[There, Fugo thinks, thoughts slow and cloudy in the haze of his own satisfaction, he finally let go.
Giorno is so beautiful, he's always so beautiful, but Fugo has never seen him like this before. Lying loose and languid, above and around and inside his mouth, flushed and trembling with how turned on he is. Gorgeous, he thinks, as his own eyes slip close. And: I love him. Fugo doesn't want to stop looking at Giorno when he's this vulnerable, who really does trust him and feel safe with him; but he closes his eyes in order to focus on making Giorno feel good, because otherwise he'll get distracted in the pretty details of his eyelashes and shallow breathing.
The last thing he sees is Giorno's hand, lovely and powerful, reaching up ... to touch the mark. That Fugo left on him. And that's too much, because Giorno is just too pretty. And Fugo never thought it would feel this good to be so completely caught up-- locked in to-- with someone else. But he loves it. He loves this, how perfectly surrounded he is and how full his mouth is with the weight and taste and smell of Giorno. He loves how good Giorno feels. It's so perfect, it's so good, it's beyond anything he could ever have dreamed up.]
[And so, half by accident and half out of a desire to share with Giorno how good it is to feel someone's voice, Fugo moans around him before he starts to move. He pulls up and counts the seconds it takes to reach the head; when he sinks down to the base again, that count is what he bases his internal timing on. There is nothing in his life that he has ever wanted to do more precisely than he wants to do this: bringing Giorno pleasure and making him feel good, better than he's ever felt in his life. Perfect in his own skin. Safe. Loved. Wanted.]
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Giorno is so beautiful, he's always so beautiful, but Fugo has never seen him like this before. Lying loose and languid, above and around and inside his mouth, flushed and trembling with how turned on he is. Gorgeous, he thinks, as his own eyes slip close. And: I love him. Fugo doesn't want to stop looking at Giorno when he's this vulnerable, who really does trust him and feel safe with him; but he closes his eyes in order to focus on making Giorno feel good, because otherwise he'll get distracted in the pretty details of his eyelashes and shallow breathing.
The last thing he sees is Giorno's hand, lovely and powerful, reaching up ... to touch the mark. That Fugo left on him. And that's too much, because Giorno is just too pretty. And Fugo never thought it would feel this good to be so completely caught up-- locked in to-- with someone else. But he loves it. He loves this, how perfectly surrounded he is and how full his mouth is with the weight and taste and smell of Giorno. He loves how good Giorno feels. It's so perfect, it's so good, it's beyond anything he could ever have dreamed up.]
[And so, half by accident and half out of a desire to share with Giorno how good it is to feel someone's voice, Fugo moans around him before he starts to move. He pulls up and counts the seconds it takes to reach the head; when he sinks down to the base again, that count is what he bases his internal timing on. There is nothing in his life that he has ever wanted to do more precisely than he wants to do this: bringing Giorno pleasure and making him feel good, better than he's ever felt in his life. Perfect in his own skin. Safe. Loved. Wanted.]