[As thrilling as everything is about what they're doing, the new things they're trying feathered hand-in-hand with their more familiar shows of affection, it's a relief that Giorno needs a moment. Fugo needs one too, where he can just be still and hold this boy he loves so fiercely that it makes his chest ache. Giorno's kiss-- kisses?-- on his neck, light and feathery, call up a steady murmur of effusive praise from Fugo; a haphazard pattern constructed from yes, there, yes and good and I love you. And when Giorno finally settles down properly in the crook of his neck to rest...
Fugo sighs, happy and content. He pets the nape of Giorno's neck with trembling fingers and twists to press a kiss to the side of his head, which makes up for its terrible lack of romance through sheer affection. Giorno doesn't have to be picture perfect for him. Giorno doesn't need to know exactly what to say for him. It's okay for them to lie here together, a tangle of limbs and lingering heat gathered between the two of them.]
[Besides. It gives him a moment to gather his confidence, even though he knows Giorno is preparing to knock him flat on his back. ... metaphorically speaking. Giorno has already, very literally, knocked him down on his back.]
[It's-- incredibly embarrassing, listening to Giorno put words to it. Fugo doesn't just hear I always think about kissing you: he feels the intimate words every inch of you pressed into his skin. It's exciting. And funny, too, because isn't that what he admitted wanting to do to Giorno? It always touches Fugo's sense of humor when their wants line up like that.
He's not ready for the brief pressure of Giorno's teeth when he pulls back. Or the naked look of greed in Giorno's eyes when he looks down at him. Knowing that Giorno wants him, oh-- it's so different from the physical practice of seeing it. Hearing it. And now feeling it, with the tap of Giorno's fingers demonstrating the exact route Giorno wants to take to make a map of Fugo's body with his mouth.
His throat. His ribs. His stomach. His hip. And-- the inside of his thigh.]
[For the first time, one of Fugo's hands darts to his mouth; too late to cover his sharp intake of breath, the back of his knuckles hit his mouth in sync with his full head to toe shiver. He's ... not entirely surprised. Giorno's hands have been drifting there, circling around and now zeroing in on exactly what he'd like to do.]
You-- ... [His voice... ugh, it sounds so stupid. Fugo swallows and licks his lips; looks up at Giorno with an expression that's entirely embarrassed but stubbornly intent, even though he's still so hazy with want. Taking a moment does not help to smooth out the hoarseness Giorno's touch has pulled out of him.] The button. I'll need your help with the button and the zipper. If you want to leave a mark there.
[Fugo reaches up for Giorno's face again, spindly fingers curling around his cheek. Warm. Giorno's so warm. And he knows what Fugo is going to look like if he bites him there: a goddamn mess.]
no subject
Fugo sighs, happy and content. He pets the nape of Giorno's neck with trembling fingers and twists to press a kiss to the side of his head, which makes up for its terrible lack of romance through sheer affection. Giorno doesn't have to be picture perfect for him. Giorno doesn't need to know exactly what to say for him. It's okay for them to lie here together, a tangle of limbs and lingering heat gathered between the two of them.]
[Besides. It gives him a moment to gather his confidence, even though he knows Giorno is preparing to knock him flat on his back. ... metaphorically speaking. Giorno has already, very literally, knocked him down on his back.]
[It's-- incredibly embarrassing, listening to Giorno put words to it. Fugo doesn't just hear I always think about kissing you: he feels the intimate words every inch of you pressed into his skin. It's exciting. And funny, too, because isn't that what he admitted wanting to do to Giorno? It always touches Fugo's sense of humor when their wants line up like that.
He's not ready for the brief pressure of Giorno's teeth when he pulls back. Or the naked look of greed in Giorno's eyes when he looks down at him. Knowing that Giorno wants him, oh-- it's so different from the physical practice of seeing it. Hearing it. And now feeling it, with the tap of Giorno's fingers demonstrating the exact route Giorno wants to take to make a map of Fugo's body with his mouth.
His throat. His ribs. His stomach. His hip. And-- the inside of his thigh.]
[For the first time, one of Fugo's hands darts to his mouth; too late to cover his sharp intake of breath, the back of his knuckles hit his mouth in sync with his full head to toe shiver. He's ... not entirely surprised. Giorno's hands have been drifting there, circling around and now zeroing in on exactly what he'd like to do.]
You-- ... [His voice... ugh, it sounds so stupid. Fugo swallows and licks his lips; looks up at Giorno with an expression that's entirely embarrassed but stubbornly intent, even though he's still so hazy with want. Taking a moment does not help to smooth out the hoarseness Giorno's touch has pulled out of him.] The button. I'll need your help with the button and the zipper. If you want to leave a mark there.
[Fugo reaches up for Giorno's face again, spindly fingers curling around his cheek. Warm. Giorno's so warm. And he knows what Fugo is going to look like if he bites him there: a goddamn mess.]
You will. Won't you?