He had traded his urgency for anticipation, the fire for sparks: it had been that, or letting it all go cold.
Slow wasn't his modus operandi.
But this was something else he was building, the compromise more than acceptable as he saw Jigano's subtle shivering as his hands hovered. And gods it was what he wanted, what he needed and craved, the static between them as thoughts ran ahead but were so woefully inadequate compared to the pleasant lash of reality—
There were other ways to burn, and he felt the wildfire ignite under his skin when he heard the shaky exhalation. It was mirrored by something stuck in his chest, a growl he bit back at this practice in self-restraint, and Jigano's lean body under his hands was a specific kind of magic that blotted out most of his thought processes. He wasn't thinking, only feeling, trying hard not to press his fingers painfully hard into the muscles beneath them as the savage whispers kept on in the back of his head, more more more more
Then Jigano's hands were on his elbows, trailing up to his shoulders, and he felt strangely undone by it—adrift and pitiful and an animal, melting under a mere, innocent touch. It took effort not to bow his head into Jigano's chest and whine.
But the hands did not stop there. They left fire in their wake, a hyper awareness of the fabric separating skin from skin, the sudden nearness and all the scents coming with it—Rory had been stunned by the charged contact, but his fingers began to move, sweeping over the musculature beneath, contracting and releasing as he kept reminding himself to not tug Jigano's tunic up, as his subconscious seemed intent on doing.
He followed easily in the dance, pliable and responsive, too distracted to form any initiative of his own; he wanted his hands to go in every direction at once, to map and explore everything that was within reach, to fold around the small of Jigano's back and chase the last of the air from between their bodies until it was nothing but skin and fabric and skin.
And he wanted Jigano's hands everywhere, not just tamely upon his back, but he had no words to communicate it with, just one of his hands tracing the shape of a hip.
And again, that faint brush of lips over his cheek, each breath whispering over his skin, Rory's breath catching repeatedly in his throat. Closer Jigano whispered and closer was everything Rory wanted, desire running rampant in a way that had him wanting to bite whatever was nearest—his lips parted but he kept himself from doing it, just leaned forward, towards his neck, until every breath was reflected off that honeyed skin and right back in his mouth.
He caved.
One hand moved to the small of Jigano's back, pressing him close in a way that screamed of need, while his lips found the thin skin of his neck, something that was not quite a kiss, nor a bite, but full of hunger.
Slow wasn't his modus operandi.
But this was something else he was building, the compromise more than acceptable as he saw Jigano's subtle shivering as his hands hovered. And gods it was what he wanted, what he needed and craved, the static between them as thoughts ran ahead but were so woefully inadequate compared to the pleasant lash of reality—
There were other ways to burn, and he felt the wildfire ignite under his skin when he heard the shaky exhalation. It was mirrored by something stuck in his chest, a growl he bit back at this practice in self-restraint, and Jigano's lean body under his hands was a specific kind of magic that blotted out most of his thought processes. He wasn't thinking, only feeling, trying hard not to press his fingers painfully hard into the muscles beneath them as the savage whispers kept on in the back of his head, more more more more
Then Jigano's hands were on his elbows, trailing up to his shoulders, and he felt strangely undone by it—adrift and pitiful and an animal, melting under a mere, innocent touch. It took effort not to bow his head into Jigano's chest and whine.
But the hands did not stop there. They left fire in their wake, a hyper awareness of the fabric separating skin from skin, the sudden nearness and all the scents coming with it—Rory had been stunned by the charged contact, but his fingers began to move, sweeping over the musculature beneath, contracting and releasing as he kept reminding himself to not tug Jigano's tunic up, as his subconscious seemed intent on doing.
He followed easily in the dance, pliable and responsive, too distracted to form any initiative of his own; he wanted his hands to go in every direction at once, to map and explore everything that was within reach, to fold around the small of Jigano's back and chase the last of the air from between their bodies until it was nothing but skin and fabric and skin.
And he wanted Jigano's hands everywhere, not just tamely upon his back, but he had no words to communicate it with, just one of his hands tracing the shape of a hip.
And again, that faint brush of lips over his cheek, each breath whispering over his skin, Rory's breath catching repeatedly in his throat. Closer Jigano whispered and closer was everything Rory wanted, desire running rampant in a way that had him wanting to bite whatever was nearest—his lips parted but he kept himself from doing it, just leaned forward, towards his neck, until every breath was reflected off that honeyed skin and right back in his mouth.
He caved.
One hand moved to the small of Jigano's back, pressing him close in a way that screamed of need, while his lips found the thin skin of his neck, something that was not quite a kiss, nor a bite, but full of hunger.
