Ban can't be cold, not so long as Ginji is pressed against him. [Ban/Ginji]
There is rain in Ban's hair, against his face, in his open mouth. Ban can't be cold, not so long as Ginji is pressed against him. Ginji's hands are hot and frantic against Ban's back. They find old scars, and new--and Ginji kisses Ban even as his fingertips first brush across the puckered skin at Ban's shoulder.
Ban's hands have been still against Ginji's shoulders--too sluggish with the cold at first, and immobilized by a shock of pleasure seconds later. They move now: one hand cupping the back of Ginji's head, the other settling beneath his shirt, just above the waistband of his shorts. The air hums around them.
Raindrops sizzle above Ginji's head. Ban has faced worse danger for far less payoff than this. He tastes rain against Ginji's skin, and static, and warmth--and it's so good, so perfect, that Ban can hardly spare a thought for the tingle in his fingertips, the way his heart stutters.
Ginji can't be thinking, either, or he'd be fussing at Ban instead of tugging at his belt. "Fuck," Ban says, and realizes that he's clinging to Ginji again, helpless beneath Ginji's touch, as if he's never had anyone else's hand on his cock before, and "fuck."
Ginji is smiling at him. "Anything, Ban-chan."
Midou Ban does not blush, but there's such promise in Ginji's voice that even the rain itself isn't cold enough to stand the heat building in Ban. "Ginji," Ban says, and there's no one here but them to hear how breathless he sounds. "Ginji, I--"
Ginji is nearly glowing with energy, but even he is briefly eclipsed as lighting splits the sky. Everything is bright, and white, and Ban can smell his own singed hair. Ban growls, and smacks Ginji across the back of his head.
"Idiot," he says. More softly, "next time, we're doing this inside."