[ shared cold encourages a tremble, but it's not the only thing that does. what he expected were the deep, frigid depths Itachi's synchrony usually accompanies; this is a frothing, churning hurt that is not absence, but rather a result of one. it makes him unsteady on his feet for a moment, a young man of already-keen empathy now pulled into the undertow and tossed viciously about in someone else's grief. Synchrony has had its benefits; now, he sways in its consequences as he feels his heart breaking for him. ]
[ his own feelings on Stiles's disappearance begin to crackle and smolder below: the molten churning of the earth's crust so deep in the sea there's no evidence of it on the surface. in the future, something will shift and drown the shore in one big, vengeful wave. today is not that day. Itachi's pain is one Guanshan has felt enough times — his mother, those uncertain and lonely months it took for Rokurou to follow him from world to world — and for which he has a single salve. one that will address the symptoms and not cure the disease itself. ]
Itachi... [ his voice is soft under the roar of the rain, over the warmth bleeding down his collar and shirt that becomes indistinguishable after a few moments of running. his fingers go up, finding the wet shellac of his hair atop his head, eyes locking on the grey haze of the city's smog-hidden horizon with a sharp narrowing that condemns bad luck and shitty timing... and then he eases Itachi back to take a long look and that bloodied chin and hollowed-out eyes. ]
I can make it better. At least, for a little while. [ here, of all places. him, of all people — the fucking freak who sees a man's mouth bleeding and leans forward to lash his tongue at it, splitting the seam and dragging across teeth. it's enough to convey just what his distraction entails with a little added heat coiling in his guts. ] Do you trust me?
[The sound of his name, the promise of suggestion backlit by rainfall and his own thick, rasping inhale of breath—he can follow along that arrow-pointed direction, unsurprised when a tongue scrapes wet across his mouth and pries inside to taste that hidden interior flooded with copper blood. It is far from the first of their kisses. Yet there are no barriers in this, no considerations for an outside reality that will rip him away at any moment beneath a tight band of self-control; he is rooted to this spot, tethered down. Hunger yawns open like the kiss they share, searing and molten and deep, inhibitions thoroughly evaporated. He knows this pattern because he has seen it before. If it means he can stop thinking, even for a little while...
Damp, clumped eyelashes flicker again as confusion lines his brow. He has heard this question before. He has asked this question before. What is the answer? It seems to him the words take an age to solidify, clotted in his throat. What should be yes is instead only a terrifying freefall backwards. Can he dare to do that again, if it makes him feel like this, when anything could rip it out of his hands?]
... I don't know. [Lost, fragile as glass, excavated by his own misery... Trust is like a monument in his mind made of ice. A wrong touch or thought or word might shatter it to pieces. He tests each syllable on his thick, swollen-tasting tongue, gore diluted by spit rubbing against gums.] But I believe you.
[He knows how to do this. One hand clasps hard onto Guanshan's bare nape, body-warmed against a frigid palm, and he's wrenching him back in again, lips aligned, shoving broad shoulders back into the doorway with pushy, steel-handed aggression. The blanket begins to slip off by dangerous inches, heavy with rain.]
[ the waiting takes as long as his hair to grow limp in humidity and the small of his back to bead sweat in the terrible heat; he watches every twitch and tighten of muscle on that fine-boned face, siphoning an uncertainty not aimed at him, but a formless broadcast pointed at nothing. Stiles didn't leave, and he didn't die — he's just gone. this is a reality with which Guanshan has coped for four long years, never growing immune to its anxiety. ]
[ he understands, and it's enough. he meets Itachi with that same ferocity, predictable in a man suffering, foreseen. Guanshan knows this pattern because he has lived it before, used his fresh aches like weapons against strangers and friends alike just so someone could hurt like him. a supplicant, he bows to this use for Itachi now — not out of duty to karmic balance, but with the same selfishness worshippers pray to God and ask Him for all manner of trivial satisfactions. ]
[ mouth engaged in that fierce lock of teeth and tongue and breath, Guanshan's the one to discard the blanket, reel him into the apartment, stamp him against the wall at the patio's door with the press of his body. he's soaked now too, the bleeding AC making that wet chill truly bite, but not as hard as Guanshan's teeth in the column of his throat or the thigh between his, his persistently swelling semi impressing eagerness on Itachi's hip. he sucks the rainwater off of his pulse point as his hands undo mother nature's sticky work and peel his shirt up, breaking apart long enough to pull it overhead and latch back on in the same spot, sure to mottle and bruise the flesh beneath. sure to ache. ]
[ shirt tossed backwards bluntly and suctioning halfway on the corner of the coffee table, his hands move over Itachi's body with exploratory longing. down ribs and into the most tapered point of his waist, bones widening over the bones of his hips — where Guanshan digs and drags him forward, the friction sticky and difficult, damp fabric a frustrating hindrance. the rain beats on. ]
[The stamp of pain from teeth in a tender throat is a bright signal in the dark, something to latch onto, electricity burning up nerve-ends with hot arousal. A kind of volatile attraction that has sat in his belly, gathering weight, banked by the clash of every one of their encounters up until now. It is easier than it should be to turn his head and surrender his neck to blunt teeth, to the rake of a velvet-wet tongue, licking up rainwater as though to clear an area for better bruising. That, too, passes through awareness without deeper consideration—modesty sucked out with the tide because he doesn't care anymore. He only wants every mark to be as painful as that worse, interior hurt of being left behind again.
Yielding to hands at his shirt, he allows it to be stripped off, upper body bare and pale and leeched of whatever sun had bronzed it in Marilla. Faint scars stand out around a defined ribcage, though his right arm's burnt tissue is more immediately noticeable. He feels both extremes of temperature—skin overly warm from a low grade fever, from outdoor humidity, from Guanshan's body sealing over his own; cold from a blast of AC, from water, from a vivid and unending loneliness cracked wide open.
Lust doubles through Synchrony, a low throb that fills out his cock more quickly than usual, hands on tapered waist met by an answering grind that better aligns the hot center of their bodies. He can feel that thickness against a sharp hip bone; it takes a twist to press closer, to fit his own cock just under the shape of Guanshan's through thick and clinging layers of fabric. He is breathing hard already—an effort working against sick and damaged lungs, yet the limited air brings a different headiness with it. A memory of having hands around his throat. He leans an overwarm brow onto Guanshan's broad shoulder with a particularly ragged inhale, not-quite-noise, and begins to peel off his shirt with an almost brutal insistence, yanking hard, wanting naked skin pressed seamlessly together.]
[ the relief of Itachi giving into the language Guanshan has been speaking since meeting him is unquantifiable; it makes him dizzy with excitement, galvanized by the opportunity to provide instead of just tempt and tease and lie in wait like a bear-trap on the forest floor. now that he's latched his way into the flesh, there's no tearing free without bleeding out. shucked of his shirt and electrified by Itachi's slotting of their bodies together, he groans low as he pushes forward, clingy friction a new sensation to explore that draws a wet moan from his mouth. the same as with pain — Guanshan is all human, all responsive. ]
[ hands grip Itachi's hips and his weight comes up simply, riding higher on his body as he lifts and holds, bossing around a form that now seems weak with sickness and longing. a forearm slides under his ass to make a seat, and his free hand does a poor job of sliding the patio door closed. he takes him deeper into the apartment. his bedroom is the goal he intends; instead, with Itachi's legs around his waist, he crashes him into all manner of surfaces in his mouth's distraction. sucking up blots of bruising on collarbones and chest with a stumble into the couch's edge, a wayward foot knocking over the lamp at the end table. another dark stamp of humidity as he slams Itachi into the stretch of hallway, latching his mouth to his again as he bites his way in and kisses him hard, seeking the tang of copper and spit, not finding the char he expects. ]
[ with his weight compressed between two supports, hands resume their exploration, raking over his entire silhouette; he'll spend time taking apart each one of those scars to fill it in, but for now, he's squeezing at hip bones and the soft give of his ass, forcing him to rock a rhythm against that built friction, breaking his kiss with another hot-blooded sound. ]
Someday, [ he pants, opening eyes that look, in some small way, anguished — and yet blown-wide with lust and sadism. ] I'm gonna fuck you so soft'n slow you wonder what you ever did to deserve it.
[ at Itachi's side, two sets of blunt nails sink into his ribs, beneath the sensitive and rarely touched skin usually covered by triceps; they both rake all the way down to the points of hips, hard enough that the wakes are furious red, smattered with blood that thinks about flowing free. ]
[Core strength makes the position easy to maintain, legs closing in a tight latch around narrow hips, arms forming a supportive circle around the slope of shoulders as he's hefted and taken deeper into the apartment. At some point wet sandals have slid off, abandoned somewhere on the floor, so that he digs both heels in at the bruising attention of that mouth, unspoken (unrealized, automatic) encouragement for more. The collision of the wall drives out all air in a harsh, ragged exhale at odds with noticeable silence. His throat feels raw and sore by the time Guanshan's mouth savages his own, sucking out the last of blood that hasn't diluted to nothing by spit, heady with a lack of oxygen. The room spins on the withdrawal, not fighting the roving exploration of hands that map everywhere he hasn't allowed Guanshan to touch until now. It is a violation of personal space that leaves comprehension lagging at those sudden words.
Lean, ropy muscles are taut all down his body, and his ass is no exception when those greedy hands palm across it, a tight clench that gives little and seems instead to resist the squeeze. He blinks, blearily at the proclamation, hearing it as a promise and struggling to translate. What does he deserve? Their eyes meet, anguish for anguish, but there's a depth of intimacy to the contact of gazes that becomes a blow to the chest. What he wants is pain and distraction, yet unable to get his mind over that ridge of Guanshan threatening to fuck him—summoning an expression to his face that is open and dark and vulnerable, just a glimmer of interior suffering, bewildered desire, partial understanding. He's never done that before.
The violent rake of nails down both sides is enough to wipe it out of immediate consciousness. Itachi's back goes straight against the wall, shaking, toes curling at the blister of pain. The low, dull throb that comes after is almost as good, a pulse he feels down into the ache of his cock. He turns his head, hair loose—perhaps never put up, not in hours—and plastered wet down the side of his throat, streaky black.
Half delirious, he presses blunt crescents into Guanshan's shoulders and looks at him through a fringe of black, unwilling to lose his eyes, only attempting words as an afterthought.] ... and what is today?
[ pretty. dangerously, viciously so. Itachi's open expression of anything — perhaps especially, pain — is a cinematic thrill he hyperfocus on as if trying to read his every pore and wrinkle of muscle or count his very teeth. the volatile chain reaction of arousal it elicits from the nape of his neck to deep in his balls takes him by surprise with its dose. every strand of hair stands on end, skin dimpling with a chill that hasn't been blessed by the rain. for a moment, more is the only word that his thoughts can produce, the nails in his skin bringing him back to the moment with a muted wince. still, he stumbles into his meaning naturally, indicating they're words borne of nature instead of nurture; ] ...I'm gonna make your outsides match your insides.
[ the hook of his fingernails has caught on the seam of the rest of Itachi's clothes, rolling down with their sogging weight — to his advantage as one hand paws it down, sliding into the cleft of Itachi's ass and then lower, fingers furrowing boldly to the underside of his taint and over his hole. a grip, a stimulation; an alert to wake up sensation and sensitivity to an area that that beat of hesitation tells him is probably novice. the anxious young man who had only wanted to hold Itachi's hand in the privacy of his apartment all those nights past simultaneously lives aside a lover whose bold, brash confidence in the bedroom is one of the few fucking things in life he's good at, specialized through a queer history of experience and an innate empathy alike — not so different the kitchen. ]
And I'm gonna make you like it.
[ with his grip anchored right in Itachi's seat, his other arm embraces his back and lifts him again — this time to the bed. when his shins rap against the framework at its longest side does he drop Itachi down without grace into lived-in sheets that will soak up more rainwater; they'll have to be cleaned soon, for more reasons than that alone. with Guanshan still standing, still hooked on fabric, he wastes no time shucking the rest of waterlogged clothing from him with focused attention, leaving damp piles behind him on the floor. if it feels to Itachi that things are happening quickly, it's because they are, his enthusiasm sending him through the motions with a low tolerance for the things in the way of what he wants. ]
[ but eagerness has its own sharp edge, and the next spot Guanshan latches that mean mouth is high in the part of his knees, a sensitive slant of tendons just before the inner thigh becomes truly tender. its anticipatory threat of biting, sucking pain is the point, judging from the predatory tilt of his eyes to Itachi in his peripherals. ]
[The act of being stripped is eternally unnatural in practice, bold and vulnerable as shed skin, so few eyes have ever graced those bare inches of flesh revealed in the downward yank of wet fabric. Pale miles below the waist, smooth and entirely unmarked except for a jagged stab wound on the outer left thigh. Black leggings and briefs peel off ankles to reveal the rest of a dangerous body honed since toddler years to kill in the name of greater cause—one also ravaged by illness and stress into a portrait of sharp lines and delicate angles, cut lean with muscle and bone and little else. He has endured a harsh lifetime at the hands of fate; Guanshan's palms offer another world unto themselves. Any pain is more to purge the clawing darkness that poisons his system. What other way is there to get it out but to bleed? He hasn't learned yet.
Fingers wedge themselves down into the narrow crevice of his ass, muscles still taut with unbidden hesitation, skim of contact across the opening of his body like an electric jolt to flexed toes. Callused fingertips bring heat to the tender area tucked just behind tight balls, and the clench is automatic as strong thighs squeeze powerfully around Guanshan's hips—suggesting that any further trespass of that untouched, hidden hole will not come without a fight and a surrender, no matter what those words promise him.
Itachi's breath is ragged, focused on the face so close to his own, freckled, eyes copper in one moment and burnt gold the next, elusive and mercurial as every action that has brought them to this moment. He thinks it should be easier to read Guanshan, to predict him; perhaps it is a flaw of his own, then, that a surprised hiss greets the relocation, back thrown flat to the bed. An inhale takes the scent of Guanshan's skin directly in from wrinkled sheets—sweat, dust, metal. (How many have been in this bed? How many others will see it, after him?) His gaze is a slant of black straight down, expression like the edge of a blade, unsaid Can you make me like it? a retaliation as one slim leg is draped over Guanshan's broad shoulders to dig a heel in hard with the threat that one kick could drive him away. His cock lays in the crook of a thigh, base framed by black curls and length not yet swollen to fullness, pinkened with the blemish of throbbing blood beneath soft thin skin.
The contact of that mouth on his leg—the same one slung over shoulders—causes Itachi to come up onto an elbow, chest rising with each thick breath and hair wet and messy around a severe face, mouth parted and brows creased. It looks like a glare, daring the bite that would herald more pain with silence.]
[ well met, when Guanshan's eyes slant. regardless of whether the sight of Itachi nude and pale as liquid moonlight arouses him or not, the wheelhouse of his desire has already begun churning relentlessly, remedying sickness and hesitation and what's unwanted; he looks on with glasses tinted rose-red, his idea of romance as brutal as bruises and blood. sucking up purple in the blot beneath his mouth, he's encouraging colors to the ruined canvas of the shinobi's body, painting with grips and bites — a masterpiece that will fade, but not for days. ]
Even when you feel this fucked up, you always gotta fight, don't you?
[ words that fall with a warm, subdued mirth; he adjusts those bray-threatening legs again to shift to the other one, circling in closer to where any man would want his mouth — and here, he sinks into the tender inner thigh like biting into a ripe peach, drags the skin between his teeth, bites until it pinches and bleeds at the epicenter. the dental records will match at dawn. ]
Your willpower is really... [ his mouth is walking, smearing messy kisses along a seam of muscle and into the folded juncture where groin meets leg; the pause is a breath, a borderline euphoric inhalation of scent and musk. self-congratulatory, in a way. ] Amazing, Itachi.
[ semi left untouched, he once again bites down on that key point of sensation where the adonis belt clefts hard towards a thatch of dark curls — none gentler, and his tongue abuses the fever-heat of pained flesh. sinking nails into the outer flank of his thighs, only when they rake viciously up towards his prone knees does his mouth move lower, fetching his cock from its recumbent slouch by dragging his lips over the length... ]
[ and then collecting the head in the hot, wet heat of his mouth, tongue directing him from beneath the glans into that eager mouth — though he sinks no further, only offering the intensity of simultaneous pleasure and pain. ]
[The question of willpower is left at the door; he cannot say what it is that acts as volatile fuel at the center of his body, in the tight clench of a belly, only that it consumes with deadly hunger all desire for passivity in this exchange. Biting, clawing touch is met with squirms of acute arousal—silent still as the dead. He's easy to mark, inner thigh blooming immediate angry-red beneath the blunt pinch of teeth, pricked with coppery blood. He would almost like Guanshan to stay there until he's chewed straight through.
Instead it continues, teases unraveling below the journey of that mouth to the aching point of his vulnerable cock, steering at the last moment away. Everything feels weaponized. The evidence of skill in a lashing, hot tongue that turns every bite soaking wet with spit as an animal might clean a wound. Wound after wound, raking the canvas of his lower body into the sensation of pins and needles, blistering pain, euphoric pleasure—masochism cutting like a knife through the mire of his thoughts.]
I want it to hurt, [he eventually manages to communicate in a voice turned dark and gritty, devolved to some baser self,] whatever that requires. I— ...don't care.
[It may as well be a confession of the soul, because as he says it he seems to shrink into himself, too exposed in the process, thighs clamping like a steel trap around Guanshan's head as soon as those lips slide over the bare head of his cock. A brief, ragged gasp rips loose from his throat, dislodged by the soft and unbearable envelope of pressure that takes him in. Synchrony stutters at the same time; a burning fluctuation, heart rate ticking faster. He can feel himself thicken on Guanshan's unyielding tongue. As though this too is painful for him—something in the act of being forced to hardness, dick made full—Itachi attempts to withdraw, hips twisting sideways on sheets sticking damply to skin.]
[ a response comes not without pause or his own selfish mischief; even if his mouth pops off of Itachi's cock with wet suction, a greedy and devilish tongue still laps up inches in a hot, wet slither down the underside of erection, leaving behind a wet glisten that cools when his heat slips away. ]
I know. [ and he does — but the shinobi is making it increasingly apparent he lacks the patience of a warm-up... and Guanshan should've known. the sharingan's illusion could've been any number of horrors, and Itachi thought his strike would land on a pressure point, and a man should only dole what he can take. it spurs him along on dark plot brewing in his grey matter, timeline advanced at his seeming behest; he withdraws only some to open a drawer in his bedside table, fishing out a used bottle of lube and a similarly used kukri at a great bent length. ]
But I'm not a saint, [ the bottle falls to the bed but the blade stays in his palm as he hoists Itachi's body up by the armpits, pushing his shoulders against the headboard as Guanshan helms his hips. one hand, then the other, both led up the length of the wall and laid flat against each other as he raises up on his knees — ]
[ and rounds his hand back as he drives the blade through meat. hard telling if it's luck or skill that he misses bone, the length of metal running parallel to both sets of metacarpals — and then sinking in by several inches through the plaster of his bedroom wall. the handle fits snugly in the curve of Itachi's palm. and so the rivers run, down flesh and architecture. ]
And this ain't about just you.
[ the act of wetting two fingers from a bottle of lubricant is so rote that he spends his time admiring Itachi's face as he does, and it's without interruption that he introduces them to the puckered ring of muscle surrounding Itachi's hole, a prying insistence lacking gentleness into a body already racked with pain. ]
[Sight of the blade draws animal awareness to it, instinct watchful, heart kicking faster beneath a concave breastbone on a gasping thick inhalation. All of his attention is pulled away from his own cock, tucked now slick with saliva in the tender seam of a thigh as he's hauled bodily up the bed. Yet there is no physical resistance otherwise; possessed of self-destructive lassitude, he allows arms to be guided upward in the position of a saint prepared to be nailed to the cross for his sins. It takes no genius to comprehend the trajectory of Guanshan's mind.
Impossible to brace against that bright splinter of excruciating pain when it follows the kukri's silver arc home. Never so vulnerable in combat as to take damage outside an illusory battlefield, rarely does he bleed from wounds inflicted by someone else. Those last remnants of composure crumble like sand, pain tolerance low and sinking lower, the sound he makes stripped purely raw as he has never allowed himself to express—a wet exclamation of voice in a sudden, wrenching cry. His mouth opens and hangs slack, blood brimming behind lips, slicking teeth and gums, throat working to swallow it down.
Nothing compared to the steady stream of red from pinned hands, streaking white arms like a canvas sullied by those first few swipes of artistic paint. He keeps himself carefully still; he knows movement will only jar the metal wedged into the center of palms. His body is tight yet unresisting to lube-greased fingertips, unable to fight, unwilling to fully relax. Still, obedience is in the tells: legs remain splayed open, giving access to all of the untouched places between, head rolled back against the headboard and shoulders rigidly squared. His expression says everything that needs to be said. Knitted, twisted into a grimace, eyes only slits of color through long and feminine lashes, gaze pinned on Guanshan like a demand.
[ lashes clumped with rain and gleaming red on bloodshot red, Itachi looks like a wilted painting dripping oil and turpentine into his bed, an expensive piece of art made priceless by the one who gets to ruin it. Guanshan doesn't have the breadth and depth to admire it for everything it is, the fingers of a whore incomparable to that of an artist: rough and forward, stretching canvas painfully around the introduction of not one but two. they will throb and heat as he opens him up to one knuckle, turns the screw, and on to the second. ]
[ what he does have in his possession is an awareness of what he's missing, just enough to fill in those gaps of the truly enlightened. he knows he doesn't want to even blink a moment away under that stressed glare of the Sharingan with trust that's actionable; at any moment, Itachi could take control back, dish agonies deeper than Guanshan is capable of imagining, turn their current arrangement inside out. the paper-thin veneer that stops it from happening is that Guanshan trusts he won't, and that Itachi simply doesn't want it. at least, so long as he's given that distracting pain he was promised — and so, he pushes on. ]
[ snuggled up close on his side, his half-lidded attention stays vulture-circling the most intimate parts of Itachi's countenance, even as his fingers slide and stretch and wedge and explore inside of him; Guanshan breathes in when Itachi gasps, laps his tongue across the ajar seam of his bloody mouth when he sees movement within, chases the low sounds of discomfort and pain to his throat when they come. around the time both long fingers have plunged all the way to the hilt, he's leaving bruising bites along his adams apple as though he were trying to chew all the way down to the pulse. ]
[ and finally, Guanshan's palm turns up, curling "come-hither" fingerpads rubbing and stroking inquisitively at various depths along the root of Itachi's cock, determined to find the apply pressure to the spot that will make agony and ecstasy sing in addictive harmony over the humid, cloying connection of Synchrony. ]
Come on, c'mon, [ words warm and smoked as whiskey, murmured low and loving against the shell of an ear as his fingers continue to work, reaming out space inside of him in enthusiasm without caution; ] Relax. Give it to me.
[The sensation is foreign, indelicate, dissimilar to the artful and soft curl of a tongue prying him open—those thick, knobby knuckles are larger and more insistent as they push into his body, sending an electric jolt up the base of his spine that soon inspires a fit of shivers difficult to tame. Guanshan's presence at his side is almost oppressive in its intimacy; their skin is in overly warm contact, one long line of physical closeness all the way down. He can't get away from it. The attention on his expression edges some uncomfortable boundary he hasn't yet allowed anyone to see—Itachi's head turns, silky black hair sliding to eclipse part of his face, sticking to a wet cheek and the corner of one red eye. He wants the pain, but he doesn't want to be seen enjoying it.
Legs curl up, bent at the knee when that tongue swipes across his open mouth. It's sloppy and messy in a way he typically avoids. He can taste his own blood, sharp and copper in the caress of tongues, bringing with it a flavor that is rapidly becoming an associated fixture between them. Guanshan and blood. Guanshan and pain.
Relax isn't possible, not when curled fingertips caress a sore, tender point within him that no one has ever reached, shocking something sharp through his entire body like he's been dragged across glass—white-hot, scorching pleasure reduced to its basest form. Almost like an orgasm, yet it feels deeper in his belly, hooked further down into some unfamiliar place. Itachi jerks on the bed against his own iron-willed discipline; fresh threads of trickling blood slide down his arms where embedded palms are jolted on the blade. The sound he makes is fully unconscious, now, a half-choked cry that comes out mostly breath.]
St— [Cut off by teeth, panted, what might have been stop if he let it. As if he's so overcome he's forgotten he can end this any time he chooses. Knees close around Guanshan's forearm as if to dissuade the fingers buried in his hole from worming any deeper.] ... Ah.
[ a whole big universe full of vibrations, and Itachi's are the only ones he can feel, the frequency of him shaking against, beneath him some morse code message he wants to carve into the soft gelatin of his brain matter. this experience being one of obvious introduction (what a way to do it), he'd normally find himself mollifying a lover with assurances that he won't shame a fast release. but Itachi has never fallen under the precepts of his own society — if he has concerns, and Guanshan's sure he does, it isn't this. he pushes the thought aside (and his instinct to comfort), going still in his canvassing. ]
[ beneath his fingers. Guanshan holds a careful, steady pressure where he's landed; in the same way that Itachi needs a moment to familiarize himself with the intensity, Guanshan takes that same stretch of panting breaths and furious heartbeats to memorize. the angle of Itachi's body, the depth of his ingress, the pressure he can currently take. to his credit, he's more delicate here than he was with the knife. ]
You're okay. [ after the sting comes the honey, his voice a tremulous whisper. given the time and space to let electrified synapses settle, he moves to nudge apart bruised thighs with one long leg, wedging his calf between knees and down, pinning the one closest to him to the mattress. it isn't entirely to discourage Itachi from clenching them closed — but if he must, he'll have to turn towards him and risk the bloodloss. now half-pinned at the shinobi's side, his own erection throbs insistently against the hook of his hip, neglected. ]
Both this time. [ raising his free hand tucks a slender shoulder into his armpit; the ulnar side of his hand presses down into the wall next to the mess of gore. it won't take much to resensitize the nerves here. hands, so many dainty little pieces working together. ] Ready?
[ he'll wait until he is, until there are no more stops in his vocabulary. he's not here to rob Itachi of control, only embrace the relief surrender. Guanshan knows it lies right in that liminal place between the two sensations — pain and pleasure, yin and yang. ]
[He is shaken more by words than action. Bleary, gleaming red eyes are watching—a sheen of wetness to slits of color that is alien, so rarely is he brought to the threshold of physical pain—possessed, in this moment, by someone else's mercy. What he is not expecting is that warm reassurance. It laves him, a soothing caress that counters the blade in his hands and the burn forcing his body open. It is a balm that he cranes toward, thirsty, but cannot stretch very far without jolts of sharp agony coming alive down his arms. Itachi goes still again. His chest expands around every breath, blood now running down elbows and biceps in a slithering pattern of gravity, black strands of hair sticking to the mess, smearing it.
This will not kill him, and even if it did, he would not care. Yet it is hanging on that edge of pain that he wants, where Guanshan has brought him. He doesn't close his legs; thighs remain obediently spread now, a display of earned submission. He is distracted by too many sensations at once: the hot seal of a body against his own, the dragging hardness of Guanshan's cock at his hip, the pain and ticklish trickling of wounds, the sore press at such a tender place inside of him, the crackling threads of pleasure at this unfamiliar penetration. He feels stretched, and full, and it seems impossible that this could go on, that he could take more.
Itachi turns his head, realizing that he is trembling everywhere now—from the twitch of fingertips to the spasm of a thigh, to the clench of his hole over Guanshan's knuckles, unable to help it, unable to relax. Their faces are closer like this, sharing a mixture of the same air that seems to intoxicate him for its intimacy.]
Yes, [is rasped in a wet voice, before his throat works on a swallow and he tries again:] Yes.
[Straining again, he leans in a bid for Guanshan's mouth, as though the kiss might cement something else. Every time it happens, at least, it becomes easier to bear.]
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[ his own feelings on Stiles's disappearance begin to crackle and smolder below: the molten churning of the earth's crust so deep in the sea there's no evidence of it on the surface. in the future, something will shift and drown the shore in one big, vengeful wave. today is not that day. Itachi's pain is one Guanshan has felt enough times — his mother, those uncertain and lonely months it took for Rokurou to follow him from world to world — and for which he has a single salve. one that will address the symptoms and not cure the disease itself. ]
Itachi... [ his voice is soft under the roar of the rain, over the warmth bleeding down his collar and shirt that becomes indistinguishable after a few moments of running. his fingers go up, finding the wet shellac of his hair atop his head, eyes locking on the grey haze of the city's smog-hidden horizon with a sharp narrowing that condemns bad luck and shitty timing... and then he eases Itachi back to take a long look and that bloodied chin and hollowed-out eyes. ]
I can make it better. At least, for a little while. [ here, of all places. him, of all people — the fucking freak who sees a man's mouth bleeding and leans forward to lash his tongue at it, splitting the seam and dragging across teeth. it's enough to convey just what his distraction entails with a little added heat coiling in his guts. ] Do you trust me?
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Damp, clumped eyelashes flicker again as confusion lines his brow. He has heard this question before. He has asked this question before. What is the answer? It seems to him the words take an age to solidify, clotted in his throat. What should be yes is instead only a terrifying freefall backwards. Can he dare to do that again, if it makes him feel like this, when anything could rip it out of his hands?]
... I don't know. [Lost, fragile as glass, excavated by his own misery... Trust is like a monument in his mind made of ice. A wrong touch or thought or word might shatter it to pieces. He tests each syllable on his thick, swollen-tasting tongue, gore diluted by spit rubbing against gums.] But I believe you.
[He knows how to do this. One hand clasps hard onto Guanshan's bare nape, body-warmed against a frigid palm, and he's wrenching him back in again, lips aligned, shoving broad shoulders back into the doorway with pushy, steel-handed aggression. The blanket begins to slip off by dangerous inches, heavy with rain.]
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[ he understands, and it's enough. he meets Itachi with that same ferocity, predictable in a man suffering, foreseen. Guanshan knows this pattern because he has lived it before, used his fresh aches like weapons against strangers and friends alike just so someone could hurt like him. a supplicant, he bows to this use for Itachi now — not out of duty to karmic balance, but with the same selfishness worshippers pray to God and ask Him for all manner of trivial satisfactions. ]
[ mouth engaged in that fierce lock of teeth and tongue and breath, Guanshan's the one to discard the blanket, reel him into the apartment, stamp him against the wall at the patio's door with the press of his body. he's soaked now too, the bleeding AC making that wet chill truly bite, but not as hard as Guanshan's teeth in the column of his throat or the thigh between his, his persistently swelling semi impressing eagerness on Itachi's hip. he sucks the rainwater off of his pulse point as his hands undo mother nature's sticky work and peel his shirt up, breaking apart long enough to pull it overhead and latch back on in the same spot, sure to mottle and bruise the flesh beneath. sure to ache. ]
[ shirt tossed backwards bluntly and suctioning halfway on the corner of the coffee table, his hands move over Itachi's body with exploratory longing. down ribs and into the most tapered point of his waist, bones widening over the bones of his hips — where Guanshan digs and drags him forward, the friction sticky and difficult, damp fabric a frustrating hindrance. the rain beats on. ]
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Yielding to hands at his shirt, he allows it to be stripped off, upper body bare and pale and leeched of whatever sun had bronzed it in Marilla. Faint scars stand out around a defined ribcage, though his right arm's burnt tissue is more immediately noticeable. He feels both extremes of temperature—skin overly warm from a low grade fever, from outdoor humidity, from Guanshan's body sealing over his own; cold from a blast of AC, from water, from a vivid and unending loneliness cracked wide open.
Lust doubles through Synchrony, a low throb that fills out his cock more quickly than usual, hands on tapered waist met by an answering grind that better aligns the hot center of their bodies. He can feel that thickness against a sharp hip bone; it takes a twist to press closer, to fit his own cock just under the shape of Guanshan's through thick and clinging layers of fabric. He is breathing hard already—an effort working against sick and damaged lungs, yet the limited air brings a different headiness with it. A memory of having hands around his throat. He leans an overwarm brow onto Guanshan's broad shoulder with a particularly ragged inhale, not-quite-noise, and begins to peel off his shirt with an almost brutal insistence, yanking hard, wanting naked skin pressed seamlessly together.]
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[ hands grip Itachi's hips and his weight comes up simply, riding higher on his body as he lifts and holds, bossing around a form that now seems weak with sickness and longing. a forearm slides under his ass to make a seat, and his free hand does a poor job of sliding the patio door closed. he takes him deeper into the apartment. his bedroom is the goal he intends; instead, with Itachi's legs around his waist, he crashes him into all manner of surfaces in his mouth's distraction. sucking up blots of bruising on collarbones and chest with a stumble into the couch's edge, a wayward foot knocking over the lamp at the end table. another dark stamp of humidity as he slams Itachi into the stretch of hallway, latching his mouth to his again as he bites his way in and kisses him hard, seeking the tang of copper and spit, not finding the char he expects. ]
[ with his weight compressed between two supports, hands resume their exploration, raking over his entire silhouette; he'll spend time taking apart each one of those scars to fill it in, but for now, he's squeezing at hip bones and the soft give of his ass, forcing him to rock a rhythm against that built friction, breaking his kiss with another hot-blooded sound. ]
Someday, [ he pants, opening eyes that look, in some small way, anguished — and yet blown-wide with lust and sadism. ] I'm gonna fuck you so soft'n slow you wonder what you ever did to deserve it.
[ at Itachi's side, two sets of blunt nails sink into his ribs, beneath the sensitive and rarely touched skin usually covered by triceps; they both rake all the way down to the points of hips, hard enough that the wakes are furious red, smattered with blood that thinks about flowing free. ]
Today ain't that day.
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Lean, ropy muscles are taut all down his body, and his ass is no exception when those greedy hands palm across it, a tight clench that gives little and seems instead to resist the squeeze. He blinks, blearily at the proclamation, hearing it as a promise and struggling to translate. What does he deserve? Their eyes meet, anguish for anguish, but there's a depth of intimacy to the contact of gazes that becomes a blow to the chest. What he wants is pain and distraction, yet unable to get his mind over that ridge of Guanshan threatening to fuck him—summoning an expression to his face that is open and dark and vulnerable, just a glimmer of interior suffering, bewildered desire, partial understanding. He's never done that before.
The violent rake of nails down both sides is enough to wipe it out of immediate consciousness. Itachi's back goes straight against the wall, shaking, toes curling at the blister of pain. The low, dull throb that comes after is almost as good, a pulse he feels down into the ache of his cock. He turns his head, hair loose—perhaps never put up, not in hours—and plastered wet down the side of his throat, streaky black.
Half delirious, he presses blunt crescents into Guanshan's shoulders and looks at him through a fringe of black, unwilling to lose his eyes, only attempting words as an afterthought.] ... and what is today?
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[ the hook of his fingernails has caught on the seam of the rest of Itachi's clothes, rolling down with their sogging weight — to his advantage as one hand paws it down, sliding into the cleft of Itachi's ass and then lower, fingers furrowing boldly to the underside of his taint and over his hole. a grip, a stimulation; an alert to wake up sensation and sensitivity to an area that that beat of hesitation tells him is probably novice. the anxious young man who had only wanted to hold Itachi's hand in the privacy of his apartment all those nights past simultaneously lives aside a lover whose bold, brash confidence in the bedroom is one of the few fucking things in life he's good at, specialized through a queer history of experience and an innate empathy alike — not so different the kitchen. ]
And I'm gonna make you like it.
[ with his grip anchored right in Itachi's seat, his other arm embraces his back and lifts him again — this time to the bed. when his shins rap against the framework at its longest side does he drop Itachi down without grace into lived-in sheets that will soak up more rainwater; they'll have to be cleaned soon, for more reasons than that alone. with Guanshan still standing, still hooked on fabric, he wastes no time shucking the rest of waterlogged clothing from him with focused attention, leaving damp piles behind him on the floor. if it feels to Itachi that things are happening quickly, it's because they are, his enthusiasm sending him through the motions with a low tolerance for the things in the way of what he wants. ]
[ but eagerness has its own sharp edge, and the next spot Guanshan latches that mean mouth is high in the part of his knees, a sensitive slant of tendons just before the inner thigh becomes truly tender. its anticipatory threat of biting, sucking pain is the point, judging from the predatory tilt of his eyes to Itachi in his peripherals. ]
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Fingers wedge themselves down into the narrow crevice of his ass, muscles still taut with unbidden hesitation, skim of contact across the opening of his body like an electric jolt to flexed toes. Callused fingertips bring heat to the tender area tucked just behind tight balls, and the clench is automatic as strong thighs squeeze powerfully around Guanshan's hips—suggesting that any further trespass of that untouched, hidden hole will not come without a fight and a surrender, no matter what those words promise him.
Itachi's breath is ragged, focused on the face so close to his own, freckled, eyes copper in one moment and burnt gold the next, elusive and mercurial as every action that has brought them to this moment. He thinks it should be easier to read Guanshan, to predict him; perhaps it is a flaw of his own, then, that a surprised hiss greets the relocation, back thrown flat to the bed. An inhale takes the scent of Guanshan's skin directly in from wrinkled sheets—sweat, dust, metal. (How many have been in this bed? How many others will see it, after him?) His gaze is a slant of black straight down, expression like the edge of a blade, unsaid Can you make me like it? a retaliation as one slim leg is draped over Guanshan's broad shoulders to dig a heel in hard with the threat that one kick could drive him away. His cock lays in the crook of a thigh, base framed by black curls and length not yet swollen to fullness, pinkened with the blemish of throbbing blood beneath soft thin skin.
The contact of that mouth on his leg—the same one slung over shoulders—causes Itachi to come up onto an elbow, chest rising with each thick breath and hair wet and messy around a severe face, mouth parted and brows creased. It looks like a glare, daring the bite that would herald more pain with silence.]
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Even when you feel this fucked up, you always gotta fight, don't you?
[ words that fall with a warm, subdued mirth; he adjusts those bray-threatening legs again to shift to the other one, circling in closer to where any man would want his mouth — and here, he sinks into the tender inner thigh like biting into a ripe peach, drags the skin between his teeth, bites until it pinches and bleeds at the epicenter. the dental records will match at dawn. ]
Your willpower is really... [ his mouth is walking, smearing messy kisses along a seam of muscle and into the folded juncture where groin meets leg; the pause is a breath, a borderline euphoric inhalation of scent and musk. self-congratulatory, in a way. ] Amazing, Itachi.
[ semi left untouched, he once again bites down on that key point of sensation where the adonis belt clefts hard towards a thatch of dark curls — none gentler, and his tongue abuses the fever-heat of pained flesh. sinking nails into the outer flank of his thighs, only when they rake viciously up towards his prone knees does his mouth move lower, fetching his cock from its recumbent slouch by dragging his lips over the length... ]
[ and then collecting the head in the hot, wet heat of his mouth, tongue directing him from beneath the glans into that eager mouth — though he sinks no further, only offering the intensity of simultaneous pleasure and pain. ]
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Instead it continues, teases unraveling below the journey of that mouth to the aching point of his vulnerable cock, steering at the last moment away. Everything feels weaponized. The evidence of skill in a lashing, hot tongue that turns every bite soaking wet with spit as an animal might clean a wound. Wound after wound, raking the canvas of his lower body into the sensation of pins and needles, blistering pain, euphoric pleasure—masochism cutting like a knife through the mire of his thoughts.]
I want it to hurt, [he eventually manages to communicate in a voice turned dark and gritty, devolved to some baser self,] whatever that requires. I— ...don't care.
[It may as well be a confession of the soul, because as he says it he seems to shrink into himself, too exposed in the process, thighs clamping like a steel trap around Guanshan's head as soon as those lips slide over the bare head of his cock. A brief, ragged gasp rips loose from his throat, dislodged by the soft and unbearable envelope of pressure that takes him in. Synchrony stutters at the same time; a burning fluctuation, heart rate ticking faster. He can feel himself thicken on Guanshan's unyielding tongue. As though this too is painful for him—something in the act of being forced to hardness, dick made full—Itachi attempts to withdraw, hips twisting sideways on sheets sticking damply to skin.]
cw for knives, blood, painplay, etc
I know. [ and he does — but the shinobi is making it increasingly apparent he lacks the patience of a warm-up... and Guanshan should've known. the sharingan's illusion could've been any number of horrors, and Itachi thought his strike would land on a pressure point, and a man should only dole what he can take. it spurs him along on dark plot brewing in his grey matter, timeline advanced at his seeming behest; he withdraws only some to open a drawer in his bedside table, fishing out a used bottle of lube and a similarly used kukri at a great bent length. ]
But I'm not a saint, [ the bottle falls to the bed but the blade stays in his palm as he hoists Itachi's body up by the armpits, pushing his shoulders against the headboard as Guanshan helms his hips. one hand, then the other, both led up the length of the wall and laid flat against each other as he raises up on his knees — ]
[ and rounds his hand back as he drives the blade through meat. hard telling if it's luck or skill that he misses bone, the length of metal running parallel to both sets of metacarpals — and then sinking in by several inches through the plaster of his bedroom wall. the handle fits snugly in the curve of Itachi's palm. and so the rivers run, down flesh and architecture. ]
And this ain't about just you.
[ the act of wetting two fingers from a bottle of lubricant is so rote that he spends his time admiring Itachi's face as he does, and it's without interruption that he introduces them to the puckered ring of muscle surrounding Itachi's hole, a prying insistence lacking gentleness into a body already racked with pain. ]
We can both get what we want.
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Impossible to brace against that bright splinter of excruciating pain when it follows the kukri's silver arc home. Never so vulnerable in combat as to take damage outside an illusory battlefield, rarely does he bleed from wounds inflicted by someone else. Those last remnants of composure crumble like sand, pain tolerance low and sinking lower, the sound he makes stripped purely raw as he has never allowed himself to express—a wet exclamation of voice in a sudden, wrenching cry. His mouth opens and hangs slack, blood brimming behind lips, slicking teeth and gums, throat working to swallow it down.
Nothing compared to the steady stream of red from pinned hands, streaking white arms like a canvas sullied by those first few swipes of artistic paint. He keeps himself carefully still; he knows movement will only jar the metal wedged into the center of palms. His body is tight yet unresisting to lube-greased fingertips, unable to fight, unwilling to fully relax. Still, obedience is in the tells: legs remain splayed open, giving access to all of the untouched places between, head rolled back against the headboard and shoulders rigidly squared. His expression says everything that needs to be said. Knitted, twisted into a grimace, eyes only slits of color through long and feminine lashes, gaze pinned on Guanshan like a demand.
Do it, then.]
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[ what he does have in his possession is an awareness of what he's missing, just enough to fill in those gaps of the truly enlightened. he knows he doesn't want to even blink a moment away under that stressed glare of the Sharingan with trust that's actionable; at any moment, Itachi could take control back, dish agonies deeper than Guanshan is capable of imagining, turn their current arrangement inside out. the paper-thin veneer that stops it from happening is that Guanshan trusts he won't, and that Itachi simply doesn't want it. at least, so long as he's given that distracting pain he was promised — and so, he pushes on. ]
[ snuggled up close on his side, his half-lidded attention stays vulture-circling the most intimate parts of Itachi's countenance, even as his fingers slide and stretch and wedge and explore inside of him; Guanshan breathes in when Itachi gasps, laps his tongue across the ajar seam of his bloody mouth when he sees movement within, chases the low sounds of discomfort and pain to his throat when they come. around the time both long fingers have plunged all the way to the hilt, he's leaving bruising bites along his adams apple as though he were trying to chew all the way down to the pulse. ]
[ and finally, Guanshan's palm turns up, curling "come-hither" fingerpads rubbing and stroking inquisitively at various depths along the root of Itachi's cock, determined to find the apply pressure to the spot that will make agony and ecstasy sing in addictive harmony over the humid, cloying connection of Synchrony. ]
Come on, c'mon, [ words warm and smoked as whiskey, murmured low and loving against the shell of an ear as his fingers continue to work, reaming out space inside of him in enthusiasm without caution; ] Relax. Give it to me.
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Legs curl up, bent at the knee when that tongue swipes across his open mouth. It's sloppy and messy in a way he typically avoids. He can taste his own blood, sharp and copper in the caress of tongues, bringing with it a flavor that is rapidly becoming an associated fixture between them. Guanshan and blood. Guanshan and pain.
Relax isn't possible, not when curled fingertips caress a sore, tender point within him that no one has ever reached, shocking something sharp through his entire body like he's been dragged across glass—white-hot, scorching pleasure reduced to its basest form. Almost like an orgasm, yet it feels deeper in his belly, hooked further down into some unfamiliar place. Itachi jerks on the bed against his own iron-willed discipline; fresh threads of trickling blood slide down his arms where embedded palms are jolted on the blade. The sound he makes is fully unconscious, now, a half-choked cry that comes out mostly breath.]
St— [Cut off by teeth, panted, what might have been stop if he let it. As if he's so overcome he's forgotten he can end this any time he chooses. Knees close around Guanshan's forearm as if to dissuade the fingers buried in his hole from worming any deeper.] ... Ah.
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[ beneath his fingers. Guanshan holds a careful, steady pressure where he's landed; in the same way that Itachi needs a moment to familiarize himself with the intensity, Guanshan takes that same stretch of panting breaths and furious heartbeats to memorize. the angle of Itachi's body, the depth of his ingress, the pressure he can currently take. to his credit, he's more delicate here than he was with the knife. ]
You're okay. [ after the sting comes the honey, his voice a tremulous whisper. given the time and space to let electrified synapses settle, he moves to nudge apart bruised thighs with one long leg, wedging his calf between knees and down, pinning the one closest to him to the mattress. it isn't entirely to discourage Itachi from clenching them closed — but if he must, he'll have to turn towards him and risk the bloodloss. now half-pinned at the shinobi's side, his own erection throbs insistently against the hook of his hip, neglected. ]
Both this time. [ raising his free hand tucks a slender shoulder into his armpit; the ulnar side of his hand presses down into the wall next to the mess of gore. it won't take much to resensitize the nerves here. hands, so many dainty little pieces working together. ] Ready?
[ he'll wait until he is, until there are no more stops in his vocabulary. he's not here to rob Itachi of control, only embrace the relief surrender. Guanshan knows it lies right in that liminal place between the two sensations — pain and pleasure, yin and yang. ]
a million years late, i'm so sorry...
This will not kill him, and even if it did, he would not care. Yet it is hanging on that edge of pain that he wants, where Guanshan has brought him. He doesn't close his legs; thighs remain obediently spread now, a display of earned submission. He is distracted by too many sensations at once: the hot seal of a body against his own, the dragging hardness of Guanshan's cock at his hip, the pain and ticklish trickling of wounds, the sore press at such a tender place inside of him, the crackling threads of pleasure at this unfamiliar penetration. He feels stretched, and full, and it seems impossible that this could go on, that he could take more.
Itachi turns his head, realizing that he is trembling everywhere now—from the twitch of fingertips to the spasm of a thigh, to the clench of his hole over Guanshan's knuckles, unable to help it, unable to relax. Their faces are closer like this, sharing a mixture of the same air that seems to intoxicate him for its intimacy.]
Yes, [is rasped in a wet voice, before his throat works on a swallow and he tries again:] Yes.
[Straining again, he leans in a bid for Guanshan's mouth, as though the kiss might cement something else. Every time it happens, at least, it becomes easier to bear.]