[It occurs to Giorno, in a dazed and distant kind of way, that Fugo is totally unfair. God, utterly unfair. And he always has been, hasn't he? From day one, Fugo's gotten to him in a precisely perfect way that no one ever has. And now here Fugo is, winding him up like it's his job.]
[That's exactly what it is: Fugo's winding him up. Whether it's entirely intentional or not, Giorno can feel himself winding tighter and tighter with every tiny thing Fugo does to him. Even Fugo's breath against his skin alone makes his toes curl, but the soft kisses that follow are so, so much more devastating. They punctuate that praise--or, no, is it punctuation or is it a counterpoint? Something to keep Giorno from ever quite catching his breath. Fugo calls him amazing, brave, pretty, good, and between each is a kiss, and the shaky acceleration of Giorno's breath.]
[But then Fugo calls him mine. My Giogio, he says; it makes Giorno whimper before Fugo even bites him. He wants that; he wants so badly to be Fugo's, even if he doesn't know how to say it right. His thoughts are moving so slowly that it takes him a slow few seconds to recognize that the toothy kiss has long become a bite, and a bite after something like that--after my Giogio--]
[Oh, that means mine all over again. Just again, bigger, more. And Giorno, who loves more in general but especially more of Fugo wanting him and taking what he wants--Giorno cries out as his breathing quickens, so soft even though he's not trying to keep quiet now. He's just awed. With every panted breath, he lets out a soft, wordless sound, tilting his head to make sure Fugo has as much space as he wants.]
[And then--Fugo's satisfied. He's moved, let go Giorno's hip and leaned up to look at him. Giorno looks back, of course, flushed across his cheeks and across his chest, now; he's careful to keep his head tilted just enough that Fugo can see his handiwork. It's not meant to be teasing, not this time. It's just--Fugo wants to look. Giorno wants him to see. And he wants to be seen. It's overwhelming, but he wants it now. Even though Fugo looking at him with that warm, sweet smile keeps his breathing quick and unsteady. Even if Fugo wants so many things that his head spins. Even if Fugo's asking him--]
[It's so unfair, he can't help it, he can't--he was quiet before without really thinking about it but this is loud, a wail that he can't hold back. One hand claws a grip on the comforter, the other holding desperately tight to Fugo's shoulder. His hips jerk up just a bit, because--what is he supposed to do, when Fugo asks him something like that?]
Yes. [--is what comes out when he manages words again. Babbling, of course it's babbling, and he's not sorry.] Please. Please, you can, yes, Fugo--I want you to so much.
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[That's exactly what it is: Fugo's winding him up. Whether it's entirely intentional or not, Giorno can feel himself winding tighter and tighter with every tiny thing Fugo does to him. Even Fugo's breath against his skin alone makes his toes curl, but the soft kisses that follow are so, so much more devastating. They punctuate that praise--or, no, is it punctuation or is it a counterpoint? Something to keep Giorno from ever quite catching his breath. Fugo calls him amazing, brave, pretty, good, and between each is a kiss, and the shaky acceleration of Giorno's breath.]
[But then Fugo calls him mine. My Giogio, he says; it makes Giorno whimper before Fugo even bites him. He wants that; he wants so badly to be Fugo's, even if he doesn't know how to say it right. His thoughts are moving so slowly that it takes him a slow few seconds to recognize that the toothy kiss has long become a bite, and a bite after something like that--after my Giogio--]
[Oh, that means mine all over again. Just again, bigger, more. And Giorno, who loves more in general but especially more of Fugo wanting him and taking what he wants--Giorno cries out as his breathing quickens, so soft even though he's not trying to keep quiet now. He's just awed. With every panted breath, he lets out a soft, wordless sound, tilting his head to make sure Fugo has as much space as he wants.]
[And then--Fugo's satisfied. He's moved, let go Giorno's hip and leaned up to look at him. Giorno looks back, of course, flushed across his cheeks and across his chest, now; he's careful to keep his head tilted just enough that Fugo can see his handiwork. It's not meant to be teasing, not this time. It's just--Fugo wants to look. Giorno wants him to see. And he wants to be seen. It's overwhelming, but he wants it now. Even though Fugo looking at him with that warm, sweet smile keeps his breathing quick and unsteady. Even if Fugo wants so many things that his head spins. Even if Fugo's asking him--]
[It's so unfair, he can't help it, he can't--he was quiet before without really thinking about it but this is loud, a wail that he can't hold back. One hand claws a grip on the comforter, the other holding desperately tight to Fugo's shoulder. His hips jerk up just a bit, because--what is he supposed to do, when Fugo asks him something like that?]
Yes. [--is what comes out when he manages words again. Babbling, of course it's babbling, and he's not sorry.] Please. Please, you can, yes, Fugo--I want you to so much.