Throat
I..
I have no excuses for this except that I really/really/really wanted to write this, haha.
I hereby disclaim any rights.
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Sasuke jolts awake. His hands immediately go up to the column of his throat, assessing the vertebral structure and the pliant flesh with the vertex of his thumb and index. His fingertips skirt against the hinge of his jaw. Breathing irregularly, he settles down on his back and stares up wide-eyed at the ceiling. It's dark, but in varying degrees, so the sweeps of shadows are somewhat visible upon the wooden paneling above him and they come across as waves. Somewhere in the fogginess of his mind, the physical reality of his body pushes to the forefront and reluctantly he moves the flat of his palms down his clavicle and his sternum before bringing his hands listlessly to his sides, above the sheets. He's hard.
At first he tries calm himself down, shake off the grip the nightmare has on him. His chest heaves and sinks. He blinks until his eyes adapt to the darkness of the room, until his eyes can discern the difference in color between the bamboo lattice of the shoji door and the walls. He turns his head to stare back at the ceiling again, hyperaware of the ticklish hairs stuck to the back of his neck and the throbbing of his cock and the feeling of the sheets between his fists. His throat is dry, his mouth is drier. The ceiling blends interchangeably into images of his dream.
Sasuke running, the lightning sparking a violent bright blue around his fist and his wrist and his forearm, the walls spiraling into a tunnel, the disconnection between his mind and his body and his feet. His left hand ghosts over his hip, a phantom weight cushioned by the sheet and the fabric of his pajama bottoms. He can recall the exact amount of pressure Itachi applied to the bone of his wrist to make it snap and he can even project that same pain onto his body right now, all through his vivid imagination. Every little detail of the memory seems to seep into his nightmares, from the purple polish on Itachi's fingernails to the white lining around the red clouds on Itachi's cloak to the high-popped collar obscuring his big brother's mouth. His hips buck upwards when he recalls hot breath upon the shell of his ear, his back against the wall, a palm pushing onto his throat—onto his throat.
Usually when he has this dream, and he has been having this dream ever since fighting Itachi, he takes half an hour to rationalize the impact it has on him. This.. This is somewhat of a novelty. While Sasuke's experienced a bodily reaction to violence before, he chalks it up to the physical intimacy of hand-to-hand compat, to the adrenalin surging through his veins, to the fact he's still a teenager with hormones, but this is Itachi and… He experimentally pushes his right hand to his throat, exerts a little bit pressure to evaluate the feeling. He's supposed to hate him. The corners of his mouth twitch and he swallows down the whine threatening to come from his throat. His left hand presses down on his groin. He closes his eyes.
Itachi's holding him up against the wall with one hand, almost effortlessly and he's trying to kick him away but all that happens is that he kicks off his sheets. He picks at the band of his pajama trousers and manages to push them down to his knees and he spreads his legs a bit in reflex but his underwear's in the way so he pushes them down too. His cock flops up against his pelvis and only when he touches the base does he realize what he's about to do. Sasuke nervously brushes his fingertips over the shaft of his dick, up and down, up and down to his balls and through his pubic hair and back up again to the slit. His hips rise on their own accord and the white duvet cover feels strange against his bare ass. He wraps his fingers around his throat and pushes the heel of his palm down like Itachi did back then.
This isn't the same. His sense of self-preservation prevents him from effectively choking himself, but the pressure feels good. His mouth is open, a shameless oh when he starts to jerk himself off, and the back of his head delves into his pillow and his back curves, arches, makes the sharp of his slender shoulders dig into the mattress. Itachi's fingers are relentless around his neck, his fingertips pushing their imprint into his pale flesh, leaving bruises that have long faded. He fists his cock and pumps himself hard, lost in the erotic brutality his mind supplements to the actual memory. Itachi's hot breath brushing against the shell of his ear when he whispers that he lacks hatred. The muscles of his backside are taut, his body is tense and the nerves in his thighs are twitching as he keeps jacking off mercilessly, on the crossroads between tolerable and painful.
The tip of Itachi's nose drags against the line of his jaw, he's oversensitive to the softness of Itachi's side-swept bangs lingering against his skin and to the lack of air and to the spittle sticking to the back of his lips. Every gasp gets broken off by the pressure of his palm. He's rutting against nothing except for the texture of his own palm, but he sees Itachi in front of him, dotted with the white of threatening unconsciousness. And you know what? His voice barely registers, the words are meaningless in this fog of asphyxiation and heat and the steady stabs of desire. When Sasuke dips his chin and hangs his head, he barely realizes he watches Itachi jerking him off. You never will. He's still suspended against the wall, but he's weightless. His legs are boneless. His lungs are empty and constricting and his vision is blacking out. He cums all over Itachi's hand and the sleeve of his cloak, but he feels the sticky hot spunk on his own instead. Sasuke carefully unfurls his fingers from around his own throat and brings his hand next to his head. The coldness of the room envelops his lower body and his exposed abdomen.
Afterwards, he raises himself up in a sitting position and brings his right hand to his cheek. It's hard to cross his legs with his pajama trousers and boxer shorts rolled around his kneecaps, but he manages somewhat. His thoughts are muddled, a quagmire of shame and regret and white-hot anger that feels more like the orgasm he just had, but above all there's hatred. Self-hatred mostly, for his own body and he spends a moment glaring at his left hand and the white cum on his knuckles and fingers. No, he chastises himself, Itachi would win if you do that. You happen to have a weird sexual taste. It isn't about Itachi, he just triggered it. He gets up and tugs his underwear and pajama bottoms back over and up his ass cheeks with his right hand. First he needs to clean up. It wasn't Itachi that turned him on, he tries to convince himself. Even if the afterthought sounds a bit abrasive, biting: just his hand on your throat.
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