digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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

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[Giorno draws back. But not far. Oh, not far at all. Giorno has pulled back, but only to crane his neck back to-- invite him in.]

Oh-- fuck. Oh, fuck. [Fugo swallows an enormous gulp of air and screws his eyes shut tight. This is. Oh, no, this is a bad idea. He knows it is, distantly, back in a place where logic and common sense decide what he ought to do. The problem is that, right now, those voices are very far away. And the press of Giorno's tongue on his cock is so, so much more convincing.

Still. Even so. He needs to think about Giorno. Fugo whimpers, torn, and halfway decides to ask for Giorno's hand instead, when-- there's a squeeze around his hand. Fugo opens his eyes and trips headfirst into the fire in Giorno's gaze. And underneath his hip, Giorno's fingers tap out a frantic message-- the same signal from before.]

[Don't stop. Keep going. I want you to fuck my mouth. Right now.]

Giorno-- [Fugo cries out-- to be more exact: he wails-- Giorno's name when he gives up on common sense and impulsively thrusts forward, as hard and far back as he can manage, into Giorno's mouth. His back arches up from the bed when he comes, fingers clasped tight around Giorno's and in the hair on the back of his skull.]

[It's a bad idea.]

[Which he knew, of course he knew that, it makes sense that it's a terrible idea and he shouldn't have suggested it, but--he didn't care, and honestly in a few minutes he won't care again. Right now, though, he cares a lot. The helpless, needy look on Fugo's face is his whole world right up until Fugo thrusts further and harder than he expected or knows what to do with. His cock hits the back of Giorno's throat, and he just--freezes, chokes, jerks back. Not far, because Fugo's holding him so tight, but he can breathe, at least.]

[Messy, he thinks, faintly, because it's on his face a little, and the bed; he coughs, stares up at Fugo, coughs again. His throat sort of hurts, and his eyes are wide and startled, but it's not--he did that.]

Fugo--

[Fuck. He wipes his mouth, clears his throat again.]

Are you okay?

[For a brief moment: relief. All the tension that has spooled up in him releases with his orgasm and all he can really do is flop back against the pillows. This moment does not last for long, because Giorno jerks back and Fugo is immediately reminded of what a terrible idea it was to do that. He lets go of Giorno's hair immediately (oh, God, he choked and now he's coughing) and jolts up to a seated position.]

Giogio, are-- [Fugo wiggles his other hand free and reaches for Giorno and is then immediately stunned because, well. That ... sure is his come. On Giorno's face and mouth. Oh, God. Fugo swallows, blinks, and dazedly tries to gather his words up again.] I'm so sorry, I should of. I'm fine, but-- you, you're coughing, I should get you something to drink. Are you okay?

[He's thinking too slowly to process what Fugo's saying very well. The combination of sustained need and momentary discomfort and the look on Fugo's face make it so hard to focus. All he can hear is get you something, which makes his hand dart up almost of its own volition and catch Fugo's wrist.]

Don't go.

[Pushing himself up to his knees, he licks his lips, nervous. Blinks at the taste of Fugo on his mouth. It's so distracting.]

. . . I'm fine. I'm good. You didn't hurt me, don't worry. I love you. I loved that. [Except for the last part, which was a disaster, but it was his fault and they both know--]

[Oh. He blinks again, and smiles, so hard his eyes crinkle up at the corners.] Fugo, you're so responsible, you're so careful with me--you want to take care of me--don't you? But you didn't do anything wrong. I love you, I loved that, I did--

[So: babbling. It's so hard to think, but also he can't stop thinking. And talking. His voice still sounds like a disaster but he doesn't care. In the end he finds himself at:] --you'll come back, won't you? If you go to get water, you'll come back? Can I kiss you when you come back? Please.

[Fugo does not go pink. There has simply not enough time between now and then, when Giorno was nestled between his legs kissing all over onto his thighs. The color rather remains on him, brushed over his cheeks and down his neck to feather out over his bony shoulders. He stares, dazzled and momentarily distracted from his growling cloud of anxiety by Giorno's somewhat incoherent babbling. In the end, his startled expression softens into something undeniably soft and affection.]

[Lovingly:] You sound like you swallowed a frog. Of course you can kiss me when I get back. [... wait, no, that's not something that you say to someone you just had sex with. Fugo's ears go bright red.] I am so sorry.

[To hide his fluster, Fugo darts forward and kisses Giorno's forehead. And then he pulls away so he can roll off the bed and patter off to the bedroom to get his boyfriend a glass of water. While the water runs, Fugo very pointedly does not look up at his reflection in the mirror. He'll confront the reality of letting Giorno leave a trail of hickeys from his neck down to his thighs... another time. For now: with a glass of water and a damp washcloth in tow, back to his boyfriend.]

Here.

[He blinks after the whirlwind of embarrassment that is Fugo, baffled. What was that apology for? It can't have been the frog thing, he considers as he sits up. That wasn't anything. But everything else he said was even less out of the ordinary.]

[Admittedly, it's difficult to focus on words when he can look at Fugo. The way back is worse, or better, because while Fugo may not be interested in getting a look at the full picture, Giorno definitely is. He eyes Fugo up and down, clearly very pleased with himself.]

Thank you.

[For the water. Although he grabs the washcloth and wipes his face first, Fugo's insistence on getting him something to drink is sweeter to him. So he drinks enough to make Fugo happy, he thinks--nearly half the glass, he's doing his best--before putting both on the side table and draping his arms over Fugo's shoulders.]

Stop apologizing.

[Fugo anxiously watches this process, relieved to see Giorno drink the water to clear his throat but even more pleased when he leans in close again. Fugo reaches out to hold Giorno by the waist with both hands; marvels at the expanse of bare, warm skin underneath his fingers.]

Mmph, [he says, not willing to immediately give up on apologies. Except there are better things to do with his mouth than talk right now. Fugo leans in and nuzzles Giorno's neck, leaving several slow, stubborn kisses underneath his chin.] I can't help it. I made you choke.

[Oh. He was going to say something sharp and serious, or perhaps playful, to make Fugo laugh and stop worrying so much. But when Fugo starts kissing his neck, he just melts, lacing his fingers together behind Fugo's head and leaning against him for balance. Hands on his hips, too, this is very--]

[Fugo is still worried. He makes several noises that are mostly just varying degrees of mmm, before:]

I made me choke. [His voice still sounds dreamy and distant, but he really is putting his all into saying human sentences.] That wasn't your fault. I got ahead of myself, that's all. [Reaching up, he cards his fingers through Fugo's hair and sighs happily.] I got greedy, I always do. Next time I'll do better. I won't make you worry.

[It's amazing, how simple it is to come back to this. Giorno is warm and soft in his arms and under his mouth; when he relaxes, easy as breathing, Fugo does too. This is all he wants, right now. He wants to take what he's learned about sex this afternoon and immediately put the information to practical use. All he wants is for Giorno to feel good.]

Okay. That's true. You are greedy. [He kisses him again, soft-- and then nips at his jaw. It's nowhere near hard enough to hurt, just enough to make a point.] But I know how greedy you are. I should have known better. That makes it 50/50.

[He leans back and up, relishing in the pressure of Giorno's fingers laced together on the back of his neck. Girono wants him. Specifically back down just a little further, kissing his neck. His grip tightens on Giorno's hips before it relaxes again; one hand wanders up Giorno's side to momentarily fidget and fuss with his chest, before starting up those slow circles that Giorno likes so much.]

So let me make it up to you. Let me take care of you. Can I do that for you?

[He wants to argue. It is not 50/50; he can't agree with that, and there are reasons. But a second later he doesn't know what they are, because Fugo is touching him--holding onto him, running hands over him. Kissing his neck. Petting his stomach in those soft circles that made him feel so weak before, that make him shudder and whine now.]

[And there's that fear again. It's hardly specific, because specifically there's nothing to worry about. Fugo would rather die than hurt him even accidentally. It's fear in principle that makes his breathing shake for a moment, not fear of Fugo. Not fear of this. He wants this, maybe more tentatively than he wanted to make Fugo feel good but--he does want it very much.]

[Biting his lip, he pulls back a little. Just a little, so that he can look at Fugo properly. It makes him ache to worry even a bit, because there is no one who loves him as loyally as Fugo does, but--either way, looking in Fugo's eyes is all it takes. He smiles, fond and nervous but only nervous, before leaning back against the pillows and pulling Fugo with him.]

Mm-hm, [he manages, finally.] But you still have to kiss me. You promised.

[The moment Giorno pulls back, Fugo stops. He does not freeze: he waits. Because as much as he loves Giorno's reactions, the sound of him whining and the feel of him shuddering underneath his fingers, he needs to know it's okay before continuing on. He carefully studies Giorno's expression, looking for any sign of--

He wants Giorno to be comfortable. He wants him to be okay. What they did just now was intense. He'd get it if Giorno wanted to take a break, or even stop. He can tell that Giorno is nervous, from the way he bites his lip to the little wrinkle between his eyebrows. But then he smiles, still nervous but so warm and affectionate, and pulls them both down onto the pillows.]

[Giorno would like a kiss. And they're so close now that it seems silly not to press in and give him one; brief, but soft and full of promise. He likes this. He loves this, how warm and close they are together; it just drives home how there's nothing between them. Just skin on skin, legs tangled together and Giorno's hands tugging him close.]

Mm. Of course. [Fugo smiles, pleased and warm, and kisses Giorno again; this time for longer, with more intensity behind it, before he continues to murmur against Giorno's mouth.] I'll kiss you as many times as you want. Wherever you want. Because I want to kiss you everywhere, Giogio.

[When he's considered it in the past, there has always been a part of Giorno that was certain having someone over him like this would be--confining. Claustrophobic. He's never allowed himself to put the word frightening to it, because that feels weak, but that's the truth underneath it all. It should be frightening to allow someone that much power over him, even someone he trusts.]

[But--somehow. It just isn't like that in reality. Not with Fugo. Fugo follows his lead, so clearly pleased by the way they fit together; kisses him just like he asked. It feels safe, it feels good, and he wants more of it immediately and instinctively. The first kiss leaves him sighing, curling his fingers into Fugo's hair as his other hand rests companionably against his hip.]

[The second, though--the second is more, longer and sweeter and richer all at once. It makes him intensely aware of all the places they're touching, how warm Fugo is against him. The weight of him is good, comfortingly solid rather than confining. When Giorno returns the kiss, it's all desperation; he can't quite help hooking his leg around Fugo's and arching up against him, which--oh. It's good. It's very nice. He whimpers against Fugo's mouth, then, because--talking. Saying words. Like that. To him. They're good words, but: the kissing.]

I'm--

[He blinks, dark-eyed and unfocused. Leans up and kisses Fugo again, slow and thoughtful. To clear his thoughts, or something.]

You don't have to--I mean. I want you to do . . . what you want. You don't need to do what I did, or--you know? [If so, it's a miracle.]

[Oh, he likes that. The way Giorno presses up underneath him, needy for more touch and pressure; the tug and press of fingers tightening in his hair and on his hip. Giorno doesn't have enough hands to hold onto him, so he's resorted to bringing his leg into the effort of keeping Fugo in place. Fugo could get lost in all the ways they are touching right now, chest to chest and hip to hip. But not yet. There is something he has to say first, because he's not sure that Giorno knows.]

I know I don't have to. [Fugo pushes himself up. Not far; just enough that he has room to affectionately stroke Giorno's cheek.] Whatever you want to do is what I want. Because what I want is to help you feel good. Even if it's just lying here kissing and talking. What you want is important.

[Oh.]

[Somehow, ridiculously, stupidly, Giorno feels his face heating up at that. God, it's absurd, but he just--he can never handle it with grace when Fugo says something like that. Especially not now. Fugo is so close, Giorno can read honesty in every line of his face, every soft curve of his little smile. It's so unfair. Fugo is so, so beautiful, and so good to him, and he has no idea what he's supposed to say or do in response to something like that.]

[So earnest. What you want is important.]

[His ears are hot. They must be bright red. Turning his face, he hides against Fugo's palm. It's hard to articulate that--he understands, he does, but he doesn't know how to handle that understanding.]

. . . You are making me feel good, [is what he says eventually, soft, muffled, but honest.] This is good . . . It felt good when you let me make you feel good, before. Even though I didn't-- [He huffs out a breath, squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, they roll in exasperation, entirely at himself.] I messed up. But it was okay otherwise. Right?

[It seems unfair, somehow, that Fugo refocused on him so quickly. Fussily, he twirls the hair at the back of Fugo's neck between his fingers.]

[Fugo fondly brushes his thumb over Giorno's cheek, flushed red with embarrassment. He's cute. He's so cute, right now, and annoyed with himself. Fugo is able to keep the silly compliment to himself, since Giorno never appreciates compliments when he's feeling self-conscious. This leaves him with little ability to resist leaning back in to nuzzle and kiss down Giorno's neck. God, he loves it when Giorno plays with his hair. There really is nothing more comforting in the world, save for the feeling of Giorno's hand in his.]

Okay doesn't even come close. [Fugo murmurs this onto Giorno's skin between kisses, slowly making his way down until he reaches Giorno's pulse point. He lingers here, sighs contently, and leaves an open-mouthed kiss over Giorno's fluttering heartbeat before moving on to nibble at his collarbone.] You were wonderful. Gorgeous. I've-- never seen anyone more beautiful, or felt so good in my own skin before.

[He peeks up at Giorno through his lashes, shyness bubbling back up to the surface. This sort of thing-- it's not easy for him, either. He's only able to manage it because he can sense Giorno's fingers craning across this invisible gap, reaching as far as he can to meet him halfway.]

I feel so lucky that I get to share this with you. That I get to-- learn more and get better at it with you. [A pause, then--] Is this good?

[That's--very nearly too much. Too many moving pieces, too much feeling; he feels very nearly too small for everything happening right now, all the love and relief, the satisfaction, the want making his heart pound against his ribs. Fugo is smiling at him, kissing his jaw down to his throat, over his pulse. The sensation of his breath when he sighs, that lingers even after he moves on. It makes it so hard to think, so hard to cope with what Fugo's saying, too much and not enough all at once.]

[Giorno's fingers twitch nervously in Fugo's hair. Wonderful, gorgeous, beautiful, soft kisses, little bites--it's so much. It makes his breath catch, makes him twist to hide halfway against the pillow, because the way Fugo is talking about him, the way he's looking at him, just feels too good to be true. He wants it, but it's so much more overwhelming in reality than ever expected.]

[And then of course--of course in the end it doesn't matter. Or, it does, but--but in comparison, oh. Fugo says he felt good--felt so good in my own skin--and Giorno thinks he might actually cry. His breath catches; he twists his head a little further, hides a smile poorly behind his fingers. He did it. He really, really did it: got Fugo to relax, to feel at home in his body, to feel good. He did that, he can't believe it, he wants to do it again, forever--]

[After a long, breathless moment, he peeks down at Fugo again, just in time to catch that glance. It's everything. He's never felt so connected to anyone in his life. It makes it hard for him to breathe, but he doesn't even care.]

Love you.

[He can't keep it from tumbling out, helpless and overwhelmed. It's not an answer to the question, it isn't, but it's so important--] I love you, [he says again, and nods.] Yes. It is, I--

[Oh. And he has to explain, he needs Fugo to know, to understand, but. But Fugo's mouth pressed against his collarbone is so distracting. He just wants to lean up into it. Squirming, restless, he bites his lip and tries to keep it together. Together-ish.]

When I s-- When I said, I want you to do what you want. I meant--I'd tell you if I didn't like it, but you--I want to know what you want. I want you to take what you want, what . . . feels good for you to give. It's you, so it's safe. You're safe. I trust you.

Edited 2018-05-17 19:59 (UTC)

[Fugo smiles against Giorno's skin, murmurs I love you onto him, and fondly kisses his collarbone. The result is Giorno squirming underneath him, which feels delightful, while he stubbornly continues to talk. Fugo knows he ought to stop and give Giorno a moment to gather his thoughts, but the problem is that the shape of his collarbone is just too pretty underneath his mouth. He compromises with himself by resting there instead, quietly listening to what Giorno has to tell him.]

Have I told you recently how amazing you are? [Probably. Maybe. As true as it is, Fugo is shy about it sometimes. He turns his face back to continue kissing Giorno's collarbone, slow and with the intent to make Giorno whimper, one for each bit piece of praise.] How brave you are. How pretty your skin is, how good you feel. My Giogio.

[Here, he pauses. It's not as hard for him now to gather up the nerve as it used to be, but part of him can't help but worry about leaving marks. Even though he knows Giorno loves it-- and he loves it too, those lingering signs that they've been together. This bite starts as a toothy kiss that lingers and stays, until Fugo is satisfied that he's left a mark; his grip on Giorno's hip tightens, fingers digging into his skin. Fugo pulls back and lets go, so he can brace himself on the mattress and get a good look at Giorno and the mark he left behind on his collarbone. Fugo smiles warmly at him.]

I want to know you by touch. I want to kiss you until you can't think. I want-- [... okay, not even this burst of confidence can keep him from going red and shifty when he admits to this final want:] I want to watch you come, Giogio. Please. Can I?

[It occurs to Giorno, in a dazed and distant kind of way, that Fugo is totally unfair. God, utterly unfair. And he always has been, hasn't he? From day one, Fugo's gotten to him in a precisely perfect way that no one ever has. And now here Fugo is, winding him up like it's his job.]

[That's exactly what it is: Fugo's winding him up. Whether it's entirely intentional or not, Giorno can feel himself winding tighter and tighter with every tiny thing Fugo does to him. Even Fugo's breath against his skin alone makes his toes curl, but the soft kisses that follow are so, so much more devastating. They punctuate that praise--or, no, is it punctuation or is it a counterpoint? Something to keep Giorno from ever quite catching his breath. Fugo calls him amazing, brave, pretty, good, and between each is a kiss, and the shaky acceleration of Giorno's breath.]

[But then Fugo calls him mine. My Giogio, he says; it makes Giorno whimper before Fugo even bites him. He wants that; he wants so badly to be Fugo's, even if he doesn't know how to say it right. His thoughts are moving so slowly that it takes him a slow few seconds to recognize that the toothy kiss has long become a bite, and a bite after something like that--after my Giogio--]

[Oh, that means mine all over again. Just again, bigger, more. And Giorno, who loves more in general but especially more of Fugo wanting him and taking what he wants--Giorno cries out as his breathing quickens, so soft even though he's not trying to keep quiet now. He's just awed. With every panted breath, he lets out a soft, wordless sound, tilting his head to make sure Fugo has as much space as he wants.]

[And then--Fugo's satisfied. He's moved, let go Giorno's hip and leaned up to look at him. Giorno looks back, of course, flushed across his cheeks and across his chest, now; he's careful to keep his head tilted just enough that Fugo can see his handiwork. It's not meant to be teasing, not this time. It's just--Fugo wants to look. Giorno wants him to see. And he wants to be seen. It's overwhelming, but he wants it now. Even though Fugo looking at him with that warm, sweet smile keeps his breathing quick and unsteady. Even if Fugo wants so many things that his head spins. Even if Fugo's asking him--]

[It's so unfair, he can't help it, he can't--he was quiet before without really thinking about it but this is loud, a wail that he can't hold back. One hand claws a grip on the comforter, the other holding desperately tight to Fugo's shoulder. His hips jerk up just a bit, because--what is he supposed to do, when Fugo asks him something like that?]

Yes. [--is what comes out when he manages words again. Babbling, of course it's babbling, and he's not sorry.] Please. Please, you can, yes, Fugo--I want you to so much.

Edited (html :^( i also forgot giorno has arms) 2018-05-22 08:30 (UTC)

[Back when this started between them-- this kissing thing, this dating thing, this being in love thing-- Fugo never would have been able to say those words. My Giogio. It didn't feel right to consider Giorno as his, even in his own thoughts. It just felt so demanding; so selfish, so unreasonable.

He knows better now. He's learned a lot about love, in the past year and a half. And he's learned so much about what Giorno wants. Right now: Giorno wants to let him see, Giorno wants to be looked at and admired. Giorno wants to let him know much how he loves being Fugo's. Giorno wants-- Giorno is desperate for Fugo to keep touching him, he's making so much noise and he's so sensitive and reactive to every brush against his skin. His breathing is a mess. Giorno's nails are digging into Fugo's shoulder (are they going to leave marks? maybe, probably, but he couldn't care less at the moment) and his hips have bucked up against him, which is briefly distracts Fugo from his own messy throats. He groans and shivers at the feeling of Giorno gone hard underneath him, pushed up against his hip and thigh; it feels so good that he has go close his eyes and bite his lip, slowly rolling his hips back.]

[When Fugo opens his eyes again, this is what spills immediately out of his mouth:] You're so beautiful. I love you. I love you.

[He can't keep the awe from his voice. It lives side by side with desire, which is so heavy and overwhelming. Giorno is-- gorgeous. He's so perfect to look at. There's a darkening mark on his skin, which Fugo made. Fugo leans down and starts to kiss, in turns lingering and wet followed by frantic peppery bursts, and touch him, hands caressing his chest, his sides, his stomach as his mouth travels down.]

So gorgeous. So pretty. [He groans, low and needy despite himself, against Giorno's skin and continues to shift his weight further down. His hands come to rest on Giorno's thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles against the soft skin there to gently encourage Giorno to open them wider so Fugo can settle down between them.] So soft. You're doing so good. I want to have all of you, Giorno.

[It was so hard to be honest, but now the words won't stop. But it's okay. Giorno wants this too, doesn't he? He doesn't need to hold anything back. He doesn't even need to make proper sense, as long as Giorno gets the heart of what he means.]

[When Giorno can't help but lift his hips up, when he wants too much and can't stop himself, Fugo responds by--moving with him. Which he didn't expect, even if maybe he should have. The instinct had hit him too, after all, before he'd found his place between Fugo's legs, where he wanted to be most of all. But it does surprise him, shocks a breathy, needy sound out of him, because--it's good. It's lovely. For a moment, he wants to beg Fugo to just stay, stay there, keep doing that, it's so nice.]

[But when Fugo looks at him again, he's all sweet words and heavy looks, and Giorno loses his words again because--he can't help that either. Because whatever Fugo wants to give him will be perfect. And it's the right choice; of course it is.]

[His grip on Fugo's shoulder gentles and his knuckles lose their tautness against the blankets as Fugo kisses him, first shivery over the spot he's bitten a mark into and then--all over. Comprehensively, hungrily, hands covering the places his kisses don't reach. Giorno arches into each and every touch, following Fugo's path down his body with movement even in those moments he has to briefly close his eyes. He feels more wanted than he ever has, more than he's ever imagined being. Fugo's hands and mouth on him are full of love and awe and need. He still feels wound up, but stably so, because--Fugo has him. Fugo is so careful with him, so greedy now but still so careful.]

[He doesn't realize how dazed he looks--how dazed Fugo's hands and mouth have made him, as he stares down at Fugo with his lip caught between his teeth. He's thinking slow. Things like whether this is what he looked like to Fugo when their positions were switched; but no, he could never be so pretty. Not even him. And then Fugo's long pretty fingers are on his thighs, pushing gently, and the light touch startles a gasp out of him because--oh. No wonder Fugo was so sensitive to all that biting.]

Oh, [he murmurs, breathless, and spreads his legs, pushing his nerves away. After a moment's thought, he hooks one of his legs loosely around Fugo: not a push, but a gentle invitation. And a claim, maybe, in a quiet way.]

[The smile he shoots Fugo is--moony. Awed. He looks stupidly in love, and very desperate, as he reaches down to brush Fugo's hair out of his face. He bites the inside of his cheek before offering a grin--one of those grins, the same one he'd given before asking Fugo about fucking his mouth.]

I want you to take all of me, Fugetto.

Edited 2018-05-26 07:19 (UTC)

[If Fugo was unsure about where he wanted to be before, the reality of being situated so perfectly between Giorno's thighs makes those worries seem so silly. Giorno's warm. His skin is so soft. And Fugo loves it, he really does, when Giorno possessively hooks one leg around him. Come here, stay, mine. He likes all of that a lot. Fugo absently shifts to support Giorno's other leg with his arm and lovingly kisses a low spot of his stomach, well beyond his bellybutton, and shifts to look properly up at him.

Oh. Oh, yes, this is-- he can see now, why Giorno looked so satisfied when he was the one in this position before. His view of Giorno from this angle, the slope of his chest and the soft plain of his stomach, is-- exquisite. Phenomenal. Breathtaking. Fugo stares up at Giorno, briefly dazzled just by looking at him, and is only shaken out of it when Giorno reaches out to touch his face.]

Is that so? [Fugo tips his face into Giorno's touch, craning up to sneak a quick, breathy kiss to his palm. And then he smiles, sharp, crooked, and satisfied, that Giorno will know can only spell trouble. Fugo knows Giorno gets very distracted when he smiles like that, which makes this a good opportunity to loosely wrap the fingers of his free hand around Giorno's cock. It's warm, quite hard already, and twitches against his palm at the contact. Gorgeous, he thinks to himself, and tries not to get distracted when he has bullying to get to.] That's not very specific, Giorno. You want me to take all of you. With what? My hands-- [Here, Fugo slowly pulls his hand up and then back down Giorno's length in a steady, measured rhythm.] ... or my mouth?

[He knows that just one of these touches would be devastating, but Fugo can be awfully merciless when he wants to be and turnabout is fair play anyway: he licks his lips before he leans down to kiss the head of Giorno's cock. He lingers there, learning the shape of it with his mouth, and opens his eyes to stare hungrily up at Giorno. He doesn't move when he continues to speak, voice a low murmur.]

You're in luck. I won't make you specify. Because I'd really love to have you in my mouth, Giogio. [Fugo shifts and lets go, eyes closed again, and kisses down from the head with the same steady pace that he stroked Giorno before. His hand shifts to rest on Giorno's thigh, gently massaging the spot that made him gasp just a moment ago.] That's what you want, isn't it? For it to be your turn to fuck my mouth.

[The way Fugo's looking at him, even before he smiles like that, makes it hard to breathe. There's so much want in him that Giorno thinks he might die, pinned down by Fugo's gaze. There'd be worse ways to go. But--then that smile, and he can't help but suck another sharp breath into his lungs, because oh. He's in trouble.]

[It's a cascade of want and sensation and new, which is so unfair. Fugo has him caught with that sharp, wicked smile, has snared him fully even before he touches. And then when he does, the touch would be more than enough, but there's the way Fugo looks at him and the way his pretty fingers, so long and so soft, look and feel moving along his cock, and Giorno just--can't. He can't look, because Fugo will know and laugh, probably. Which would be nice, and terrible, and perfect. Something. Everything. He can't think.]

[Whining, he twists to pant against the pillow. It's too much. He just needs a second to get used to it, the reality after so much thinking about it. Fugo's talking, and he wants to answer, he wants to be good and give Fugo what he wants. He just needs a second.]

[Which he doesn't get. Instead, with his face turned away and his eyes tightly shut, his only warning is half an instant of Fugo's breath. Then: warm, soft, wet; pleasure winds up tight in his gut, and it's only a sudden unexpected burst of common sense that has him digging his heels into the bed and around Fugo's leg, keeping him from thrusting up again. His voice comes out a yelp, startled and hungry at once.]

Fuck! Fuck, Fugo--

[When he jerks his head up to look at Fugo again, he's wild- and wide-eyed, pupils blown. And there Fugo is between his legs, voice buzzing against his cock, kissing him. All over. His hand presses gentle circles against his thigh, and somehow that's almost the most distracting thing. Or--all of it. All of it is too much and not enough. He wants Fugo's mouth, he does, but--also, Fugo wants that. Fugo wants that. Fugo wants the same thing he wanted, before, and oh, it makes him dizzy. Makes his toes curl in the sheets.]

Fuck, Fugo, please. [He sucks in a sharp breath, stares down dazed at Fugo between his legs. His fingers flex against his thigh, helpless, wanting to hold on but at the same time not wanting to restrict Fugo from being so horrible and so, so good.] Everything is good. You're so good, just please-- [He exhales sharply; manages a crooked smile of his own. He can't help it, not even now, not even as thoroughly as Fugo's ruined him.] I want to feel good. Like you did. Take care of me?

Edited 2018-05-26 22:50 (UTC)

[Un...believable. Even totally wrecked, lying ruined in a mess of his own pillows and leg wound tightly around his boyfriend to keep him in place, Giorno Giovanna is trying to make a move on him. Fugo's face scrunches up in a decidedly non-sexy way. He's trying not to laugh. Giorno hates being laughed at and, as mean as it was to bombard him with new touches on his body's most sensitive place, Fugo doesn't want to be the sort of mean that leaves Giorno huffy and sullen. He wants Giorno to feel good, yes; taken care of in every way, loved and needed and wanted in every sense of the word.

So he doesn't laugh. Even though he has to make a funny face to keep from snickering.]

Okay. I will. [He closes his eyes and mouths Giorno's cock again, trying to get a feel for its length and width before he moves onto the task of taking it in his mouth.] Always, Giogio. [When he's back at the top, he finds himself tenderly kissing the head again.] I do love you.

[Fugo pulls back and carefully considers the cock in front of him. His eyebrows touch together and he presses his mouth in a line-- before nodding to himself when he realizes what's missing. His hand moves from Giorno's thigh and takes a hold of him by the wrist, tugging his hand forward and down: the end result is Giorno's hand on the top of Fugo's head, a clear invitation for him to bury his fingers in Fugo's hair.

Only then does his expression soften-- this is really happening, he really gets to do this-- and his lips part. Fugo takes Giorno into his mouth slowly, carefully, lovingly. When he's reached the base, he lazily turns his face to stare, eyes half-lidded with contentment, up at Giorno the best he can from this position. To check in on him-- yes, certainly. But also just to look at him.]

[There isn't time for him to worry about what that face means, really. Half a second and it's gone, and the whole of his attention refocuses to the careful way Fugo's kissing and mouthing at him. Getting a feel for him, he realizes after a long, too-slow moment of thought; it makes his heart thump hard in his ears. Fugo is so--methodical in everything that he does, even this. He's so dangerously clever. Giorno doesn't understand it, why he's so lucky.]

[Because--Fugo really does want him, doesn't he. It's hard to fathom, but the pieces are falling into place, no longer as a theoretical but as a reality. As his fingers curl automatically in the soft waves of Fugo's hair, his breath catches, some sharp emotion hooking on the inside of his ribs. And then Fugo's expression changes to something like . . . awed disbelief, Giorno thinks, right before. As though he can't believe he's allowed. Which almost hurts to see, in a good way; Giorno didn't know--he didn't know.]

[He watches, as Fugo takes him in; he has to. The look on Fugo's face has caught him, and it holds him tight. If it's not bliss, it's something close. If he doesn't watch, maybe he'll convince himself he's wrong. But the lazy comfort in the set of Fugo's mouth around him and the soft line of his eyebrows are want, need, and relief all at once. Fugo is as desperate as he is.]

[Finally, as Fugo takes him in (and doesn't stop, doesn't stop, keeps not stopping), Giorno . . . lets go. Shudders, long and slow, as he watches Fugo's mouth around him, red from kissing and biting and being kissed and bitten; sheds the tightness in his shoulders like old skin. It feels clearer, now, what Fugo said--comfort in his own body. Fugo wants him just like this. So everything's perfect.]

[By the time Fugo looks at him, he's given himself over to the want pounding in his ears and curling tight in his gut. Lips parted, he's breathing shallowly, but not fast; he trusts Fugo to take care of him. And he's shaking, twitching all over, but not trying to hide it. He just feels good. Fugo has all of him. Fugo is holding him safe, and Fugo is everywhere, hot and wet and close, tongue pressed up snug against him. So when Fugo looks at him, hungry and content at once, he looks back just the same, and shakes, from his shoulders to his hips, but doesn't ask for anything.]

[Instead:]

Fugo.

[His voice is raspy, rough. He wants, but he doesn't need, not yet. His fingers twist idly in Fugo's hair; his other hand twitches, reaching down for a moment as though to touch Fugo's face, to trace the shape of his mouth--but no. In the end, with another full-body shudder, he reaches up to touch the mark Fugo left on his collarbone. It's still hot from his mouth, which makes Giorno twist and twitch just a little. He blinks slowly, works his mouth a few times to find words.]

Love you. Yours. It feels-- [And his mouth works again, but he can't, he has to squeeze his eyes shut as he whimpers against the impossibility of describing this. In the end:] Mm, perfect.

[There, Fugo thinks, thoughts slow and cloudy in the haze of his own satisfaction, he finally let go.

Giorno is so beautiful, he's always so beautiful, but Fugo has never seen him like this before. Lying loose and languid, above and around and inside his mouth, flushed and trembling with how turned on he is. Gorgeous, he thinks, as his own eyes slip close. And: I love him. Fugo doesn't want to stop looking at Giorno when he's this vulnerable, who really does trust him and feel safe with him; but he closes his eyes in order to focus on making Giorno feel good, because otherwise he'll get distracted in the pretty details of his eyelashes and shallow breathing.

The last thing he sees is Giorno's hand, lovely and powerful, reaching up ... to touch the mark. That Fugo left on him. And that's too much, because Giorno is just too pretty. And Fugo never thought it would feel this good to be so completely caught up-- locked in to-- with someone else. But he loves it. He loves this, how perfectly surrounded he is and how full his mouth is with the weight and taste and smell of Giorno. He loves how good Giorno feels. It's so perfect, it's so good, it's beyond anything he could ever have dreamed up.]

[And so, half by accident and half out of a desire to share with Giorno how good it is to feel someone's voice, Fugo moans around him before he starts to move. He pulls up and counts the seconds it takes to reach the head; when he sinks down to the base again, that count is what he bases his internal timing on. There is nothing in his life that he has ever wanted to do more precisely than he wants to do this: bringing Giorno pleasure and making him feel good, better than he's ever felt in his life. Perfect in his own skin. Safe. Loved. Wanted.]

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