[There isn't time for him to worry about what that face means, really. Half a second and it's gone, and the whole of his attention refocuses to the careful way Fugo's kissing and mouthing at him. Getting a feel for him, he realizes after a long, too-slow moment of thought; it makes his heart thump hard in his ears. Fugo is so--methodical in everything that he does, even this. He's so dangerously clever. Giorno doesn't understand it, why he's so lucky.]
[Because--Fugo really does want him, doesn't he. It's hard to fathom, but the pieces are falling into place, no longer as a theoretical but as a reality. As his fingers curl automatically in the soft waves of Fugo's hair, his breath catches, some sharp emotion hooking on the inside of his ribs. And then Fugo's expression changes to something like . . . awed disbelief, Giorno thinks, right before. As though he can't believe he's allowed. Which almost hurts to see, in a good way; Giorno didn't know--he didn't know.]
[He watches, as Fugo takes him in; he has to. The look on Fugo's face has caught him, and it holds him tight. If it's not bliss, it's something close. If he doesn't watch, maybe he'll convince himself he's wrong. But the lazy comfort in the set of Fugo's mouth around him and the soft line of his eyebrows are want, need, and relief all at once. Fugo is as desperate as he is.]
[Finally, as Fugo takes him in (and doesn't stop, doesn't stop, keeps not stopping), Giorno . . . lets go. Shudders, long and slow, as he watches Fugo's mouth around him, red from kissing and biting and being kissed and bitten; sheds the tightness in his shoulders like old skin. It feels clearer, now, what Fugo said--comfort in his own body. Fugo wants him just like this. So everything's perfect.]
[By the time Fugo looks at him, he's given himself over to the want pounding in his ears and curling tight in his gut. Lips parted, he's breathing shallowly, but not fast; he trusts Fugo to take care of him. And he's shaking, twitching all over, but not trying to hide it. He just feels good. Fugo has all of him. Fugo is holding him safe, and Fugo is everywhere, hot and wet and close, tongue pressed up snug against him. So when Fugo looks at him, hungry and content at once, he looks back just the same, and shakes, from his shoulders to his hips, but doesn't ask for anything.]
[Instead:]
Fugo.
[His voice is raspy, rough. He wants, but he doesn't need, not yet. His fingers twist idly in Fugo's hair; his other hand twitches, reaching down for a moment as though to touch Fugo's face, to trace the shape of his mouth--but no. In the end, with another full-body shudder, he reaches up to touch the mark Fugo left on his collarbone. It's still hot from his mouth, which makes Giorno twist and twitch just a little. He blinks slowly, works his mouth a few times to find words.]
Love you. Yours. It feels-- [And his mouth works again, but he can't, he has to squeeze his eyes shut as he whimpers against the impossibility of describing this. In the end:] Mm, perfect.
no subject
[Because--Fugo really does want him, doesn't he. It's hard to fathom, but the pieces are falling into place, no longer as a theoretical but as a reality. As his fingers curl automatically in the soft waves of Fugo's hair, his breath catches, some sharp emotion hooking on the inside of his ribs. And then Fugo's expression changes to something like . . . awed disbelief, Giorno thinks, right before. As though he can't believe he's allowed. Which almost hurts to see, in a good way; Giorno didn't know--he didn't know.]
[He watches, as Fugo takes him in; he has to. The look on Fugo's face has caught him, and it holds him tight. If it's not bliss, it's something close. If he doesn't watch, maybe he'll convince himself he's wrong. But the lazy comfort in the set of Fugo's mouth around him and the soft line of his eyebrows are want, need, and relief all at once. Fugo is as desperate as he is.]
[Finally, as Fugo takes him in (and doesn't stop, doesn't stop, keeps not stopping), Giorno . . . lets go. Shudders, long and slow, as he watches Fugo's mouth around him, red from kissing and biting and being kissed and bitten; sheds the tightness in his shoulders like old skin. It feels clearer, now, what Fugo said--comfort in his own body. Fugo wants him just like this. So everything's perfect.]
[By the time Fugo looks at him, he's given himself over to the want pounding in his ears and curling tight in his gut. Lips parted, he's breathing shallowly, but not fast; he trusts Fugo to take care of him. And he's shaking, twitching all over, but not trying to hide it. He just feels good. Fugo has all of him. Fugo is holding him safe, and Fugo is everywhere, hot and wet and close, tongue pressed up snug against him. So when Fugo looks at him, hungry and content at once, he looks back just the same, and shakes, from his shoulders to his hips, but doesn't ask for anything.]
[Instead:]
Fugo.
[His voice is raspy, rough. He wants, but he doesn't need, not yet. His fingers twist idly in Fugo's hair; his other hand twitches, reaching down for a moment as though to touch Fugo's face, to trace the shape of his mouth--but no. In the end, with another full-body shudder, he reaches up to touch the mark Fugo left on his collarbone. It's still hot from his mouth, which makes Giorno twist and twitch just a little. He blinks slowly, works his mouth a few times to find words.]
Love you. Yours. It feels-- [And his mouth works again, but he can't, he has to squeeze his eyes shut as he whimpers against the impossibility of describing this. In the end:] Mm, perfect.