[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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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.]