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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[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.]

[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.

[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.]

[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.

[Truthfully, Giorno never stopped staring at Fugo's mouth, even when he started speaking. It's rude, but right now he can't help it. So he gets to see every millisecond of it--Fugo cleaning his come off his fingers with his mouth, the subtle motion in the way he swallows, the tiny self-satisfied smile that crosses his lips afterwards.]

[He sucks in a breath through parted lips, reeling in the afterimage of Fugo's fingers in his mouth. And the truth of the matter is, here and now, still floating and impulsive in the wake of his orgasm, he's pure want-and-get without the ability to second-guess himself.]

[He wants Fugo's fingers in his mouth, so he takes Fugo by the wrist and mimics what he did, eyes slipping closed in satisfaction. He's slower, though, thoughtful and curious, and hums around Fugo's fingers at the faint, lingering taste of himself. It feels good, Fugo's pretty fingers pressed light against his tongue; it doesn't surprise him, but he likes being right.]

[When he's satisfied his curiosity, he pulls back and blinks at Fugo, gaze heavy and pleased, before leaning in for a kiss. That's slow, too, and just as heavy; he angles in just right and licks his way into Fugo's mouth so gentle and sweet, just to get another taste of himself--another reminder that they really did that.]

Uh-huh, [he murmurs when he stops for breath, leaning his forehead against Fugo's with a faint smile.] Yeah. It's a good look on you.

[His moment of victory-- because he's purposefully took a hold of Giorno's attention, held it in the palm of his hand, to the point he can't look anywhere else, think of anything else but his come disappearing from his fingers-- flickers out once Giorno's hand circles around his wrist. This time, it's Fugo's breath that catches in his throat. He can't breathe. Not when Giorno has taken his fingers into his mouth, hot and wet, and is sucking on them. Blissfully. Gently. And-- thoroughly too, along each knuckle and down to his fingertips. It is the single most erotic thing he's ever seen.

(Giorno wrote a great deal about his fingers in his fingers. How slender they were, how clever, how beautiful. Was this one of the things he thought about, but didn't write down?)

Fugo watches this, face flushed and eyes glazed, trembling in the moment when Giorno releases his fingers. He makes a soft noise when kissed, needy and wanting both; he craves the closeness of an embrace, but has lost the words to ask for one. He is soft and pliant underneath Giorno's touch, mouth open for him at the first brush of tongue against his lip, craning in to the kiss and reaching out to balance himself with his hands against Giorno's chest.]

I... [He blinks slowly, flushed and dazzled by just a kiss, a far cry from his self-satisfaction from a moment ago.] You...

[Nope. Words aren't happening. Fugo makes a sort of helpless, overwhelmed sound, before curling forward to hide his face in the curve of Giorno's neck.]

Don't get it in my eyes, next time. I-- wanted to look at you. You were so gorgeous.

[A warm little thrill rises in him as he realizes how much Fugo liked that--something he did impulsively, out of pure want and nothing else. That's how it is, isn't it? They line up perfectly like that, sometimes. He's been thinking for months about sucking on Fugo's fingers, and now that he's done it Fugo can't even speak. He has to hide. Giorno's arms come around him automatically, settling at the nape of his neck and the small of his back. It's a surprise all over again, the expanse of warm back he has access to. His fingers trail up and down Fugo's spine, curious and comfortable.]

I--you know I didn't mean to.

[You were so gorgeous. His cheeks feel hot again, or still; he presses one against Fugo's temple, huffs out a small, embarrassed sound. Even after all this, that's what flusters him the most? It's kind of ridiculous.]

. . . You can look at me next time. I'll try to give more warning. I just-- [He worries his lip, fingers curling up to card through Fugo's hair.] You're very good at that. And you were teasing me. I couldn't think.

[They're talking about next time, he realizes. Fugo isn't embarrassed about that part of it. Fugo is . . . really incredible. So strange, but so wonderful. Giorno feels a wave of love wash over him as he nuzzles up under Fugo's ear.]

Lie down with me? [The question comes out equal parts lazy and overeager, somehow.] I want to hold you, but I want to get under the covers, too.

[Fugo settles further into Giorno's embrace, ears hot, trying to focus less on his own embarrassment and more how good it feels to be held. How gentle his touch is, up and down the curve of his spine and pulling through the hair of his nape. The comfort of his voice, murmuring in his ear.]

I know you didn't. And I wasn't teasing you, I just... [He makes a soft, disgruntled sound.] I wanted to kiss you, so I did. That's all.

[Somewhere, there's a part of him that remembers that lying down in the middle of the day isn't a good idea. But the him right now just wants to be close, as long as possible. Lying down sounds like the best course of action to accomplish that, as annoying as it is that he will have to pull away to get there.]

Mm. Okay... [As a compromise for their moment apart, Fugo reaches for Giorno's hand to hold. It's a little tricky to get under the covers with only one hand, especially with the bruises left behind by Giorno's teeth twinging all the while, but he gets there in the end. Though it's entirely unnecessary, he gestures at Giorno to come over.] Come here. Hold me?

[Oh. Fugo . . . wasn't thinking. He wanted to, so he did it. That's all. Giorno blinks, eyes wide as he gazes over Fugo's shoulder. Fugo's so impulsive when it comes to him. When it comes to wanting him, especially. That's--he likes that. It feels good.]

[It also feels good that Fugo doesn't want to let go of his hand even for the seconds it takes to lie down. He presses his lips together to keep from laughing or even smiling; Fugo is already embarrassed and he genuinely doesn't want to make it worse. When Fugo gestures at him (which is silly, because where else is he going to go?), he leans over to put the washrag back on the nightstand and then--dives under the blankets, burrowing as close to Fugo as possible, as quickly as possible.]

[One arm comes around Fugo's waist, pulling him close. He leans in and kisses him, brief and fond; he's smiling so wide, it shows in the corners of his eyes.]

You're so warm. [It's marvelous. He's marveling. His leg snakes around Fugo's a touch possessively.] I love you. I'm really happy, Fugo.

[Almost as soon as Giorno pulls him in close, Fugo can feel his traitorous eyelids start to get heavy. It is the middle of the day. But he's warm lying underneath the covers, wrapped in the arms of his lover. It's hard not to be drowsy in such an intimate, self-indulgent moment.]

You feel nice. [Fugo makes a soft noise, inarticulate and pleased, before shifting forward as Giorno pulls him in close. This-- this was his favorite part about what they did. Feeling Giorno pressed close without a single stitch of clothing in between them, limbs tangled together. He tilts his chin forward to kiss the high spot of his cheek.] I'm glad. Ti amo.

[He falls quiet for a time, content to just be held and look at Giorno's face; study the fading flush, wonder at how bitten his mouth looks. Eventually, he fishes one arm free to wrap around Giorno's shoulders; his fingers slowly trace senseless, gentle patterns along the bare skin of Giorno's back.]

Mm. I want to keep looking at you, but... [Even as he speaks, he can feel his eyelids flutter.] I'm so tired, all of a sudden.

[It's such a strange sensation to be watched the way Fugo's watching him right now. He's used to so many different types of attention by now, but he's not sure he'll ever be used to the attention Fugo pays him. His scrutiny feels so gentle, so accepting of all flaws. In this moment, it feels as much like an embrace as Fugo's arm over his shoulders, as much like a caress as the sweet nonsense patterns his fingers draw.]

[Fugo watches him as though there's nothing else in the world. He watches back, his own gaze growing soft and drowsy, eyes trailing over his favorite spots on Fugo's face and throat and the part of his chest he can see. He wonders at the pretty marks he's made, how they stand out stark on Fugo's pale skin; at the light flush that still prickles the very edges of Fugo's ears and scatters across his chest. He looks at Fugo all the time, but somehow he's at his most beautiful right now--maybe because they're so close. Maybe because he's so content.]

[The instinct to be impish rises up in Giorno's throat like a bubble, the omen before a giggle, almost irrepressible--almost. It's because, he wants to stage whisper, leaning in close with a wicked sharp grin, we just had sex, Fugetto--he wants to, he does, in this instant it strikes him as the funniest thing in the world even though he knows it's completely stupid.]

[But he doesn't. Fugo looks so relaxed. He doesn't want to do anything to disrupt that. Dumb jokes are so much less important than Fugo's drowsy blinking.]

If you close your eyes, I'll be here when you open them. [As he draws his thumb back and forth across the small of Fugo's back, he blinks slowly himself. He's not tired, exactly, so much as lazy; he wants to bask in this warmth and closeness for as long as he can.] I'm not going anywhere, ever. So you can rest, tesorino.

[Fugo blinks thoughtfully, considering the playful twitch in Giorno's mouth. What's so funny? he considers asking, before thinking better of it. Giorno's fingers, soft and sweet and featherlight on his back, are putting him to sleep. He sighs, so soft and slow that it might as well be just an exhale, and stops fighting against his heavy eyelids.]

Promise? [His fingers twitch and curl against Giorno's back, searching by instinct to hold the fabric of a shirt that isn't there.] Love you...

[He doesn't really need to hear it. Giorno is here, with him, all around him. Giorno is never going going to leave him. If he's tired, it's okay to sleep. Giorno will be there when he opens his eyes again. So he doesn't fight it. Fugo slips into a peaceful sleep, safe and content in Giorno's arms.]

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