He was here, he was now, his fingers running through sweaty white hair, pressing against the scalp, silent encouragement to his moans; he was shameless in his vocalizations, shameless in his watching, his blue eyes drinking in what was offered. One elbow rooted itself in the moss and he pushed himself up on it—watching, always watching, biting back words, afraid saying anything would shatter Jigano's newly found confidence.
Rory kept his free hand tangled in the hair, his breath guiding Jigano, his hand nothing but support and pleasure as his nails and pads roved across skin. And gods, once Jigano found his rhythm... Rory's breath chased his pulse, the rest of the world forgotten as his blood ran hot. He was on fire with pleasure, a fuzzy sensation in all of him, a heat concentrated at the base of his stomach: willingly he let Jigano bring him towards the edge, finding that he had held back enough for one night already.
So when he found himself nearing that blinding brink his hand fell from Jigano's hair to his shoulder. "Jigano," he growled, praise, warning, letting the other do with it as he wished—and should he recoil from what was going to happen (and Rory wouldn't have blamed him in the slightest, at least not afterwards) he was ready to put a hand on himself, to not waste what had already been given him.
Regardless of the how (and who) he cried out as his body rode over that sweet edge, a surge through his systems, warm and blinding as he came—
Then he was lying on his back again, feeling how cool the moss was, how cool the night was, and how his heart was slowly unwinding.
Rory kept his free hand tangled in the hair, his breath guiding Jigano, his hand nothing but support and pleasure as his nails and pads roved across skin. And gods, once Jigano found his rhythm... Rory's breath chased his pulse, the rest of the world forgotten as his blood ran hot. He was on fire with pleasure, a fuzzy sensation in all of him, a heat concentrated at the base of his stomach: willingly he let Jigano bring him towards the edge, finding that he had held back enough for one night already.
So when he found himself nearing that blinding brink his hand fell from Jigano's hair to his shoulder. "Jigano," he growled, praise, warning, letting the other do with it as he wished—and should he recoil from what was going to happen (and Rory wouldn't have blamed him in the slightest, at least not afterwards) he was ready to put a hand on himself, to not waste what had already been given him.
Regardless of the how (and who) he cried out as his body rode over that sweet edge, a surge through his systems, warm and blinding as he came—
Then he was lying on his back again, feeling how cool the moss was, how cool the night was, and how his heart was slowly unwinding.
