaring for their contents. He simply pushes Stiles face-first toward the solid stone wall—hand knitted into messy brown hair to discourage him turning around—then hooks fingers into the line of a waistband, yanking down to expose lean legs all the way to narrow, tender ankles. He hasn't brought anything with him to make this easier, and he doesn't ask if Stiles has, seemingly incapable of speech now as he sinks down to knees (freeing the hold in hair) and roughly palms ass cheeks apart. It may be clearer what his intention is when Stiles feels hot, humid breath fanning that sensitive furrow, too close to his hole.]
[ There’s no resistance, his soft moan of appreciation swallowed up by the insatiable throb of music. Stiles goes obediently where directed, all but melting into that rough, uncompromising grip on his nape. Every step remains an uncomfortable reminder of the indecent state he’s in, his swollen erection straining against the too tight prison of snug pants. Everything about their current situation excites him – from the lack of true privacy to the powerful pulse of the DJ’s beats to the thinly veiled hunger Itachi now displays. Rarely does the iron-willed and disciplined shinobi allow himself to succumb to temptation like this; it makes Stiles wonder just how far he can push the other man, just how much he can get away with.
Forced against another wall, this time face-first, he automatically braces himself with a forearm so that he can twist at the waist and face Itachi. As if reading his mind, his boyfriend thwarts him by seizing a fistful of brown hair and holding him in place. A breathless chuckle of heady, dark anticipation slips out of Stiles then, the Emerald gemstone set in his right shoulder blazing. How many people have been similarly pinned by Itachi, the pointed edge of a kunai digging into the soft meat of their mortal bodies? The thrill of danger is like an inescapable high, sending Stiles spiraling down a tunnel of rapidly rising arousal. God, he’s so hard it hurts.
Pants pool around his ankles, exposing him. Not even trepidation about lack of appropriate preparation staunches his greedy lust; he’s too far gone, ready to welcome Itachi home alongside the burn of pain at whatever the cost. So when the man instead drops to knees and spreads him, the ghost of breath creeping over his taint, Stiles is shocked into stunned silence. It’s been so damn long since he was last rimmed, something only Malia has done for him before. Memory of that intense sensation has his hole clenching down on nothing now, hips rocking back against Itachi’s hands in overeager encouragement. ]
C’mon, sweetheart, [ he hears himself say on a raspy exhale, ] get me ready for you. All for you.
[He's beginning to wonder if Stiles continues to use that endearment simply because he recognizes the core of power it holds over him. A sway like manipulation, like vivid genjutsu, twisting him into its service with willing fervor. Itachi's fingers grasp the firm curves of cheeks with enough pressure to dimple skin, thumbs keeping that furrow spread to his mouth in demonstration of an act he has been taught by the boy—along with every other dark, shared intimacy he's never known before their relationship. The tapered point of a hot tongue skims from the tight, tender taint up to his hole, path left wet and glossy with saliva from the broad stroke, and he repeats this again. Then again. Bent down, he shoves knees between Stiles' ankles to ensure the boy's legs stretch as wide as possible, fighting the restraint of pants around ankles.
He is not concerned with their surroundings any longer; alcohol and the blistering intoxication of Synchronized lust have made him messier, hungrier. Not in the sense that his actions aren't controlled—even as his tongue savages the boy's spread ass without relent, his grip remains firm and tight and every swipe of a hot tongue is deliberate, an unyielding sense of rigidity so central to his identity that he's unable to abandon it easily. But it means that the occasional pass of footsteps outside the short-hanging curtain no longer brings him any pause. In fact, when one individual seems to stray too close by sound alone, his grasp becomes a bruising clutch—preternatural strength disallowing movement, denying Stiles' freedom from onslaught—and his tongue breaches that tight rim of muscle at Stiles' hole in the same moment, prying him open to lascivious invasion that will leave him slippery with spit. Loose strands of black hair fall from the bundled bun to tickle sensitive inner thighs and spread-apart cheeks, sticking in places.
No noise, no action other than the cruel ravaging of his mouth, a ceaseless assault that seems it will never stop.]
[ Lightning dances up his spine at the first measured stroke of that tongue. Gasping out loud from the shock of it, Stiles plasters himself against the wall for support as his knees traitorously go weak. The pleasure isn’t understanded. It rolls repeatedly through him in thick, cloying waves that drag him under the surface again and again. He shivers through it, submitting to the slow torture as only he can. Arousal burns so brightly in his body now that it’s an effort not to come too soon, one hand sliding down to grip himself hard by the base of his stiff dick to prevent just that. Itachi doesn’t help matters by spreading his legs, but Stiles meets him halfway anyway; carelessly toeing off the shoe of one foot, he slips out of a pant leg and stretches his stance as wide as possible for the other man, ass pushed out in a shameful display that should be humiliating. It’s not.
Caught in a vague, hazy state of bliss – brown eyes glazed over, parted mouth damp from his own humid pants – it takes him a moment to register the shadow that’s paused at the doorway. Stiles blinks in belated awareness, staring with muted surprise at the native gem who has drawn aside the curtain to peer at their figures through the shadows. Itachi remains silent, his brutal hold preventing Stiles from reeling away the way he wants to. Before he can protest, unsettled by the presence of a drunk stranger watching them, the shinobi spears him open. The sound that escapes him then is nothing short of a whimper, teeth sinking into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. It feels like a jolt of electricity is directly connected from his hole to his cock, which drools precome in a steady flow that plips quietly to the floor between his legs. When next he looks up, the stranger is gone and they are alone once again. ]
[It isn't boredom or surrender of privacy that the gem deserts the pulled-back curtain concealing their performance. It is because, noticing their presence, Itachi had turned bright, violent red eyes upon them, pinning with brutal weight the immensity of his displeasure at being watched. A cruel look, a lash of genjutsu unnoticed by the boy otherwise preoccupied with a tongue lapping at his hole, prying it open with every thorough swipe, leaving him lewdly wet with each obscene slick sound. There's a reason he'd found this hidden corner, and while he could suspend modesty for the illusion of public display—he does not want to actually be seen. He does not want Stiles to be seen, not in this state, not when he has been worked to threads of composure by Itachi himself; therefore, only he should have the right to witness it. Less jealousy than it is simple ownership of something he alone has created.
Hands on hips do not allow him to pull away, continuing the assault of a velvet, slithering tongue over that abused opening to his body, at least until Stiles begins to beg. Then Itachi withdraws slowly, humid breath ghosting that licked-wet furrow now tender under his attention, saliva trickling down behind heavy, hanging balls. Utterly silent as he draws upright, rising in one fluid movement as fingers take the place of his tongue, callused pads grazing across Stiles' reddened hole to gather the moisture still there. All he does is rub that sensitive ring of muscle to feel it twitch and tighten under a glaze of spit.]
This doesn't end after you've come. [He leans in closer and plasters his mouth behind Stiles' ear, voice like hot gravel, pressing his own waist forward so the boy will feel that rigid shape of a clothed cock against the soft curve of his ass.] Though if you continue to plead, I'll consider it.
[ A sharp, stuttered breath catches in his too dry throat, snagged on the weight of pleasure spiking through him with each flick of Itachi’s clever tongue. The onslaught doesn’t end. What sweet agony, one that Stiles relishes with yet another drawn-out moan bouncing off the stone walls enclosing them. His thoughts are scrambled, reduced to incoherency in their devoted mantra of yes yes yes yes please oh yes.
It’s a near impossible task to wonder at the chain of events that have brought them here, his mind unhelpfully whiting out every time he stops to marvel at the mere fact Itachi is on his knees in a night club rimming Stiles of his own accord. This will be a memory he frequently replays on the memirror when alone in bed, pure fantasy fuel that’ll keep him satiated for weeks. And if he’d had any idea of the flare of possessiveness urging his boyfriend to drive away their would-be voyeur, he would have come right then and there, regardless of the hand clamped down on his dick. Being desired is still a novelty to him, after all – even after all these years. Especially when it’s someone like Itachi, beautiful and sleek and devastating.
At last the man relents, clothes shifting softly with an almost ominous air as he straightens. Stiles keens in loss, hole hungrily puckering in want of those roughened finger pads trailing over it. But even while his head begins to clear of the arousal that had fogged it over, lust continues to build steadily within him, demanding action. Without turning around, he awkwardly reaches behind him to cup Itachi’s cock, hefting the fattened shape in his hand. Determination burns bright in his veins; Stiles, unaware of the other man’s plans, still labors under the delusion that his boyfriend will be fucking him. Mentally bracing himself for the entry, he fumbles hurriedly to release the shinobi from the confines of his pants and lines them up, the blunt head of the erection scattering a frisson of nervous energy as it brushes against him. ]
Then I won’t beg, [ he pants, glancing over a shoulder at Itachi meaningfully. ] Take no prisoners, Itachi. I’m here for whatever you have to give me.
[Expectation made suddenly clear, breath rattles out of him—struck by the realization Stiles would allow something like that, even painful and reduced to a state that would surely bring only one of them real pleasure. Understanding the extent of Stiles' willingness and trust feels like a mountain to climb; every attempt sees him sliding back into confusion and amazement. Itachi flattens himself against the boy's warm, exposed back, mouth pressed hot and humid to the nape of a neck and allowing fingers to pry his cock free of clothing. He aches at that mild stimulation alone, swollen fully hard in the warm cup of a palm. As soon as Stiles tucks the thick head between bare cheeks he feels the remainder of his own self-control evaporate as if under the glare of a noon sun.
He doesn't fuck into him. He doesn't plan to, as tempting as it might be to breach that tight, willing hole slicked only with his own rapidly drying spit, the inside of Stiles' body more familiar to him than anyone's, warm and clinging and hopelessly devoted. Instead Itachi aligns the length of his dick within the furrow of cheeks, both hands squeezing over handfuls of Stiles' ass to create a tight channel. Precome drools from the slit of his cock freely now and paints dimpled skin in a slippery, ticklish hot smear.
Just as they first fell apart together in that dark closet so many months ago on the station, now Itachi employs a similar tactic—fucking Stiles' ass as he had his thighs, a constant drag of friction across the tender nerves of a hole without ever pushing inside. He can hear himself panting against Stiles' neck close to one ear, but language is too far away to grasp. Eventually an arm manages to coil around Stiles' upper body and pin arms to sides in a restriction of movement that contrasts the continuous, near-brutal rut of hips. His feet bully Stiles' ankles close together, closing thighs, coaxing his entire body to tighten and bear down against his cock.]
[ The air is stifling, boiling over from the sticky heat that pours off their intertwined bodies. Stiles feels as though he has a fever, sweat dripping down his flushed skin in trickling rivulets that don’t so much as smudge the mural painted on his back. Panting harshly, the sound overly loud in the cramped space, he rests his forehead against the wall. He focuses on keeping his body relaxed, loose, and pliant – readying himself for that first dry breach and the discomfort that will surely accompany it. There’s an uncompromising need in him to prove he can withstand that pain, to bring Itachi any measure of pleasure he can possibly manage. It’s a need ultimately born of insecurity, one that questions his self-worth at every twisting corner.
But when Itachi’s cock, hard and engorged, slips instead between his cheeks to rut against him there, Stiles shudders in relief. The tension bleeds out from his slender frame all at once, leaving him quietly compliant to the manhandling that follows. Arms pinned down and legs squeezed together, he submits himself; Stiles tilts back his head onto a shoulder, gazing up at the ceiling with a wide, glazed-over stare, pupils blown. With his arms restrained as they are, his hands come to settle on Itachi’s hips, urging them forward and into the seam of his ass again and again.
Precome dribbles down the crease, rolling behind the heavy swing of balls to tease his perineum. Becoming increasingly agitated by the stimulation, Stiles begins to struggle within the confine of a powerful arm, his own hips rolling in an effort to relieve the pressure building in his untouched dick. ]
Itachi. [ Edging the boundary of a whine, thin and needy. ] Itachi. Haaa, oh, fuck. G-gonna come on me? All over my back, where I can’t hide it. Where everyone can see. Gonna let them know…just who I belong to? C’mon. Show them.
[Sunk so deeply into the act of gratification as he is, every movement is driven by a single-minded intensity reserved for a mindset he carries with him only on the battlefield. Possessiveness is a novel sentiment for him. At first, he does not even recognize it, accustomed as he is to living separately from others with no right to entitlement and no desire to ask for anything greater. Yet that is undoubtedly what he feels in this moment, Stiles held against in place, body soft and pliant to the slide of a cock between tight ass cheeks. He takes from the boy what he wants, and he wishes for no one else ever to have this as he does. Not in this moment. Not under these circumstances, with the outside world a thin curtain away.
Stiles head lays heavy on his shoulder and he pays it no mind, hips rocking at a steady pace in alignment with the boy's lower body, arm a solid band of strength as much as the feet that force legs closed. His mouth remains stamped behind an ear, breath panting wet, the hitch of faint gasps all that tell how much he is coming undone from this. Stiles' words weave through him like their own spell; he's not used to dirty talk, should have found himself mortified by it but instead is only slammed that much harder against the wall of his own potent lust.
Does Stiles belong to him? He's never thought so. Had never dared to, and perhaps with a less addled mind he will reaffirm this belief, but for now, Stiles is only his. Of course. It seems so obvious.
It does not take much longer after that, orgasm fish-hooked out of his belly in a shivering rush of heat, mind wiped clear and blank, everything a burn of pleasure. Come paints thick, dripping ribbons up Stiles' back, a splatter that streaks across the starry sky. Even in the dizzying seconds after, he doesn't release the boy; hands instead clamp themselves over Stiles' arms to keep him from moving away from the wall. Automatically and without any forethought, his head bends down—a tongue begins to collect the sticky seed striped over the boy's bare back in lapping strokes, tasting bitter salt in addition to an unfamiliar gritty sweetness. He does not open his eyes yet to see that the paint is coming off as well.]
[ With a shudder winding down his sweat-soaked frame, Stiles thinks absently that he’s developing an unhealthy obsession for these moments – when Itachi hovers precariously at the precipice of orgasm before tumbling headfirst into sweet oblivion. His body, despite its many human flaws, becomes a reliable vessel through which he can deliver the shinobi to a state of nirvana. He can be of use to Itachi. He can bring something valuable to this relationship. That knowledge is deeply gratifying, soothing the choppy waves of his uncertain psyche. And the mere fact that his boyfriend derives this much pleasure from what they do together is enough to satiate Stiles, neglected and untouched though he may be. Hearing his boyfriend on the cusp of climax, hot air fanning heavily against his ear in unsteady bursts, actually pushes him toward the edge as well.
It doesn’t take much more stimulation. At the first searing pressure of a tongue, dragging slow and heavy over the skin of his back, Stiles violently bucks with a choked-off noise, cock throbbing in vicarious anticipation of the next lick. He squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to slow the frenzied acceleration of a libido hungry to come – a battle he loses almost immediately. A paroxysm of pleasure floods him as his vision briefly flicks white, carrying Stiles down rapids without a lifejacket. His dick bobs against his stomach, ejaculate smearing a wet mess over the wall in front of him. Only Itachi’s support keeps the teen upright in the wake of climax, boneless legs wobbling with the consistency of jelly.
They don’t linger long. On unspoken agreement, they redress and straighten up as best as possible – Stiles now featuring the blurred suggestion of a painting on his back where Itachi licked him clean. Hand in hand, the boyfriends escape the club with the exhausted haste of people desperate to properly bathe. And as they travel from the ocean to the surface and from the beach to the lodgings, Stiles can’t help but smugly label “Operation: Dance Club” a smashing success. ]
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no subject
A stiff and unmoving post against Stiles' demonstration, his brows knit tight together.]
This resembles... [fading off, bright eyes skid to the entangled group of dancers grinding on each other not too far away,] ... Stiles. Is this a cultural expectation? It feels crude.
[It resembles sex, is what he hasn't said: the narrow hips pushing back against his own, the drag of warmth and lean muscle, the seal of their bodies in an embrace lacking timidity or propriety. Already arousal begins to thicken in his belly with a hot, syrupy consistency, melted into the familiar pull of attraction he feels toward Stiles.]
no subject
And yet it’s nothing to how he feels now, body caged between the wall and Itachi’s rigid form, the low resonance of music playing in time to the steady pulse throbbing between his legs. Excitement pounds away at his breast at a hundred miles per hour, encouraging him to sidle closer to his boyfriend until no space separates their hips, until every indecent rocking of his own can be excused as nothing other than shameless grinding. ]
What, did you think the way they danced at Club Penance was specific to Hell?
[ As tempting as it is to get lost in the hypnotizing mesh lines barely concealing Itachi’s slender, muscled chest, the Sharingan demands his full attention. Stiles is happy to give it, gazing boldly in return, Synchrony singing sweet notes of unquestioning trust. ]
If you want me to stop, I can, [ he continues, draping bare arms over the man’s shoulders and hooking his fingers at the nape of a neck, nails lightly scratching. ] But you’re gonna have to pry me off with a crowbar tonight. I need you close.
no subject
Yes. [To answer the rhetorical question.] They were not human.
[Yet this doesn't appear to be intentionless dancing, the way Stiles grinds their hips together, the way Synchrony blisters with lust bound up in conviction. He can feel the alcohol working through his system, intoxication bleeding into looser, relaxed muscles as they lean against each other, faces tipped close together, figures entirely dark in this tucked-away corner except for streaks of neon paint.]
Does it seem as though I want you to stop? [Tilting forward, their cheeks graze as he speaks directly into Stiles' ear with that low, gravelly voice, both hands now clasped down on hips. He wouldn't think about this normally; he wouldn't be comfortable in such a public setting. That all seems secondary to the friction against his body, to warm familiar intimacy, the ache of his stiffening cock where it presses to Stiles' thigh.] You've already successfully escalated this.
no subject
Chasing that feeling, he takes advantage of their proximity to press warm lips against the Amethyst gemstone tucked away between collarbones. The wet, hot drag of his tongue follows, languidly licking along the divot and then up the long column of a neck, mouth pausing only to suck on the swell of an Adam’s apple. All the while his hips continue to gyrate in rolling circles. Their respective erections graze on each pass, pressure that coaxes his dick to fatten in sympathy. Stiles, drunk on the music and riding the surge of alcohol and desire coiling tight in his belly, thinks he would drop to his knees and blow Itachi right then and there if the man would allow it. ]
Let’s see, [ he begins on a heavy breath, pulling away from Itachi’s throat with a trail of saliva linking them, ] what else I can escalate.
[ The kiss is violent. Crowding in against a lean body, he impatiently pries open the shinobi’s mouth with his own, delving in with an eager tongue to taste the remnants of sake lingering there. One hand slips down, petting over the mesh shirt before sliding into place to palm the heavy cock waiting for him, fingers squeezing the bulge through the dark pants in greeting. ]
no subject
Saliva gleams a silver line between them, bridging the gap before that aggressive swoop of a kiss. Itachi’s surrender is easy and thoughtless; his mouth splits open, yielding the hot interior to the tongue that slides across teeth and gums, raking intimacy that leaves him hollowed out and aching. Lust feeds into lust through their emotional tether until he finds himself short of air, panting at the creases of the kiss.
Stiles’ hand dips low, squeezes over the bulge of his cock, and he twitches forward with a surge that flattens the boy to the wall. A hand leashes onto Stiles’ skinny wrist—squeezing just long enough to hopefully still movement as a stranger passes close behind them. The covertness of it, the need to stay secret as clever fingers massage him over clothing, all of that wrongness scorches through his mind.]
This… isn’t appropriate here. [Voice painted with a raspy thickness, he does nothing else to dissuade Stiles.] We should relocate.
no subject
Stiles widens his stance to accommodate the man’s legs between his own until their groins are flush, the bite of a sharp, knowing smile curving his lips. Though his movement is limited with the shackle of a finely boned hand around his wrist, he kneads the erection straining into his palm even as another clubber meanders past far too close. The outline of Itachi’s cock fills his hand so well; Stiles wants it heavy and pulsing on his tongue, stretching his mouth, claiming his throat, coating his insides with that salty essence – all while strangers dance the night away nearby, pleasantly oblivious to the debauchery happening in the darkened corner. ]
No one can see us, [ comes the sly, husky reassurance. ] But you better decide where this is happening, fast. Because I’m not stopping until you’ve come in me one way or another, sweetheart.
[ And he twists around, presenting the painted mural of his naked back as he rolls his backside against Itachi’s front. The long length of his spine ripples with the undulation, the swell of his ass cheeks just visible from beneath low-waisted pants. ]
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His eyes have dropped south, studying the curve of the boy's ass just as another clubber passes too close at his back. Teeth sink into his own lower lip until it swells plump against the blunt self-pain. His mind has finally arrived at a decision. One arm lifts, hand seizing Stiles by the nape and then towing him sideways, steering away from the great open room that hosts bar and dancefloor and into a darkened hall that shoots off from it. The first threshold he finds is hung with a sheer, glimmering curtain; when he yanks it aside, he's met with boxed storage materials labeled in native script.
Itachi doesn't spare a second glance, uncaring for their contents. He simply pushes Stiles face-first toward the solid stone wall—hand knitted into messy brown hair to discourage him turning around—then hooks fingers into the line of a waistband, yanking down to expose lean legs all the way to narrow, tender ankles. He hasn't brought anything with him to make this easier, and he doesn't ask if Stiles has, seemingly incapable of speech now as he sinks down to knees (freeing the hold in hair) and roughly palms ass cheeks apart. It may be clearer what his intention is when Stiles feels hot, humid breath fanning that sensitive furrow, too close to his hole.]
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Forced against another wall, this time face-first, he automatically braces himself with a forearm so that he can twist at the waist and face Itachi. As if reading his mind, his boyfriend thwarts him by seizing a fistful of brown hair and holding him in place. A breathless chuckle of heady, dark anticipation slips out of Stiles then, the Emerald gemstone set in his right shoulder blazing. How many people have been similarly pinned by Itachi, the pointed edge of a kunai digging into the soft meat of their mortal bodies? The thrill of danger is like an inescapable high, sending Stiles spiraling down a tunnel of rapidly rising arousal. God, he’s so hard it hurts.
Pants pool around his ankles, exposing him. Not even trepidation about lack of appropriate preparation staunches his greedy lust; he’s too far gone, ready to welcome Itachi home alongside the burn of pain at whatever the cost. So when the man instead drops to knees and spreads him, the ghost of breath creeping over his taint, Stiles is shocked into stunned silence. It’s been so damn long since he was last rimmed, something only Malia has done for him before. Memory of that intense sensation has his hole clenching down on nothing now, hips rocking back against Itachi’s hands in overeager encouragement. ]
C’mon, sweetheart, [ he hears himself say on a raspy exhale, ] get me ready for you. All for you.
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He is not concerned with their surroundings any longer; alcohol and the blistering intoxication of Synchronized lust have made him messier, hungrier. Not in the sense that his actions aren't controlled—even as his tongue savages the boy's spread ass without relent, his grip remains firm and tight and every swipe of a hot tongue is deliberate, an unyielding sense of rigidity so central to his identity that he's unable to abandon it easily. But it means that the occasional pass of footsteps outside the short-hanging curtain no longer brings him any pause. In fact, when one individual seems to stray too close by sound alone, his grasp becomes a bruising clutch—preternatural strength disallowing movement, denying Stiles' freedom from onslaught—and his tongue breaches that tight rim of muscle at Stiles' hole in the same moment, prying him open to lascivious invasion that will leave him slippery with spit. Loose strands of black hair fall from the bundled bun to tickle sensitive inner thighs and spread-apart cheeks, sticking in places.
No noise, no action other than the cruel ravaging of his mouth, a ceaseless assault that seems it will never stop.]
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Caught in a vague, hazy state of bliss – brown eyes glazed over, parted mouth damp from his own humid pants – it takes him a moment to register the shadow that’s paused at the doorway. Stiles blinks in belated awareness, staring with muted surprise at the native gem who has drawn aside the curtain to peer at their figures through the shadows. Itachi remains silent, his brutal hold preventing Stiles from reeling away the way he wants to. Before he can protest, unsettled by the presence of a drunk stranger watching them, the shinobi spears him open. The sound that escapes him then is nothing short of a whimper, teeth sinking into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. It feels like a jolt of electricity is directly connected from his hole to his cock, which drools precome in a steady flow that plips quietly to the floor between his legs. When next he looks up, the stranger is gone and they are alone once again. ]
I’m gonna come, [ groans Stiles, hips struggling to pull away. ] I’m ready, I’m ready, stop – stop or I’m really gonna come, fuck.
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Hands on hips do not allow him to pull away, continuing the assault of a velvet, slithering tongue over that abused opening to his body, at least until Stiles begins to beg. Then Itachi withdraws slowly, humid breath ghosting that licked-wet furrow now tender under his attention, saliva trickling down behind heavy, hanging balls. Utterly silent as he draws upright, rising in one fluid movement as fingers take the place of his tongue, callused pads grazing across Stiles' reddened hole to gather the moisture still there. All he does is rub that sensitive ring of muscle to feel it twitch and tighten under a glaze of spit.]
This doesn't end after you've come. [He leans in closer and plasters his mouth behind Stiles' ear, voice like hot gravel, pressing his own waist forward so the boy will feel that rigid shape of a clothed cock against the soft curve of his ass.] Though if you continue to plead, I'll consider it.
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It’s a near impossible task to wonder at the chain of events that have brought them here, his mind unhelpfully whiting out every time he stops to marvel at the mere fact Itachi is on his knees in a night club rimming Stiles of his own accord. This will be a memory he frequently replays on the memirror when alone in bed, pure fantasy fuel that’ll keep him satiated for weeks. And if he’d had any idea of the flare of possessiveness urging his boyfriend to drive away their would-be voyeur, he would have come right then and there, regardless of the hand clamped down on his dick. Being desired is still a novelty to him, after all – even after all these years. Especially when it’s someone like Itachi, beautiful and sleek and devastating.
At last the man relents, clothes shifting softly with an almost ominous air as he straightens. Stiles keens in loss, hole hungrily puckering in want of those roughened finger pads trailing over it. But even while his head begins to clear of the arousal that had fogged it over, lust continues to build steadily within him, demanding action. Without turning around, he awkwardly reaches behind him to cup Itachi’s cock, hefting the fattened shape in his hand. Determination burns bright in his veins; Stiles, unaware of the other man’s plans, still labors under the delusion that his boyfriend will be fucking him. Mentally bracing himself for the entry, he fumbles hurriedly to release the shinobi from the confines of his pants and lines them up, the blunt head of the erection scattering a frisson of nervous energy as it brushes against him. ]
Then I won’t beg, [ he pants, glancing over a shoulder at Itachi meaningfully. ] Take no prisoners, Itachi. I’m here for whatever you have to give me.
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He doesn't fuck into him. He doesn't plan to, as tempting as it might be to breach that tight, willing hole slicked only with his own rapidly drying spit, the inside of Stiles' body more familiar to him than anyone's, warm and clinging and hopelessly devoted. Instead Itachi aligns the length of his dick within the furrow of cheeks, both hands squeezing over handfuls of Stiles' ass to create a tight channel. Precome drools from the slit of his cock freely now and paints dimpled skin in a slippery, ticklish hot smear.
Just as they first fell apart together in that dark closet so many months ago on the station, now Itachi employs a similar tactic—fucking Stiles' ass as he had his thighs, a constant drag of friction across the tender nerves of a hole without ever pushing inside. He can hear himself panting against Stiles' neck close to one ear, but language is too far away to grasp. Eventually an arm manages to coil around Stiles' upper body and pin arms to sides in a restriction of movement that contrasts the continuous, near-brutal rut of hips. His feet bully Stiles' ankles close together, closing thighs, coaxing his entire body to tighten and bear down against his cock.]
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But when Itachi’s cock, hard and engorged, slips instead between his cheeks to rut against him there, Stiles shudders in relief. The tension bleeds out from his slender frame all at once, leaving him quietly compliant to the manhandling that follows. Arms pinned down and legs squeezed together, he submits himself; Stiles tilts back his head onto a shoulder, gazing up at the ceiling with a wide, glazed-over stare, pupils blown. With his arms restrained as they are, his hands come to settle on Itachi’s hips, urging them forward and into the seam of his ass again and again.
Precome dribbles down the crease, rolling behind the heavy swing of balls to tease his perineum. Becoming increasingly agitated by the stimulation, Stiles begins to struggle within the confine of a powerful arm, his own hips rolling in an effort to relieve the pressure building in his untouched dick. ]
Itachi. [ Edging the boundary of a whine, thin and needy. ] Itachi. Haaa, oh, fuck. G-gonna come on me? All over my back, where I can’t hide it. Where everyone can see. Gonna let them know…just who I belong to? C’mon. Show them.
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Stiles head lays heavy on his shoulder and he pays it no mind, hips rocking at a steady pace in alignment with the boy's lower body, arm a solid band of strength as much as the feet that force legs closed. His mouth remains stamped behind an ear, breath panting wet, the hitch of faint gasps all that tell how much he is coming undone from this. Stiles' words weave through him like their own spell; he's not used to dirty talk, should have found himself mortified by it but instead is only slammed that much harder against the wall of his own potent lust.
Does Stiles belong to him? He's never thought so. Had never dared to, and perhaps with a less addled mind he will reaffirm this belief, but for now, Stiles is only his. Of course. It seems so obvious.
It does not take much longer after that, orgasm fish-hooked out of his belly in a shivering rush of heat, mind wiped clear and blank, everything a burn of pleasure. Come paints thick, dripping ribbons up Stiles' back, a splatter that streaks across the starry sky. Even in the dizzying seconds after, he doesn't release the boy; hands instead clamp themselves over Stiles' arms to keep him from moving away from the wall. Automatically and without any forethought, his head bends down—a tongue begins to collect the sticky seed striped over the boy's bare back in lapping strokes, tasting bitter salt in addition to an unfamiliar gritty sweetness. He does not open his eyes yet to see that the paint is coming off as well.]
/fin
It doesn’t take much more stimulation. At the first searing pressure of a tongue, dragging slow and heavy over the skin of his back, Stiles violently bucks with a choked-off noise, cock throbbing in vicarious anticipation of the next lick. He squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to slow the frenzied acceleration of a libido hungry to come – a battle he loses almost immediately. A paroxysm of pleasure floods him as his vision briefly flicks white, carrying Stiles down rapids without a lifejacket. His dick bobs against his stomach, ejaculate smearing a wet mess over the wall in front of him. Only Itachi’s support keeps the teen upright in the wake of climax, boneless legs wobbling with the consistency of jelly.
They don’t linger long. On unspoken agreement, they redress and straighten up as best as possible – Stiles now featuring the blurred suggestion of a painting on his back where Itachi licked him clean. Hand in hand, the boyfriends escape the club with the exhausted haste of people desperate to properly bathe. And as they travel from the ocean to the surface and from the beach to the lodgings, Stiles can’t help but smugly label “Operation: Dance Club” a smashing success. ]