Rory was not a creature of the slow and careful, not when it came to this; he was the flash-fire flaring up, hot and bright, burning, burning, devouring until there was nothing left. He was present in every moment and in every inch of his own skin, his hungry eyes rarely leaving this world, the energy in him craving movement—a constant, never-ending crescendo until they burned as bright as the stars.
But he had learned to curb that part of him; he had learned the sweetness of exploration, of slow and measured giving.
But tonight was not a night where he wanted slow and measured. Tonight was a night when he wanted to burn.
This was what he wanted: to (selfishly) fuck Jigano.
This was what he got: the kind of torture that was so sweet it nearly drove him out of his mind.
Jigano's warm mouth slowly found its way across his chest, the night air chasing his breath and cooling Rory's skin; he groaned and he panted and he felt his pulse, everywhere, pressed between their bodies. More he wanted to growl, to find some way out of this passion-pit he had been thrown into, and his hands opened and closed thoughtlessly, a rough form of massage, wordless begging—
(I want I want I want I want—)
He trembled underneath Jigano, a bit of sunshine pressed into the cool moss, his eyes wide and dark and the tips of his fingers reflexively pressing into skin. Please he thought to say, to actually beg, but as if Jigano sensed his thoughts he straightened up, one hand finally—finally—closing around Rory's shaft. Rory's breath shuddered out in something close to a whimper as his eyes half-closed, then fluttered open again.
”You’re incredible,” Jigano whispered, and Rory's response was something along the lines of "hnnn" because whatever smart comeback he had thought of was still drowned beneath the fact that he was finally being touched in the ways he wanted.
And the warm kisses stole whatever was left of his capacity to think; he was aware of the sharp features of the terrain under his back, aware of the cool moss one of his hands grasped, aware of Jigano's warm skin under the other, but none of it mattered. It was only this: Jigano's hands and Jigano's mouth and Rory's eyes, wide and watchful and hungry.
But he had learned to curb that part of him; he had learned the sweetness of exploration, of slow and measured giving.
But tonight was not a night where he wanted slow and measured. Tonight was a night when he wanted to burn.
This was what he wanted: to (selfishly) fuck Jigano.
This was what he got: the kind of torture that was so sweet it nearly drove him out of his mind.
Jigano's warm mouth slowly found its way across his chest, the night air chasing his breath and cooling Rory's skin; he groaned and he panted and he felt his pulse, everywhere, pressed between their bodies. More he wanted to growl, to find some way out of this passion-pit he had been thrown into, and his hands opened and closed thoughtlessly, a rough form of massage, wordless begging—
(I want I want I want I want—)
He trembled underneath Jigano, a bit of sunshine pressed into the cool moss, his eyes wide and dark and the tips of his fingers reflexively pressing into skin. Please he thought to say, to actually beg, but as if Jigano sensed his thoughts he straightened up, one hand finally—finally—closing around Rory's shaft. Rory's breath shuddered out in something close to a whimper as his eyes half-closed, then fluttered open again.
”You’re incredible,” Jigano whispered, and Rory's response was something along the lines of "hnnn" because whatever smart comeback he had thought of was still drowned beneath the fact that he was finally being touched in the ways he wanted.
And the warm kisses stole whatever was left of his capacity to think; he was aware of the sharp features of the terrain under his back, aware of the cool moss one of his hands grasped, aware of Jigano's warm skin under the other, but none of it mattered. It was only this: Jigano's hands and Jigano's mouth and Rory's eyes, wide and watchful and hungry.
