[Not so long ago, there was an afternoon where Giorno rushed into the library, sat himself in his lap, and rolled his bare shoulders so Fugo could properly and appreciate the feeling of warm skin underneath his palm. It's this memory that Fugo draws upon when he shifts backwards: so Giorno can properly see exactly what he's done and what state that's left him in.
Marked up from Giorno's teeth. Out of breath and flushed from Giorno's hands. Expression hazy with pleasure. And bitten lips parted, just waiting to be kissed again, to help pull in slow, heavy breaths. Fugo looks at Giorno through his lashes and briefly pulls his lip into his teeth, thoughtful and loose and relaxed. And then he rolls his shoulders, following along with the movement of Giorno's wandering hands, and tips his chin up. So Giorno can look at him better. So Giorno can touch him better.
The gestures are wordless, but speak volumes. Look at me, murmurs the bared angle of his throat. Touch me, his shoulders insist, gently pushing up to fit underneath the curve of Giorno's hands.]
I want you to do that. I want to do the same for you. [He sighs. And then laughs a little, remembering something Giorno wrote about his fingertips, before reaching to gently take one of Giorno's wrists with both his hands. He raises Giorno's hand up to his mouth and begins to kiss it; he starts with the palm, soft and lingering, and slowly works his way up Giorno's fingers.] I want this. I want you. Everything you've thought about, I want to give to you.
[Giorno will only be able to see little pieces of his smile; the pleased crinkle of skin around his eyes, the playful set of his brows, one twitchy corner that's just visible from behind his hand.]
Are you really that distracted? Mm. Do you think this will help in the long run, or-- [He closes his eyes and gently kisses Giorno's fingertips.] Make it worse?
no subject
Marked up from Giorno's teeth. Out of breath and flushed from Giorno's hands. Expression hazy with pleasure. And bitten lips parted, just waiting to be kissed again, to help pull in slow, heavy breaths. Fugo looks at Giorno through his lashes and briefly pulls his lip into his teeth, thoughtful and loose and relaxed. And then he rolls his shoulders, following along with the movement of Giorno's wandering hands, and tips his chin up. So Giorno can look at him better. So Giorno can touch him better.
The gestures are wordless, but speak volumes. Look at me, murmurs the bared angle of his throat. Touch me, his shoulders insist, gently pushing up to fit underneath the curve of Giorno's hands.]
I want you to do that. I want to do the same for you. [He sighs. And then laughs a little, remembering something Giorno wrote about his fingertips, before reaching to gently take one of Giorno's wrists with both his hands. He raises Giorno's hand up to his mouth and begins to kiss it; he starts with the palm, soft and lingering, and slowly works his way up Giorno's fingers.] I want this. I want you. Everything you've thought about, I want to give to you.
[Giorno will only be able to see little pieces of his smile; the pleased crinkle of skin around his eyes, the playful set of his brows, one twitchy corner that's just visible from behind his hand.]
Are you really that distracted? Mm. Do you think this will help in the long run, or-- [He closes his eyes and gently kisses Giorno's fingertips.] Make it worse?