But gods, all he wanted was a solid surface—a wall, a tree, he wasn't that picky—to shove Jigano up against, to trap him where there was no escape, where he could press hard against him without them falling over. Was it so much to ask for? His mind flickered with half-formed ideas and impulses, a flash of the memory of his fingers gracelessly twisting into white hair—Jigano leaning across him—shy touches and hugs that still retained all that space between their hips—
His blood was liquid fire as he leaned against him, feeling his heartbeat and his desire pressed against him. He was safe in the knowledge that it was wanted, unafraid and brazen, spurred on by the fingers digging into his back and wishing, aching, for them to be somewhere else, where he could stop reminding his hands to not undress them.
He drifted along with the slowing steps, led in a dance that was quickly forgetting that it was supposed to be a dance. The sound he drew from Jigano left him breathless and with his hand tightening into a fist full of tunic, his lips ghosting over the smooth skin, down to the edge of a bared collarbone. He kissed it, his breath shuddering in a muffled groan as Jigano's hands finally abandoned their safe, proper positions, one of them sliding down to rest over his hip (still too safe, still too proper). He wanted more, drunk on the taste of Jigano's skin, shuffling them along in a semblance of dance so as to not blow their cover, lips brushing over the collarbone and to the intrusive edge of the tunic—
His hand crawled up Jigano's spine until it found that long, pristine, white hair, tangling in it with surprising gentleness.
And he pressed himself closer, his other hand moving first to the small of Jigano's back to push their hips together, then a little lower; not proper, nor scandalous, shameless in his wanting and his taking.
His blood was liquid fire as he leaned against him, feeling his heartbeat and his desire pressed against him. He was safe in the knowledge that it was wanted, unafraid and brazen, spurred on by the fingers digging into his back and wishing, aching, for them to be somewhere else, where he could stop reminding his hands to not undress them.
He drifted along with the slowing steps, led in a dance that was quickly forgetting that it was supposed to be a dance. The sound he drew from Jigano left him breathless and with his hand tightening into a fist full of tunic, his lips ghosting over the smooth skin, down to the edge of a bared collarbone. He kissed it, his breath shuddering in a muffled groan as Jigano's hands finally abandoned their safe, proper positions, one of them sliding down to rest over his hip (still too safe, still too proper). He wanted more, drunk on the taste of Jigano's skin, shuffling them along in a semblance of dance so as to not blow their cover, lips brushing over the collarbone and to the intrusive edge of the tunic—
His hand crawled up Jigano's spine until it found that long, pristine, white hair, tangling in it with surprising gentleness.
And he pressed himself closer, his other hand moving first to the small of Jigano's back to push their hips together, then a little lower; not proper, nor scandalous, shameless in his wanting and his taking.
