[ The moment Charlie's lips touch his, he knows he fucked up. His drink-addled mind might have made that demand thinking a kiss would take the edge off that heat roiling his guts -- would just be enough to take the edge off the unbearable lust and let him think straight, so he wouldn't embarrass himself any further -- but he immediately knows that's pure delusion.
Like hell he can pull back now that he's being given what he desperately wants.
Just the crush of lips against his own sends electricity racing down his spine, earning a hard jolt; the wet drag of Charlie's tongue pressing against his is almost too much to take. Fuuta meets the kiss blearily at first before giving as good as he gets, leaning in to drag his teeth against Charlie's lip. And when he feels that hand press against his chest, that light pressure making his nerves light up, he nips harder on reflex. Almost hard enough to break through skin.
Enough to leave a little tender spot when he pulls back, only because his lungs are aching for air. Fuuta gasps, chest heaving, as he breaks the kiss, though his fingers remain insistently tangled into Charlie's clothes; with how scrambled his thoughts are between the alcohol and whatever his drinks were spiked with and now that kiss on top, it takes him far too long to find any words. ]
This -- this is all your fault. Alright. 's not my fault. It's not.
[ It's said with as much grit as he can muster while breathless and bleary, one hand twisting harder into Charlie's clothes. The other shamefully, guiltily, slips under the waistband of his sweatpants so he can paw at himself. The sort of thing he'd never do in public, except he feels like his heart's going to explode if he doesn't immediately address the maddening heat in his veins. It's equal parts desperate, demanding and furious when Fuuta yanks at Charlie's clothes to demand another kiss; it's all he needs to push himself over the edge, he thinks, then surely he'll be able to calm down a bit. ]
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Like hell he can pull back now that he's being given what he desperately wants.
Just the crush of lips against his own sends electricity racing down his spine, earning a hard jolt; the wet drag of Charlie's tongue pressing against his is almost too much to take. Fuuta meets the kiss blearily at first before giving as good as he gets, leaning in to drag his teeth against Charlie's lip. And when he feels that hand press against his chest, that light pressure making his nerves light up, he nips harder on reflex. Almost hard enough to break through skin.
Enough to leave a little tender spot when he pulls back, only because his lungs are aching for air. Fuuta gasps, chest heaving, as he breaks the kiss, though his fingers remain insistently tangled into Charlie's clothes; with how scrambled his thoughts are between the alcohol and whatever his drinks were spiked with and now that kiss on top, it takes him far too long to find any words. ]
This -- this is all your fault. Alright. 's not my fault. It's not.
[ It's said with as much grit as he can muster while breathless and bleary, one hand twisting harder into Charlie's clothes. The other shamefully, guiltily, slips under the waistband of his sweatpants so he can paw at himself. The sort of thing he'd never do in public, except he feels like his heart's going to explode if he doesn't immediately address the maddening heat in his veins. It's equal parts desperate, demanding and furious when Fuuta yanks at Charlie's clothes to demand another kiss; it's all he needs to push himself over the edge, he thinks, then surely he'll be able to calm down a bit. ]