this is seriously last-minute
title: and then we danced
rating: M, smut
length: too short, ahahah
Look at me, Itachi says, faintly annoyed. His hair is hanging down over you like a drop of ink curling through water, blooming through space. It's messy - you messed it up. You drank a little too much. You're holding on to the bedsheets with both hands, to stay on. Shisui.
No, you whine, your heart hammering in your veins, a coil twisting in your stomach. You're at that stage of arousal where it almost hurts - the sensitivity - thank god for alcohol, right?
Itachi being Itachi, his lips twitch downwards at the refusal and his hands slip lower inside your pants. You know what he wants. He wants feedback. He wants to know - as he clenches and twists his grip on you, raising goosebumps and a whine you have to bite your lips to contain - that this feels good.
That he's good at this.
Come on, Shisui, he coaxes. Look up.
He grabs your chin with his spare hand - you switch from clinging to the bedsheets to slamming your palms over your eyes, but not before you see a little glint of amusement in his eyes. No, damn it.
- because you're the older one in this relationship (because it's definitely a relationship now, and with anyone else, oh, this would be legitimately horrifying, the sheer domesticity of remembering dates and sharing a bed, really terrifying, because your soul, your soul is a kite, and those are so useless indoors. But Itachi, he, he gets it, gets you, he keeps you tethered flying from his window, takes you inside when it rains, takes you home when you've had a few too many and doesn't mind the drunken kisses or the no-reason-boners or your wandering hands; he actually sort of likes you, imagine that)
- and you have your pride.
He starts to laugh at you - he thinks you're cute when you're plastered, your ears are red with your blushing (you will blame the boozing). This is ridiculous he murmurs, bemusedly, and begins to peel your hands finger by finger off of your face, pressing kisses to your eyelids. Maybe he's drunk too, you think, although you can't for the life of you remember how many he had.
No, you whine again, petulant.
I'll stop, he threatens, letting go of your dick, and, well, that does it. You open your eyes, look up into his.
Was that so hard, asks a very shirtless, very attractive, very hot-nubile-young-thing Itachi, looming over you like a poster you definitely wouldn't get away with tacking to your ceiling for masturbation purposes, were you still living at home - all milky white skin and hard planes of muscle. There is that look in his eyes, so dark and melting, you wish you could drink it.
Yes. Yes, it was that hard, because looking at him makes you an idiot.
(You're shaking, all over, everywhere.)
Shisui - he says, in a tone that bolts straight to the tightening clench inside of you, sets you teetering - and the second he reaches back down and his pretty agile fingers touch you -
(He doesn't look away from your face, not for a second.)
… All I did was touch you a little, Itachi murmurs, slightly impressed with himself, and you are ready to die of embarrassment.
This is why, you start to say. Why you can't look at him when you're horny and drunk and haven't even whacked off for a week and it's your anniversary and he spent the whole day gently touching your forearms, face, palms. Because then things like the whitish mess all over his hand happen, losing-your-cool-completely happens, idiocy happens -
Itachi raises the hand you just filthied to his lips, and casually starts to lick it clean.
… oh.
He gives you a leer you wish you didn't find so attractive. Problem, officer?he murmurs, nudging your thighs a little bit wider apart, grinding down with an obnoxious, entitled ease. No, no problem, it looks like the week of abstinence worked its magic, you're ready to go again. Jesus. You can feel your face getting redder.
And you intend to call him a jackass and regain some of the composure you just lost, but you are still really drunk and you missed him so badly it hurt and you've got pretty poor impulse control, so instead you whine: hurry, Itachi - hurry -
(somehow or another, through luck or coincidence or destiny, the two of you will fit together)
Yes, he breathes, smiling, pushing your slightly-sweaty shirt up, brushing his hands lightly, so lightly over your skin. The noise of his belt unbuckling, his zipper. His breath hitches when he looks at you. I'll hurry.
You keep looking at him.
rating: M, smut
length: too short, ahahah
Look at me, Itachi says, faintly annoyed. His hair is hanging down over you like a drop of ink curling through water, blooming through space. It's messy - you messed it up. You drank a little too much. You're holding on to the bedsheets with both hands, to stay on. Shisui.
No, you whine, your heart hammering in your veins, a coil twisting in your stomach. You're at that stage of arousal where it almost hurts - the sensitivity - thank god for alcohol, right?
Itachi being Itachi, his lips twitch downwards at the refusal and his hands slip lower inside your pants. You know what he wants. He wants feedback. He wants to know - as he clenches and twists his grip on you, raising goosebumps and a whine you have to bite your lips to contain - that this feels good.
That he's good at this.
Come on, Shisui, he coaxes. Look up.
He grabs your chin with his spare hand - you switch from clinging to the bedsheets to slamming your palms over your eyes, but not before you see a little glint of amusement in his eyes. No, damn it.
- because you're the older one in this relationship (because it's definitely a relationship now, and with anyone else, oh, this would be legitimately horrifying, the sheer domesticity of remembering dates and sharing a bed, really terrifying, because your soul, your soul is a kite, and those are so useless indoors. But Itachi, he, he gets it, gets you, he keeps you tethered flying from his window, takes you inside when it rains, takes you home when you've had a few too many and doesn't mind the drunken kisses or the no-reason-boners or your wandering hands; he actually sort of likes you, imagine that)
- and you have your pride.
He starts to laugh at you - he thinks you're cute when you're plastered, your ears are red with your blushing (you will blame the boozing). This is ridiculous he murmurs, bemusedly, and begins to peel your hands finger by finger off of your face, pressing kisses to your eyelids. Maybe he's drunk too, you think, although you can't for the life of you remember how many he had.
No, you whine again, petulant.
I'll stop, he threatens, letting go of your dick, and, well, that does it. You open your eyes, look up into his.
Was that so hard, asks a very shirtless, very attractive, very hot-nubile-young-thing Itachi, looming over you like a poster you definitely wouldn't get away with tacking to your ceiling for masturbation purposes, were you still living at home - all milky white skin and hard planes of muscle. There is that look in his eyes, so dark and melting, you wish you could drink it.
Yes. Yes, it was that hard, because looking at him makes you an idiot.
(You're shaking, all over, everywhere.)
Shisui - he says, in a tone that bolts straight to the tightening clench inside of you, sets you teetering - and the second he reaches back down and his pretty agile fingers touch you -
(He doesn't look away from your face, not for a second.)
… All I did was touch you a little, Itachi murmurs, slightly impressed with himself, and you are ready to die of embarrassment.
This is why, you start to say. Why you can't look at him when you're horny and drunk and haven't even whacked off for a week and it's your anniversary and he spent the whole day gently touching your forearms, face, palms. Because then things like the whitish mess all over his hand happen, losing-your-cool-completely happens, idiocy happens -
Itachi raises the hand you just filthied to his lips, and casually starts to lick it clean.
… oh.
He gives you a leer you wish you didn't find so attractive. Problem, officer?he murmurs, nudging your thighs a little bit wider apart, grinding down with an obnoxious, entitled ease. No, no problem, it looks like the week of abstinence worked its magic, you're ready to go again. Jesus. You can feel your face getting redder.
And you intend to call him a jackass and regain some of the composure you just lost, but you are still really drunk and you missed him so badly it hurt and you've got pretty poor impulse control, so instead you whine: hurry, Itachi - hurry -
(somehow or another, through luck or coincidence or destiny, the two of you will fit together)
Yes, he breathes, smiling, pushing your slightly-sweaty shirt up, brushing his hands lightly, so lightly over your skin. The noise of his belt unbuckling, his zipper. His breath hitches when he looks at you. I'll hurry.
You keep looking at him.