Jedao squeezes Fives' hand back a moment later, presses forward to kiss him fast and fiercely, then moves away, lets his arm draw out as he steps back, lets his fingertips be the last touch to lift. He shrugs out of the jacket and hangs it in the garment bag hooked onto his bookshelf. There's a stark contrast, suddenly, between Jedao as he is, mussed and mostly dressed, stubble coming in after the long day of ceremonies, the garment bag and the military-issue duffle, three pieces of a present that doesn't quite fit smoothly with his past, with pulpy paperback mysteries and judo trophies. He hasn't put any of his current things into the dresser; he lives here almost as if it were a real guest room, as though it would be improper for him to leave any particular mark on it anymore.
He sits on the edge of the little desk, one leg propped up, bent and hitched, one leg trailing and resting on the floor. He grins at Fives, conspiratorial more than burlesque, and his fingers fly down the buttons of the dress shirt, well practiced, not bothering to draw it out. He rips the shirt off almost viciously, if the motion weren't so precise, like ripping off a bandage. He's thin underneath, not skeletal enough for his ribs to be obvious but the bottom edge of his rib cage as a whole is, and his scars scrawl out a more active service record than his branch and rank would nominally suggest.
He bends to unlace his dress shoes, and probably there is a way to make that lascivious and probably he could figure it out if he tried to, but he doesn't, really, and the show transmutes into a different tenor when he drops Fives' gaze for the simple fiddly human task of picking apart his knots and peeling off his dress socks. It becomes more tender, somehow, watching him undress instead of strip, watching something that small and personal that would normally happen only alone. By ignoring Fives, the act becomes private in a way that nudity, for a soldier, isn't necessarily. By becoming private, letting Fives watch becomes intimate.
He settles back on his perch but doesn't revive the sly grin or the teasing gaze, closing his eyes instead as he thumbs his belt buckle and pulls it from its loops, lets Fives watch him without the challenge of watching back. He hisses and bites his lip in relief when he finally gets his pants open, ripples his spine and hips in a small undulation to slide them down his hips past the desk's edge. He steps out of them and steps off the desk, eyes on his task when he does open them, gets the shirt and pants arrayed on their own hanger in the garment bag, zips it all closed.
He's still in his underwear - stretched obscenely, with an obvious wet spot - when he crouches by his duffle bag and fetches the K-Y he picked up on his third day out of the hospital, because he's a goddamn adult and his body is his own again. Nevermind the girly magazine tucked neatly in same compartment, or the fact that he hasn't cracked the seal on the tube yet. He decided to have it, and he has it, and that's what matters.
He tugs the covers down and sprawls into the bed, staring up at the ceiling now, working his underwear slowly down his legs and then kicking them away in his first real moment of carelessness, finally exposing his cock, surging upward. He clutches at his own sheets for a second, but doesn't touch himself, getting a squirt of the jelly on his fingers instead and twisting his hips so he can stretch himself. His eyes meet Fives' again for the first time since he lost his shirt, suddenly dark and glinting and hungrily searching Fives out as he presses the first finger inside, groaning softly.
no subject
He sits on the edge of the little desk, one leg propped up, bent and hitched, one leg trailing and resting on the floor. He grins at Fives, conspiratorial more than burlesque, and his fingers fly down the buttons of the dress shirt, well practiced, not bothering to draw it out. He rips the shirt off almost viciously, if the motion weren't so precise, like ripping off a bandage. He's thin underneath, not skeletal enough for his ribs to be obvious but the bottom edge of his rib cage as a whole is, and his scars scrawl out a more active service record than his branch and rank would nominally suggest.
He bends to unlace his dress shoes, and probably there is a way to make that lascivious and probably he could figure it out if he tried to, but he doesn't, really, and the show transmutes into a different tenor when he drops Fives' gaze for the simple fiddly human task of picking apart his knots and peeling off his dress socks. It becomes more tender, somehow, watching him undress instead of strip, watching something that small and personal that would normally happen only alone. By ignoring Fives, the act becomes private in a way that nudity, for a soldier, isn't necessarily. By becoming private, letting Fives watch becomes intimate.
He settles back on his perch but doesn't revive the sly grin or the teasing gaze, closing his eyes instead as he thumbs his belt buckle and pulls it from its loops, lets Fives watch him without the challenge of watching back. He hisses and bites his lip in relief when he finally gets his pants open, ripples his spine and hips in a small undulation to slide them down his hips past the desk's edge. He steps out of them and steps off the desk, eyes on his task when he does open them, gets the shirt and pants arrayed on their own hanger in the garment bag, zips it all closed.
He's still in his underwear - stretched obscenely, with an obvious wet spot - when he crouches by his duffle bag and fetches the K-Y he picked up on his third day out of the hospital, because he's a goddamn adult and his body is his own again. Nevermind the girly magazine tucked neatly in same compartment, or the fact that he hasn't cracked the seal on the tube yet. He decided to have it, and he has it, and that's what matters.
He tugs the covers down and sprawls into the bed, staring up at the ceiling now, working his underwear slowly down his legs and then kicking them away in his first real moment of carelessness, finally exposing his cock, surging upward. He clutches at his own sheets for a second, but doesn't touch himself, getting a squirt of the jelly on his fingers instead and twisting his hips so he can stretch himself. His eyes meet Fives' again for the first time since he lost his shirt, suddenly dark and glinting and hungrily searching Fives out as he presses the first finger inside, groaning softly.