It was intoxicating, this age-old magic that robbed them of their eloquence and stripped away their armor. Jigano's skin between his teeth tasted of salt and the memory of sunlight, the sounds he made raw, unfiltered: it took a certain kind of courage to be so vulnerable. Just witnessing it—causing it—made the breath stick in Rory's lungs, fueling his mounting hunger again. He dragged in air, using the hand twisted into the white hair to guide Jigano's head backwards, calloused fingers reaching out to stroke his bared throat.
A moan he had not expected filled his mouth when the fingers tightened in his hair, and he pressed himself harder, more insistently, against Jigano in response to it. He was aching and yearning, untouched in the ways that mattered the most, wishing desperately that there was some way for Jigano's unoccupied hand to find his body—just his hip or his waist or anything, really—
But part of not getting what he wanted now was what would make it all the sweeter when he finally did.
And having Jigano in his hand, turning his poise and silver tongue to growls, was just as good as any touch. Still he pushed himself against him, rocking to the rhythm of his blood, a half-formed whimper in his throat as he stroked his hand across Jigano's chest, down his hip, grabbing his ass; more Jigano growled and Rory growled right back into his skin, breathless and drunk on the body in his arms. More he could do, more was what he wanted—he lived for that shallow breathing, the instinctual press of his hips. His lips brushed across Jigano's shoulder as he shifted slightly, the rhythm of his hand steady as he used the other one to lift the white mane of hair and planted a kiss at the base of his neck.
And another, and another, lower each time, going down the groove of his spine as he began to sink to the ground. Only briefly did he allow himself to mourn the contact he abandoned before stowing it away, eclipsed by the pleasure he derived from what he did to Jigano.
With his free hand braced on Jigano's leg he traced kisses from the small of his back across his hip—scuttling gracelessly over the ground as he repositioned himself—and down towards his groin. Rory's hand slowed, but stayed where it was, as his eyes flickered up, dark and blue and wicked; his other hand traveled up the back of Jigano's thigh. With his heart crashing in his chest he tilted his head slightly, and kissed around the base of Jigano's shaft. Still he looked up, mischief in his eyes as they searched for the blue ones so far above him. "More?" he breathed teasingly against him, wanting to hear it.
He had found that he liked it when Jigano begged for his touch.
A moan he had not expected filled his mouth when the fingers tightened in his hair, and he pressed himself harder, more insistently, against Jigano in response to it. He was aching and yearning, untouched in the ways that mattered the most, wishing desperately that there was some way for Jigano's unoccupied hand to find his body—just his hip or his waist or anything, really—
But part of not getting what he wanted now was what would make it all the sweeter when he finally did.
And having Jigano in his hand, turning his poise and silver tongue to growls, was just as good as any touch. Still he pushed himself against him, rocking to the rhythm of his blood, a half-formed whimper in his throat as he stroked his hand across Jigano's chest, down his hip, grabbing his ass; more Jigano growled and Rory growled right back into his skin, breathless and drunk on the body in his arms. More he could do, more was what he wanted—he lived for that shallow breathing, the instinctual press of his hips. His lips brushed across Jigano's shoulder as he shifted slightly, the rhythm of his hand steady as he used the other one to lift the white mane of hair and planted a kiss at the base of his neck.
And another, and another, lower each time, going down the groove of his spine as he began to sink to the ground. Only briefly did he allow himself to mourn the contact he abandoned before stowing it away, eclipsed by the pleasure he derived from what he did to Jigano.
With his free hand braced on Jigano's leg he traced kisses from the small of his back across his hip—scuttling gracelessly over the ground as he repositioned himself—and down towards his groin. Rory's hand slowed, but stayed where it was, as his eyes flickered up, dark and blue and wicked; his other hand traveled up the back of Jigano's thigh. With his heart crashing in his chest he tilted his head slightly, and kissed around the base of Jigano's shaft. Still he looked up, mischief in his eyes as they searched for the blue ones so far above him. "More?" he breathed teasingly against him, wanting to hear it.
He had found that he liked it when Jigano begged for his touch.
