Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/12885783. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Underage Category: M/M Fandom: ジョジョの奇妙な冒険_|_JoJo_no_Kimyou_na_Bouken_|_JoJo's_Bizarre_Adventure Relationship: Giorno_Giovanna/Pannacotta_Fugo Character: Giorno_Giovanna, Pannacotta_Fugo, Leone_Abbacchio, Bruno_Buccellati, Narancia_Ghirga, Guido_Mista Additional Tags: Canon_Universe, main_pairing_is_Giorno_and_Fugo, hints_of_Bruno_and Abbacchio_if_you_squint, other_characters_are_minor_mentions, Anal_Sex, Rimming, improper_use_of_stands, Anal_Fingering, saliva, criminal_amount of_metaphor_probably, don't_come_for_me_for_writing_this, rarepair, even Pannacotta_Fugo_can_deliver_a_good_ol'_bizarre_dicking, porn_with_a_bit of_plot, 4100_words_of_sin Stats: Published: 2017-12-02 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 4147 ****** What Mere Words Could Never Express ****** by Charmedsevenfold Summary This boy was capable of thinking beyond everything available to him in a given situation. There was no making the best of a bad situation for Giorno. That was Bruno’s outlook. If the situation was bad, Giorno’s solution was to change it. When Fugo first met him, he thought that the boy looked weak. How wrong he had been. He never wanted to be that wrong ever again. Giorno Giovanna, the only person to ever survive his Purple Haze. Notes This fic is set in the events immediately following the Illuso Man in the Mirror chapter of Vento Aureo. This fic is a rare pair birthday gift for my friend Felidaeth! I plan on writing a second part to this, so this is only chapter one. If all goes according to keikaku and I write chapter 2, it will be a follow-up occurring in the events after Purple Haze Feedback. A huge thanks to my girl Capt_Higashikata on IG for being the beta since Felidaeth can't beta his own gift! As Giorno quickly pulled the car up to the safe-house where Bruno and the others were waiting, Fugo found himself wondering for the 100th how they’d done it. Logical analysis told him that they should be dead. Every scenario that he ran through his mind had resulted in Illuso’s victory. Abbacchio winced next to him as the vehicle came to a jolting halt. Fugo was certain that Giorno was simply in a hurry to get the other man to Buccellati while his hand could still be reattached, but Leone seemed to be characteristically unconvinced. “Watch it, brat. That fucking hurts!” Giorno said nothing as he exited the car and made his way around to help his teammate with the door. He offered Abbacchio a hand, which he pushed away with a sneer. Instead, he got out on his own, despite his bloody stump of a wrist and the cloth he grasped in his one good hand- caked in blood from holding the one he himself had amputated while fighting Illuso. He was still peeved that the blonde teen had been right. Bruno, Mista, and Narancia ran out to meet them. “It was only supposed to take an hour. What happened? Did you run into enemy stand users in Pompeii? You got the key, right?” Leone looked at their capo, Fugo noticed his expression soften. “We wouldn’t have returned without carrying out your orders, Buccellati.” Bruno was about to respond when he noticed Abbacchio’s wound. “We ran into a bit of trouble.” Understatement of the century. “But we were able to beat him.” No. Giorno beat him. Bruno couldn’t take his eyes off the other man’s left arm. “Update me later! I can still fix that but we have to move fast. Narancia, Mista! Get everything ready. We’re leaving in an hour.” Fugo knew it would have been sooner if Abbacchio’s injury hadn’t been so substantial. Hell, the man was lucky that he’d not bled out yet. Giorno handed the key to Mista, then turned to Bruno. “What should I do, Buccellati?” “You and Fugo both should take a break. You look like you need it.” Fugo winced as he remembered how many blows he’d sustained in Illuso’s mirror world without his stand to fight back. He was surprised none of his ribs were broken. Giorno nodded reluctantly. He must have still been somewhat shaken from the encounter to relent at all, even if he didn’t outwardly show it. Half of the time Fugo didn’t know what to make of him, but he was beginning to sort it out. Giorno Giovanna. He’d only known him a short while, yet he’d refused to prioritize the mission over rescuing Fugo. Some small part of him hoped it was not just out of fear of making a move before fully understanding Illuso’s ability. Some small part of him hoped that Giorno cared about him- as a comrade and a friend of course. Abbacchio had been prepared to put the mission first no matter what. Fugo knew that the man only felt at peace when following orders; he was a soldier at heart. Fugo couldn’t fault him for that. He was right after all; in this world Fugo’s life was disposable, he was simply a tool for Passione to use as it saw fit. Something about it still stung though, and he hated that he let it get to him. Even Illuso had prioritized getting the key over killing him. Only Giorno had put him first. In the end, whether motivated by personal feelings or not, Giorno had made the correct choice. After getting pulled into the mirror, even Abbacchio knew as much- though he’d never admit it. Fugo followed the younger teen inside the house. There was something he needed to ask him, but as he stared at the elegantly braided hair in front of him, he couldn’t quite find the words. Abbacchio had cut off his own hand for the sake of the mission, but it had been Giorno who was truly the most dedicated, the most willing to do whatever was necessary, the one prepared to die the most painful death imaginable. Giorno had thought through every detail, even enabling Fugo a way to detect Illuso outside of the mirror, a way to kill him – level-headed even as his body began to deteriorate. He’d willingly subjected himself to the incarnation of everything which Fugo hated about himself- willingly infected his body with the virus from Fugo’s stand. Giorno had given life to a creature in the midst of the virus, imbuing it with immunity that he could use to cure himself, but that had been a huge gamble. Somehow everything had played right into his hand. Giorno Giovanna, the only person who had ever survived Purple Haze. It was then that Fugo realized how fully and completely he could put his trust in the other teen. It hit him with a force more severe than any punch he’d ever sustained; it was a trust which could never be expressed in mere words. He’d followed Giorno to the top of the stairs without realizing it. The boy stopped and turned suddenly, gold braid flipping over his shoulder as he did so. “Do you need something, Fugo?” “Can we speak privately?” He was suddenly very conscious of his teammates downstairs. He disliked feeling exposed during moments of vulnerability. Giorno nodded, leading the older teen into a nearby room and shutting the door. He turned and stared at Fugo expectantly. His blue eyes, soft yet intense, seemed to bore sharp holes into Fugo’s skull. He swallowed, shifting nervously before speaking. “How? How can you be so certain about yourself- about your decisions?” The words fell from his lips hastily and ineloquently, but he could think of no other way to ask. Giorno’s delicate brows furrowed. “I think you are overcomplicating it, Fugo.” Would it have been anyone else, those words would have sounded condescending, but coming from Giorno they were soothing. Fugo hung on every syllable. “When I make a choice, I often don’t know with complete certainty that it’s the right one until the end.” Fugo felt like he never knew, not even in the end. “All one can do is analyze things rationally and with an open mind. The key is, once you choose, not to doubt yourself. I know that’s easier said than done, though.” The boy smiled slightly. The gesture was small, but overwhelmingly genuine, there was a real kindness in his eyes. Somehow Fugo felt less vulnerable. The selfish part of him that wanted to believe Giorno did not abandon him because the boy cared about him was beginning to win. Fugo knew that the teen cared for everyone, though. That was who he was. Giorno continued. “Often, no matter what you choose, as long as you commit your whole heart to it, and commit with confidence, it can be spun to your advantage.” This boy was capable of thinking beyond everything available to him in a given situation. There was no making the best of a bad situation for Giorno. That was Bruno’s outlook. If the situation was bad, Giorno’s solution was to change it. When Fugo first met him, he thought that the boy looked weak. How wrong he had been. He never wanted to be that wrong ever again. He wanted to express to Giorno how deeply he respected him, admired him, and envied his self-assurance and patience. For all his high IQ Fugo’s EQ was virtually non-existent. He’d never met anyone with so much control, he craved that kind of control. How to express it? He raked his hands through his bangs in frustration, pushing them briefly off his forehead only for them to fall back in front of his eyes a moment later. Giorno took a step towards him, touching his arm in a gesture of apology. “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to talk down to you.” The boy was so considerate. He was so considerate that it hurt. No one had ever put him first- put his feelings first, not even his own parents as they demanded more and more and more of him like he would never- no, should never be capable of breaking. The places where the other’s fingers rested delicately on his bicep buzzed and hummed electrically under his skin like a live wire. He could hear his pulse in his ears. Giorno had saved his life. Abbacchio had been right but Giorno had been righteous. Fugo reached up and grabbed the hand on his bicep. The other boy watched measuredly, seeming to wonder if he’d crossed a line and if Fugo would push his hand away. Instead, the silver-haired boy brought the hand toward his face. Giorno’s eyes went wide with sincere surprise as Fugo pressed a firm kiss to his knuckles. “Fugo…” The voice was quiet and questioning. Fugo lifted the petite hand higher, resolutely placing another kiss on the inside of his wrist in response. It smelled vaguely and pleasantly of perfume. He did not protest, so Fugo continued, holding those words at the front of his mind, commit your whole heart to it, commit with confidence. If I cannot explain it, I will show him. Another press of the lips- this time slightly parted, warm, damp breath tickling the skin. Giorno inhaled audibly. Fugo would have peppered kisses all the way along the boy’s arm were it not for the expensive dupioni fabric covering the skin from the wrist up. He held Giorno’s steady hands in his own, which shook visibly. “Fugo this isn’t really necessary…” He locked eyes with Fugo, but his voice quivered ever so slightly. A less observant person might not have even noticed it at all. This was the most rattled he’d ever seen the other boy. “I know but…can I?” Giorno looked at him for a moment, considering the implications, motivation, and outcome of whatever it was that Fugo wanted to express before nodding measuredly. When he took a step forward the other boy did not back away. When he cupped a hand gently along his jaw the other boy seemed to lean into it ever so slightly. The acknowledgement, the subtle reciprocation, the magnanimity of the action was overwhelming. Fugo leaned in, slowly, hesitantly closing the space between them. His breath came ragged as he pressed his lips to Giorno’s. For a moment the younger boy was deadly still and Fugo wondered if he’d made a mistake. Self-doubt sparked in the back of his mind like a stubborn candle he couldn’t put out. He wished desperately for Giorno’s confidence and composure. Commit completely, he told himself. His other hand snaked around Giorno’s waist, resting on the small of his back. He felt it, barely there at first, the gentle push of soft, full lips back against his own. A moment later he felt Giorno’s hands, one on the back of his neck, the other tangling in his hair. He felt weak in the knees at the definitive reciprocation. Giorno let Fugo lead the kiss, let him have control, and Fugo craved more of that feeling. In his mind he felt undeserving but he pushed those thoughts far away as he opened his mouth, deepening the kiss. He ran his tongue along Giorno’s lips, who opened his mouth in response. Fugo slid his tongue inside. He didn’t have much first-hand knowledge, but he’d seen people kiss like this plenty of times in movies. Giorno’s mouth was slick and hot. Though his mind was cloudy, he noticed offhandedly that the other boy’s breath smelled pleasant to him, which he’d read was an indicator of compatibility. But you’ll never be worthy of him, he thought. Again, the feeling was forced down as he began to explore Giorno’s mouth. He was inexperienced and eager, but Giorno didn’t seem to mind. Fugo took his hand off the boy’s face, sliding it down his back to rest above his other hand before greedily pulling him close. Every place their bodies touched seemed to burn. He couldn’t tell if the heat was from Giorno, himself, or the un-air-conditioned room but his blood ran like lava in his veins, feeling as though he might melt from the inside out in blissful mimicry of Purple Haze’s ravaging virus. Giorno tugged at his hair, well-manicured nails grazing his scalp. Fugo moaned softly at that. This wasn’t enough. This would never be enough. Fugo experienced the force of everything he felt, but would never be able to say, bubble up in his chest, threatening to overflow and drown him. He tugged at Giorno’s suit, breaking the kiss for a moment. A string of saliva trailed between Fugo’s mouth and the boy’s now swollen lips. His cheeks and ears were flushed a soft shade of red. He made eye contact with Fugo as he unzipped his jacket, the jewel blue of his eyes shone intensely in the small rings that surrounded his now blown pupils. Fugo swallowed heavily, unbuttoning and stripping off his own top. He raked his eyes reverently over Giorno’s bare chest and flat stomach and suddenly felt self-conscious of his own exposed torso. The two boys were the same height, and both were toned, but Fugo was decently underweight and pale in comparison to Giorno’s healthier, fuller body and sun-kissed skin. He hastily swallowed his reservations as he noticed the slight bump in the other boy’s pants. Giorno was aroused. Fugo had done that to him. The realization shot directly to the base of his spine, curling there with a hellishly pleasurable heat. Fugo grabbed him again, hands moist and sticky with anxious sweat sliding on the slim waist. He dug his fingers into Giorno’s skin as he leaned forward, locking his lips onto the boy’s neck. He sighed and turned his head, giving Fugo more room to work. He laved a hot strip along the juncture of his neck and shoulder before biting down. This time Giorno gasped his name. “Fugo…” Oh god, did that sound good. “Is this okay?” His voice was husky and cracked a bit. He cursed how pathetic he sounded. Not a single fiber in his being wanted to stop, but he needed to ask. He wanted Giorno, in all his grace, confidence, and strength, to want this too. “Yes” he sighed, it sounded hot and breathy in Fugo’s ear. He shivered, mouth going dry; it was all the affirmation he needed. His lips were on Giorno’s again, less exploratory and more forceful and insistent this time. He ran his hands over the other stand user’s body, as if trying to map his small, lean muscles with touch alone. He pulled Giorno as close as he could, damp skin on damp skin. It would never be close enough. He wanted to feel the boy’s personal power, confidence, and certainty permeate his body. He was thankful for the overpowering strawberry scent of his shampoo. Otherwise he’d probably reek after having bled, sweat, and been beaten into the ground by Illuso. He settled his hands on Giorno’s chest, rubbing soft, feather light circles on the boy’s pert nipples with his blunt nails. The pinpoint intense stimulation must have driven the younger boy crazy; drool ran down Fugo’s chin from the kiss as Giorno responded heatedly to the ministrations. He seemed to be a generally quiet partner but that forced Fugo to pay closer attention to what he responded to. Fugo loved a challenge to keep himself occupied. A moment later and they were on the ground. Fugo had one leg between Giorno’s, knee pressing and rubbing against the boy’s crotch as he fumbled with the button on his suit pants. He moved away for a moment, but only to strip the expensive cloth off Giorno’s body. Fugo palmed him now through the soft material of his underwear and Giorno’s hips gave an involuntary jerk. Slowly, steadily, the boy’s composure was breaking down. Fugo wanted to see it, wanted it to happen by his hands. He watched Giorno’s face intensely as he began to fondle him more purposefully, squeezing and rubbing the shaft of his dick. Small moans fell from his parted lips that made Fugo groan and grind his own clothed erection against one of Giorno’s sharply protruding pelvic bones. The open display of desperation seemed to spur the younger teen on. He reached up and tangled both hands in Fugo’s hair, not content to simply allow himself to be watched. He pulled the other Passione member’s face down, kissing him harshly, letting Fugo swallow his soft noises. Fugo felt that his own capabilities paled in comparison to the boy beneath him. He was so used to readily finding flaw with the people he worked alongside, so used to feeling frustrated by their incapability. Giorno was a person with a virtuous spirit, a person who only had room to grow. Fugo felt as if he’d done nothing but spiral and regress for years. The feeling of unworthiness, of being undeserving, crept up again in his stomach, twisting like a hot knife. Another soft moan brought him back to earth. He had a chance to make Giorno feel good, to express the admiration, trust, and respect that he could not, for all his intelligence, put into words. Equally as important to Fugo was the chance to see Giorno, normally so graceful and calculated, be vulnerable. He desperately wanted to understand him. The fact that Giorno was allowing him this chance made him feel breathless. Fugo stopped to hook his fingers under the waistband of the boy’s underwear. Giorno lifted his hips, allowing them to be pulled off. Fugo knew he was only in this position because Giorno allowed it, knew that each step further they went only occurred because Giorno allowed it, knew that each act of reciprocation on Giorno’s part was carefully considered. Yet, he had allowed Fugo to take the lead. He had allowed Fugo control. He placed a hand on the boy’s rapidly rising and falling chest. He could feel the hammering of his heart. He admired Giorno’s naked body for a moment. The light gold of his hair made his body appear smooth and nearly bare save for a thin trail starting several centimeters below his bellybutton, and terminating in a well-maintained patch of darker gold pubic hair. He gripped the soft meat of Giorno’s upper thigh tightly, watching his dick give a slight twitch before releasing his hand and pulling away. He wanted to know how much Giorno trusted him back. Giorno watched him carefully through hooded eyes as Fugo put everything on the line. Wordlessly, he called out Purple Haze. He could hear the rush of his own blood in his ears. He held his breath as he watched his stand. It loomed over Giorno’s exposed figure, huffing and looking around before locking its clouded, bloodshot eyes with Giorno’s. Fugo couldn’t tear his own eyes away from the scene, his heart beat so intensely that the lack of oxygen in his blood was quickly beginning to make his head spin. He felt like he might pass out. Giorno wasn’t afraid of it. He didn’t panic or try to run like everyone else. He didn’t even flinch away. Fugo’s dick all but throbbed in his underwear. He’d survived Purple Haze once before. Perhaps he might even have antibodies to combat the virus held in the capsules on its fists. Fugo wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. Purple Haze could still kill him regardless, and he trusted him not to. Giorno pulled the tie from his braid. Fugo watched, mesmerized, as his hair began to halfway unwind, golden tresses draping across the dirty floor about his head like a halo in a Byzantine mosaic. The tie began to morph and sprout into a flower. A camellia. A Japanese flower and a symbol of steadfastness and grace. He placed it in the crook of Purple Haze’s ear. The stand, which often seemed to have a mind of its own, chuffed in appreciation. The imagery reminded Fugo of a photograph he’d seen once in a book: America, 1967, a march on the Pentagon, a protestor, clad in white, placing a carnation in the barrel of a military police rifle. Fugo was shaken. His stand, obeying his desires, began to move down Giorno’s body. The sharp tip of its plague doctor-esque facemask dragged along Giorno’s torso and abdomen, causing him to pant. Fugo knew what would happen next. Purple Haze hooked its arms under Giorno’s slim legs, easily lifting his abdomen, partially folding the boy’s lithe body in on itself. Because of the stand’s mask covering the upper part of its face, this was the only angle that would work. Purple Haze gripped Giorno’s full ass cheeks harshly before pulling them apart and slipping its tongue through the bars on its lips, probing and laving at the ring of muscle. Giorno threw his arm over his face and bit the knuckle of his other hand, stifling a cry as precum began to leak from the head of his flushed dick onto the tight muscles of his stomach that shifted and contracted under the skin. Purple Haze salivated a lot, something that normally disgusted Fugo, but it was being put to good use as lubricant right now. He could feel the heat on his face. He could feel everything that Purple Haze felt. Fugo ground the heel of his palm painfully into his member and moaned loudly, but he dared not begin to get himself off, he dared not focus on anything but Giorno as he writhed under his stand’s dripping, persistent mouth. Purple Haze pulled away, the normally finicky stand that compulsively hated to dirty itself lathered saliva onto its own fingers before sliding one into Giorno’s ass. It took all of Fugo’s willpower to force Purple Haze to work slowly and extremely carefully, not wanting to hurt Giorno and not wanting to break the capsules on its knuckles. The stand inserted a second finger, scissoring and prodding gently. The angle was excellent, making it easy to reach his prostate. Giorno’s toes curled in the air and his nails clawed and scraped at the dusty wooden floorboards as he all but keened into his hand, stifling the cry from those downstairs. Fugo thought he might cum right then like a horny teen masturbating for the first time, but he willed it down. He watched, spellbound, as Purple Haze, often difficult to control, obeyed his every desire. It slid its fingers out of Giorno’s ass, saliva dripping obscenely from the digits. Giorno looked utterly debauched as the stand gripped the boys hips, looming over his still half-folded body as it lined it’s pelvis up with his entrance. Fugo knew that under the cloth that draped over its abdomen his stand had the vestige of a sexual organ. He wasn’t sure if Purple Haze could feel anything, but it responded in kind with his own sexual arousal. It pushed into Giorno painfully slowly. As Fugo watched he could feel every second of it, nearly doubling at the tight, slick heat squeezing up his still-clothed dick centimeter by centimeter. He rut his hips against nothing, watching through blurry eyes as Giorno willingly allowed himself to be fucked by what Fugo perceived as the most irredeemable part of his heart. Stands reflect their users, and Giorno had accepted this part of Fugo with ease. His legs hooked around the humanoid figure, encouraging it to speed up as he panted heavily, biting down on his knuckle hard enough to draw spots of blood. Coils of heat wracked his body as he hedonistically willed his stand to assault Giorno’s prostate several feet away. Fugo could feel sweat trickle down his forehead and neck from the effort, yet he hardly moved at all. The pleasure that wound itself tightly at the base of his spine shot rapturous tendrils furling through the pit of his stomach and thighs. Giorno finished with a muffled cry, drooling onto the floor, golden pin curls half-wrecked, strands sticking to his sweat-slick face. Fugo came in his pants. He hastily willed his stand to disappear as the stimulation that squeezed him dry through his orgasm became too much. Giorno lay on the floor gasping as cum slid slowly down the sides of his stomach toward the floor. Fugo shuffled over to him, utterly spent but unwilling to waste any chance to show his reverence. He leaned down drawing his tongue across the boy’s stomach in long intentional strips, licking it clean. Giorno watched him wide-eyed, breathing heavily through parted lips. Fugo met his gaze as he massaged soothing circles into Giorno’s hips with his thumbs. Neither of them said anything. They probably wouldn’t discuss this. Giorno’s eyes, no longer foggy with need, showed understanding. That’s all that mattered. He’d grasped what mere words could never express. Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!