[The way Fugo's looking at him, even before he smiles like that, makes it hard to breathe. There's so much want in him that Giorno thinks he might die, pinned down by Fugo's gaze. There'd be worse ways to go. But--then that smile, and he can't help but suck another sharp breath into his lungs, because oh. He's in trouble.]
[It's a cascade of want and sensation and new, which is so unfair. Fugo has him caught with that sharp, wicked smile, has snared him fully even before he touches. And then when he does, the touch would be more than enough, but there's the way Fugo looks at him and the way his pretty fingers, so long and so soft, look and feel moving along his cock, and Giorno just--can't. He can't look, because Fugo will know and laugh, probably. Which would be nice, and terrible, and perfect. Something. Everything. He can't think.]
[Whining, he twists to pant against the pillow. It's too much. He just needs a second to get used to it, the reality after so much thinking about it. Fugo's talking, and he wants to answer, he wants to be good and give Fugo what he wants. He just needs a second.]
[Which he doesn't get. Instead, with his face turned away and his eyes tightly shut, his only warning is half an instant of Fugo's breath. Then: warm, soft, wet; pleasure winds up tight in his gut, and it's only a sudden unexpected burst of common sense that has him digging his heels into the bed and around Fugo's leg, keeping him from thrusting up again. His voice comes out a yelp, startled and hungry at once.]
Fuck! Fuck, Fugo--
[When he jerks his head up to look at Fugo again, he's wild- and wide-eyed, pupils blown. And there Fugo is between his legs, voice buzzing against his cock, kissing him. All over. His hand presses gentle circles against his thigh, and somehow that's almost the most distracting thing. Or--all of it. All of it is too much and not enough. He wants Fugo's mouth, he does, but--also, Fugo wants that. Fugo wants that. Fugo wants the same thing he wanted, before, and oh, it makes him dizzy. Makes his toes curl in the sheets.]
Fuck, Fugo, please. [He sucks in a sharp breath, stares down dazed at Fugo between his legs. His fingers flex against his thigh, helpless, wanting to hold on but at the same time not wanting to restrict Fugo from being so horrible and so, so good.] Everything is good. You're so good, just please-- [He exhales sharply; manages a crooked smile of his own. He can't help it, not even now, not even as thoroughly as Fugo's ruined him.] I want to feel good. Like you did. Take care of me?
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[It's a cascade of want and sensation and new, which is so unfair. Fugo has him caught with that sharp, wicked smile, has snared him fully even before he touches. And then when he does, the touch would be more than enough, but there's the way Fugo looks at him and the way his pretty fingers, so long and so soft, look and feel moving along his cock, and Giorno just--can't. He can't look, because Fugo will know and laugh, probably. Which would be nice, and terrible, and perfect. Something. Everything. He can't think.]
[Whining, he twists to pant against the pillow. It's too much. He just needs a second to get used to it, the reality after so much thinking about it. Fugo's talking, and he wants to answer, he wants to be good and give Fugo what he wants. He just needs a second.]
[Which he doesn't get. Instead, with his face turned away and his eyes tightly shut, his only warning is half an instant of Fugo's breath. Then: warm, soft, wet; pleasure winds up tight in his gut, and it's only a sudden unexpected burst of common sense that has him digging his heels into the bed and around Fugo's leg, keeping him from thrusting up again. His voice comes out a yelp, startled and hungry at once.]
Fuck! Fuck, Fugo--
[When he jerks his head up to look at Fugo again, he's wild- and wide-eyed, pupils blown. And there Fugo is between his legs, voice buzzing against his cock, kissing him. All over. His hand presses gentle circles against his thigh, and somehow that's almost the most distracting thing. Or--all of it. All of it is too much and not enough. He wants Fugo's mouth, he does, but--also, Fugo wants that. Fugo wants that. Fugo wants the same thing he wanted, before, and oh, it makes him dizzy. Makes his toes curl in the sheets.]
Fuck, Fugo, please. [He sucks in a sharp breath, stares down dazed at Fugo between his legs. His fingers flex against his thigh, helpless, wanting to hold on but at the same time not wanting to restrict Fugo from being so horrible and so, so good.] Everything is good. You're so good, just please-- [He exhales sharply; manages a crooked smile of his own. He can't help it, not even now, not even as thoroughly as Fugo's ruined him.] I want to feel good. Like you did. Take care of me?