[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
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]