digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

buongiorno! sorry i missed you; i'll happily get back to you as soon as i'm done with whatever business i'm on. leave a message!

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[Fugo can't seem to hold onto him tight enough. It makes him feel warm from his toes to the top of his head, so loved and so wanted and so needed in a way that he's only just starting to realize how much he loves--not emotionally, although that too, but physically. He's unfamiliar with someone needing him this close, but it fills a space in him that resonates with joy at being sated.]

[He loves the way Fugo can't touch him enough, really. It makes it safer to admit his own greed, which makes it easier for Fugo, and so they get more and more honest with each other. He likes it. It's a good loop.]

[He likes the way Fugo reacts to praise. He'd praise Fugo anyway, but knowing how he squirms in response makes it that much more satisfying to murmur scattered phrases between kisses: so soft, so sweet or I love you or please more, which is essentially a response to everything. More of all of this--that's what he wants.]

[And he likes the way Fugo reacts to touch. His mind keeps coming back and hooking on the eager roll of Fugo's hips, even as his thumb keeps up its slow back and forth. It wasn't a subtle movement. It's good; this is a touch that's okay, that Fugo likes, that he likes so much he felt safe saying so.]

[Giorno sucks in a breath, awed, and runs his palm over Fugo's stomach where his thumb was making its slow path just a moment ago. Fugo's skin is so warm, and it feels like his hand covers so much of his stomach, even as his fingertips still reach far enough to nearly graze Fugo's hipbone.]

Like that . . . ?

[It's soft and tentative, a very honest question accompanied by a kiss that lingers somewhere between teasing and needy. If the other thing was better, or he should stop entirely, he wants to know--wants to touch and kiss Fugo all over, to make him feel good, but so carefully, because Fugo is so precious to him it hurts sometimes.]

[Now that they're this close, there's no way he's going to let Giorno go. Nearby isn't good enough. It doesn't matter that it's really only a matter of time before his legs start to fall asleep. As long as they're touching as much as possible, as long as he's close enough that he doesn't have to reach to feel warm skin under his fingertips, he doesn't care.

All those little compliments leave him shivery and pleased. More, huh? He thinks he can do that. Fugo pushes forward so he can keep as close as possible, even as he relaxes his hold on Giorno. He needs his hands free to give Giorno more of what he wants. His right hand settles in the dip of Giorno's waist, to make sure he stays as close his possible; his left slips underneath Giorno's arm to reach his back, where his fingers draw a slow, sure line down his spine. There. That's Giorno's backbone, from the back of his neck to--

Well. Fugo meant to trace it all the way down to the small of his back, but the touch stutters a little past halfway down when Giorno's hand unfurls over his stomach. He sucks in a breath, sharp and tight in his chest. His fingers clench; distantly, the thought occurs to him that he might be holding on a little too tightly. And when he exhales, releasing a breath held so long his chest aches, it comes out as a low groan.]

Yes-- yes, that's-- [He pushes forward for another kiss, unwilling to let go or allow there to be any distance, however small, between them for too long.] Yes. That's good. [He smiles, pleased and dazed.] You're so good. So beautiful. I love you.

[Fugo's fingertips dig into him, ten pressure-points of need making themselves known against his bare skin. He's not prepared for how good that feels. It makes his breath stutter as he startles with the knowledge that Fugo let himself lose control enough to do that, the wave of need that comes with knowing that.]

[The sound Fugo makes a second later is just--it's not fair. Giorno keens quietly until it's smothered in Fugo's kiss. Then he has to kiss back, of course, just as fervent as Fugo. He lets out another small noise of protest when the kiss ends, leaning forward to rest his head against Fugo's shoulder.]

[His smile is going to kill me one day, he thinks dizzily. What he says, though, with breathless awe in his voice, is,] I love that. Hold me like that. You sound so nice. You're so soft . . .

[He doesn't need to look to let his hand slide up Fugo's stomach, his chest, to rest over his heart. Back down again a moment later, touch light, maybe a little too light, slowing as he passes back to the place that made Fugo jump like that. His fingers trace small, sloppy circles over Fugo's skin.]

[But he can't look up yet. He has to hide for a little while longer, leaning on Fugo's shoulder and just watching the movement of his fingers and the way Fugo reacts.]

[Be careful. You're stronger than you know. Don't hurt anyone.

Fugo has to live life carefully. Not just because of Purple Haze-- but because of the things he does when he loses his temper. He smashes plates. He hits people with dictionaries. He gets into fights that leave his knuckles red and raw. He breaks things. He hurts people.

It's not like he doesn't touch people. He does-- very carefully, because he knows better than most how easily hurt human bodies actually are. Fugo is especially careful around Giorno. He wants, so badly, to be someone who Giorno doesn't have to be afraid of. The one prayer he has left in him is a plea to a higher power he can't bring himself to believe in to keep him from hurting Giorno Giovanna.

Little by little, he has learned that it's okay for him to reach out. It's okay for him to hold on. It's okay to want to be held and it's okay to want to hold the person he loves. And tonight, he has learned that it's okay to-- let go of that worry a little, to hold on so tightly that when he struggles to find better purchase on Giorno's shoulders his nails scratch lightly across the warm skin of Giorno's back.

No, that's not right. It's not just okay. Giorno loves it when he holds on tight.]

[Not that Giorno is giving him much room to think. Not with the way he's touching his chest, hand briefly resting over his racing heart as if trying to calm it. Fugo shivers and twitches during the journey there and back; Giorno's hands are so light. It's as if they weigh nothing at all. But then, oh, the pressure is back on his stomach and he can't keep quiet or still. They're already so close, but he squirms to try and press forward in a clumsy attempt to match Giorno's rhythm.]

I have you-- [His promise is ragged. Haphazard, when he meant to be certain. His next attempt doesn't fare much better.] I have you, I won't let go. I want-- [His breath catches.] --you to feel as good as I do. Tell me? Please, Giogio. Please.

What? You want--

[Oh, no. Oh, he can feel his face burning. He can feel his ears an his neck and his shoulders burn like they're on fire. His fingers twitch helplessly against Fugo's stomach, and his breath is just--it's stupid, it's a stupid mess.]

[All of him is a mess. His breathing has lost all semblance of normal rhythm and his heart is beating so fast it almost hurts and his mouth won't work. He has so much he wants to say and no idea how to say it. What is he supposed to do with himself when Fugo asks him something like that? Please, Giogio, please, and he wants so badly to respond with something coherent, but all he can manage instead is to press his face against Fugo's neck and gasp.]

I don't know--I don't know how to say it, I just--Fugo.

[His fingers are digging in too hard now, he knows, but he feels so frantic, so betrayed by his own lack of eloquence. He wonders if he should do what Fugo did and then just does it, shifts the angle of his hand so his nails dig against Fugo's stomach just a little, because he can't think anymore.]

[Maybe that's for the best, though.]

I do feel good, [is what he manages eventually, in fits and starts.] Everything you do feels good, and I want you so much, and I want you to want me--I'm so greedy for you, Fugo, always, but I don't know the words. Please.

[He doesn't even know what he's asking for. Mindreading? Permission he's already gotten? More, probably. That's almost always what he wants.]

[It's difficult to make out what Giorno is saying. Part of Fugo's troubles are because Giorno refuses to leave the refuge of Fugo's shoulder; he rambles on and on in the hollow of Fugo's neck, which means Fugo has to focus intently to figure out exactly what words he's using. Except that's really impossible when faced with the distraction's of Giorno's warm breath on his skin and his hands. Oh, God, his hands. Fugo jolts in place and sucks in a sharp breath, desperate not to interrupt so he can listen to what Giorno has to say.

In the end, it takes him a few moments longer than usual to understand Giorno's dilemma. But when he eventually does, he zeroes in on two immediate solutions. Neither of them are easy for someone like him. But he can do it. He can meet Giorno halfway like this, because--]

It's okay. I love you. I-- know you. [There isn't much of Giorno he can reach to kiss right now. But Fugo does his best anyway, leaning down to press an affectionate one to the top of his head. God, he loves this boy.] If you can't say it, you'll-- you already showed me, right?

[When Fugo shifts his hand on Giorno's shoulder, this time it's with purpose; he curls his fingers so his nails, still short but so much less ragged after he started painting them, are angled against Giorno's skin. And then he very deliberately pulls it down, dragging his nails down Giorno's back.]

I want-- you, Giogio, all of you. Keep going, don't stop. This is good. What you're doing is-- it's very good, I like it. Be greedy. I love you.

[Something about that phrase--I know you--makes Giorno's ears burn even more fiercely. It's true, though, isn't it? Fugo knows him so well that even when he doesn't have words, Fugo can figure him out most of the time. And for all the times it's embarrassing there are a hundred when it's just good.]

[This is good. He needs this. He needs Fugo, who understands what to do somehow when all of that bluster falls away and leaves Giorno needy but unable to ask for anything in real human words. For the millionth time even just today, he wonders what he'd do without Fugo. Fall apart, probably.]

[Or maybe he'll do that anyway. He shudders helplessly and presses an ungraceful, open-mouthed kiss against Fugo's throat at the purposeful positioning of nails at his shoulder. I know you. You already showed me. The realization shoots down his spine, how much Fugo loves him and takes care of him, how he'll be realizing that over and over again until the day he dies--and he manages two more quick, begging kisses before he doesn't have to beg anymore.]

[He doesn't know how Fugo manages to be too much and not enough at the same time all the time. He doesn't know how to put words to this other than it feels good, not sharp enough to be pain but a manifestation of need so insistent that it's impossible to pay attention to anything else. It makes him feel like he's losing control of his hands, and he is a bit; as he arches into the touch with a wordless, hungry whine, his fingers twitch against Fugo's stomach, scratching and then petting and then scratching again. By the time they settle--one running restlessly along Fugo's left hip, one gripping his right thigh tight enough to bruise at five points--he's gasped his breath back against Fugo's shoulder.]

[And bitten down.]

[In fairness: he does let go quick. He didn't mean to, and he certainly didn't mean to bite that hard. But then he does it again, gentler but slower and more pointed, because it feels right and--Fugo did say to be greedy.]

[Body, heart, and soul. That's what he has pledged to Giorno: all of him, every last scrap that he has to give. He needs Giorno, who reached so far to take his hand when everyone else had given up on him as a lost cause. Fugo has always been brittle, rather than strong. Sharp--but with enough pressure in the right spot, he can't stand let alone move forward under his own power. He needs Giorno, who shines with promise, to remind him that there's a future worth fighting for.

But more than that. Right here, right now--]

[He wants more of Giorno's mouth on his throat, so he cranes his neck back to give him better access. He wants to hear that sound again, so he clumsily tries to repeat the motion that caused it; he's half successful, but this time his nails pull an uneven diagonal across Giorno's shoulders. He wants to encourage Giorno to keep going, that he loves the contrast between sharp touches and soft ones, but he's out of breath so he rolls his hips towards the touch again because that seemed to work last time. And he pulls in air, filling his lungs up so much that his chest runs up against the weight of Giorno leaning on him.

Which is when Giorno holds him in place, hands sure and tight. Just before he bites him, hard enough that the pain briefly makes his eyes water; rather than using his breath to praise Giorno and form haphazard sentences to express how much he wants all of this, how he loves being something Giorno wants, it mostly escapes his chest again in a ragged, wanting cry. In the end, the only sensible words are these:]

Giogio-- oh, Giogio, yes, please-- [And now that he's not trying to hold himself back--(because Giorno wants him to want him and he wants Giorno to know how much he wants him)--he's the one making soft, needy noises. Yes. Keep going. Giorno worries about being greedy but it's okay, it's fine, because Fugo is greedy for the same exact thing; is glad to give Giorno everything he wants.]

[He's all prepared to apologize. To apologize and stop and pull away and be less. If nothing else, he's learned he can be too much; he's learned how to own that. He doesn't want to hurt Fugo, even--especially--if it comes from a place of love. But--]

[But Fugo likes it. Fugo likes it so much he loses his words, falls into a place of sound and want and movement and nothing else and drags Giorno with him. Even when the words come back, there aren't many: his name and yes and please, simple and straightforward and needy. And miraculous.]

[Fugo wants him. Fugo wants this. Fugo wants him, and this, so much that he isn't afraid to let go of the tightly-wound self-control that rules him. It's trust and love and desire all wrapped up into one greedy, beautiful thing; it makes Giorno shudder, his breath skipping across the bruise forming on Fugo's shoulder.]

Fugo, [he says, breathlessly fierce, and then he bites down again on Fugo's shoulder. Because Fugo wants him to. Presses a messy kiss to the hollow of Fugo's throat, because he wants to. Teeth grazing the underside of Fugo's jaw, because they both like that, and by now both of his hands have made it to the outside of Fugo's thighs, fingers gripping tight to hold him close. To feel him best.]

[He sighs into Fugo's ear and bites down again, quick but gentle, just under it. His hands rub up and down Fugo's thighs, curious and greedy.]

Fugo. Fugo, I love your legs, do you know that? So pretty.

[Another sigh, high and helpless with delight; he nips at Fugo's earlobe, draws it between his teeth, lets go, sighs again. His left hand lands on Fugo's stomach again. Some part of him is so focused, always focused, on making sure that Fugo asking for what he wants means getting it. He lets his fingers drift lightly back and forth, before his right hand clamps down on Fugo's thigh again to draw him close and his nails graze over his stomach. Sigh, sigh.]

Here, too. So pretty. Want you always. [Forever, but also all the time. Versatile.] Don't stop. Please?

[Giorno is ... so toothy. Here is a kiss, unplanned and wet on his neck, to soothe him after a sharp pain of another bite. Fugo can't see his own neck and shoulders, but knows there has to be a growing pattern of delicate little bruises left behind by Giorno's pretty teeth there. Fugo whimpers when Giorno's teeth skate underneath his jaw, then again, a little louder, in the moment between Giorno's sigh and when his teeth press into the sensitive skin beneath his ear.]

P ... page-- three. [The knowledge floats up to him from the recesses of memory. I love your legs, they're so long and thin. I love the way you fold up in big chairs. So sharp! So angled! Giorno's stupid letter, his ridiculously long and hideously embarrassing list of things he loves about Fugo, took him ages to read. He couldn't get more than a few items down a page before he would have to fold it up and set it away.] You said that you couldn't wait for summer, because--

[Fugo shivers. For a lot of reasons, honestly. The biggest being the back and forth motion of Giorno's hands, pretty and clever, running up and down his thighs. It's such a steady motion. He could time music to the measure of Giorno's hands, if he weren't very done with piano for the day.]

You want to look at them. And-- my stomach. You missed it. You said so, I remember. [Fugo licks his lips. Giorno doesn't want him to stop-- so he keeps his hands moving. His fingers twitch and relax their grip on Giorno's hip, instead starting to massage slow circles on his side. The hand on his back drifts towards to the nape of his neck; rather than scratching, he chooses to brush the back of his nails down Giorno's spine.] I like ... I love your hands. They're gorgeous. Elegant. And so soft. You have such clever fingers, Giogio, I adore them. They feel so good. I love it when you touch me-- hold me. We're so close.

[His breath catches with his heart in his throat.]

You remembered. You--

[You read it, he was going to say, because there really was no way of knowing if Fugo could make his way through such a density of fondness and admiration and greed. But Fugo did read it all, and he remembered this, the words exactly. Giorno wonders if that knowledge has been as ever-present a distraction in Fugo's mind as it has been in his own, but--no. It couldn't possibly be. Nobody in the world could possibly be as distracted by anything as he is by Fugo's stomach.]

[Or Fugo's legs. Or Fugo's hands, making him shiver, soft touches set against the sharper ones of a moment ago. For a moment he just leans against Fugo, face pressed into the pretty curve of his throat as he tries to figure out the best way to arch his back so he can get the most of both touches at once.]

Fugo, it's nice--that's nice. I love your hands, too, they're so distracting. [When you're playing or reading, I sometimes forget to think of anything but how pretty they are when they're moving over pages and keys. I want to kiss your fingertips. The bottom of page two.]

[His hands run over Fugo's stomach, both of them now, slow and unhurried even as Giorno unfurls himself from his hiding spot. When he catches sight of the marks he's left behind, his breath catches again. He can't seem to breathe normally, not when Fugo's so pretty and soft and close and so marked up. He runs his hands up from Fugo's stomach over his chest, then in a slow admiring curve over his shoulders.]

It makes me crazy sometimes, [he confesses,] when I can't see you like this. It's so distracting. I think about you and I want to touch you, I want to make you feel good, Fugo, I want to give you what you want. Everything.

[Not so long ago, there was an afternoon where Giorno rushed into the library, sat himself in his lap, and rolled his bare shoulders so Fugo could properly and appreciate the feeling of warm skin underneath his palm. It's this memory that Fugo draws upon when he shifts backwards: so Giorno can properly see exactly what he's done and what state that's left him in.

Marked up from Giorno's teeth. Out of breath and flushed from Giorno's hands. Expression hazy with pleasure. And bitten lips parted, just waiting to be kissed again, to help pull in slow, heavy breaths. Fugo looks at Giorno through his lashes and briefly pulls his lip into his teeth, thoughtful and loose and relaxed. And then he rolls his shoulders, following along with the movement of Giorno's wandering hands, and tips his chin up. So Giorno can look at him better. So Giorno can touch him better.

The gestures are wordless, but speak volumes. Look at me, murmurs the bared angle of his throat. Touch me, his shoulders insist, gently pushing up to fit underneath the curve of Giorno's hands.]

I want you to do that. I want to do the same for you. [He sighs. And then laughs a little, remembering something Giorno wrote about his fingertips, before reaching to gently take one of Giorno's wrists with both his hands. He raises Giorno's hand up to his mouth and begins to kiss it; he starts with the palm, soft and lingering, and slowly works his way up Giorno's fingers.] I want this. I want you. Everything you've thought about, I want to give to you.

[Giorno will only be able to see little pieces of his smile; the pleased crinkle of skin around his eyes, the playful set of his brows, one twitchy corner that's just visible from behind his hand.]

Are you really that distracted? Mm. Do you think this will help in the long run, or-- [He closes his eyes and gently kisses Giorno's fingertips.] Make it worse?

[Sometimes the two of them don't sync up quite right. Just a little while ago, some silly joke that didn't mean anything pushed them out of sync. Sometimes they're awkward or running at different speeds or in different places entirely. Which is fine. There's something lovely, something satisfying, about slowing down so Fugo can catch up, or running to where Fugo is patiently waiting for him.]

[But sometimes they fall into place next to each other like they were born for it. Sometimes they tug back and forth, playful and teasing, and in the middle of all that they find a moment where they're in the exact same place. Every time, no matter how long it lasts, it's beautiful. Every single time, it takes Giorno's breath away.]

[Fugo is right here with him. In every way imaginable, Fugo is right here with him. Body, heart, and soul. Fugo is always beautiful, always, no matter how tired or messy or upset, but right now--Giorno thinks this is the most beautiful he's ever seen him. This is possibly the most beautiful anyone has ever been in the history of the world. Because--Fugo looks like this because of him. Fugo looks this way because of all the things he wants from Giorno and how good Giorno has made him feel. And because he loves Giorno, body, heart, and soul.]

[It registers in a hazy way that Fugo is not only teasing him, but doing so in a direct mimic of his own past actions and expressed wishes. He can't fuss about it, though, because he understands. Fugo repeats himself with his words and his actions, doesn't he--especially when he knows how uncertain Giorno is, how desperately he craves permission and praise. Fugo says I want you. Everything you've thought about, I want to give to you, and then . . . lets Giorno see him, the way Giorno has let Fugo see him in the past. Kisses his fingertips the way Giorno wishes to kiss his fingertips. He knows he's doing it, too, and is so smug about it, and maybe he knows how much Giorno likes it when he's smug--because, oh, he does. So much. So much.]

[When Fugo smiles against his fingertips, he shivers and draws his bottom lip between his teeth. He can feel that he's flushed from the heat in his cheeks, can see his hair curling messily and spilling over his shoulders. This time, he doesn't say anything about how it's dangerous to give blanket permission like that. He's made sure. He doesn't want to make Fugo repeat himself again.]

I--

[Oh. Even the sound of his voice wants. He licks his lips, closes his eyes, takes a breath, opens them. Tries again.]

I think it will make it worse. But I want it to.

[His fingers curl around Fugo's cheek; a few too-light brushes of knuckles, and then he rests his fingertips over the mark he left under Fugo's ear. And then they're kissing. He doesn't know who moved first. It was probably him. But maybe it wasn't. And it doesn't matter. They're right here with each other, body, heart, and soul, so whoever kissed first--whoever started this kiss, which is needy and insistent and practically starving, as though stopping might honestly end the world--it's irrelevant. What matters is that it's happening.]

[It's hard not to smile, crooked and sly, at what a mess Giorno has become in the past few moments. And he doesn't want to. And Giorno likes it when he smiles. So Fugo doesn't. He smiles and whiles the time away waiting for Giorno to find his words again by kissing his palm and admiring how beautifully disheveled he is.

Fugo will never not love looking at him. But there's something very satisfying (thrilling, even) about how artless and hazy Giorno is right now. Because of him. Fugo did this; he's the one who has unraveled Giorno's nigh-supernatural composure, who shifted Giorno's priorities so looking put-together isn't anywhere near the top of the list. He's so gorgeous, Fugo thinks. And it's not "even like this": especially like this is the turn of phrase he's looking for.]

[He murmurs something content that's not quite language, but still has a note of question in it, when Giorno starts to speak. And then it's pleased because as embarrassing as the thought will be later, in this particular moment he finds the thought of distracting Giorno even more than he usually is to be downright delightful. He tips his cheek into Giorno's craning fingertips; his breath stutters when they rest over the tiny bruise that he didn't quite realize was there on his neck.

Nearly everywhere Giorno's mouth has been, he's left behind a mark. It's this realization that pushes Fugo forward for a kiss and, oh, Giorno's already there; kissing him desperately, kissing him like he needs him, kissing him like he can't bear how far apart they are. Fugo matches him, desperate to hold on and be as close as he can. He reaches clumsily for Giorno, one hand caught tight around his wrist, keeping it pressed to his neck, the other trying to find a good grip on his chest.

Giorno is so warm, so close. So what if they're a little clumsy at this? There is no one else in the world that Fugo would rather learn with. As far as he's concerned, this is perfect.]

[They've kissed enough (more than enough) that Giorno knows some of Fugo's patterns now. He loves all of them: every sound he makes is catalogued away in Giorno's mind, every slight movement etched in his memory. One of the loveliest is the way, when he's very desperate to stay as close as possible, he clutches at Giorno's shirt as if to hold him in place.]

[Giorno is not wearing a shirt right now, so Fugo has nothing to hold onto. But he's trying, and it's--so cute, so needy and insistent and cute that Giorno sighs and smiles into the kiss. He's so happy. Every worry he has, Fugo picks up and pulls apart and discards, and then smiles at him and pulls him close. As much as he likes making Fugo breathless, Fugo likes it just as much in reverse.]

[He's . . . lucky. He's so lucky. Fugo is so warm and so close and so unbelievably, perfectly good to him. Fugo trusts him so much, enough to put aside his fear and say something that's bigger for him than it is for almost anyone else: that he wants something for himself. Giorno, for himself.]

[Giorno's fingers twitch against the bruise he's made. He smiles, pleased, and then laughs, low and delighted, and bites down on Fugo's lip.]

Fugo. I love you--

[He loves Fugo, and this, and being close. Being closer. He loves that he's learned that running his thumb along Fugo's hipbone makes him squirm as much as it does, and it's been entire minutes since he did that last. So he does it again. He kisses Fugo hard and does it again, and then it occurs to him that they've been sitting here for ages and he hasn't fallen over yet, like he promised to. Sure, it isn't quite falling to twist a bit and dump Fugo against the pillows, but--at least his legs won't fall asleep like this. He can stretch out some even as Giorno crawls over him and kisses him again, slow and hungry, humming softly with warmth, thumb still pressed against the tender new bruise.]

[He can't think. He can't think of anything at all, or focus on anything but the warm sound of Giorno's laughter and then the sweet, sharp burst of pain when Giorno's teeth sink into his lip. And then, oh, the pad of Giorno's thumb when it brushes along the curve of his hipbone-- and he does squirm, damnit, but how can anyone expect him to sit still when Giorno is touching him like that?]

Ohhh-- [There's hardly any time between kisses, but still his voice slips out in the tiny opening. Low and needy, rough with want, barely words at all.] Oh, Giogio, I love you--

[Which is about when Giorno twists beneath him, upsets his center of gravity, and sends toppling backwards into the pillows. Fugo blinks hazily up at him, from underneath his disheveled, flyaway hair ... and smiles, lazy and pleased, reaching out to guide Giorno down. He probably shouldn't reward Giorno for being a bully but, oh, he doesn't mind a bit. And now that he's started to shift, languidly stretching out underneath Giorno, he's become very aware that his legs were half-asleep because now his feet are all prickly.

Not that he really cares. He'd rather concentrate on kissing Giorno, pressing him close with one hand at the small of his back and the other curled around the nape of his neck. It's an outstanding kiss; something that feels as if it should be once in a lifetime. But the two of them... they have so much time, don't they? Their whole lives, stretching out for years and years.]

You're so warm, [he murmurs, idly running his fingers through Giorno's hair.] Your heart's beating so fast. God, Giorno. I love you.

[The way Fugo's hand rests at the small of his back is--stunning. Fugo holds him in place, fingers buried in his hair, as though nothing in the world is as important as keeping him close. Which--well, of course the feeling's mutual. It feels so good to be so wanted. Giorno arches against the weight of Fugo's hand where it perfectly fits against the curve of his spine. That feels good, too; Fugo's found the easiest place to put slight pressure to keep them pressed together. It's efficient. And Fugo's palm and fingertips are hot against his skin.]

[He can't manage to keep still. Not that he needs to, but he's a little amused with himself, in a distant way, how he feels so relaxed and so restless all at once. He presses back against Fugo's hand again and sighs happily at the resistance he finds. It's another way for Fugo to ask for what he wants; of course he likes it.]

You can't tease me. [Faux-offended, because of course Fugo can, and should be encouraged to, because that's nice, too. He tugs Fugo's bottom lip between his teeth, gentle and sweeter than a bite has any right to be, before kissing him properly, softly.] It's your fault. You did that.

[All of this, really, is Fugo's fault. He wouldn't want Fugo so much if he weren't so extraordinary. He wouldn't want Fugo so much in this specific moment if Fugo weren't so good to him, so thoughtful and understanding. And if Fugo hadn't kissed his neck in public, admittedly. It's a complex combination of factors.]

[Ultimately it's just Fugo, though. It's obvious, too, when Giorno pulls back briefly to look at him, Fugo with his lazy smile and color high on his cheeks. Giorno's hair is falling over his shoulders and getting in the way, but it's okay, because Fugo likes it. Which makes him smile. Everything about Fugo right now makes him smile.]

[His gaze drifts to the marks on Fugo's shoulder, which--god. Fugo is so pretty. Giorno blinks slowly, catching his lip between his teeth, and doesn't try to stop himself from tiptoeing his fingers down Fugo's side, teasingly slow. He leans in and presses his lips to the sweet sensitive spot under Fugo's ear at the same time his fingers find on Fugo's hip again; he draws light circles and nudges up against Fugo's throat, leaving breathy kisses designed to make him shiver.]

"Everything I've thought about" is a lot of things, you know.

[Just. In case there was any question about that.]

Edited (typos/phrasing/repetition/various & sundry errors) 2017-11-07 21:32 (UTC)

[Honestly! Who does this boy think he is, leveling baseless accusations of teasing over statements of fact. And then affectionately nips at his lip and kisses all the huffy bluster at him before he even really has the chance to puff up, because Giorno knows that Fugo knows his secret: that he's actually delighted when Fugo works up the courage to tease him. It's just too difficult to be even play-annoyed with Giorno right now, whose beauty in his happiness is nothing short of transfixing.

Maybe it's a good thing, then, that it's hard to get a complete look at Giorno, what with his darting back and forth. Fugo catches him in bits and pieces; a curl of hair tumbling over his shoulder, the curve of one flushed cheek, a smiling mouth that's gone red from kissing, and bright eyes sparkling with love and mischief. Or maybe Fugo juust needs to work on his recovery time if he wants to be properly knocked out by the whole picture. Except that part of the problem is Giorno looks so terribly pleased with himself and the results of his hands and mouth: Fugo, a dazed mess, knocked back onto his pillows and holding him desperately close.

Ah, well. Later, maybe. In a time and a place when the pressure of Giorno's weight on his chest and stomach don't feel so delightful, or the feeling of Giorno's fidgety movements, skin brushing against skin, isn't so exciting. He likes this. He loves this, it feels so good, and Giorno can bully him as much as he wants if it means they can keep going.]

[So, yes: Fugo does shiver. But the trembling starts not with the kisses on his neck, but with the spidery feeling of Giorno's fingertips meandering-- oh, no, that's not true at all, they're moving with a dedicated and certain purpose down his side to a very particular place at his hip.]

Well, you-- [This sentence goes sadly nowhere. The argument over who's teasing who ends before it begins, because Giorno's mouth and fingers zero in on two places guaranteed to make him squirm. He blanks out on what he wants to say; the words get lost in his low, needy groan and the way his body twists and curves underneath and his fingers curl, possessively tight, above to better feel the way Giorno is touching him. It's so good that he, honestly, has nothing to argue about.

His breathing and heartbeat feel so-- wild, so out-of-order. Dazedly, Fugo wonder if Giorno can feel it. No, he has to; they're so close, and now Giorno's mouth is lingering over the pulse point in his neck. Fugo holds him close and shivers as he's kissed. It takes him a long moment to realize what Giorno says. And then, in turn, a long moment to realize what he said and exactly how dangerous it was to impulsively admit that sort of thing. Except is it really dangerous if he still doesn't care? He meant it when he said it, however embarrassing it is to think back on.]

Well-- ... what... [He takes a deep breath, because he really ought to now that he has half of a chance to, and takes the time to collect his words.] What have you been... thinking about-- the most?

[It's Giorno. So greedy, so needy. Of course there's a lot. And they have to start somewhere, don't they? The-- most revisited subject. That's as good of a starting point as any. Isn't it?]

[They overlap, the two of them: Fugo makes that perfect, beautiful sound, and almost before it's all the way out Giorno lets out a stuttering whine of his own. He's overcome. Fugo sounds so needy, and he's moving just so, and his fingers are digging into Giorno's back again because he knows that it's okay. That it's so good. And this time Giorno isn't embarrassed to make noise, either, because--how could he not? How could he not when Fugo is like this?]

[It's inconceivable. Fugo is all around him; the entire world is the press of Fugo's fingertips, the heat of his skin, the speed of his heartbeat. Because of him. For him. He can't catch his breath, because every time he tries, something about Fugo makes him breathless again.]

[It's okay, though. He can still kiss Fugo when he's breathless, and does, either one long uncoordinated kiss under his ear or a lot of quick ones, depending on what defines a kiss in the end. Which he doesn't care about. What he does care about is--well. If he's being honest, Fugo falling into the trap he set. It was a small trap, and painless, and very obvious, and he's positive Fugo wanted to fall into it, stepped into it with both eyes open, but--]

[But a trap nonetheless.]

[His breath shudders out; his thumb digs into the hollow of Fugo's hip. What have you been thinking about the most? It's the question he wanted to answer, a very difficult one to answer and very simple all at once. He's thought about Fugo so much that it's a positively dizzying task to try to sort it all, but he does know where to start, at least. Small favors. Not that it's a hardship to tell Fugo exactly how wanted he is. Permission is honestly something of a relief.]

I . . .

[There's no rush, either. He knows that he can take his time; he can catch his breath with his face hidden away and it'll be fine. So he does, and after he takes his moment, he finds the words come easy after all.]

I always think about kissing you. Every inch of you. I want to know you that perfectly--what makes you breathless and what makes you loud and, I don't know. Everything. I just want to memorize it all. I think about that all the time.

[It's a little embarrassing, but it's true, too. If Fugo wants to know, he wants to tell him. And the more he says, the more he feels that it's all right to say. That it's good. So maybe it's a sign of that comfort that he doesn't stop there, that he sighs and pulls back a bit to close his teeth lightly around the mark he made on Fugo's shoulder, keeps pressure there for just a moment before letting go. It's a sign of his own greed that he pulls back further, though, so that he can see Fugo properly and so that Fugo can see him before what he says next. Of course he wants to see how Fugo reacts. Of course he does.]

And I think about leaving those. All over you. Here-- [His hand slides up from Fugo's hip to tap two fingers against the hollow of his throat, then the bottom of his ribs. His fingers splay across Fugo's stomach.] --here. And here. And here-- [Fugo's hip, of course, because it's his new favorite place to touch and it's absolutely imperative that he gets to bite it as soon as possible.]

[Then he runs his fingertips, slow and reverent, down the inside of Fugo's thigh. He can't quite resist holding his bottom lip between his teeth, looking down at Fugo with his head tipped just a bit to one side. He takes hold of Fugo's hip again, after, to steady himself.]

And there, too. I think about what you'd look like if you let me do all that.

[As thrilling as everything is about what they're doing, the new things they're trying feathered hand-in-hand with their more familiar shows of affection, it's a relief that Giorno needs a moment. Fugo needs one too, where he can just be still and hold this boy he loves so fiercely that it makes his chest ache. Giorno's kiss-- kisses?-- on his neck, light and feathery, call up a steady murmur of effusive praise from Fugo; a haphazard pattern constructed from yes, there, yes and good and I love you. And when Giorno finally settles down properly in the crook of his neck to rest...

Fugo sighs, happy and content. He pets the nape of Giorno's neck with trembling fingers and twists to press a kiss to the side of his head, which makes up for its terrible lack of romance through sheer affection. Giorno doesn't have to be picture perfect for him. Giorno doesn't need to know exactly what to say for him. It's okay for them to lie here together, a tangle of limbs and lingering heat gathered between the two of them.]

[Besides. It gives him a moment to gather his confidence, even though he knows Giorno is preparing to knock him flat on his back. ... metaphorically speaking. Giorno has already, very literally, knocked him down on his back.]

[It's-- incredibly embarrassing, listening to Giorno put words to it. Fugo doesn't just hear I always think about kissing you: he feels the intimate words every inch of you pressed into his skin. It's exciting. And funny, too, because isn't that what he admitted wanting to do to Giorno? It always touches Fugo's sense of humor when their wants line up like that.

He's not ready for the brief pressure of Giorno's teeth when he pulls back. Or the naked look of greed in Giorno's eyes when he looks down at him. Knowing that Giorno wants him, oh-- it's so different from the physical practice of seeing it. Hearing it. And now feeling it, with the tap of Giorno's fingers demonstrating the exact route Giorno wants to take to make a map of Fugo's body with his mouth.

His throat. His ribs. His stomach. His hip. And-- the inside of his thigh.]

[For the first time, one of Fugo's hands darts to his mouth; too late to cover his sharp intake of breath, the back of his knuckles hit his mouth in sync with his full head to toe shiver. He's ... not entirely surprised. Giorno's hands have been drifting there, circling around and now zeroing in on exactly what he'd like to do.]

You-- ... [His voice... ugh, it sounds so stupid. Fugo swallows and licks his lips; looks up at Giorno with an expression that's entirely embarrassed but stubbornly intent, even though he's still so hazy with want. Taking a moment does not help to smooth out the hoarseness Giorno's touch has pulled out of him.] The button. I'll need your help with the button and the zipper. If you want to leave a mark there.

[Fugo reaches up for Giorno's face again, spindly fingers curling around his cheek. Warm. Giorno's so warm. And he knows what Fugo is going to look like if he bites him there: a goddamn mess.]

You will. Won't you?

[Oh.]

[Oh. Fugo is--]

[There's a moment when, true to form, all Giorno can do is greedily drink in Fugo's reaction, his eyes dark and hyper-focused on the way he shakes, the curl of his fingers against his lips, how beautiful he is from head to toe. Every inch of him. And then in the next moment it's gone--not washed from his consciousness because it could never and will never be, not ever, but pushed away for the moment by--]

[Maybe there aren't words for it, but even if there are, they don't matter. Giorno doesn't mean to, but he stops breathing. Lips parted and eyes wide in shock, all he can do is stare, frozen and intent, as realization hits him, knocks him over like the surf. What Fugo's done is--clever means it had premeditation, was calculated, which this wasn't, he knows. Fugo just so effortlessly knows him, how they communicate, how they dance around each other sometimes, that he knows how to give permission and request it in return.]

[Fugo's fingertips are four pinpricks of warmth, holding him in place. Heat hits him, wraps around him, because he knows: Mind helping me with the buttons? It's the same. And Fugo, so perfect, really does love him so much. So much.]

[Which is when he realizes he's been holding his breath. Turning his face into Fugo's hand, closing his eyes (not because he wants to hide from Fugo, but because he needs to hide from the enormity of his own feelings, just for a few seconds), he gasps, so sharp and so needy it almost hurts.]

Uh-huh. Please.

[Fugo's hand is so warm. He's so warm, and so good, and Giorno loves him so much it hurts a little. He kisses Fugo's palm, soft and pleading and desperate, then his wrist, the pad of his thumb, his fingers, anything he can reach. His fingers twitch on Fugo's hip, even though he's trying to be still. Because--because it's Fugo. How could he possibly be calm?]

Yes. I will, Fugo, please can I? Fugo.

[Giorno has spent a long time waiting for this. Not just-- this, what's happening right now. The kissing his fingertips thing, which is delightful and distracting all on its own. No. All ... of this. Giorno has spent so much time waiting patiently for Fugo to-- catch up. To be okay with being looked at; to crave being touched in the same ways he does. To believe him when he says I want you and I want you to want me.

It floors Fugo, honestly, now that he has begun to understand exactly how much Giorno wants him; how much time Giorno has been thinking about being-- with him.]

[Giorno didn't have to wait. Fugo has promised him everything: body, mind, and soul. All Giorno ever needed to do was ask--because Fugo would do anything for him. And Giorno knows that. Greedy, domineering Giorno, who's thought so much about kissing his fingertips and marking up his stomach and thighs, has waited for him to be ready. Every step they've taken, big or small, Giorno has asked him in half a dozen ways may I?, is this okay?, and do you want to? They only ever move forward when Fugo is ready. When it comes to this, Giorno has never pushed.

Giorno didn't want to just be intimate with him. Not if it meant that Fugo felt he had to, because of what he promised. Giorno cares so much more about what Fugo wants than anyone else Fugo has given himself over to.]

Yes. [Fugo says it as clearly as he can, so there can be no mistake. And then, just to be sure, he says it again.] Yes, Giogio. Please. I want you to.

[He smiles. It's shy, yes-- he's never done this before. And a little overwhelmed-- because who wouldn't be, in this situation? But more than anything else, it's happy. Excited. Because Fugo wants, so very much, to be here. With Giorno, who loves him; who he loves more than anyone else in this world, or any other.

Distantly, he brushes his thumb along Giorno's lower lip. He's ... so beautiful. And Fugo would like to admit that he wants to see what sort of mess Giorno will fall apart into when he's kissed everywhere, but that would be a little counterproductive to this moment. Later, maybe. When it's his turn to help Giorno with his button.]

[It's for the best. It would be a very distracting thing to have out in the air between them, and Giorno doesn't want to be distracted right now. Not because he doesn't want to think about it later, or in general--and honestly it would be ridiculous to even pretend he never has--and not that it would stop him in his tracks, no, not even that. But the thing about Fugo is--]

[The thing about Fugo is that . . . Giorno loves to take care of his people. Too much, sometimes; sometimes he needs to rein it in, to be less or quieter or stop altogether, because he gets so excited about taking care of people. But with Fugo, it's even more important. What Giorno wants, every moment of every day and in every situation, is not just to take care of Fugo but to spoil him. He's never had that, not from anyone, and it makes Giorno ache with sorrow sometimes that there's so much awful emptiness to make up for. That's why he wants to stay focused on Fugo right now: because if he can make Fugo happy, he makes himself happy too. If he makes Fugo feel good, then he feels good, too.]

[And he's proud. It's a little silly, he knows, to be feeling something like that right now. But when he feels Fugo's thumb run across his lip and opens his eyes to see that smile, shy and sweet, he's absolutely ruined with love and pride. He smiles back, shy and sweet in return, and takes Fugo's thumb between his lips for a moment, nips at it, lets go.]

I love you. [Quiet. Solemn. And then:] Ti amo. [Because that's important, too. Like it's important to lean in and brush Fugo's nose with his, tender and silly, and add the final word of their secret code:] Aishiteru.

[When he kisses Fugo, it's with all of the love and want he's got in him. Which is a lot. It's slow, deep, fond, and starving. It's a world-class kiss, except that this is a kiss only they could ever share. There's too much history, too much understanding between them for this kiss to ever belong to any other two people in the universe. Fugo's lips are so soft and warm; getting lost in this is so easy and natural, it's like coming home by now.]

[The only, and terribly minor, issue with this kiss is that seeking out the sort of perfect closeness that let him feel Fugo's heartbeat is impractical in this moment. He needs the space. That's all right, though. Fugo said--Please. I want you to, and denying him or even teasing him right now would be positively excruciating, so Giorno doesn't try. His fingers flutter down Fugo's stomach, a little but not very shaky; they hook, a little but not very shaky, on his waistband, so his thumb can angle the button and push it carefully through its buttonhole.]

[It would be nice to watch himself do this, but he wants to kiss Fugo through his nerves--their nerves--too much for that. Maybe another time. It's slower doing it blind, and he fumbles a couple of times, but it's still what he wants right now. He thumbs Fugo's zipper down, one tooth at a time, and kisses him until his breath doesn't quite work anymore. Then he rests his forehead against Fugo's, sighs, and hooks his fingers into the waistband by Fugo's hip, tugging gently.]

Lift up for me, lovely? [A beat. Breathlessness aside, he can't quite smother the playful quirk of his lips.] Mm, I'll fold them for you.

[I love you. Ti amo. And, finally: aishiteru. There's a power in those three phrases. They might be little words, but they have a tremendous weight to them--but at the same time, they're light enough to send his heart soaring. In music, this expression of mutual devotion would be nothing less than a rising crescendo.

Maybe it's a little silly to be this wrapped up in kissing when, practically speaking, he just asked Giorno to help him get undressed. But, oh, he doesn't want to stop. Because Giorno isn't the only one who is desperate to keep close. As much as Fugo is comforted by this kiss, he can't forget Giorno's twitchy fingers on his hip. You would think it would be easy to set aside a touch this feather-light, except for the fact that the skin of his stomach is so sensitive in this moment that Giorno's fingertips feel electric.

Even when they fumble with his button, which half makes him want to laugh right up until Giorno figures it out. And then there's a whole new pressure, light but insistent, of Giorno's thumb ever-so-slowly unfastening his zipper. He gasps and then murmurs into Giorno's mouth, inadvertently grazing his teeth against Giorno's lower lip. He clings to Giorno for comfort and the sheer joy of being close enough to feel when Giorno is out of breath and needs a break. Fugo traces fidgety circles with his fingertips on the nape of Giorno's neck, before craning forward to press peppery kisses of encouragement against the corner of his mouth and along his jaw.]

[And then-- Giorno makes a joke. A really dumb one that pokes fun at Fugo's fussiness and, honestly, he can't even pretend to be annoyed. His momentarily forgotten laughter bubbles unexpectedly out of his chest, happy, nervous, and relieved all at once.]

You better. [He shifts underneath Giorno and, after assessing the situation, comes the sulky conclusion that he needs to move his hand from the small of Giorno's back so he can prop himself up. So Giorno can ease his slacks off. Fugo pulls his eyebrows together, play-stubborn but also totally serious.] I don't want to be distracted by wrinkles. But don't keep me waiting.

[Oh, good. Fugo laughed. Poking fun at him is a risk sometimes, but in this case, the act of ignoring the obvious would have been superhuman in a way Giorno simply can't aspire to. And Fugo's laughter is so pretty. It makes him grin, triumphant and smug, and roll his eyes in mock-exasperation.]

Don't be so rude. I'm going to fold them right, and you'll wait however long that takes.

[This, he ponders as he sits back on his heels, is a total lie. He'll do it as quickly as humanly possible, probably not quite up to Fugo's standard because he admittedly doesn't understand the point, but well enough that Fugo will be able to let it go. But it's an acceptable lie under the guise of teasing, of making sure they both feel relaxed and comfortable. Both of them, because it's not as though he knows what he's doing any more than Fugo does; his fingers twitch nervously against Fugo's hips before he tugs down, guiding his pants down his thighs, past his knees, to his ankles, and off of his feet.]

[It's not a perfect process, because Fugo's legs are long and Giorno is trying very, very hard not to get distracted at being able to see so much of them. He simply can't allow that. He knows himself well enough to know that if he focuses too hard on every new inch of Fugo that he can see, like he wants to, he'll stop and want to touch and this whole thing will go off the rails. It's fine. He can focus long enough to fold a pair of pants. Absolutely.]

[And so it's done. He . . . huffs a little, triumphant and rosy, and glances up at Fugo, a quick check-in. Then he leans up, places his hand on Fugo's chest, and presses him gently but firmly back against the pillows.]

Don't move.

[When his bare feet hit the floor, he finds it more difficult than expected to focus on standing up. The act of folding is soothingly familiar, however, and done quickly. It's a better job than he expected to do, in all honesty. He sets it down on the chair with a sense of relief. And turns. And--]

[Oh. He should have waited to look until he was back on the bed. He can't move now, he realizes. He's frozen. His breath hitches in his chest; he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Fugo is . . . too beautiful. He's so gorgeous, so leggy, so perfect, and--Giorno gets to be here. With him.]

[You have to move, he tells himself dizzily; you have to get up there, or say something, or you're going to make him think he's done something wrong. And it takes a few long, stupid moments, as he gets redder and redder, but he manages. Eventually.]

I'm--sorry. You're just-- [Oh, god. This is ridiculous. He ducks his head and climbs back up onto the bed, over Fugo, and can't quite his fingers from grazing curiously down the outside of Fugo's thigh.] Incredible. Not a good enough word. More than that. Very good-looking. But more than that, too. [Goddamnit.]

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