[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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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.]