He hadn’t realized how much he liked having someone else’s hand in his hair until it was Rory’s hand, tangling in silver tresses and tugging gently as he explored and teased and took what Jigano freely gave him. He shivered at the sweetness of the lips that smiled in a way he felt rather than saw, though he had no trouble at all imagining the handsome face and the expression on it as it imprinted against his skin. And then there was the other hand that stroked and slid over his clothing and caressed the eager body beneath with a wicked promise of what it would be doing if those useless things weren’t in the way…
The pause was measured in heartbeats, twining and tangling together like the fingers in his hair, as they breathed and shook and pressed close against each other and gave up even the pretense of dancing. Everything was moving too fast (not fast enough) and too soon (not soon enough) and maybe it had taken the festival or the beer to give them that last little push but now that it had… now that they were wrapped around each other, closer than the rest of the dancers around them and conspicuous in their stillness…
He didn’t want it to stop. Not any of it. Not the hands that explored him, or the kisses that alternated between fierce and sweet, or the heart that beat against his and drove them to a far more primal rhythm than the distant music of the flute. What he wanted was to taste Rory, as the hunter tasted him. Wanted to lose himself in a kiss that he knew would quickly spiral out of control and he didn’t care, he just wanted, beyond all rational thought or propriety.
Almost beyond propriety. His whispered suggestion – his request – had the entirely undesired consequence of losing the hand in his hair, and he made a faint, animal noise of protest before the finger to his lips silenced him – and the kiss to his cheek left him momentarily frozen, thrumming with tension and joy and desire at the gentleness of it. He melted against Rory then, his embrace losing none of its fierceness but softening subtly as something in him woke, yearning for the care the hunter showed him. He only tried to turn his head once, impatient to close the list sliver of distance between them, but a firm finger stopped the attempt and he twisted his own fingers in Rory’s shirt, holding back a whimper of protest by only the merest thread of control as he was so deliciously tormented by the only one he would allow such liberties.
Rory wasn’t playing fair and even if Jigano lacked his friend’s experience, he was still a creature of instinct beneath his civilized veneer. Hands slipped to Rory’s hips, then drifted lower, hitching up the beautiful blue tunic until he could brush the pads of his thumbs over the bare skin just above the hunter’s waistband—
And in that moment he was caught by the whisper - wicked, eager - that almost made up for how the blond swayed back even as Jigano leaned forward. He growled softly, playfully at the games his almost-lover teased him with, but there was bright heat in his eyes, pupils wide and dark and reflecting starlight as the hunter took his hand and led them from the dance at the edge of the festival and into the dark, away from the people, and prying eyes, and the sounds of conversation and laughter and music.
They made it most of the way to the Glade, at least, before Jigano’s control frayed to the breaking point. He slowed and then stopped, tugging Rory to a halt with him – unless the wicked mage went ahead without him – and stepped close in a fluid motion that held more of a hunting fox than a courting human in it. One hand rose to cup his friend’s cheek, stroking tenderly over his scars as the lorekeeper tilted his head down with a smile that was almost shy in spite of the passion singing through his veins and demanding release now and here. ”I want you,” he said softly, finding the words Rory had once given to him and returning them with interest as he dipped his head to gently - thoroughly - capture the hunter’s lips, if Rory would let him.
The pause was measured in heartbeats, twining and tangling together like the fingers in his hair, as they breathed and shook and pressed close against each other and gave up even the pretense of dancing. Everything was moving too fast (not fast enough) and too soon (not soon enough) and maybe it had taken the festival or the beer to give them that last little push but now that it had… now that they were wrapped around each other, closer than the rest of the dancers around them and conspicuous in their stillness…
He didn’t want it to stop. Not any of it. Not the hands that explored him, or the kisses that alternated between fierce and sweet, or the heart that beat against his and drove them to a far more primal rhythm than the distant music of the flute. What he wanted was to taste Rory, as the hunter tasted him. Wanted to lose himself in a kiss that he knew would quickly spiral out of control and he didn’t care, he just wanted, beyond all rational thought or propriety.
Almost beyond propriety. His whispered suggestion – his request – had the entirely undesired consequence of losing the hand in his hair, and he made a faint, animal noise of protest before the finger to his lips silenced him – and the kiss to his cheek left him momentarily frozen, thrumming with tension and joy and desire at the gentleness of it. He melted against Rory then, his embrace losing none of its fierceness but softening subtly as something in him woke, yearning for the care the hunter showed him. He only tried to turn his head once, impatient to close the list sliver of distance between them, but a firm finger stopped the attempt and he twisted his own fingers in Rory’s shirt, holding back a whimper of protest by only the merest thread of control as he was so deliciously tormented by the only one he would allow such liberties.
Rory wasn’t playing fair and even if Jigano lacked his friend’s experience, he was still a creature of instinct beneath his civilized veneer. Hands slipped to Rory’s hips, then drifted lower, hitching up the beautiful blue tunic until he could brush the pads of his thumbs over the bare skin just above the hunter’s waistband—
And in that moment he was caught by the whisper - wicked, eager - that almost made up for how the blond swayed back even as Jigano leaned forward. He growled softly, playfully at the games his almost-lover teased him with, but there was bright heat in his eyes, pupils wide and dark and reflecting starlight as the hunter took his hand and led them from the dance at the edge of the festival and into the dark, away from the people, and prying eyes, and the sounds of conversation and laughter and music.
They made it most of the way to the Glade, at least, before Jigano’s control frayed to the breaking point. He slowed and then stopped, tugging Rory to a halt with him – unless the wicked mage went ahead without him – and stepped close in a fluid motion that held more of a hunting fox than a courting human in it. One hand rose to cup his friend’s cheek, stroking tenderly over his scars as the lorekeeper tilted his head down with a smile that was almost shy in spite of the passion singing through his veins and demanding release now and here. ”I want you,” he said softly, finding the words Rory had once given to him and returning them with interest as he dipped his head to gently - thoroughly - capture the hunter’s lips, if Rory would let him.
