[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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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. ]