[ instinct's a drug. instinct tells him here, here: clench his fingertips along the rumpling lines of shiro's shirt, smooth knuckles to palm along the caging ribs and the skipping thud beneath, knot his fist tighter, anchoring enough to roughen the next kiss. it aches, dull felt throbs between kisses, but instinct's answering in kind before a single second-guess slides between them -- and so his fingers slide along the nape of shiro's neck as he leans up, up, knee dredging a creak out of old springs as he crowds close enough to brush chest against chest, flushed and heavy-lidded, riled off of a fever whose need he can't quite name. ]
Shiro -
[ a whisper, a hoarse, heady gasp -- there's no telling where that tone came from, all trust and torn-open desperation, like a murmur out of a moment forgotten but not exorcised. still: they're in the dark together, his fingers hooking into the loop of shiro's belt as he braces up against him, an instant from sliding into his lap.
soon, they'll stop; they have to. until then, the warmth alone feels like answer enough for everything. ]
no subject
Shiro -
[ a whisper, a hoarse, heady gasp -- there's no telling where that tone came from, all trust and torn-open desperation, like a murmur out of a moment forgotten but not exorcised. still: they're in the dark together, his fingers hooking into the loop of shiro's belt as he braces up against him, an instant from sliding into his lap.
soon, they'll stop; they have to. until then, the warmth alone feels like answer enough for everything. ]