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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!
( text | voice | video | action )
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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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[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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But. All told, Fugo can't sustain his own frustration; not in the face of Giorno's smile, or under the gentle redirection of his hands. I like that, he realizes, half a beat too slow. He likes it, very much, when Giorno helps him move. He doesn't have too long to consider this new knowledge, because -- ... well, because when Giorno helps him with his underwear he watches the process. With-- vested interest.
And it hits him all over again, in the middle of his chest, that Giorno really wants him and loves to look at him. And thinks about touching him. A lot. It's very nearly overwhelming, right up until Giorno makes a very stupid joke about folding the one piece of clothing no one, not even Fugo, cares about being folded up in moments like this.]
Oh, give it a-- [Ah. Thank God. He can't be mad about it. Giorno is already up here kissing him, fervent and hot and honestly terribly uncoordinated. Fugo doesn't care much. He's been dying to be kissed and he never even thought about how amazing it feels to be kissed and touched without anything--
... in the...]
Giogio... [Fugo tries to get Giorno's attention when they come up for air. This attempt fails. Giorno, as it turns out, does not want to be distracted from his mouth and his bare skin. So Fugo tries again, this time a little sharper:] Giogio.
[This does not work very well either. Well, there's one thing left to do. He wiggles one arm free and reaches, blindly, for what he hopes is the hem of Giorno's pants. He ... misses. Instead, he finds Giorno's bare stomach. Oh. Oh, it's soft. He has a mission, but also he wants to keep touching Giorno's stomach.]
Your button, Giogio...
[They have to get his button. Moving is such a pain, he absolutely does not want to have to do it again.]
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[But then Fugo touches his stomach. To get his attention, at least in theory, but here's the flaw: Giorno has spent a lot of time touching Fugo and has temporarily been too overwhelmed by doing so to remember how good it feels to be touched in return. So when Fugo's hand presses against his stomach out of nowhere, it startles him so much that he does pull away from the kiss, but not constructively. No, he--gasps, leans his forehead against Fugo's, eyes falling shut. That's . . . nice. He leans into the touch, sinking into the lovely feeling of Fugo's pretty fingers spread across his stomach.]
[. . . Is he talking?]
[Oh. Yes, Fugo is saying something. But what, and why? Reluctantly, propelled by a grudging sense of responsibility, Giorno pulls back and opens his eyes to look at Fugo. His gaze snags briefly on Fugo's mouth, for which he really can't be blamed, before he blinks and meets his eyes.]
[Meaning filters gradually through his distraction. Fugo's talking about . . . his button. But that doesn't make sense. Giorno doesn't have a button. Fugo had buttons, but they're long dealt with. Now they're both--]
[Wait.]
[Giorno . . . blinks. Sensation that had been relegated to the "unimportant, therefore ignorable" category begins to come back to him. No. No, he can feel cloth against his legs, the shape of cuffs brushing his ankles. Of course. God. God.]
[He blinks down at Fugo with wide eyes. Widening. Wider. And then, when it seems that he's entirely lost the ability to speak, he--giggles. Slaps a hand over his mouth to try to stifle it, with very little luck, because he's laughing, honestly laughing, tears in the corners of his eyes as he goes pink with good-natured embarrassment.]
I'm not--! I'm not laughing at you, Fugo, I promise, I just--
[God. He bites down hard on his lip, lays his hand over Fugo's, tugs it down to his waistband. Second time's the charm, or something. Still trembling with laughter and rosy over his own nonsense.]
Please. Do. Take care of it for me, Fugo, I can't--Fugo, I forgot.
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Let me up so I can help you. [In the end, Fugo decides that he's both. He kisses the bridge of Giorno's stupid nose and uses the palms of both hands to push on Giorno's shoulders until there's enough space for them to... well, kneel, really. It's hard to get pants off when you're sitting on them. Fugo looks at Giorno, who's very messy and rosy. Well, that's fine. Before they get this pants situation settled, Fugo solemnly takes Giorno's face in both his hands.] I love you, Giogio. But you are a disaster.
[And then, very spitefully, Fugo pinches and tugs on those round, rosy cheeks. Not hard and for very long, but enough for Giorno to know that he Means Business. Satisfied with this small revenge, he turns his attention to Giorno's button. There's no time to be flirty. These pants are coming off.]
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I kn--
[He's trying to agree when he's pinched. Unfair? He yelps quietly, puffing out his cheeks to push the sting away.]
I know I am.
[He does. He really does. He'll own that, this one time, even at the same time as he has to bite his lip because, wow. Fugo really is serious about his button agenda. Serious and focused. Unwilling to be distracted. No-nonsense, no teasing.]
[. . . Hm. Well, Fugo doesn't have time to be flirty. He's busy. But Giorno has all the time in the world to sling his arms over Fugo's shoulders and link his fingers together. Can't stop him.]
It's your fault I'm a disaster, anyway.
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[Alright. He's managed the button, so now it's time for the zipper. A thought gives him pause once that's unfastened: while Giorno was very silly about helping with his pants, he was incredibly flirty with the underwear. Can. He even manage, right now, flirty clothing removal. Is that what this is. Fuck. Well, that at least answers his question. If he doesn't have the vocabulary, he sure as hell doesn't have the guts to try that out-- this time.
Next time, Fugo thinks to himself, in awe at the idea but resolved nonetheless: we'll be better about clothes.]
... lift up a bit. Please.
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[His lip stays caught between his teeth as Fugo deals with his button, then the zipper, even though it makes him feel very--shivery and overwhelmed. Hit with a burst of nerves in the next moment, too, even though that's stupid, but his eyes meet Fugo's and for just a second he doubts himself.]
[But. There's an easy solution, of course. He leans in and steals a kiss, which is so familiar and sweet and safe that it washes all of that away. This is exactly where he wants to be. There was never anything to worry about.]
Okay, Fugetto. [He allows himself the indulgence of brushing his fingers through the hair at the nape of Fugo's neck, then--does, shifts his weight so Fugo has leeway to complete the pants agenda. It's sort of funny. Another example of Fugo being even more overwhelming in reality than in his imagination.]
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[Because Giorno liked it so much before, Fugo softly strokes his stomach. And then-- slides his hands down, hooks his thumbs into waistband of Giorno's pants and underwear, and eases them off.]
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[As dazed and relaxed as he is, Giorno manages to help a little. He manages the important things, at least. Kicking his stupid clothing off his ankles with spiteful finality, for one. Planting his hand against Fugo's chest and pushing him back against the bed again, for another. It's playful and lazy more than assertive; when he crawls over Fugo, it's with the intent to say something clever and ask for a kiss.]
[Except: he doesn't. The second he looks down and meets Fugo's eyes, the playfulness recedes and awe takes over. This is where they were just a minute ago. It is, and on some level nothing's changed, but--]
[Giorno believes he's good-looking. He's worked hard to believe that, and he does, now. So it's not that he thinks Fugo doesn't agree. It's that . . . as he looks Fugo over, top to toe, it seems impossible that anyone else has ever wanted anyone as breathlessly as he wants Fugo.]
[This, he thinks, tentatively tracing his fingertips from the curve of Fugo's jaw to the fresh bruises at his throat and collarbone. This is how he forgot. Thank goodness he doesn't have to worry about clothes anymore.]
When I think about you, [he starts. Stops, chewing the inside of his cheek, before continuing, quiet and tentative.] Like this. It's perfect. You're perfect. But you're so much better for real.
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