He was a flame startled into an ember, a promise waiting to reignite: he was a question needing an answer.
He was a wolf willingly laid down, still full of wonder and unanswered things, his gaze as searching as his heart as he watched Jigano. (He was beautiful in the moonlight, his grayed-out eyes, his sharp, angular features, his white ears—) He was many things, and the fingers tracing the fox-bite scars were a welcome distraction; he shivered under the touch, becoming slightly fewer things, happy to feel his straying, anxious mind disconnect.
Happy to become lost in the scenery again, a wanderer in a dark forest, but he was not afraid: his breath trembled between parted lips but it was in anticipation. Shivers tugged at his skin when Jigano bent low over his chest, fingers questing up to touch the base of a furred ear as he held the image of him in his mind (and in his memory, his eyes were perfect daytime blue). ”Where should I begin…?” voice and lips whispered against his jaw, and Rory felt himself tense, spine arching, heat pooling at the base of his belly again—reigniting with each breath teasing his sweat-slick skin.
He felt himself shudder as a hand quested down his body, settling on his hip; Rory's fingers rested against Jigano's arm and he tensed, raising himself to deliver a half-growled little bite towards his jaw. "Anywhere," he breathed, moving further and further away from his state of bewilderment, falling back firmly into the confine of his own skin—
And all its points of contact, his pulse shuddering at each of them; his exhalations went from throaty shudders to moans again as lips and teeth traced their way down his throat. His mind might've gotten lost for a bit, but his body remembered what it had wanted, and what it had not been given. He grew harder under Jigano's weight, frustrated and restless and aroused by the teasing attention to his collarbone. Each breath was a growl as his hands began to roam in response, tracing lean musculature and sweeping along the curve of Jigano's back, all of it a distraction; what he wanted to do was to growl more and—something—anything—move the bard's slender hands somewhere more immediately satisfying—
But it felt wrong, somehow, to rush him, to direct him, so Rory let himself lay on the cool moss, shuddering, wanting, waiting.
He was a wolf willingly laid down, still full of wonder and unanswered things, his gaze as searching as his heart as he watched Jigano. (He was beautiful in the moonlight, his grayed-out eyes, his sharp, angular features, his white ears—) He was many things, and the fingers tracing the fox-bite scars were a welcome distraction; he shivered under the touch, becoming slightly fewer things, happy to feel his straying, anxious mind disconnect.
Happy to become lost in the scenery again, a wanderer in a dark forest, but he was not afraid: his breath trembled between parted lips but it was in anticipation. Shivers tugged at his skin when Jigano bent low over his chest, fingers questing up to touch the base of a furred ear as he held the image of him in his mind (and in his memory, his eyes were perfect daytime blue). ”Where should I begin…?” voice and lips whispered against his jaw, and Rory felt himself tense, spine arching, heat pooling at the base of his belly again—reigniting with each breath teasing his sweat-slick skin.
He felt himself shudder as a hand quested down his body, settling on his hip; Rory's fingers rested against Jigano's arm and he tensed, raising himself to deliver a half-growled little bite towards his jaw. "Anywhere," he breathed, moving further and further away from his state of bewilderment, falling back firmly into the confine of his own skin—
And all its points of contact, his pulse shuddering at each of them; his exhalations went from throaty shudders to moans again as lips and teeth traced their way down his throat. His mind might've gotten lost for a bit, but his body remembered what it had wanted, and what it had not been given. He grew harder under Jigano's weight, frustrated and restless and aroused by the teasing attention to his collarbone. Each breath was a growl as his hands began to roam in response, tracing lean musculature and sweeping along the curve of Jigano's back, all of it a distraction; what he wanted to do was to growl more and—something—anything—move the bard's slender hands somewhere more immediately satisfying—
But it felt wrong, somehow, to rush him, to direct him, so Rory let himself lay on the cool moss, shuddering, wanting, waiting.
