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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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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!
( text | voice | video | action )
⇦ ● ⇨
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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.]
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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.
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[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.]
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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.
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[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.]
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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.]
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[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.
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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.]
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[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.]
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[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.
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[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.]
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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.
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[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.
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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.]
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[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.]
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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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[It feels incredible--perfect--the way Fugo's begging with his words and his fingertips. It's not like he needs an engraved invitation, either. Where he's pressed this tentative, experimental kiss, Fugo's skin is soft, stunningly so. Warm, too, and . . . and when Fugo arches like that, that's asking, too. What Giorno would really like, really like, would be to kiss Fugo all along the inside of his thighs, bite him bruised, and get that kind of asking, too. All three: words and fingertips and the mesmerizing arch of hips, all at once. That's what he wants.]
[He murmurs, soft and pleased, and arches into the touch himself. He likes the praise of it along with the request, and he knows Fugo knows he does, which just makes it better. Fugo's speaking for the both of them. Really, Fugo knows him well enough that he doesn't have to speak at all if he doesn't want to. He can just use his eyes and his mouth and it's enough.]
[So, for now, he does. He keeps his gaze locked on Fugo's, hungry and intent. It means a lot of things, mine and yours and anything, everything, but on a more basic level it just means watch me, don't look away. Because he knows now that Fugo thinks he looks good--magnifico--and now that he knows, oh, he does not want Fugo to look away, not even for an instant. He wants to watch him watching, he wants that feedback loop, he wants to see what it does to the both of them.]
[The shape of Fugo's hip under his mouth was lovely. The ever-so-slight curve of his thigh is better, though: subtler, softer, sweeter as he kisses from the crook of the knee up. His breath keeps catching, almost like he's afraid to breathe, like he can't quite believe this is real. Except it is, of course. His eyes are locked on Fugo's face, so he knows, because no dream or fantasy has anything on Fugo in the waking world. The thought makes him smile faintly as he switches to Fugo's other thigh, kisses up to the knee again; and the smile goes wicked as he finds a spot, oh, about midway to kiss again, again, again, sweetly enough that Fugo will absolutely know what's coming. Sweet kisses always come before something wicked. One more soft, almost-not-there press of his lips, and then he bites down, his teeth nearly as sharp as his wide, dark eyes.]
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Don't look away. That's what Giorno is telling him. Fugo swallows and pulls in a shaky gulp of air. His legs tighten, just for an instant, around Giorno's shoulders. And-- despite his nerves, how overwhelming all of this is, his screaming instinct to twist his face to the side and hide in the pillow again-- he holds Giorno's gaze.]
Oh, [he says, overcome by the perfect pressure of Giorno's mouth pushing down, down, down. And then, again:] Oh. Yes-- God, yes. There.
[Don't stop he thinks, wildly, and shivers with the effort of not looking away. Giorno looks soft and messy and incredibly dangerous. He's-- gorgeous, he's perfect, no one has more beautiful than Giorno is in this moment. The lamplight makes his hair glow. He can feel each and every one of Giorno's hot, heavy breaths on his skin and between his knees as Giorno's chest heaves with the effort of it.
Locked in. Giorno doesn't even blink, not even when he moves from one leg to the next. Watching him kiss-- back up again, from the soft flesh of his inner thigh back up to the not-quite-so intimate starting (ending?) point just below his knee is sweet and good and absolutely agonizing. He can't even properly articulate what he wants-- back, go back, please, back there and don't stop-- and winds up whimpering instead, fingers struggling to find steady purchase in Giorno's hair. He can't hold too tight here, can he? If he holds Giorno in place here, how can he possibly go back to that sweet spot?
Giorno Giovanna is not known for his mercy. His smile, although gorgeous, is anything but kind. But Fugo heaves a sigh of relief once Giorno starts to slowly make his way back to where Fugo wants him. And because he has been good and watched this whole time, he doesn't miss the curl of Giorno's lip-- the flash of white teeth after the sweetest, gentlest of all these kisses, again and again. His eyes go wide and he knows. He knows what is about to happen. His heart races, his stomach flips, and he tenses in anticipation--]
[And then Giorno bites him. Hard. Sustained. With wicked intent. And, God, does it feel good. He wanted so badly for Giorno to kiss him here, to mark him up here, and now that it's happening he can't even think because it feels so good. His fingers tangle tight in Giorno's hair and his legs press tight around him, demanding without words stay and more and don't stop. His mouth is preoccupied by a stream of babbling affirmation and praise and Giorno's name, over and over.]
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[And want. A lot of want--a lot, because of him. The moment he moves away from exactly what Fugo wants and Fugo starts fidgeting, he's almost tempted to close his eyes then against the the wave of yes that hits him, heavy, heady satisfaction. Not smugness: just satisfaction.]
[The worst part is that he knows himself. He's learned a lot about himself this afternoon, in fact, and the greatest revelation is that waiting before giving Fugo exactly what he wants is nearly as agonizing for him as it is for Fugo. Maybe someday it won't feel like he's tormenting both of them if he doesn't touch Fugo exactly where he wants to be touched, kiss him exactly how he wants to be kissed, but--well, it's not today. Even now he's slightly tempted to give up on his plans to mark up Fugo's thighs and just--]
[But he doesn't. And it's--good. He's very glad he didn't. Because when he bites down, Fugo doesn't just hold him: he makes a demand. Fingers tight in his hair, legs holding him down, words that are barely words, rough, needy, breathless, gorgeous. Gorgeous.]
[Giorno doesn't close his eyes. Not entirely. But it's a very close thing. Fugo tugs on his hair at the same time as his expression shifts from anticipation to yes I want that, and it's just a lot, so much that Giorno's eyelids flutter, his expression going slack and somehow, improbably, hungrier as he watches. A groan slips between his lips, pressed against Fugo's bitten skin; he draws in a sharp, ragged breath and hums a moment later, intent and affirming. Yes, more; yes, he'll stay. Stopping isn't even on the table. No, his next few nips are lighter but they're nothing like stopping, swift and sharp followed by kisses and hungry flicks of his tongue to ease the sting away until it's time for it to come back.]
[And then he bites down again, hard, and kisses again, and--and moves down. Just a little. One soft kiss closer to where Fugo so clearly wants him, and then another. One more. That's all. Three is a good number: enough so it's not quite a tease, not so much that he's backing out of his promise to mark Fugo up. Which he does, immediately: no preamble this time, just a breathless pause before he bites down, several short sharp nips before a bigger one. He doesn't let Fugo go yet, doesn't let him look away or move away. In fact, instinct tells him to hold him closer, and the only way to do that is to loop his arms under Fugo's thighs and pull them tighter around his shoulders. When he does, he shivers, feeling--held. Needed. Impatient. What is it about Fugo that makes him so satisfied and so impatient all at once?]
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He feels-- messy. No, he is messy. He's red all over. His hair, between his own squirming and Giorno's possessive fingers, is a tousled disaster. His whole body feels strange; his limbs and shoulders are loose, but his abdomen is tight and hot with all the want Giorno has painstakingly stoked inside of him. He can't catch his breath. When he tries to speak, it barely makes any sense.
Even so. It's impossible to be self-conscious about it. Not when Giorno's face is buried between his thighs, gorgeously messy. It's amazing. Giorno's vanity is nothing to sneeze at: if his morning routine doesn't go exactly the way he wants it to, he is not afraid to take another half an hour to unpin his hair, scrub his face, and do it all over again. And he's letting-- demanding him to, really-- Fugo look at him when he's like this.
It really is amazing. Not that Fugo has much time or attention to think too deeply about it because, all of a sudden, Giorno has shifted his weight. Fugo makes a small, silly sound of surprise when he feels the heels of his feet and then his toes lift up from where he had them planted on the bedspread.]
I-- you... [Before Fugo can even begin to worry about having clenched around him too tightly, Giorno shivers between his legs. Oh. Oh. Giorno-- liked it. Likes it. So much that he wants more. Fugo stares at him, his mouth taking the shape of the oh that he doesn't have the breath to say. It doesn't take him long to recover; when he does, his expression turns stubborn.] Here. Help-- me.
[Fugo shifts and squirms under and around Giorno; it would be easier to adjust his position if he would just let go of Giorno's hair and prop himself up on the bed, but he doesn't want to. It takes some doing but he manages it in the end: hooking his legs over Giorno's shoulders and crossing his ankles over his back. There. This is-- God. If Giorno can manage his weight, they're closer than ever.]
Is this. Did you. [Here is what Fugo means to say. Is this what you wanted? Are you okay? Those are not the words his mouth ends up using.] Think of me? Like this.
[Here's the worst part of it. As devastating as his words are, the voice that said them is soft and shy. Fugo is just checking in. There is absolutely no intent to bully behind them.]
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[As the moment ebbs, stretching lazily into the next one, Fugo speaks.]
[It's--]
[Oh.]
[At first, Giorno doesn't understand. He's slowed down, warm and sweet and slow, and so it doesn't hit him all at once. It hits, in fact, warm and sweet and slow, a fraction of meaning at a time, as the moment changes over. His eyes widen slowly and he checks himself, double-checks. Until it sinks in, and--]
Oh.
[His voice comes out quiet and small. And breathless, because he is stunned. He wasn't expecting that. Not from Fugo, not ever, but definitely not now, and--how many times is he going to make the mistake of underestimating him?]
[Not that he minds. No, it's--embarrassing; he's utterly defeated in an instant and he knows it, and he knows Fugo will know too. He goes bright pink and loses himself in the moment entirely, his precious eye contact broken in one desperate instant; his eyes fall shut as his expression goes loose and broken and needy. He presses his temple against the inside of Fugo's thigh, shuddering in a shallow breath to replace the air that surprise and want pressed out of his lungs. And he doesn't mind. He loves it. He loves Fugo and everything he is and does and would do anything for him if he just keeps being so--this. Exactly this.]
[For a little while, a few long seconds, words just aren't a thing. He's too breathless, too shattered. The embarrassment of it ebbs a little, too, because he can't change how wrecked he is, and anyway, Fugo should see what he did, shouldn't he? He made Giorno into a disaster, so he might as well witness it. And then, slow as he fell apart, he starts putting himself back together. Not all the way--no fun--but a little bit. Words first.]
Uh-huh.
[. . . Sounds first. He opens his eyes, then, and looks at Fugo, eyes wider and darker than before, stunned and awed most of all by--Fugo. Just Fugo.]
Yes, [he says.] A lot.
[And then he thinks about: Is that okay. But it isn't what he means. No, he realizes: he knows it's okay. What he wants to know, watching Fugo knowing that Giorno has thought about him like this--a lot--is--]
Is that good?
[That's the right question.]
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God, [he breathes in Giorno's long moment of recovery, eyes as wide as saucers, amazed.] just look at you.
[In a distant way, Fugo recognizes this exchange as silly. Again, Giorno's silly letter-- helps. Fugo already knows the details: that Giorno has spent an awful lot of time considering his legs and his stomach, the sharpness of his jaw and collarbone, and the ticklish spot underneath his ear. Now he knows the context. Giorno has thought ... about this. About Fugo, laid bare on his bedsheets. Specifically about Fugo's legs wound tightly around him; about being allowed to put his mouth on Fugo's thighs and leave behind as many marks as he wants to.]
Yes. [He doesn't need to think about it. Even if it floors him, even if it ruins him a little in return to see Giorno so completely devastated, it isn't necessary to think about that much.] Yes, it's good. I-- want you to. But, I...
[Finally, reluctantly, Fugo lets go of Giorno's hair. His hands slide to rest over Giorno's; here he has to pause, stay a while, close his eyes and lean back against the pillows and just enjoy the feeling of being physically supported. Giorno has him. Giorno loves him, Giorno wants him, and they feel so good together. Sometimes, it's easier to say embarrassing things with his eyes closed.]
Don't just think on your own. I want you to tell me. To-- share with me. [Slowly, he pulls Giorno's hands up to the waistband of his underwear. Now-- it wouldn't be right to say this with his eyes closed. He opens them, embarrassed and shy and very stubborn to actually say it, even if all of his words are awkward and stupid, instead of just showing it or implying it. Saying it while looking Giorno in the eye is so important that the idea of keeping his silence is unbearable.] Because, I-- want to be with you. I love you so much. I want to be with you, Giogio.
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[It's silly that they keep saying the same thing over and over again. They are, Giorno knows that too, more and more with every time they do, the same thing in different ways: permission and request, check and affirmation. It's silly that they keep getting so overwhelmed and lose track of what they were doing or saying. He's such a mess, he's unfocused and too focused all at once, and that's silly.]
[But Giorno doesn't actually care. Which is new and unfamiliar, but comfortable in a way that he'd never have imagined. He doesn't mind that he's messy and imperfect and silly right now. It's not supposed to be perfect, he's not stupid, but--also. Also, Fugo is so safe, so comfortable, so right that he can't feel anything but good.]
[Fugo has his hands over Giorno's. It's shocking, almost literally; it feels like sparks hit his knuckles and fizz down into his wrists, like they've never held hands or anything. It makes him smile, because it's silly--a smile that goes crooked a moment later, his teeth catching on his bottom lip as Fugo moves his hands. Silly. A little dizzying. Because it can be both at once.]
[It occurs to him that they've tied themselves into a knot that they will have to briefly untangle. They've made their lives more difficult, if only for a moment. That's the silliest thing of all, their total lack of impulse control. He loves it, though, and hides his face against Fugo's thigh for another moment, grinning and overwhelmed. It's okay. It really doesn't matter that it's awkward and clumsy. Fugo wants to be with him, so. It's really very lovely, actually.]
[He peeks out at Fugo, all smiles, not really shy anymore because he's too pleased and too flustered and just--too. Being wanted so much is exactly where he wants to be.]
I love you. You're very beautiful, you know. In all the ways.
[All smiles, and so honest, he couldn't lie right now if he tried. This is a silly and wonderful moment, the two of them tangled together and clumsy. It's okay, he thinks, to be a little clumsier for a moment or two. And part of him--it's not teasing, exactly. But he wants to wade in just a bit at a time. That's part of it, part of all of this; that's why he wanted it like this, to kiss Fugo all over, slow and thoughtful. It's silly. But it's what he wants, so. It's okay.]
[Under Fugo's hands, his fingers curl, finding purchase in the waistband. Which is nice. He likes it, the slight resistance of the elastic. It's interesting. But more than anything, it's meant as a reassurance that he understands and has no intention of forgetting, he just--it's just one thing. Which is: pressing a careful, exploratory kiss through the fabric of Fugo's underwear, lips slightly parted. His gaze is much less seeking permission--he's certain, down to the bone, that he has it--than seeking connection.]
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With a start, Fugo realizes he loves the feeling of Giorno's hands moving underneath his. There's a brush of knuckles against the palm of his hand, which lines up perfectly with the catch of fingertips around the waistband of his underwear. Fugo shivers-- and then gasps Giorno's name when he's kissed, arching up towards towards the gentle pressure of his mouth with what feels like his whole body. Which can't be true, not really, given the way his legs tighten around Giorno and his heels briefly dig into his back.]
[That... is a very good kiss. He can still feel the shape of Giorno's mouth through the fabric-- which is new, that's a level of detail most shirts can't manage. Fugo has to lay back, dazed, before he can even begin to try to snatch his wandering train of thought. And it's only then that it occurs to him--]
Oh. We've... [He blinks up at the ceiling and, slowly, rosily, looks down at Giorno again. Someone this lovely wants him and thinks he's beautiful. And then he sighs, regretfully.] Got to move again. Don't we.
[Which stinks. But. There is a bright side to the terrible fact that he has to briefly let go of Giorno to get this last piece of clothing up: maybe now is the moment where he gets to help Giorno with his button. At the very least, he is probably going to get at least one if not several more spectacular kisses.]
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[In other words, it's for the best that Fugo's train of thought has reached the station, because Giorno's was on its way out, too distracted and self-satisfied to remember the issue at hand. Typical. He blinks up at Fugo, lost for a moment, before flexing his fingers against the elastic again. Resistance. Off. Yes. That.]
[They have to move again. Sigh.]
Inconvenient, isn't it?
[He's still smiling just as blissfully, though, because honestly: he knows he's going to be back here in a few moments. Fugo likes it a lot, so he's going to make it happen again. That is a priority he can keep in mind, his own distractedness be damned. Fugo likes it when Giorno supports his weight like that, when he's got his heels braced against Giorno's back; he likes looking at Giorno where he is right now. So this is where they'll be again, because Fugo is Giorno's only priority right now.]
[But first: the frustrating task of moving. Grudgingly, he takes both responsibility and initiative. His fingers curl again in Fugo's waistband before slipping down to squeeze his thighs and push them gently apart. He lets the weight fall slowly until he feels Fugo's feet brush the bed, and only then does he let go entirely. And--up on his hands and knees, which is a chore until he gets a good view of Fugo from above. A brand-new miracle. He sighs, a little stupidly, quite a bit wistfully, because he knows that if he kisses Fugo they'll get tangled up again before the stupid underwear is dealt with. Horrible.]
[Fine, so. He runs his hands up Fugo's thighs, which isn't necessary but he does want to, they're pretty and he can see his tooth marks all over them; fingers hook in the waistband again, he pulls it down, and the nice thing, the really great thing is that he doesn't have to avert his eyes this time because Fugo knows what he wants. It's a relief. He can take in the sight of cloth moving along Fugo's skin, both the aesthetic appeal of it and the delight at now there's a little less between them. And funnily, the fact that he isn't focusing so hard on not looking makes it go much more quickly and smoothly--wild, stunning--and then it's done. And Giorno--]
I am not folding these.
[--is pretending very poorly to be very serious about that statement. The only trouble being that halfway through it, he's made his way up the bed, and the last word is kissed feverishly into Fugo's mouth. It's not a particularly good kiss, but he doesn't care. It feels good. He hasn't kissed Fugo in ten million years, and now he can kiss Fugo while running his hand along his stomach, down his hip, thigh, and back up again, and there's nothing there. He's delighted. So, considering all of that, he's going to rank this messy, uncoordinated kiss as probably the best kiss. Ever.]
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