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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[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.]

[This is not at all how these things go in the movies. Then again, the people in romantic comedies never seem to have to worry about accidentally bumping their partner's nose or the awkwardness of letting someone else finagle your pants off. Right now, he can't help but think that it's a good thing that he's put on enough weight that he doesn't have to wear a belt with this particular pair of slacks.

Giorno is so twitchy. His eyes dart back and forth as he tries ... not to focus on Fugo's legs. He's mostly successful, but it's impossible to miss the way his eyes linger on Fugo's thighs and calves. And when he manages to accomplish this task, Giorno somehow manages to look as satisfied as he might after the successful takeover of a rival gang's assets and territory.

Just, you know. Pinker. Cuter.]

[Fugo, when Giorno peeks up at him, is just as rosy. His ears are bright red, a sure sign that he's flustered--but he's smiling too, twitchy and pleased. He snorts when Giorno bossily pushes him back into the pillows.]

Whatever you say, Giogio. [He lies back and takes the opportunity to stretch himself out and surreptitiously watch Giorno folding his slacks. Here's the truth: Giorno doesn't really have to fold them. Fugo would be perfectly content with them hung off the back of his chair; as long as they're off the floor in a way that will leave them reasonably unwrinkled, he's happy. But he's very charmed by the extra care Giorno is taking with his clothes. He knows Fugo is particular about this sort of thing, so now he's being particular about it.

And, well. It's nice. Watching the way Giorno's hair and shoulders move while he fusses with the task. As well as Fugo knows Giorno's back at this point, it's mostly by touch. Giorno always changes in his dressing room. And it's been very cold out. But now that Fugo is looking at and is distracted by Giorno's shoulderblades, he can't help but wonder what would be the best ... tactic. To get the chance to look at and touch them. Without being completely transparent. Massages are the first thing that come to mind, except he doesn't really know how to give them and Giorno's shoulders don't really get tense the way Fugo's do. And they're a few months out of it being warm and sunny enough to need to apply sunscreen on trips to the beach.

He wonders about these things for so long that he almost misses that Giorno has frozen up. He wouldn't have noticed it all if Giorno didn't get so quiet. He's ... staring. His eyes are wide. And he's so red. What did I do? Fugo thinks, only a little panicky because all he can think of is: But I haven't done anything. And then he doesn't have time to think of anything else at all, because Giorno has ducked his chin and clamored halfway back onto the bed.]

[Realization hits him like a ton of bricks. Oh. It's just-- him. He didn't have to do anything. Just being here and letting Giorno look at him is enough to-- dazzle him.]

It's... okay. [Once Giorno gets within range, Fugo reaches out to rest his hands on Giorno's hips. There. This is better. He looks up, a little bashful, and chuckles. To work his nerves out he taps his fingers, from his pinkies to his thumbs, in an invisible scale across Giorno's warm, warm skin.] English is stupid. Don't worry about it. And-- thank you? You look really good too.

[Fugo halfway winces at his own awkwardness and glances down, choosing instead to focus on the place where Girono's fingertips brushed up against him. It felt... good. But that's not exactly the place Giorno wants to touch, is it? It's close. But not quite there. So-- to better help him, to show as well as say that everything is still okay, Fugo shifts his position underneath Giorno so his legs are spread open a little wider. It's easy access for those curious, wandering fingers.]

[What Giorno wants to say is that it isn't English. He doesn't know how to say it in Italian either, and he's certain he never could in Japanese. It's not linguistic limitations; it's that Fugo is beyond words, Giorno's fairly certain. Every time he looks at Fugo and gets this silly, tipsy feeling of love, or the heavy, insistent want he's feeling now, searching for words to fit its magnitude is a futile and frustrating effort.]

[This is what he wants to say. But Fugo is still talking. Fugo is talking about how good he looks, and here's the thing: it's an awful, clumsy compliment. From anyone else, it would be halfhearted or even insincere. But from Fugo, it's--]

[He can feel his heartbeat so loud in his ears. It's mortifying. And he's staring at Fugo, he can't even blink, because when Fugo says something like that, it means that there's more he wants to say but doesn't know how to. That's what this all has been: the not being ready, the not knowing how. It hasn't been the same as not wanting.]

[There's another moment when Giorno wants to say something. Anything, actually. He feels like he's lost control of his tongue to an unforgiveable extent, and he really wants to do something about that, less because he feels an urge to take the lead and more because--he thinks if he does, maybe he'll stop being so nervous. The thinking too hard is what always trips him up.]

[But then Fugo moves. And when Giorno glances down, he finds himself, very fortunately, unable to think anymore.]

[Fugo is . . . always. Always, always, always. Such a quick learner. He's learned that Giorno wants, craves, needs permission, that there are ways of giving it without speaking, that sometimes Giorno doesn't know how to ask. That sometimes he hesitates. That he wants to be reached out to. That--Giorno loves his legs. Very much.]

[It probably wasn't meant to be so destructive. But when Giorno sees him shifting and settling, helping him, inviting him to do what he's already said he wants to do so badly, he just--can't. He whimpers. Thinks about covering it up, but doesn't, because he does want Fugo to know, doesn't he, exactly how he feels about this. So he takes in a sharp breath and breathes out, but it's a whimper again, softer, a little more vocal than a sigh.]

[For a moment he just stares. This is one of those moments he's been greedy for. He likes the idea of Fugo showing him what he wants without a single word, oh, he likes that idea very much, and now--he has to memorize it. What it looks like in this moment for Fugo to want him to get on with it.]

[But it's not hesitation. Not anymore. This is purposeful, and has a fixed endpoint. Once Giorno knows that he's committed this moment to memory--and, even more so, that he's got a good mental image, a before to compare with a bruised and bitten after--he moves. His fingers trail, teasingly light but much more quickly than before, to the inside of Fugo's thigh. That's where they slow, his fingertips pressed lightly against Fugo's skin--so soft, Giorno marvels, biting his lip and letting it go--as they head towards his knee.]

. . . Fugo.

[The way he says Fugo's name, a moment before he looks up, isn't a question. It's a request for--hm. Hard to say. If he were asked at a later time to put a word to it, he'd probably settle on feedback. But at the same time, it's a request for attention. As he looks up at Fugo with eyes wide, pupils blown, intent and fiercely focused; as he starts over, running his fingers down the inside of Fugo's thigh, and curls his fingers halfway down so it's his nails instead of his fingertips, grazing lightly but awfully pointedly--what he wants is for Fugo to look at him. That's all.]

[The sounds Giorno makes are astonishingly beautiful. And he hasn't even done anything. He just is. That's all it takes to make Giorno, so articulate and wordy even in life or death situations, lose track of what he wants to say. All he can manage are those sounds: all emotion and desire, with none of of Giorno's usual finesse. Listening to them makes Fugo shiver long before Giorno starts to touch him.

When that happens, he can't think anymore. It's such an intimate place to be touched and Giorno is being so careful with him, which is good. But he's greedy; he wants this, again and again, but more. He whimpers, helplessly, and twists his face to halfway hide against the pillows; already, his grip on Giorno's hips is so tight that his fingers dig into his skin. He likes this so much. He didn't have to say anything, but Giorno understood with a gesture what he wanted.]

[It's okay. Touch me. I want you.]

[Giorno calls his name. Fugo cracks his eyes open and stares hazily up at him through his eyelashes. And he thinks: God, he's so beautiful. Giorno is a work of art come to life. He has a slender limbs and generous waist. A sharp chin and brow that contrasts beautifully with his slip of a nose. A mouth that's all red from kissing. And a head full of golden hair that tumbles over his shoulders and down, down, down his back.]

Giorno, [he starts, not sure where to go with it. His voice sounds so strange and mumbly; he barely reocngizes himself.] Giogio-- [Fugo trembles again and, seized by the desire to appeal to Giorno's better (worse?) nature, lets go of his hip with one hand to instead carefully brush his knuckles up and across Giorno's side.] Haruno, please. Please.

[He knows that he doesn't really have to beg. But he wants to. He thinks Giorno might like it, to hear his name called with such desire.]

[Oh. One, two, three: just like that. Fugo reaches out to him, words as sharp and warm as the fingers digging into his skin. Giorno, Giogio, Haruno, and--oh, god.]

God, [is what he says, or breathes out, because it's just too quiet to be a statement of fact. Fugo is so, so, so--reactive. Such a little thing, and he's twisting away and closer all at once, overwhelmed and so obviously pleased all at the same time. That, and the rest of it, it's just . . .]

[God. Fugo's got to be indulging him, at least partly; after all of this, he knows how much Giorno wants him, how not giving him more would be absolute agony, how he's spent a truly ridiculous amount of time thinking about touching him until he falls apart. There's a moment when he wants, more than anything, to lean in and drop every single thing he's thought about into Fugo's ear, to hold him close and run his fingers along Fugo's skin so lightly it's a little bit cruel. But.]

[If Fugo said it like that, his name--his names--and please, please, so needy, there's nothing in the world Giorno wouldn't do for him.]

[. . . Hm.]

Fugo, [he starts, mouth so dry he has to lick his lips before he can speak clearly.] I need you to know. I--

[I, I, I. But it was never really about him, was it? It was about them. It was about Fugo and him and where they meet, and how they meet, and how all the things there aren't words for can be said like this if they try hard enough. He wants to be as close to Fugo as he can and more. He wants to show Fugo with his hands and his mouth that he's worth everything in the world. That he deserves to feel good whenever he wants to. And how awfully, desperately Giorno wants to be the one to give him that.]

[He's quiet for a moment, just . . . looking. Staring intently at Fugo, so pink and so hazy. No amount of thinking about Fugo in this state could ever measure up to the reality. There's no inventing someone like Fugo. There just isn't.]

[Then, purposefully, he hooks his hand under Fugo's thigh. His fingers drift up and down for a moment or two; then they close and tug him forward, pull him in towards Giorno even as Giorno leans over him, his other hand landing flat on the mattress for balance. His hair falls over his shoulders, making a curtain around them--which he likes. It's private. It's just them anyway, but like this it feels even more so.]

I, [he says,] would do anything. [He leans in more, so his lips brush against Fugo's as he speaks, so they're nearly kissing but not quite.] Anything, Fugo, that you asked of me. If you want it, I'll give it to you. So ask me.

[And then--he ducks his head. Kisses Fugo at the hollow of his throat, where his neck and his collarbone form the perfect shape; he likes feeling it with his lips, the way it rises and falls with Fugo's breathing. He likes biting it, too, and he thinks--he's pretty sure--that when he bites down hard to make a mark, he's going to like it better with his fingers digging sharply into Fugo's thigh. He's almost certain Fugo will like it better that way, too.]

[There is a long, drawn out moment where Giorno just ... holds still. And looks at him, dark eyes drinking the sight of Fugo stretched out beneath him. They sweep up and down his neck and torso, taking in every last minute detail of Fugo's reaction to his touch. Immortalizing him in memory the way he ought to look at a piece of fine art.

Giorno wants to tell him something, but he can't get the words out. Waiting is the most perfect agony; it's the magnified version of their moments in between kisses, except so full of purpose and intent. He can't forget the pressure of Giorno's hand on his thigh when it's still, let alone the delicate back and forth when his fingers start to move again. Fugo shivers and-- Giorno wants to tell him something. He has to focus, he needs to be quiet so he can listen, but it's so hard.]

[And then-- and then--]

[Giorno moves him. Giorno moves them. Giorno always figures out the most perfect ways for them to be closer. With Giorno's waist pressed up against his hips and his hair falling around them, it's as if nothing else in the world exists except the two of them. Fugo makes a whimpery noise against Giorno's mouth, begging without words for a kiss.

Of course, Giorno gives him a kiss. Not exactly where Fugo initially wanted it, but upon reflection a kiss on his throat is better. Because that's the first of the places Giorno has set out to mark on his body. His throat. His ribs. His hip. And finally, the inside of his thigh.]

Keep-- going. [His voice is low and not just insistent-- it's a demand. It's not the sort of tone Fugo ought to take with Giorno; but Giorno just said it was okay and, oh. He wants this so badly he finds it impossible to be patient about it.] Mark me up, in the places you said. Don't stop. I want your mouth--

[He doesn't finish his sentence. There's not enough time between one breath, the next, and Giorno's teeth on his skin. Giorno digs his teeth into his neck and his fingers into his thigh; Fugo's words fall apart into a throaty moan and his whole body arches up towards Giorno. Instinctively, his thighs clench around Giorno's sides and he reaches up with a grasping hand that manages to take a hold of the back of Giorno's neck and keep him in place.]

Yes-- God, there. That's good, Giogio. Just like that, again. Please.

[It should be funny. And it is, a little--the way Fugo says keep going, don't stop and then holds him in place with there, just like that, again. Fugo wants so much that he can't decide what he wants at all. Giorno understands, he does, he's been there, he's nearly always there. But it should still be funny.]

[Except that . . . it's just not. Giorno wouldn't want to laugh at Fugo anyway, not right now, not when he's being so vulnerable. But in this moment, he simply doesn't have the urge. Whatever humor there is in the contradiction of demands Fugo's given him is absolutely drowned by the fact that Fugo's given him demands at all. That Fugo wants him so much that he's willing not only to ask, but to insist. It's just--]

[It's felt like wishful thinking for ages, that Fugo could want him this much. It would have been fine if he didn't, or did differently, or--it doesn't matter. It's Fugo. Giorno loves him, every part of him, every sweet and bitter bit. But it feels so good to be wanted.]

[He can't stop thinking about it: I want your mouth. It shivers up and down his spine over and over, echoing in his mind; he's obsessed with it, hearing that from Fugo in such a needy, demanding voice. So impatient. Just thinking about it makes him dig his fingers in a little harder, his teeth grazing against the edge of Fugo's collarbone.]

[And then Fugo's legs clamp tight around him, holding him in place. His fingers curl around the back of Giorno's neck, holding him still--and before Fugo's words even hit him, he's whining, pleased and encouraging. He likes that. He likes that Fugo wants to hold him still, to demand with his body as well as his words; he likes that Fugo holds him down as he holds Fugo down, too, how they can both say how much they want this without saying a word.]

[His nails dig into Fugo's thigh as he instantly, immediately gives Fugo what he wants. He bites down, hard and sustained, and lets go slowly, a bite that bleeds into an open-mouthed kiss, fierce and intent against the blooming bruise.]

Uh-huh, [he mumbles, nearly incoherent. What he means is anything, anything you want, but it's all right that he doesn't have those words anymore; he did say them already, and Fugo seems to have listened. Vaguely, he think that he should point it out to Fugo--that he can't do both, keep going and stay where he is--but. Fugo's smart. He'll figure it out. And Giorno's busy, anyway, biting and kissing until he's told to do otherwise. He's impatient, but this is what Fugo wants. Fugo deserves to get exactly what he wants.]

[It does not immediately occur to Fugo that he's asked the impossible of Giorno. What he has requested makes perfect sense to him. Giorno is very talented. Of course he can keep going and stay exactly where he is at the same time. There's no room in his thought process to put together a reasonable order of the things he wants. Giorno's mouth on his neck is...

Everything. It's everything to him, right now.]

[If someone asked Fugo (not that Fugo is willing to give anyone the opportunity) why he lets Giorno bite him so much, after a great deal of persnickety hemming and hawing Fugo would have to admit it's because he likes it. Actually, those words aren't strong enough. He loves it. There is such an exquisite contrast between how sharp and intent Giorno's teeth are behind his warm, soft mouth. And Giorno knows him so very well; his favorite places are the ones where he has discovered Fugo is particularly sensitive. The places that make him squirm when kissed. The ones that make him cry out when bitten.

And-- he likes to look at them. The marks left behind by Giorno's greedy mouth on his skin. He can never really forget how much Giorno wants him when he's all marked up.]

[Fugo holds tightly onto Giorno with what feels like his own body; he wants to keep him in place and because he knows, now, just how much Giorno wants to be held. He holds him until he starts to feel a little crazy from all the attention Giorno gives to that spot and he's left a trembling, hoarse mess underneath Giorno's hands and mouth. It's only then that it occurs to him that Giorno can't move on. And that maybe he'll need to let go, a little, or else they'll never reach those other spots.]

Giogio, [he sighs, because he can't be bothered to string too many words together. His grip around Giorno eases and he squirms, trying to reinforce what he hopes will be a more or less coherent.] You can-- ... that's good, keep going.

[Giorno loves to make Fugo squirm. He loves to hear him let go, little by little, of his tightly-wound, compulsive composure--to just be and to let himself feel good. Giorno craves that. Because it feels good, because it makes him shiver, because it makes him feel warm all over but especially in his heart. He likes having the power to make Fugo lose his words, and he likes leaving marks so everyone knows that there's someone so fiercely devoted to making Fugo feel good. He likes every step they take together, small or large, hand in hand. Like a dance: he leads sometimes, a lot of the time, but they wouldn't get anywhere if Fugo didn't want to learn the steps.]

[It's dizzying, loving someone this much. The way his heart swells when Fugo tells him (not asks, but tells im) to keep going, it's a crescendo, a wave of delight cresting over him. He makes a soft sound of satisfaction against Fugo's throat, fingers curling against Fugo's thigh before shifting to trail up and down the marks he made with his nails.]

. . . I love when you do that, [he murmurs, words trickling in slowly, a soft smile curving against Fugo's skin.] Tell me what you want.

[He said it already: that he would do anything that Fugo wanted. He meant it. This isn't another confirmation of that, though. He can tell that Fugo understands. It's obvious. If it wasn't clear, Fugo would be so much more hesitant to push. No, this is just--something he can't help but say, is too happy and hungry to hold back.]

[He presses a soft kiss against the mark he's made, for closure, before pulling back to admire it. To admire Fugo overall, flushed and flustered and insistent. He bites his lip, charmed and thrilled and grateful, and then . . . well, he does what Fugo wants him to, obviously. Kisses from Fugo's throat down his chest, with a brief detour to kiss and press his cheek against the spot over Fugo's heart--and that makes him murmur, too, pleased at how hard it's beating. Down to the bottom of Fugo's ribs and to the next spot, the next landmark; he bites down, slow but rough, his eyes slipping shut as he focuses on the give of Fugo's skin, the pattern of his breathing, the way his skin tastes, not that he could ever describe what's so satisfyingly Fugo about it.]

[But he's impatient. So, so impatient. And he was honest: he thinks about Fugo's stomach a lot. Which means, as much as he'd like to pay equal attention to every spot on his map of Fugo, he can't manage to make this mark quite as much of a masterpiece as the last one. It's not long at all before he huffs and shifts so he can brush his lips against Fugo's stomach in the lightest, most experimental of kisses.]

[There's ... a pattern here, Fugo realizes, in a thought process that's warm and slow-moving as a thick dollop of honey. Of behavior. Whenever Giorno bites him, he always likes to take a moment after to admire it. Admire-- him, with a fresh bruise on his skin left behind by Giorno's mouth. He can practically feel the weight of Giorno's eyes on him, as they take in every detail of the mess he's made.

Giorno looks very pleased with himself. With Fugo. With the two of them, together, all stupid with how close they are. Why did it take him so long to figure this out?]

I... [Fugo starts, with a creeping sense of shyness brought on by Giorno's words that he is immediately distracted from by the winding trail of kisses Giorno makes across his chest and down his side. He sighs, pleased and content; when Giorno pauses to rest, Fugo is able to catch his train of thought while his fingers trail down from Giorno's hair to his shoulder.] Can. Because of you. With you, it's okay. I--

[There's no warning, at all, before Giorno's teeth find the spot he marked out before. Fugo gasps and twitches, briefly curling tight around Giorno. One hand darts up to his mouth again in a haphazard attempt to muffle the strangled noise that comes out of him instead of what he was trying to say; the other hand, still hovering around Giorno's shoulder, clutches tight.]

Trust. [He's not going to lose what he means to say again. He's determined to spit it out, even if he sounds foolish saying it and the huff of Giorno's breath is incredibly distracting.] I trust you. God, that's good.

[Fugo's eyes wander down. Yes, there's Giorno, framed by his knees; kissing his stomach, just to the left of his bellybutton, watching Fugo's reaction with a sense of delighted anticipation. Because this is new, unfamiliar territory and, as always, he wants to make sure Fugo is doing okay. It's an incredibly intimate view. Fugo smiles hazily at him from the pillows and, with great fondness, pets the top of his head.]

Even though you tease me, sometimes.

[There's a note of humor in his eyes. Giorno isn't teasing him now. He might, now that this lack has been pointed out, but the fact of the matter is that Giorno is a terribly greedy boy. And, as noted before, he missed Fugo's stomach a lot.]

[There's a lot to admire. The fact of the matter is that imaginings of Fugo never compare to the real thing; Giorno isn't one to romanticize, per se, but the sweet organic awkwardness, the startling beauty, of Fugo in reality is something too complex to imagine.]

[There was no predicting how insistent Fugo would be on saying things like that, for example. I trust you, like it's so important to get out in the air between them that it doesn't matter how difficult it is for Fugo to focus and form it into words.]

[And Giorno doesn't even have time to adjust to the full bodyslam of emotion from I trust you before Fugo is--looking at him, and teasing him about teasing. It's not an opposite feeling; it comes from the same well, love and trust and care, but it makes Giorno feel light and fidgety instead of breathlessly awed, which is in itself so overwhelming. Fugo loves him, Fugo trusts him (even here, like this; Fugo trusts him with everything), and Fugo is teasing him. Reminding him that--his greed is outflanking his wickedness, for once.]

[It makes him squirm a little with everything he's feeling, but especially with the knowledge that he's got a unique opportunity here to figure out new ways to torment Fugo and he's not taking it. Conflict passes across his face, brows drawing together with indecision. He's so greedy, and he doesn't want to stop, since he's allowed to be, since Fugo wants him to be--not that he wants to hurry, but that he wants to enjoy this, enjoy Fugo, to love him by mapping out every inch of his skin with his mouth. But at the same time, he . . . loves to tease.]

[He nuzzles abruptly against Fugo's stomach, possessive and indecisive, and then kisses again, and a few more times, which is very lovely. There's a lot of space on Fugo's stomach to learn and to admire, from the shift away from ribs to the jut of hipbones. Which is what decides him in the end. He does want to admire Fugo; that's the most important thing. He likes this because he's greedy, but also because it shows Fugo how much he wants him, that he doesn't just like teasing him but likes every inch of him, earnestly and overwhelmingly.]

[Still. One cannot allow teasing--a teasing challenge--like that to pass unchecked. So one second he's leaving light, fluttering kisses against Fugo's stomach, and the next he's shifted to bite down quick and hard on Fugo's right hip. A second after that and he's back, and this time his kisses are a little toothier, but not by much. Not yet.]

No, I don't.

[Fugo trusts Giorno. With all of his worries, fears, and doubts; to lead him forward when he's too inexperienced to know the way; to hold onto him and step halfway when he can't manage a single step on his own. But what probably says the most about how much Fugo trusts Giorno is the way he sighs, content, and lets his head loll back onto the pillows and his eyes close. It's easier this way to think about nothing much, save for Giorno's slow, meandering kisses that cover the formerly uncharted territory of his stomach.

Even after saying something like that-- and knowing what a bully Giorno Giovanna is-- Fugo doesn't care if he's put himself in a position where it's statistically probably that he's going to be teased. He wasn't lying, earlier: he wants Giorno's mouth, his lips and his teeth and his breath, all over him. It feels good, so good, no matter what Giorno decides to do with it. With him.]

[The moment before Giorno is very rude to him is peaceful. Fugo's breathing, although hazy and rough, evens out. (How does it feel for Giorno? Does the way Fugo's stomach rise with his deep inhales just to fall when he exhales feel strange, or good, underneath his mouth?) His grip around Giorno, with his legs, and in his hair, with his fingers loosens. There's very little, if any, tension in his body. It's a quiet, but deeply content moment. Fugo feels-- warm. His spine and fingertips are tingling; his skin, everywhere, feels so sensitive.

And then--]

Giorno-- [Fugo's voice is ... a lot of things. Sharp, but not just with surprise; there's need in there too, because at this point he would be hard pressed to deny that he loves it when Giorno bites him. (It aches but, oh, so sweetly; being bitten hurts so good it makes his toes curl up in the sheets.) Indignant, because he let his guard down and Giorno bit him. And there's no reprieve, either, because Giorno is back to kissing and nipping at the skin of his stomach.] You do. You are.

[His eyes are open again, but he's sullenly twisted his face to halfway hide in the pillows. Nope. No way. Giorno does not get to look at him when he's so needy and whimpery if he's going to be a bully. Not happening. He can touch but... not look. Yes. That makes sense, somewhere. Probably.]

But you like it when I do.

[There's bubbling laughter hidden in his words, not quite allowed to voice itself in the slight space between his lips and Fugo's skin. He grins, mischievous, and when he kisses Fugo's stomach again, he knows Fugo will be able to feel it. And he's happy about that. He wants Fugo to know how pleased he is, how he's pleased because Fugo likes to be teased so much. It's nice. They understand each other in that way, don't they--because Fugo knows now that Giorno likes it just as much the other way, impatient as he can be sometimes. Greedy as he always is.]

[He's greedy now more than ever, but getting that reaction has at the very least tempered his greed just a bit. He's satisfied for the moment, toes curling happily at the insistent need in Fugo's voice. When he glances up and sees Fugo hiding his face away, he hums into the next kiss, because that makes him as happy as it makes him frustrated: he wants to see, but at the same time it's telling, isn't it. Fugo is overwhelmed.]

[That's good. That's what he wanted. Because really, more than anything, what he's greedy for is whatever makes Fugo feel good.]

[So he can't quite stop himself when the urge to tease comes over him again. It's a bit quieter, though; his fingertips come to rest against Fugo's hip, the one that hasn't been bitten or at least not yet, and start those slow circles up again, the ones that made Fugo so restless before. And when he kisses now, it's slower but more thoughtful, his kisses warmer and more drawn out as he tries to memorize what it feels like when Fugo's stomach rises and falls under his mouth. When he bites, it's slower too, but sharper, meant to mark--and sometimes a bite drags into a kiss, his teeth grazing as he shifts and presses something sweet against the sharpness he left before.]

[He's hungry, but content. Greedy, but satisfied. They have all the time in the world, and he likes that, because it means that the only thing defining them in this moment is what the both of them want.]

[Which reminds him. He nips, sharp and playful, just below Fugo's belly button, and glances up at him again.]

I'll do it again. If you want me to. [Just a casual reminder: he will do anything. Even if Fugo's sulking. He wants Fugo sulky as much as he wants Fugo in any other mood.]

Bully.

[This is not an accusation. It's an undeniable fact. Giorno is a bully and a flirt to boot, which are dangerous personality traits on their own let alone in tandem. He loves to catch Fugo out in his most flustered moments. Which should be frustrating, because he hates it when anyone else teases him. Except--

It's Giorno, who loves him. Who trusts him. Who would never, ever, push him beyond what he's comfortable with. Fugo worries so much about the intensity of his own emotions; Giorno accepts all of them, the good and the bad and the strange, with open arms and a wide smile.]

I ... like it. I like-- everything. About this, about you.

[It's that knowledge that makes him feel safe enough to admit it. Yes, he likes it when Giorno teases him. He likes letting go and just-- letting himself feel, without the worry of hurting someone or driving them away. He's still a little too embarrassed to look Giorno in the eye when he says it. His words are a little muffled, which is to be expected given how he's half buried his face into a pillow; but they're forthright and sincere. He really does mean it. And he wants Giorno to know it, even if Giorno will never let him live it down later.

Fugo takes a deep gulp of a breath. Giorno's mouth, warm and delightful, presses down against the skin of his stomach in a kiss. And a kiss, then another, which becomes a bite, and then a kiss again. Giorno ... really can't leave this place alone, can he? Slowly, Fugo opens his eyes so he can peek at Giorno again. This is something of a mistake. Along with being a bully and a flirt, Giorno is so gorgeous when he's being mean that it makes him squirm. The nip ... also makes him squirm. At this point, it's useless to even try to muffle his yelp; not that he's even trying anymore. Not when he knows how much Giorno likes it when he can see and hear what Fugo likes and wants.]

Do it-- again. Please. Your mouth feels... [Briefly, Fugo loses his words. They seem no good again; nothing can properly describe just how good Giorno's mouth feels right now.] Amazing. I want-- that, again, more.

[Something like fire licks up his spine whenever Fugo looks at him like that. When he says things like that, even if that part--those words--are newer. Giorno feels caught when Fugo looks down at him, not in a bad way but very much frozen in place nonetheless. He has to look. He has to listen. He wants so desperately to absorb all of this, everything about Fugo in these moments, so he can remember later. Be distracted later. Prove Fugo right later.]

[He sort of loves it when Fugo is right, because so often it leads to him being smug.]

[Is he as flushed as he feels? Sometimes Fugo makes him so warm all over from wanting him; sometimes he feels like he wants to just look at Fugo, as though he could eat him up just with his eyes. What does that look like? Whatever it is, he hopes it's more good than strange. He hopes he looks half as perfect as Fugo does in this moment.]

You--

[He licks his lips, hovering somewhere between excited and nervous. His lips brush Fugo's stomach again; he trails light kisses down Fugo's stomach to his hip, slow, pausing to add a word or two as they trickle into his mind.]

You sound amazing. And--taste. Amazing. The way you move. When you breathe. Amazing. You smell so good.

[By the end it's practically a sigh, breathed out over Fugo's hip, because he made it. Here he is again, and now he can savor it, the sharp angle of Fugo's hipbone, which he learns as he kisses, slow and ever less methodical. He's curious, but greedy outweighs curious. He wants to kiss Fugo everywhere. Maybe he'll leave teasing behind after all, because why wouldn't he focus on Fugo, all the overwhelming and beautiful details of him?]

[He doesn't make him wait long, in any case. Just a few soft kisses--to learn what it's like to kiss Fugo on the hip, how it feels and how Fugo likes it--before he bites again, slower this time. To make a mark. Something Fugo will see later. It makes his toes curl again, deeply self-satisfied.]

[Giorno looks magnificent: that is the only word Fugo can think of that comes close to describing all the things Giorno is right now. And even that seems to pale in comparison to the beautiful contrast between Giorno's adamant greed and nervous anticipation. He's beyond beautiful. He's simply himself, in all his perfectly imperfect contradictions.

He isn't thinking much about the future. He's caught entirely in the overwhelming present of being the focus of Giorno's attention. And Giorno's eyelashes. They're always very pretty and feathery, but something about them right now-- they way they fail to soften the naked look of want in Giorno's eyes-- is especially enchanting.

(He doesn't know it yet, but his future will be plagued by extremely distracting memories and trains of thought about things like that. Giorno's hands were so warm, he'll think to himself, while running a finger down the spines of books in the library because he's forgotten what book he came here to find. Or: will Giorno make the same sounds if I kiss the birthmark on his shoulder? Which are both very interesting things to think about but don't make for very productive workdays.)

But before he can figure out exactly what it is that makes them so distracting, he is distracted by this distraction by the words Giorno kisses onto his stomach.

Amazing. Amazing. Amazing.]

Oh-- yes. [He doesn't say any of that. He can't. The slow, meandering murmur of Giorno's words as they trail across to his hip makes him lose track of all of his words except for breathy, effusive praise. Yes-- good-- there-- again-- please. And he loses even those when Giorno's teeth slowly sink into the sensitive skin over his hipbone. In lieu of encouraging Giorno with his words, he clumsily reaches out to push his fingers through Giorno's hair and tangle them up in his curls.

It takes a long, ragged moment before he finds his words again. And when he strings them together into a sentence, they're a far cry from his usual carefully constructed and well thought out choices.]

You ... make me feel that way. Amazing. Love you.

[God, he loves it when Fugo babbles--because yes, it's babbling, that's what this is called. The way Fugo can only get out a single word at a time, how breathless he is, how simple every statement, so uncharacteristically direct for someone so used to thinking complicated thoughts. When Fugo babbles, it means that instead of thinking about everything he's just thinking about Giorno and how Giorno can keep making him feel good.]

[It's everything. Or Giorno thought it was everything. Up until a moment ago it was; he was content to listen, to brush too-light teasing kisses over the spot he just bit so he can make Fugo shiver. But then Fugo tangled his fingers in his hair, and--]

[Oh.]

[Without even beginning to understand why, he lets out a soft, needy cry when Fugo's fingers find a secure place in his curls. It comes out muffled against Fugo's skin, against the slowly-forming bruise, which fits just fine because he feels a little bruised himself in the best way. When Fugo grabbed the back of his neck and held him in place before, it was sort of like this, but not quite. No, this is more, somehow, in a way that he can't describe, bigger and better and more.]

[He's loved Fugo for what seems like so long now, and it's never been a secret to him that he likes when Fugo pushes back. When he teases, when he bullies, when he asks for what he wants and then demands it. When he feels so good that all the thoughts about not being good enough to ask just fly away for a little while. But this is different. This is praise and demand all at once; Fugo is holding him still like he did before, holding him at that spot so that he won't stop doing the things that prompt yes good there again please, but fingers in his hair are sweet, too, and it's just--perfect. Delicious, the way those things weave together. The ever-so-slight, shivery tingle when some of his hair pulls tight.]

[With just the tiniest tilt of his head, the angle changes. Different, but still good, maybe better. His eyes fall shut, he whimpers against Fugo's hip, and kisses again, light and breathy kisses peppered all over his hip and the edge of his stomach and the top of his thigh and anything he can reach without moving too, too far.]

Love you.

[It's close to too quiet to hear. It doesn't just mean I love you, either. It means so many things, most of which are words his mouth can't form right now. He can't even open his eyes right now and doesn't want to, too absorbed with the way Fugo feels under him. His hipbone curves so prettily that he doesn't need to look to see it; the shape of it is so clear under his lips as he kisses, up and down and along the sides, where his teeth catch and his tongue presses to soothe. He's obsessed. He's fixated. He knows. But who could blame him?]

[Gently, he pushes on Fugo's other knee, giving himself more space. Better access. He was going to move more, kiss across Fugo's stomach to his other hip and bite marks all over that, too. But this is better. He likes where he is, how he is, with Fugo's fingers firm in his hair making his breath quicken and the long, pretty expanse of Fugo's leg stretched out for him to touch. That's why he opens his eyes, so he can get both of the things he wants at once: nipping softly at Fugo's hip and stomach as he traces his fingers slowly up and down the opposite thigh.]

[It's so pretty. God, he loves watching himself touching Fugo--which would be narcissistic if he weren't so stunned by it, if he weren't watching so he could convince himself over and over that it's really real. He's so lucky, getting to be the one Fugo wants touching him. He gets to run his fingertips softly up to Fugo's knee and lightly drag his nails on the way back. He gets to do that.]

Fugo . . . [He doesn't even. Mean to say it. It just comes out, breathy, needy, awed, as he takes a moment to catch his breath, because he keeps--somehow--losing it. Still staring at the movement of his fingers as an excuse to greedily run his eyes along the pale line of Fugo's thigh.] Gorgeous.

[Fugo is distantly aware that he has long since passed the threshold of sensibility. He's babbling nonsense without a care of how embarrassing or silly he sounds, or even if it makes sense. He doesn't care if he sounds foolish. It doesn't matter. What matters is making sure that Giorno-- who loves him so much and knows him better than anyone else-- can at least make out the shadow of how much Fugo wants him. Which is a lot. Too much, too big for words. He has to express it every way he knows how.

Catching hold of Giorno's hair is just part of that. Well-- it's also because Fugo loves the feeling of it caught between his fingers. But most of all, it's because Fugo knows, now, that Giorno likes the feeling of nails catching on his skin. And he was wondering... is it the same with his scalp? The answer to this is yes, a thousand times yes, if the sharp breaths and soft whimpers at his hip when his fingers tighten in Giorno's hair as his body pulses with a particular strong beat of desire in response to a kiss or a bite are any indication. Yes, Giorno likes it; he likes being held in place, he likes knowing what Fugo wants him to do, likes it when Fugo tugs his hair a little.]

[He feels crazy, sort of, with how much he wants Giorno. As if he's careened out of control; like he's willfully jumped off a cliff for the sheer heady, adrenaline-rush joy of it. And normally that feeling would be terrifying: his head would fill itself up with white noise and static to push all of the other feelings out and bring him back down to earth. But it's okay, he knows. It's okay, because it's Giorno. I know I'm safe when we're together.

Fugo feels braver now. He can watch Giorno kiss him with both eyes open (and, God, does Giorno ever make kissing look and feel like an art form) and watch Giorno's greed play out in real time. It starts simply enough: for whatever reason Giorno wants or needs to move, so he reaches out to adjust Fugo's knee so he can have more room. Fugo, of course, willingly and gladly obliges him. But then Giorno pauses. Cracks his eyes open so he can drink the sight of his palm on Fugo's knee, the slope of his calf, the curve of his thigh.

This... is less stunning. It's honestly silly, because Fugo can just see Giorno's greedy thought process as his ridiculous boyfriend works through the problem. Giorno furrows his eyebrows, which means he doesn't want to stop kissing Fugo's stomach yet; but his fingers twitch and his breath is sharper, faster. But I want that, is written in Giorno's huge pupils, blown so wide that his eyes hardly look blue at all. Fugo knows better than to laugh at Giorno, so he locks up the chuckle that threatens to bubble out of him behind his ribs until Giorno properly works it out that he can have both.

Both ... is good. Both is so good that Fugo is briefly startled out of his amused thoguhts with a needy whimper, because he simply cannot handle Giorno kissing and nipping the skin of his stomach and trailing his fingertips down his thigh. Let alone the sharper trail back up, when Giorno uses his nails. The touch lingers, in his head and on his skin: that's good, I like that, again thunders in his head. It's new, it's good, it's thrilling, and it is briefly totally overwhelming. He trembles and bites his lip and his fingers catch in Giorno's hair, their grip tight and sure, because Giorno is not going anywhere now that he's figured out something so delightful.]

Magnifico... right? [Even when his words come back, this playful suggestion feels so thick and clumsy in his mouth. Fugo shivers and then smiles, hazy and pleased, clumsily trying to pick up his fumbled good humor.] That's-- you look like that, right now. From here. When I can look at you.

[Because he can't, all of the time. Sometimes Giorno is just... too beautiful. Too good at making him feel good. He has to close his eyes, so he can focus on just one thing at a time. It's a little easier that way.]

[It's quite the conflict, really. He wants so badly to keep his eyes open, to watch Fugo like a hawk so that he can catch the way his expression shifts when Giorno does something that feels especially good, the way his mouth moves when his breath catches in contrast with the way it does when he fumbles for words, or babbles, or whines. But at the same time, it's so terribly hard to multitask, and everything else is so--]

[Overwhelming. He's overwhelmed, not in a bad way but in a full way, so that he can't focus on one thing for too long before something takes him over. His eyes close so he can focus on the heat of Fugo's skin under his mouth, or the way he squirms; then it shifts to tight fingers in his hair, words slurred and rough with desire, the warmth and solidity of Fugo's thighs framing his shoulders. The way they tense when he touches them just so. And Fugo smells good, so good in a way that whenever he notices it consciously he breathes in a little too sharply, not quite a gasp but close, wanting so badly his lungs won't work for a moment. And then his eyes open again, and he looks at Fugo with his bright eyes and hazy smile and the pink in his cheeks, and it starts all over again.]

[Such a conundrum. He could stay here forever, just like this, kissing and biting and telling Fugo how beautiful he is. It's a subject he'd happily discuss for ages, especially with Fugo feeling so good he doesn't want to argue. But he wants so badly, too. He wants to follow the trail his fingers are taking up and down Fugo's thighs with his mouth, wants to mark him up and make him squirm--would like very much more of this, fingers tight in his hair, and more of what came before, with Fugo's thighs holding him precisely in place. He wants that. So much.]

[What keeps catching him, making him trip over his own momentum--it's stupid. Oh, it's so stupid, he feels stupid even thinking it, because why wouldn't Fugo want him? That's the whole point. That's what he wanted. But he didn't imagine it would be so big. He didn't realize it would fill his chest to bursting, that it would make the want more and the need dizzying. He didn't expect Fugo to be so . . .]

[Fugo's fingers are still tight in his hair when it comes. Sweetness. Not compliments, not flattery, but open, unfettered want and a gentle insistence on expressing it. As difficult as words are, as new as it is, Fugo gets it out. How much he likes looking. How difficult it is to look, sometimes, because he likes looking so much that it can be too much. Fugo thinks he looks like that, where he is now, nipping his stomach and his hip, from where Fugo is now, looking down at him with fingers tangled in his hair, holding him in place.]

[It isn't fair. The sound he makes is so embarrassing, low and rough, pressed against Fugo's hip. He closes his eyes, like that will make his cheeks stop glowing, like it'll help him catch his breath. It doesn't. He's utterly compromised.]

That's you.

[What? He can't--those aren't words. Not the right ones. He takes a long, shuddering breath, and then bites down sharply on Fugo's hip. It's a long, lingering bite, not deep but steady pressure, not for revenge but because for a few moments it's the only way he can explain--how he feels, how much he feels, how much he wants. When he lets go, it's with another rough exhale. And then he looks up. Licks his lips and tries to line words up the way he wants them. Sometime along the way, he dug his fingers into Fugo's thigh on the way up again. It's possessive. He's not really sorry about that, either.]

I look like that. Because I want you. And I want to be all yours. And you want me to be, so--

[There's no way he can get the words out. What it means or how lucky he feels; how overwhelming it is to be so wanted, so needed, that someone could ruin him so effortlessly as Fugo is ruining him right now. Or the little things, the contributing factors, building blocks: all the little sounds, the way Fugo whines and squirms and holds him and what it means. How much it means to him, and how intensely it affects him, that his greedy mine is answered by mine in return, from Fugo's eyes to his.]

[There aren't words, maybe. Maybe he doesn't have to say anything. Maybe Fugo can see just by looking at him. That happens sometimes: no words needed, just eyes meeting and gestures. Kisses.]

[He has to tug against Fugo's grip a little to get what he wants, but that's okay. More than. Almost anything would be worth it to replace his too-tight fingers with a gentle kiss--just one, soft and careful, to make sure it's okay. Now, though, his eyes aren't soft or careful, and they're wide open, watching Fugo's face. He wants to see what happens.]

[Oh, Fugo thinks, very stupidly despite being incredibly pleased with himself for managing to get it out: I've got him now.

He knows it won't be for long. But he did it: he said something, on purpose, that was so good that Giorno briefly couldn't handle how much he wants him. He didn't have any words, clever or not, left in him. Just-- want. Want and hunger and need, Fugo can hear it in his breath and feel it bitten into his skin. There are already several marks on his hip left behind by Giorno's teeth. But this one, Fugo thinks-- this one is going to be the darkest. This is going to be the mark that lasts, the exact spot Giorno will reach to touch and kiss later.

Giorno isn't holding anything back. That bite says, without words, mine and I need you and stay. So of course it ruins Fugo right back. At first he sucks in a sharp gasp of air, which falls out of him in a needy cry when he feels the added pressure of Giorno's nails. Instinct drives him to arch his lower back and press further into the bite. There's a coil of warmth in his stomach, wound tighter and tighter every time Giorno touches him or looks at him.

This latest kiss, it's more than okay. It's perfect. Its softness and care and all the love behind it make Fugo shiver with anticipation. Logically speaking, such a perfect kiss should satisfy him. But it doesn't. He's so-- greedy right now. He wants more. He needs more. He blinks quickly and his fingers twitch and spasm in Giorno's hair, while he struggles against his urge to close his eyes. He wants to see. He wants to watch the way Giorno needs him.]

Yes-- Giogio, yes-- [He smiles, hazily, and briefly loosens his grip in Giorno's hair so he can clumsily run his fingers through it.] I want that. I want to be yours. I want-- you to be mine. I want you, Giogio, please.

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