ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

[digiorno]

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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[unholey]

[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.

[digiorno]

[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.]

[unholey]

[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?

[digiorno]

[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.

[unholey]

[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?

[digiorno]

[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.

[unholey]

[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.]

[digiorno]

[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.

[unholey]

[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.

[digiorno]

[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?

[unholey]

[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.]

[digiorno]

[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.

[unholey]

[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.]

[digiorno]

[When they started--when Fugo brought him water and kissed him and said they didn't have to do anything but kiss, even though Fugo so clearly wanted so much more. When Fugo started touching him, there was a moment when, underneath all of the anxiety, he almost laughed a little at himself, because--he was already so worked up. That same part of him is so grateful to Fugo for not teasing him, was resigned to this being over too soon, because he knows himself. He's too invested in making Fugo feel good to get that and then last very long at all.]

[So he wasn't worried, or embarrassed, but he thought about it--that if that frenetic need caught him up again, he wouldn't stand a chance of holding out long at all. But this . . .]

[He doesn't know. He can't explain it. It's the best thing he's ever felt. Every part of him is on fire; his fingertips and toes are tingling, he can't stop himself from shaking, can't look away from Fugo moving along his cock. He's never been this turned on in his life. He can hear himself being noisy, moaning incomprehensible nonsense in response to the sounds Fugo makes that curl up and reverberate through his body.]

[But it's so--soft. He feels so soft, so loved, so wanted. Fugo is moving so slowly, so deliberately. His brain doesn't recognize the count, but his body does; his breath catches as the seconds pass with Fugo sinking down on him again, and he lets out a whimper when Fugo's taken him all the way in again, at the end of the count. It's not the same as before. He wants so badly, but he's not desperate. He trusts Fugo not only implicitly but instinctively; his heart knows, his mind knows, and his body, too, because his hips stay firmly against the bed even as his back arches, as he digs his fingers into the mark Fugo left on him and tugs gently on Fugo's hair, pleased and encouraging.]

Please. [He can't even imagine what he looks like. A mess, probably. He can feel himself falling apart, and it feels so slow and sweet. He doesn't want different, he wants more--and he doesn't know how to say it, at least at first. His brows together in frustration, and then he whines, panting; wraps one leg tighter around Fugo as he spreads the other even more, as much as he can, to give as much room as possible.] Please, can you--can I have more? Just like that, Fugo, please please don't stop--

[He presses his lips tightly together as he feels himself start to babble, squeezes his eyes shut and twitches head to toe. And he's still talking, just please please please without a pause for breath. All he can feel, all he can think about, is Fugo. Who is so good to him. Who takes such good care of him. Who's so, god, unfairly good at this.]

[unholey]

[Satisfied is the word that closest describes what Fugo feels when he hears Giorno go to pieces once he starts to move-- but close is still fathoms away from the deep, pleasant emotion that fills up his chest. There are no sensible words from him at first. Just the heavy heave of his breath and needy whimpers, all while Giorno tries to hold Fugo tightly in place and give him more room to maneuver at the same time. And then it's just a stream of please, please, please.

Giorno is begging him in every way he can think how to. Fugo's determination to focus on the act itself crumbles, because he has to look at Giorno. Has to see him like this, spine curved, wrecked at the beginning and pleading for more. He's so beautiful. Giorno is like this because of his mouth; because of him, for him. Giorno's fingers are caught tight in his hair. They tug plaintively at him, please, please, please all over again.]

[Fugo does not stop, not even to praise how lovely Giorno or to assure him that all he wants right now is to give Giorno more of what he wants. Instead, he soothingly pets at Giorno's thigh and gladly gives him what he's asking for without teasing him. Yes, is what he means and hopes comes through. Yes, yes, yes. He promised to take care of Giorno, so he does. He steadily bobs his head back and forth, settling in a rhythm that he hopes is neither too fast or too slow. He wants to be gentle with Giorno-- because he loves him, yes, but also because he's dying to see how gorgeous Giorno is when he's desperate to thrust into his mouth.]

[digiorno]

[Somehow he senses it: the moment when Fugo can't keep from looking at him anymore. Somehow he just knows, because he opens his eyes as Fugo blinks up at him, and--he looks--Giorno doesn't know, but something else, something superlative. Maybe there isn't an appropriate descriptive phrase for how Fugo looks right now, flushed and warm and so pleased with himself. Giorno's eyelids flutter; he arches up again, hips still but the rest of his upper body moving because something has to--because Fugo is the perfect amount of too much.]

[Which he likes. There's no question of that. Once he settles into the wave of arousal that hits just from eye contact, he looks at Fugo again, seeks it out and bites his lip to remind himself to keep it. Even once he lets his bottom lip slip from between his teeth, lets his breathing go heavy and shallow, he doesn't look away. He barely blinks. He likes watching Fugo moving like this on him--for him--because he can see what he's about to feel, but also because Fugo is--Fugo likes this. Fugo is--]

[He whimpers, petting the hair back away from Fugo's forehead.] You look so-- [But he can't; he twists his face away, into the pillow. But he has to; he looks back, breath catching in his throat. He can't, he has to, he wants to make Fugo happy, he feels so good.]

[Hot. Fugo looks hot, that's what he wants to tell him, has wanted to for ages before this. It's always been true, but never more so than now. Fugo's mouth is red, working over his cock; he's giving exactly what Giorno asked for, with his smug cat-eyes that say he's having fun, that he knows exactly what he's doing to Giorno and he's thrilled about it. His long fingers rub at the inside of Giorno's thigh. It's not fair how good he looks.]

[Giorno doesn't want to be impatient. He wants to stay here, wants to keep doing this: running his fingers through Fugo's bangs and letting Fugo wind him up until he breaks. He really wants to. But Fugo's looking at him like he wants to destroy him a little, and Giorno just wasn't ready for that. He squirms, digs his heels into Fugo and the bed, hot all over and aching for more.]

Fugo, please. Can I--

[Move. Move is what he means, but he doesn't want to ask; instead he yanks lightly on Fugo's hair and manages another soft please. If Fugo says he can't, then--that's fine. He'd do anything for Fugo right now. It's just asking that might kill him a little.]

[unholey]

[Giorno just... can't hold still. He twists and he twitches. His shaky fingers pet restlessly at Fugo's forehead, knotting themselves in the mess of his hair. He turns his face away to hide, his expression overwhelmed and hazy with lust, only to crack his eyes open a few seconds later to at Fugo between his legs. Fugo can feel the urgent press of Giorno's heel as it frantically digs yes and more into his back. He's biting his lip so hard that Fugo is distantly surprised it hasn't started bleeding yet. His slender chest heaves with each sharp, shallow breath; Fugo hasn't given him a chance to catch it yet and he's not cruel enough to stop and give him one now, as Fugo guides Giorno closer and closer to his limit.

And yet. From this angle, Fugo can see just how hard Giorno is working to keep his hips still. The muscles of his stomach are taut with the effort of it; with each passing movement, Fugo can feel Giorno's thighs clench tighter around him. Giorno wants to move his hips. Giorno, Fugo thinks, is dying for a chance to thrust forward into his mouth.]

[Gorgeous. He's so gorgeous. Fugo smiles around Giorno's cock and has to close his eyes, just for a moment, because he still can't believe how lucky he is to get to see Giorno like this. That he's the one who has made Giorno feel so good that he can't even properly articulate what he wants. He can feel an echo of arousal in his own stomach again; low and pleasant, but far from urgent.

When Fugo opens his eyes again, he hums his assent; shifts a little when he draws back and pauses in his movement so he can adjust the angle so it can be as perfect as it possibly could be. And when he reaches up to tap on Giorno's hip-- slowly, purposefully, and with clear meaning behind it-- he looks Giorno right in the eye. He wants to see the exact moment when Giorno realizes that, yes, Fugo understands him; that he's ready to give him what he wants, even though Giorno couldn't find the words for it.]

[I want you to fuck my mouth. Right now.]

[digiorno]

[When he asks--god, Giorno will never forget it, not if he lives for a thousand years. What it looks like, feels like, to see Fugo close his eyes and smile around his cock at the question that never quite made it to coherency. He looks--blissed, like he's been waiting, just waiting for Giorno to let go and finally ask for it.]

[He has, Giorno realizes, faint and shaky, dummy--and in the next moment Fugo's humming around him, and moving, and he blanks. Fugo's staring at him, purposeful, anticipating; Fugo taps his hip and stares at him, waiting for him to collapse into realization, into understanding what Fugo means, what he's saying without saying anything.]

[And of course Giorno knows. He watches it fall into place and knows, he knows what Fugo's going to do next without really understanding that he knows it. So when Fugo's fingers tap his hip, Fugo gets what he wants immediately: the sight of Giorno's expression unravelling, shifting from want to comprehension to need in the space of a second. His eyelids flutter closed briefly before he forces them open again; again, he has to ride it out, just settle in the yes that Fugo makes him feel. Just breathe.]

[Then, shakily, he jerks his head in a nod. His fingers flex in Fugo's hair; he seeks out a better grip. He licks his lips.]

I want to.

[I want to fuck your mouth. He--hadn't thought about it, like an idiot, not like this, he hadn't thought it would be like this. But it's killing him to stay still. Some other time he'll happily let Fugo kill him just like this, but Fugo said--That's what you want, isn't it? For it to be your turn to fuck my mouth? He knew. It is.]

[A whine slides out between his lips as he lets his thighs relax, just a little, finally. It's so easy once he's convinced himself it's all right, which doesn't take much; looking at Fugo, so pleased and so hungry, between his legs is all it takes. Just like that, he feels safe in the luxury of movement, knows not just in his head but in his body that it's good and right for him to move in towards Fugo the way Fugo has been moving in to him. With a sigh, he lifts his hips, propped up on his elbows to watch as his cock slides further into Fugo's mouth. His fingers flex and tighten in Fugo's hair, eyes glued on his mouth; his breath comes in soft, quick pants, but as he feels himself sliding against Fugo's tongue, losing himself to heat and pressure, he finds a few more words. Barely.]

Is--it's okay? [It's so obvious he really wants the answer to be yes. But he has to make sure.]

[unholey]

[Fugo does not think of himself as lucky. Rather, in this moment, he is blessed to witness Giorno realize not just that he can move but that Fugo wants him to. Fugo savors all the details of it, from the tremble of Giorno's mouth to the way his fingers tighten delightfully in Fugo's hair. Oh, yes. This is what he wanted: Giorno's eyes glassy and voice rough with arousal, unable to look away or think about anything but his cock in Fugo's mouth.

Yes. This is exactly it-- but more. More, because now he knows how good it is to be so full of Giorno; more, because Giorno looks, sounds, tastes, and feels so gorgeous. And he's only just started to move. It's a struggle not to close his eyes, stop thinking, just sink into the feeling and new rhythm of Giorno moving inside of his mouth. The only reason he holds himself back from doing just that is that he knows Giorno well enough to guess that, even though he's been given permission, Giorno is still worried.

He's a little foggy when Giorno checks in with him again, but quick to nod-- well, as much as he can from his position and with Giorno's fingers tightly holding him in place. The movement tugs on his hair, sharp and amazing; another groan slips out of him, completely by accident, until he pulls himself together enough to properly respond to Giorno's question. Fugo sweeps his thumb reassuringly along Giorno's hipbone, it's okay, and then deliberately taps it again, keep going.

It's okay. Fugo wants, very badly, for Giorno to keep going. To take what he wants, to feel good, to come from fucking his mouth. There is nothing else he wants more in the world.]

[digiorno]

[It's all sensation, a cascade of one thing after another: Fugo moves his head, getting his hair tugged; makes a low, sweet sound that sends heat buzzing through Giorno; touches him, taps his hip. Keeps looking at him, with those eyes that are distant and dazed with how much he's enjoying it. He's the most beautiful thing Giorno's ever seen. It's unfair for someone to be so beautiful and so stupidly erotic at the same time.]

[Pressing his lips closed, Giorno shudders, exhales. He--tugs on Fugo's hair again, short but sharp, experimentally. He liked the way it made Fugo look before, surprised but so turned on; maybe he wants to see it again, if he can manage it. But--]

[But it's okay to be a little selfish, too. He wants to feel and hear that sound again. He wants more of exactly what happened. And Fugo wants him to take it. Fugo wants him to take what he wants. Fugo wants him to fuck his mouth. So Giorno lifts his hips again, lips parting as he watches Fugo take him in; settles back against the bed, slower but not by much, shuddering at the shift in sensation, at how much he wants to jerk his hips forward again, already.]

[It isn't difficult to find a rhythm, once he's certain it's all right. He mimics what Fugo was doing on purpose; it felt good, he liked how slow and sweet and deep it was, and he thinks Fugo liked it too. No, he knows he did; he could feel it in the noises pressed against him, from the hungry way Fugo kept taking him in. The way he still is, now. The only difference really is the way he pulls, not at all regularly but whenever he feels like it, at Fugo's hair, tipping his head to one side with a soft sound as he watches Fugo react.]

[He knows he's being noisy, but he can't help it. Every time he moves, he has to say something, because every movement he makes into Fugo's mouth feels impossibly good. The sounds aren't words at first, just soft, breathy noises, all want and need with no coherency. But as pleasure tightens in his gut, as his movements become more instinctive and less controlled, he gets desperate--some of the same things as before:] Please, please please, [or,] Don't stop-- [But most often:] So good, you're so good. So good.

[His fingers are so tight in Fugo's hair. His thighs, pressed close, are shaking again, trembling with need; he digs his heels into the bed, the fingers not in Fugo's hair into the pillow, because his body knows when he's close before he does. For a while all he knows is that it feels good, so good, perfect, that Fugo's perfect so good yes--and he lets that out, babbling with his eyes squeezed shut as he rocks forward against Fugo's tongue--]

[And then he freezes. And his eyes open wide, and he tugs on Fugo's hair hard, whining, breathless, trying desperately to form a sentence.]

Fugo! Fugo, stop, I need--come up here, hands, please-- [Fuck. Fuck. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, then manages:] I'll come if you don't stop, fuck, please.

[unholey]

[Once Giorno starts to move, Fugo loses track of any of his more coherent thoughts. He can't help it, oh, he can't help it at all. Not when his senses are so completely full and overwhelmed by Giorno, pressed warm and soft all around him and thrusting hot and hard into his mouth. The smell and taste and sound of him-- first just breathy noises that never quite make it to coherency, because all Giorno can manage is babbling, begging praise. It's good. It's all so good, in a way that Fugo never could have even imagined it would be.

Fugo wants to keep up the pace, to watch every gorgeous second of Giorno falling apart, but it isn't easy. First of all, there's an increasing urgency to Giorno's movements: while he starts out slow, savoring the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of Fugo's mouth, his movements soon become quick and nearly frantic. Fugo keeps up the best he can, holding on to Giorno's hip with one hand and bracing himself on the mattress with the other while he moves to follow Giorno's thrusts-- but every time Giorno pulls his hair he loses the rhythm a little, as yet another low cry is tugged out of his mouth.]

[There are two things that warn Fugo that Giorno is getting close to the edge. First is the way Giorno trembles beneath him. And the second is the taste in his mouth, which he too-slowly realizes is pre-come. He's close, Fugo thinks, pleased from head to toe, forgetting in the moment that he should maybe pull away. It takes Giorno freezing up and pulling on his hair, hard enough that Fugo can feel the prickly promise of tears in the corners of his eyes, for him to stop and remember what happened last time.

Fuck. Right. Giorno choked, didn't he. ... Fugo gets it now, why he didn't want to stop before. He doesn't want to stop either, now that their positions are reversed. But-- ... he doesn't want to make Giorno worried. Fugo reluctantly pulls off of Giorno's cock, but not far; he shifts his position to grasp the base of it with one hand, slowly pulling his palm up and down the shaft.]

Okay. That's good. [He turns his face up to look at Giorno and smiles, soft and sweet; he doesn't realize it, but it's an odd contrast to his voice, low and husky from letting Giorno fuck his mouth. And then, thoughtless with love, he leans back in to kiss the head.] You're so good. Go ahead and come, I've got you, I love you--

[digiorno]

[That moment of hesitation is almost enough to send Giorno over the edge. There's too much sensation and Giorno can't breathe, but even more than that, he can tell that Fugo doesn't want to stop, that the reason he's slow to pull away is because he wants it to keep going. He wants the same thing that Giorno wanted. It makes Giorno keen, digging his fingers tight into the pillow to keep hold of himself.]

[But it'll only work once, and he knows it. He's too close to hold off anymore. He cries out at everything, soft wails and mouth trembling with sensitivity. When Fugo wraps his fingers around his cock and strokes, nice and slow, he moans, gaze fixed how Fugo holds him, on his slim artist's fingers coaxing him over the edge. His hips rock up, shallow and uncontrolled, as Fugo's voice rings in his ears: rough and low with sex. He could come from Fugo just talking to him, from watching the shapes his mouth forms--and his mouth is so wet, so red from sucking him off.]

[It's good, Fugo says, if he comes. It's good. Even though he's still so close, Fugo wants him to come, has him. Shuddering, toes curling in the sheets, Giorno lets himself relax a little. It's okay. He doesn't have to hold back. Fugo wants so desperately to make him come--]

[And as soon as he's let himself relax, as soon as he's leaned into the heat unraveling in his gut, because he's so good and he can go ahead and come--that's when Fugo kisses him. That's when Fugo leans in and presses his perfect wet mouth against the head of his cock, so hot and so sudden, and--Giorno is so sensitive, he feels it all the way up and down his spine, all the way down to his toes and the tips of his fingers, the soft press of Fugo's lips.]

[He can't even get all of Fugo's name out, let alone a proper warning, before his thighs tighten around Fugo's shoulders--before his back arches and he's coming with a needy whimper. One hand tight in the pillow, the other helplessly searching for purchase in the sheets, he turns his head to the side and shakes through it, stuck in a loop of that feeling, the overwhelming sensation of Fugo's lips against him at the very last moment.]

[unholey]

[Well. He doesn't choke. And that is an improvement from last time. But unfortunately, Fugo only gets a glimpse of the gorgeous curve of Giorno's back before he comes-- and Fugo closes his eyes because at least some instinctual part of him has a lick of common sense. Giorno comes on his face, hot and sticky. And with his legs holding him down, there's no way for him to really get out of the way.

It's... well, it is what it is. He can still feel Giorno, trembling and warm, and listen to all those lovely, overwhelmed sounds. Next time he won't kiss Giorno's cock after Giorno tells him he's about to come.]

Good. You're so good, Giogio. [Rather than distress Giorno and yank him out of his orgasm, Fugo murmurs against him and adjusts blindly to the side to kiss his trembling thighs. Soothing, reassuring, soft. When he speaks, some of it gets in his mouth. It's-- bitter. But that's Giorno. He can taste Giorno.] Gorgeous. Beautiful. I love you.

[digiorno]

[It takes him a lovely while to come back to himself--not that long in the grand scheme of things, but reality seems suspended for a long few moments. His entire consciousness is focused in his fingertips, the way the tingle in them fades as he comes down; in the soft pressure of Fugo's kisses against his thighs. Somewhere along the way, his legs relax, hand coming up automatically to pet at Fugo's hair.]

Love you, [he murmurs when he can halfway think again. He opens his eyes, turns to Fugo, and--]

[Oh.]

[There's not a thing he can do about the low moan that escapes his lips at Fugo--at the state of him. He shouldn't be this surprised, it's simple cause and effect, but he can't help it: he came on Fugo's face. It's all over. It's on his mouth. A hot and overwhelming wave of arousal crashes over Giorno, dragging him under long enough that he shudders one last time.]

Let-- [He barely gets it out. His breath's gone somewhere else. Deliberately, he takes a steadying breath and pushes himself up on his elbows, reaching blindly for the wet cloth on the nightstand--because he's not crazy enough to look away from Fugo even for a second.] Let me help, I can--I'm.

[Oh, god, but he really isn't sorry, and Fugo wouldn't believe him if he said it. Biting his lip, he leans forward and carefully starts to clean Fugo's face off. Eyes first, his touch delicate and slow. Mouth . . . last, because he can't help himself, and because he's staring.]

[unholey]

[Ah. Giorno noticed it, huh. Fugo carefully pulls himself to a seated position, which feels odd when he still can't see anything. Even though he knows Giorno will be there in a moment with the washrag-- which he is very grateful to have nearby, all things considered-- he can't help but reach to try and discretely wipe some of the come off with his fingers. It's a silly instinct, because of course Giorno is careful and thorough when it comes to wiping it off and now he's just got come on his fingers.

As soon as his eyes are clear, Fugo opens them. He has to. Messy orgasms can be cleaned up, but there's no bringing back that moment of Giorno slowly coming back to his senses. He's pretty now, determined and flushed, but Fugo is a little annoyed at himself for missing how he looked before. Although--]

[Giorno has helped him. But he hasn't apologized. And he's staring. And he's still so, so red. Which all adds up to a single conclusion.]

Thank you, Giogio. [He was going to just use the cloth to wipe his hand off but, well. That would just be a waste. Impulsively, Fugo brings his hand to his mouth and, without giving himself time to get cold feet, in a single in and out motion, sucks the come off of it. He wrinkles his nose at the taste of it, but otherwise has no difficulty in swallowing it.] Did you manage to get a good look? Before you cleaned it up.