[There's something freeing about relinquishing control. Not all of it; that's not what this is. It's not that Joseph is entirely running the show here, not by a long shot. But he isn't, either — not planning his next move or word, or worrying about what's going to happen next, or thinking about anything other than exactly what's in front of him.]
[Which is Joseph. And that's right, isn't it. The most important person to him, his Jojo, is right here, touching him like he's everything in the world. It seems strange that that could go both ways, that anything in his life could align so perfectly. But Joseph doesn't lie to him — never has, never will — and anyway, this, this is honest.]
[He feels like everything is louder, brighter, sharper than it should be. Not in a bad way, but an embarrassing way, maybe. He's hyperaware of the sound of his zipper going down, of the soft slide of Joseph's fingers over his pants, of teeth against his neck, making him squirm. Where it catches him off-guard is when Joseph moves, and his hand is there and then gone — fucking agony, and half a plaintive moan gets out before he presses his lips together tight enough to lock back most of the sound.]
Jojo, fuck.
[He doesn't want to sound so desperate, but he has been from the start, hasn't he? He's overheated and glassy-eyed, one hand tight in Joseph's hair, legs wrapped around his to keep him in place, and it's stupid because nothing's even happened yet, but as he lifts his hips he feels like he doesn't even have to worry about something going wrong, because for once, nothing will. Nothing scares him, not when Joseph's got hands all over him, not when Joseph has his mouth on his pulse.]
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[Which is Joseph. And that's right, isn't it. The most important person to him, his Jojo, is right here, touching him like he's everything in the world. It seems strange that that could go both ways, that anything in his life could align so perfectly. But Joseph doesn't lie to him — never has, never will — and anyway, this, this is honest.]
[He feels like everything is louder, brighter, sharper than it should be. Not in a bad way, but an embarrassing way, maybe. He's hyperaware of the sound of his zipper going down, of the soft slide of Joseph's fingers over his pants, of teeth against his neck, making him squirm. Where it catches him off-guard is when Joseph moves, and his hand is there and then gone — fucking agony, and half a plaintive moan gets out before he presses his lips together tight enough to lock back most of the sound.]
Jojo, fuck.
[He doesn't want to sound so desperate, but he has been from the start, hasn't he? He's overheated and glassy-eyed, one hand tight in Joseph's hair, legs wrapped around his to keep him in place, and it's stupid because nothing's even happened yet, but as he lifts his hips he feels like he doesn't even have to worry about something going wrong, because for once, nothing will. Nothing scares him, not when Joseph's got hands all over him, not when Joseph has his mouth on his pulse.]