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