[ Why the fuck do people here keep picking him up. Does nobody here have a normal sense of personal space and boundaries. And while Fuuta usually has a smart comment or two to make whenever someone decides to just pick him up like a bag of groceries -- it comes with so little warning this time, and Midnight executes the motion with such unnatural ease that all Fuuta can do is give a startled yelp as he's hefted up and placed down on the table.
Bad enough! Worse: the way he can feel a flush of heat -- embarrassed? flustered? both? -- rising in the pit of his stomach as he looks up at Midnight from where he's laid out on the table. Worst: his face reddens further, traces of it reaching his ears, when he hears what Midnight is saying. ]
'Darling?!' [ No, more importantly, the other thing -- ] And why should I -- ?!
[ He doesn't finish that sentence. In part because he doesn't know exactly how to. But also in part because they're starting to draw a small crowd of curious onlookers, people no doubt drawn to this new arrangement they're in, and Fuuta's gaze skitters towards them before he looks back up at Midnight with teeth clenched and breaths coming in hard huffs. Fuck. The last thing he wants to do is back of now, like some sort of weakling, in front of a crowd. So --
he abruptly reaches up to grab at the neck of Midnight's shirt, yanking to bring him closer. It lets him speak with his voice kept at a lower growl, mostly kept between the two of them: ] I'll do it myself. But I'm not undressing fully. You just need the clothes out of the way, and you can't say I'm throwing the round.
[ Accompanied by a hard glower before he lets go so he can fumble with his belt and the front of his suit pants. The sound of someone in the crowd wolf-whistling earns a frustrated grunt before he pulls his knees up, bracing his feet against the edge of the table so he can scoot the back hem of his pants and underwear just down past his ass. Offering just barely enough room for the prompt, but showing as little as possible. ]
no subject
Bad enough! Worse: the way he can feel a flush of heat -- embarrassed? flustered? both? -- rising in the pit of his stomach as he looks up at Midnight from where he's laid out on the table. Worst: his face reddens further, traces of it reaching his ears, when he hears what Midnight is saying. ]
'Darling?!' [ No, more importantly, the other thing -- ] And why should I -- ?!
[ He doesn't finish that sentence. In part because he doesn't know exactly how to. But also in part because they're starting to draw a small crowd of curious onlookers, people no doubt drawn to this new arrangement they're in, and Fuuta's gaze skitters towards them before he looks back up at Midnight with teeth clenched and breaths coming in hard huffs. Fuck. The last thing he wants to do is back of now, like some sort of weakling, in front of a crowd. So --
he abruptly reaches up to grab at the neck of Midnight's shirt, yanking to bring him closer. It lets him speak with his voice kept at a lower growl, mostly kept between the two of them: ] I'll do it myself. But I'm not undressing fully. You just need the clothes out of the way, and you can't say I'm throwing the round.
[ Accompanied by a hard glower before he lets go so he can fumble with his belt and the front of his suit pants. The sound of someone in the crowd wolf-whistling earns a frustrated grunt before he pulls his knees up, bracing his feet against the edge of the table so he can scoot the back hem of his pants and underwear just down past his ass. Offering just barely enough room for the prompt, but showing as little as possible. ]