[It's quite the conflict, really. He wants so badly to keep his eyes open, to watch Fugo like a hawk so that he can catch the way his expression shifts when Giorno does something that feels especially good, the way his mouth moves when his breath catches in contrast with the way it does when he fumbles for words, or babbles, or whines. But at the same time, it's so terribly hard to multitask, and everything else is so--]
[Overwhelming. He's overwhelmed, not in a bad way but in a full way, so that he can't focus on one thing for too long before something takes him over. His eyes close so he can focus on the heat of Fugo's skin under his mouth, or the way he squirms; then it shifts to tight fingers in his hair, words slurred and rough with desire, the warmth and solidity of Fugo's thighs framing his shoulders. The way they tense when he touches them just so. And Fugo smells good, so good in a way that whenever he notices it consciously he breathes in a little too sharply, not quite a gasp but close, wanting so badly his lungs won't work for a moment. And then his eyes open again, and he looks at Fugo with his bright eyes and hazy smile and the pink in his cheeks, and it starts all over again.]
[Such a conundrum. He could stay here forever, just like this, kissing and biting and telling Fugo how beautiful he is. It's a subject he'd happily discuss for ages, especially with Fugo feeling so good he doesn't want to argue. But he wants so badly, too. He wants to follow the trail his fingers are taking up and down Fugo's thighs with his mouth, wants to mark him up and make him squirm--would like very much more of this, fingers tight in his hair, and more of what came before, with Fugo's thighs holding him precisely in place. He wants that. So much.]
[What keeps catching him, making him trip over his own momentum--it's stupid. Oh, it's so stupid, he feels stupid even thinking it, because why wouldn't Fugo want him? That's the whole point. That's what he wanted. But he didn't imagine it would be so big. He didn't realize it would fill his chest to bursting, that it would make the want more and the need dizzying. He didn't expect Fugo to be so . . .]
[Fugo's fingers are still tight in his hair when it comes. Sweetness. Not compliments, not flattery, but open, unfettered want and a gentle insistence on expressing it. As difficult as words are, as new as it is, Fugo gets it out. How much he likes looking. How difficult it is to look, sometimes, because he likes looking so much that it can be too much. Fugo thinks he looks like that, where he is now, nipping his stomach and his hip, from where Fugo is now, looking down at him with fingers tangled in his hair, holding him in place.]
[It isn't fair. The sound he makes is so embarrassing, low and rough, pressed against Fugo's hip. He closes his eyes, like that will make his cheeks stop glowing, like it'll help him catch his breath. It doesn't. He's utterly compromised.]
That's you.
[What? He can't--those aren't words. Not the right ones. He takes a long, shuddering breath, and then bites down sharply on Fugo's hip. It's a long, lingering bite, not deep but steady pressure, not for revenge but because for a few moments it's the only way he can explain--how he feels, how much he feels, how much he wants. When he lets go, it's with another rough exhale. And then he looks up. Licks his lips and tries to line words up the way he wants them. Sometime along the way, he dug his fingers into Fugo's thigh on the way up again. It's possessive. He's not really sorry about that, either.]
I look like that. Because I want you. And I want to be all yours. And you want me to be, so--
[There's no way he can get the words out. What it means or how lucky he feels; how overwhelming it is to be so wanted, so needed, that someone could ruin him so effortlessly as Fugo is ruining him right now. Or the little things, the contributing factors, building blocks: all the little sounds, the way Fugo whines and squirms and holds him and what it means. How much it means to him, and how intensely it affects him, that his greedy mine is answered by mine in return, from Fugo's eyes to his.]
[There aren't words, maybe. Maybe he doesn't have to say anything. Maybe Fugo can see just by looking at him. That happens sometimes: no words needed, just eyes meeting and gestures. Kisses.]
[He has to tug against Fugo's grip a little to get what he wants, but that's okay. More than. Almost anything would be worth it to replace his too-tight fingers with a gentle kiss--just one, soft and careful, to make sure it's okay. Now, though, his eyes aren't soft or careful, and they're wide open, watching Fugo's face. He wants to see what happens.]
no subject
[Overwhelming. He's overwhelmed, not in a bad way but in a full way, so that he can't focus on one thing for too long before something takes him over. His eyes close so he can focus on the heat of Fugo's skin under his mouth, or the way he squirms; then it shifts to tight fingers in his hair, words slurred and rough with desire, the warmth and solidity of Fugo's thighs framing his shoulders. The way they tense when he touches them just so. And Fugo smells good, so good in a way that whenever he notices it consciously he breathes in a little too sharply, not quite a gasp but close, wanting so badly his lungs won't work for a moment. And then his eyes open again, and he looks at Fugo with his bright eyes and hazy smile and the pink in his cheeks, and it starts all over again.]
[Such a conundrum. He could stay here forever, just like this, kissing and biting and telling Fugo how beautiful he is. It's a subject he'd happily discuss for ages, especially with Fugo feeling so good he doesn't want to argue. But he wants so badly, too. He wants to follow the trail his fingers are taking up and down Fugo's thighs with his mouth, wants to mark him up and make him squirm--would like very much more of this, fingers tight in his hair, and more of what came before, with Fugo's thighs holding him precisely in place. He wants that. So much.]
[What keeps catching him, making him trip over his own momentum--it's stupid. Oh, it's so stupid, he feels stupid even thinking it, because why wouldn't Fugo want him? That's the whole point. That's what he wanted. But he didn't imagine it would be so big. He didn't realize it would fill his chest to bursting, that it would make the want more and the need dizzying. He didn't expect Fugo to be so . . .]
[Fugo's fingers are still tight in his hair when it comes. Sweetness. Not compliments, not flattery, but open, unfettered want and a gentle insistence on expressing it. As difficult as words are, as new as it is, Fugo gets it out. How much he likes looking. How difficult it is to look, sometimes, because he likes looking so much that it can be too much. Fugo thinks he looks like that, where he is now, nipping his stomach and his hip, from where Fugo is now, looking down at him with fingers tangled in his hair, holding him in place.]
[It isn't fair. The sound he makes is so embarrassing, low and rough, pressed against Fugo's hip. He closes his eyes, like that will make his cheeks stop glowing, like it'll help him catch his breath. It doesn't. He's utterly compromised.]
That's you.
[What? He can't--those aren't words. Not the right ones. He takes a long, shuddering breath, and then bites down sharply on Fugo's hip. It's a long, lingering bite, not deep but steady pressure, not for revenge but because for a few moments it's the only way he can explain--how he feels, how much he feels, how much he wants. When he lets go, it's with another rough exhale. And then he looks up. Licks his lips and tries to line words up the way he wants them. Sometime along the way, he dug his fingers into Fugo's thigh on the way up again. It's possessive. He's not really sorry about that, either.]
I look like that. Because I want you. And I want to be all yours. And you want me to be, so--
[There's no way he can get the words out. What it means or how lucky he feels; how overwhelming it is to be so wanted, so needed, that someone could ruin him so effortlessly as Fugo is ruining him right now. Or the little things, the contributing factors, building blocks: all the little sounds, the way Fugo whines and squirms and holds him and what it means. How much it means to him, and how intensely it affects him, that his greedy mine is answered by mine in return, from Fugo's eyes to his.]
[There aren't words, maybe. Maybe he doesn't have to say anything. Maybe Fugo can see just by looking at him. That happens sometimes: no words needed, just eyes meeting and gestures. Kisses.]
[He has to tug against Fugo's grip a little to get what he wants, but that's okay. More than. Almost anything would be worth it to replace his too-tight fingers with a gentle kiss--just one, soft and careful, to make sure it's okay. Now, though, his eyes aren't soft or careful, and they're wide open, watching Fugo's face. He wants to see what happens.]