first off i wanna say thanks so much to the people who follow me on here still, and i’m terribly sorry for the sparse updates. life has gotten in the way in a few major ways OOPS.
i got diagnosed with ADD recently, (along with several other things, my body is a disaster) which helped explain a lot of problems i have. there are a few story ideas for jojo i have, for those of you still Into that, and i am planning on finishing Honma; like it’s always been on the backburner for me. la luna, unfortunately, is going to stay unfinished, as i posted it in a rush of “check out my cool idea!!” without actually knowing where i was going with it. i’ve always pretty much known what i wanted to do with Honma, so finishing it is more a task of being able to work on it.
i did fall out of jojo for a while, the ADD hyperfixation wore off, but the part 5 anime sparked that light in me again so hopefully once i’m less busy than i am right now i’ll start posting more often
i still am open for commissions, if that holds any meaning, but i’m not going to be begging for money. just know that if there’s something you want me to write, hit me up with a message and we can work it out
thanks all of you so much for sticking with me, it means the world to me
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Sorry to hear that she ghosted you. Thanks for responding. Honma was really good, so thank you so much for what you did release
i am planning to finish it, it’s just i fell out of working on it for a number of reasons (got ghosted, lost a lot of progress multiple times, had other things i wanted to work on)
also i was recently diagnosed with ADD (shisca lore!) so i honestly should be back to working on it relatively soon; i do want to finish it, even though like i desperately want to go back and make it significantly less horny than it is, but i know i really need to just Finish it instead of going back and making changes.
cross posted on ao3 please give me all the validation you can
Series: Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure
Pairing: Giorno/Mista
Rating: T
Summary: like i already gave it a pretentious summary on ao3 im not doing it here too
Warnings: uh obvious implications of past child abuse
Giorno is standing outside on the veranda again.
The sun has already started to rise. The harsh rays shine through the panes of glass that line the door leading out to the marble balcony, and it forces Mista to crack his eyes open.
He takes a moment to acclimate himself, to wake up enough, and he steps out of bed to walk towards the rising sun.
Giorno hears his footsteps on the marble floor; he knows, but doesn't react, as Mista opens the door and moves closer to him, and only twitches slightly when his Mista places a warm hand on his bicep.
“Come on.”
Giorno grips onto the stone railing a bit harder before relenting and turning around, being led back to bed silently.
***
Mista had never been used to being the responsible one.
Bucciarati was their fearless leader, the man who always had a plan. Told them what to do, and they would do it. Bucciarati handled the meetings with higher ups, delegated any missions that had to be done when he didn't just do them by himself. Kept a watchful eye over them but never got in their way unless it was ultimately necessary. Bucciarati was who they all looked up to.
But Bucciarati wasn't here anymore. And neither were half the people who looked up to him.
Giorno was here, instead.
He had always been similar to Bucciarati; a little colder, perhaps, but he had the same air about him, the same aura that made people want to follow him. Made people want to be with him. Giorno was always so confident, but humble enough to know he was not infallible. Knew what his limits were yet boldly pushed past them anyway.
Once the dust had cleared and Trish was safe, doing her own thing as a singer and model, did Mista have the startling realization that he was wildly unprepared for what actually taking down the boss meant. What actually taking his place meant.
He had to start wearing suits. Looking and acting professional. It wasn't insurmountable, but the sudden sharp turn into having to constantly present as dignified and poised when he was anything but had been tedious at best and utterly asinine at worst. Making Giorno's appointments, delegating where Giorno couldn't, meeting with businessmen and politicians who demanded their attention—it had been a difficult leap to make for somebody whose only responsibilities a month ago were shaking people down and maybe putting a bullet in somebody's brain if the situation truly called for it.
Giorno had handled it all with startling aplomb. Mista had been thrilled, at first, to have a good chunk of the work shouldered off to him—and to Polnareff as well, but to a lesser extent. Once everything had settled into place, though, the magnitude of what Giorno was doing had dawned on him in an unsettling way.
Giorno, Mista had one day realized, was only 15 when everything had started. He was only 15 when he decided he would uproot the entire command structure of one of Italy's largest mobs. He was only 15 when he decided that he would be willing to commit premeditated murder.
Mista had been failing chemistry class and getting his first girlfriend when he was 15. The first time he killed was in a heat of the moment snap decision so he could save a life, and he'd vomited in a toilet once the adrenaline wore off.
Once it all had clicked for him, any sense of fear or hesitation he had ever felt towards Giorno as a leader melted away, and was replaced with a deep sorrow and an even stronger urge to follow him. A stronger urge to be with him.
Their relationship had naturally progressed to the point where Mista knew Giorno the best out of anyone in Passione, in more ways than one. They shared a bed, intimately, and being the underboss was barely a factor in why he stuck to Giorno like a second shadow.
Yet, with his loyalty and affection in no question, Mista had an inkling, a niggle in the back of his mind that told him that he was just on the outside looking in.
Giorno himself stood at the peak, and Mista would just have to make peace with the fact that he would always be just a little bit below him, looking up.
If Giorno, who had done incredible acts of self-sacrifice in order to get where he was today, would be willing to pick up the mantle of running an entire mafia syndicate, then Mista could at least make sure that he survived long enough to see his change realized.
He just wished he could walk beside Giorno, instead of staring at his back, six paces behind.
***
Mista tunes out most of the meetings Giorno has. To the people Giorno delegates to, he's just a silent sentry with a gun on him as visibly as possible.
He keeps his eyes on them, of course, but the words coming out of Giorno's mouth became white noise a while ago.
“...Is that clear?”
Their backs straighten in unison and they mutter their words of affirmation. Giorno nods them off and Mista escorts them out, a practiced routine they've done the fifth time today.
He turns back to Giorno just in time to see him rubbing his eyebrows—the telltale sign he's got a migraine forming. Mista pauses for a minute. The words “you should take a break” are on the tip of his tongue, but telling him to do that never works, so he eyes the end table Coco Jumbo is snoozing on and reaches into the drawer to take out a bottle of Ibuprofen, the pills rattling from the movement. He sets it on Giorno's desk, and nudges his boss a little bit.
Giorno regards it coolly, but doesn't move to take any. He's going to be stubborn today.
“I'm fine, Guido. It'll pass.”
Mista rolls his eyes and uncaps the bottle, pouring out three in his hand and places them on the desk. Giorno visibly bristles. Mista moves them closer to him.
“I said—.”
“Gio. We both know it's going to get worse and you'll be bed bound if you don't deal with it early. Stop being a dick about this.”
He can see Giorno's jaw clench. If he were any other person in the organization, Giorno would've already killed him.
Mista keeps his gaze on him leveled. He stopped being intimidated by Giorno a long time ago.
Ultimately, Giorno breaks first, with a deep sigh accompanying his decision.
“...You're right. I'll take them.”
He takes the pills and swallows them without water in one fluid motion. His attention is turned back to the papers he has on his desk without a second thought, as if those few seconds wasted were deeply precious.
Mista places a hand on his shoulder and rubs gently, and Giorno only hesitates slightly before moving his hand up to link their fingers together. He leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of Giorno's hair. His hair smells like vanilla, no doubt from whatever new conditioner Trish sent him to try.
“If you want my opinion...” He presses another kiss against the top of Giorno's head. “I think those land development contracts can wait. It's time for lunch, anyway.”
Giorno tilts his head up for a proper kiss in lieu of an actual response, but the final answer is there regardless by the motion of him picking up his pen and putting his name to the paper, then turning it over and grabbing another one.
Mista breathes in sharply through his nose, and leans against a wall near the open window behind Giorno once more. If he moves his head slightly, he can see Giorno's reflection in the glass pane.
Giorno's pen scratching against the paper is the only sound other than the waves crashing in the bay. The salt from the ocean paints the breeze, and overtakes the scent of Giorno's vanilla conditioner in his mind.
And, just like that, he's back on sentry duty.
***
They typically make time for Polnareff whenever they can. As consigliere, Giorno runs most of his ideas by Polnareff before truly implementing any.
It's less common for them to speak about work-related issues, though. Mista steps inside the familiar space mostly to drink from the vast wine collection Polnareff keeps in there and vent to the only functional adult in their perilously small inner circle who has similar experiences he does.
“Giorno's upset again,” Mista murmurs, swirling Chianti around in a glass as he sits on a sofa across from where Polnareff was standing.
Polnareff leans against one of the sofas as he nurses his own glass of wine. When Mista doesn't continue speaking, Polnareff clears his throat.
“Is that all you came here for? To say that and drink my wine?” Polnareff's lip quirks up. “I know I'm good company, but really, this doesn't seem like the best use of your time.”
Mista rolls his eyes and sets his glass down.
“Well, I wanna get him out of his funk but I don't know how. I keep catching him looking at Bucciarati's hair clips. Those little...” He mimes ovals with his hands, and places them on the top of his head. “You know.”
“I know what hair clips are,” Polnareff says with a chuckle. “But yeah, I know what you're talking about. I catch him looking at Narancia's bandanna once in a while. I don't see him looking at Abbacchio's...” He mimes something being on top of his head. “I don't see that too much, but he does do it occasionally.”
Mista snorts. “That's not surprising. Abbacchio treated him like shit.” His face turns stony and he turns his gaze back down to the red wine he had began swirling around again. “Giorno still cared about him, though.”
“He cares about all of the people who work for him.” Polnareff pours himself another wine glass.
Mista takes a sip, ready to correct him. “Abbacchio was working for Bucciarati.”
Polnareff raises a brow. “Are you sure about that? Are you certain about that?”
Mista grimaces.
“You've got a point.”
Polnareff sits down on the sofa across from Mista, and crosses his legs. “We're off topic. So he's upset. Are you going to do anything about it?”
Mista breathes out a sigh. “I don't know. What can I do? Usually he just sorts through it himself. I'm typically a non-presence whenever he gets, y'know, depressed like this. Nothing I try to do seems to matter.”
“Mh.” Polnareff swirls around his wine. “I don't think he knows how to deal with people supporting him. In the emotional sense.”
“Well, I'm not about to have a big sit down and talk about our feelings. Giorno has too much on his plate. With all this work he has to do—he barely eats. Whenever we get lunch together I end up eating most of his food.”
“So too little on his plate, then?” Polnareff responds with a grin that was a little too wide.
Mista narrows his eyes briefly before groaning and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“That was awful. Jesus, you should feel ashamed for that.”
Polnareff lets out a cackle, to Mista's unrestrained annoyance. After taking glee in his terrible pun, he dials it back and resumes discussing the matter at hand.
“Well, regardless.” Polnareff takes a sip from his wine glass. “This is a good time to bring this up. I kept meaning to tell you about this and just I never got to it, but the other day while you dealing with that stand user near the docks, Giorno and I got in a heated argument.”
Mista is taken aback slightly. Giorno getting into an argument, and a “heated” one at that, is incredibly rare.
“About what?”
“Something stupid. Honestly, I really can't remember the details.” He waves his hand absentmindedly. “But there was a point where I raised my voice, and he—I've never seen this before, he...shrunk back? It was the first time I've really seen Giorno look scared.”
Mista jerks. “Scared?” There's a brief moment where he pauses, confused, before realization dawns on him in a way that makes his stomach churn. “You don't think he was—.”
“I don't know,” Polnareff pointedly interrupts, holding up a hand to stop Mista's thought. “And it's not my place to ask. But speaking as somebody who had to take care of themselves, and...” He pauses in his sentence, visibly gathering himself. “...And a little sister, at a young age, on their own, I recognize his behavior.”
Mista rubs one of his temples with his fingers as he leans back in the chair and lolls his head up towards the top of the room with closed eyes.
“Jesus.”
Polnareff swallows the rest of his wine, and keeps the empty glass in a loose grip between his index and middle fingers.
“Mista, listen,” He starts, placing his glass to the side and leaning over with his hands clasped. “If I'm being honest, I don't think Giorno doesn't appreciate what you're doing. As underboss, your entire job is making Giorno's life easier. Even little things, like making sure he eats, I think, he does appreciate. I just...I think he doesn't know how to appreciate it.”
Polnareff stops speaking, briefly, and closes his eyes to gather his thoughts. Mista keeps quiet, and waits.
“...Up until something forces him to change, I think, Giorno...he's going to do everything himself.”
“But why?” Frustration creeps into the edge of Mista's words. “It doesn't make sense.”
Polnareff looks at Mista with a sad smile on his face.
“Because, for him, that's all he's ever known how to do.”
***
It's a day of meetings. Neither of them are thrilled about it.
Mista is sitting over a coffee table, cleaning his gun and waiting on the shower, when Giorno steps out, water dripping from his damp hair. He moves to sit at his vanity that's leaned up against a wall far across from their bed, pulls his hair back away from his face, and gets to work.
It's almost hypnotizing as Mista watches him go through his morning routine: toner, spot cream, face cream, eye cream, moisturizer, facial oil, sunscreen, primer, foundation, concealer, powder, bronzer, blush, eyeliner, eyebrows.
Giorno does not leave room for imperfection.
Mista almost feels drab in comparison.
He puts the chamber back on his gun, the last piece that needed to be added, and walks over to Giorno, who just finished blow-drying his hair. Giorno's mouth quirks up in a small smile as he sees him approach, and Mista toys with the ends of his hair as he stands behind him.
“Not sure about you, but I'm excited to sit in office after office of high-ranking Italian politicians vying for Passione's support.”
Giorno tilts his head up and their lips met.
“It won't be that bad, I'm sure.”
Mista snorts. “Every time we meet with people like this they're never under the age of 50 and they all smell like mothballs and too much cologne. That smell takes days to get out of my head, Giorno. Days.”
Giorno laughs, soft and airy. Mista can't help himself and leans back over to place a kiss on the star birthmark just below the junction of his neck and shoulder.
“I'll make sure to put an air freshener in the car after we get out, then.” Giorno wrinkles his nose a little. “They really do wear too much cologne, you're not wrong about that.”
Mista gives one last kiss against Giorno's jaw and steps aside as Giorno manifests Gold Experience to braid his hair, and he leans against a wall perpendicular to the vanity with his arms crossed.
“It's still pretty jarring to get used to, I gotta admit. Bucciarati would always go alone to these sorts of things—sometimes he brought Abbacchio but he did it by himself, I'd say like, 99% of the time. I don't think he was ever high up enough to meet with, y'know, senators and stuff, but he met with Polpo a lot, and some other capos from time to time.” Mista put his hands on the back of his head. “I think I really took for granted some of the stuff Bucciarati did for us.”
Gold Experience fades once Giorno's braid is perfectly fastened. Giorno sits silently, staring down at his pale fingers that rest on the edge of the oak wood vanity.
Mista sees Giorno's lips part in the mirror as he starts to speak softly. “How long did you know Bucciarati for, Mista?”
“About a year or so, I think? Give or take. I told you he bailed me out of jail after I got that bullshit ruling, right?” Giorno nods. “It was right after that. We had lunch and he wanted me in his group and I said yes.”
Giorno breathes in, then out.
“...Do you think he would be satisfied with how I'm running things?”
Mista stares at him with furrowed eyebrows.
He...doesn't really know how to answer that.
Bucciarati, for all his talents as a leader, never really had many grand plans the same way Giorno did and still does. Anything Polpo asked him to do, he would do it, and do it well. The only times Bucciarati ever spoke out against Passione were when Mista would overhear him speaking privately to Abbacchio or Fugo about his distaste for the drug trafficking and how he felt frustrated at his inability to do anything, but that's all it ever really led to: frustration. Bucciarati was in no position to do anything about the growing drug problem, and he knew it.
Then Giorno entered the picture.
Then Bucciarati was gone.
And all of his ideals had been passed onto Giorno like a burning torch.
The large part in Mista's brain that cares for Giorno wants to say “of course, you're stopping what Bucciarati hated most about Passione and you're doing an amazing job at it” but a feeling of hesitation stops him. While no doubt Bucciarati would have been thrilled at seeing how much cleaner Naples as a city now is, Giorno is brutally pragmatic and stopped being able to bloody his own hands a long time ago. Mista has no doubt that had Bucciarati taken over, he would've eliminated every threat on his own, with his own hands.
So his answer isn't the most confident.
“I mean...probably.”
Giorno frowns.
It's not what he was expecting, and Mista knows it.
“I see. Thank you.”
The conversation ends anticlimactically; Giorno ignores him as painfully and as obviously as possible while he puts rollers in his bangs. Mista walks away towards the shower, seeing Giorno picking up hairspray for his braid out of the corner of his eye.
As he rounds a corner in their bedroom, he hangs onto the wall and stops.
He opens his mouth to say something, and his eyes flick back over to Giorno, who he sees looking up at him in the mirror.
Nothing comes to his mind that sounds good enough, so he simply walks into the bathroom. Giorno doesn't spare him another glance.
***
Once a month, Trish deigns to visit the two of them in Naples, and each time, it's a great reprieve for everyone involved.
Their guards at the front can barely announce her presence before she's strutting into the palazzo. Her white Versace heels match the mink coat she's wearing over a short, black dress with a keyhole neckline. She keeps her hair the in the same, perfectly coiffed style, most likely by using enough hairspray that would choke a lesser being. Sunglasses costing at least €500 lay over her eyes, and with each echoing step of her heels she acts increasingly like she owns the place despite the fact that she's being led around by a guard—a guard who is obviously intimidated by her.
As soon as she's led into the room where Giorno entertains guests, her mouth splits into a grin and her heels clack even louder on the marble flooring as she darts up to hug the both of them.
“Giorno, it's so good to see you!” She grabs hold of his hands as she places a kiss on his cheek. When she pulls back, she sniffs the air slightly. “I see you've started using that conditioner I recommended.”
“Yeah, it smells great,” Mista interrupts, and wraps her up in a big hug. “I dunno where the hell you find half of this stuff but it's all amazing.”
She kisses his cheek as they pull back from the hug. “Still not trimming the hair on your knuckles?” The smug, knowing tone in her voice is hard to miss.
Mista grins, and fires back. “Still wearing outfits you have to be peeled out of?”
They all sit down on ornate couches with gold-trimmed crimson pillows, Mista casually throwing an arm around Giorno's shoulders as he drinks tea across from Trish. She plucks a macaroon from one of the silver trays set out with treats and pops it in her mouth.
“Milan fashion week was a shitshow, did you see? The Prada winter collection? Awful. It was all trash.” She takes a long sip of her tea. “If I'm being totally honest, none of the other lines were much better. Gucci kept using this terrible mustard yellow color. For winter!” She threw her hands in the air. “There was a bright spot, though, in that giant waste of fabric they called a fashion show. I met another stand user!”
Giorno raises an eyebrow. “You did?”
“Mhm. Her stand wasn't for combat, so it was nice not having to fight for my life for once,” She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “We really hit it off. Her stand was like real-life photo touch up. She could smooth out their skin and make their make-up pop,” She makes a popping sound with her mouth as she says the word. “and all that stuff. Once they got a certain distance away from her it would wear off but it was really cool—I haven't...most of the stands I've seen were, 99% of the time, only useful in a combat situation. Well, besides Coco Jumbo. How is he, by the way?”
“Asleep,” Giorno says with a chuckle. “How did you find out she had a stand in the first place?”
“Well, I was waiting on my makeup and the chair I was sitting in was very uncomfortable, so I used Spice Girl to make the cushion I was sitting on softer. She was nearby doing makeup for another model and was amazed that I had a stand, too. She'd only seen a couple before mine. She called hers “Dress Down”, interesting name.”
Mista snorts. “You use your stand for shit like that?”
Trish straightens in her chair, undeterred. “I can and will. Sounds like somebody is jealous that all their stand can do is deflect bullets. Look at this,” She brought out Spice Girl, and the couch she was sitting in began to undulate slightly. “It's like I'm in a water bed now, I'm so cozy.”
“That's the dumbest thing I've ever seen.” Mista turns to Giorno with a “can you believe this” look on his face. “C'mon, back me up here.”
“I used to use my stand to grift people.” Giorno closes his eyes and sips the rest of his tea, looking more than a little bashful. “So I don't have a leg to stand on here, really.” He sets his cup down. “And sometimes, when nobody else is around, I do things like this.”
He grabs a book off of the coffee table in front of him, and takes Gold Experience out to morph the book into a small Calico cat. Trish gasps in amazement, putting her hands out and making grabbing motions. Giorno happily hands her over, while Mista looks mildly annoyed.
“Man, what the fuck.”
Trish holds the kitten close to her body, scratching under her chin. “Oh, she's so cute! Do you make them often?”
“I do. Making animals like that can be very therapeutic, actually. Cats, especially. Did you know that cats actually domesticated themselves? It started in ancient Egypt, I believe. It was more beneficial for them to lower their aggression and stay around humans for food—typically mice that would get into the farmed grains. Most cats purr at about 25 decibels, but the interesting thing is that nobody is quite sure how exactly they purr. One theory is that they use the muscles in their larynx to create the sound, but why they do it is also up for debate. They mostly do it as a sign of being content, but it can also happen if they're in pain. For example, cats can start purring whenever they give birth. Oh, and recently, I found out that a group of cats is called a “clowder”, and that they sweat through their...”
Giorno looks up, and sees Trish and Mista simply staring at him, bewilderment on both of their faces. He clears his throat, and gathers himself, uncomfortably aware of what just happened.
“...they sweat through their paws.”
Trish gently releases the kitten back onto the table, and Giorno turns it back into a book, silently staring at it afterward.
“Um,” Mista places his hand on Giorno's shoulder. “Gio—.”
Giorno shrugs it off and stands, offering a hand across the table to Trish. “Trish, I think it's about time we all gave Polnareff a visit, don't you agree?”
Trish clears her throat and nods, taking his hand and standing in one fluid motion. Giorno throws a look back at Mista, who jerks and stands up beside him.
“Ah, let's go meet with Polnareff and then have lunch?” Trish flicks her eyes between the two of them. “Is that alright with everyone?”
“Yes. It sounds great.” Giorno replies quickly, obviously eager to distract and move past his earlier diatribe. “Mista?”
“Uh, yeah. Sounds fine.”
Giorno nods and begins to walk forward, opening the door and leaving it wide for the two of them.
Trish yanks Mista by the wrist to get him to walk with her, her heels clicking loudly against the floor once more as they trod down the long hallway to Giorno's office.
“Listen.” She hisses out in a whisper. “I don't know what the heck is up with Giorno, but you gotta do something.”
“I don't—.” Mista sighs, irate. He looks up; Giorno is getting further away from them. “I don't know what to do, Trish! What am I supposed to do?!”
She shoves him back, nothing but anger showing in her bright green eyes.
“Do what he can't do for himself.”
She gives him one last glare as she stomps briskly in front of him, leaving him in the dust.
***
Mista wakes up shivering.
He blinks the sleep out of his eyes as much as he can, then turns to find the source of what's making him cold.
Giorno is on the veranda again.
At least the sun isn't up yet.
With a groan and a stretch, Mista pulls up the sweatpants he's sleeping in and gets out of bed. Even with socks on, the marble floor is icy as he walks across it.
Giorno's head twitches towards him as he steps outside. Mista doesn't say anything as he moves towards him, wrapping his arms around Giorno's bare chest and pressing a kiss at the junction of his neck and shoulder.
“You're freezing,” Mista murmurs, his voice low and groggy. The cold night air causes him to instinctively cling to Giorno tighter for warmth.
“Just a little longer,” Giorno whispers, his fingers squeezing the hand Mista has on his chest. “I just...need a little longer.”
What Mista wants to do is tell him that he'll catch a cold standing out on a stone balcony in the middle of the night as he stares at the calm, black ocean. He wants to take him back inside and touch him until Giorno stops thinking about whatever he's thinking about. He wants Giorno to say what's on his mind.
But Giorno won't talk without Mista prodding him, and Mista isn't going to do that.
Even though he wants to.
He just holds Giorno tighter and watches the crashing waves with him.
***
Mista throws open the door to their bedroom and the two of them slink in, utterly exhausted from another day of nonstop meetings.
While the election in Italy was already over and done with, it meant that most time spared went to meeting with politicians and making sure their goals were in line with Giorno's own. His power over Passione, while uncontested at the start, could easily slip if public opinion was against them. Getting politicians, and more importantly, their delegates, on their side, was key to consolidation.
That didn't mean it wasn't tiresome.
“Fuck.” Mista undoes his tie with his index finger and tosses it aside, shrugging off his coat jacket and unbuttoning the dress shirt beneath it and letting it drop to the floor before he falls onto their bed face first.
Giorno is only barely more collected than he is, and manages to get his own jacket, shirt, and tie in a small pile near their hamper before sitting on the bed next to where Mista collapsed.
“I'm going to be hoarse tomorrow from how much I talked today,” Giorno takes out the hair tie holding his braid together and shakes it out, golden locks cascading loosely over his shoulders. “I think they'll all be willing to work with us, though.”
“They better be!” Mista groans and rolls over onto his back. “With all the money we're willing to throw at them, I'm gonna be real pissed off if they turn their backs on us now.”
Giorno makes a noise of affirmation. “Half of the people we met with are so corrupt they don't really have a choice, unless they want us to release all the information they'd rather keep hidden away.”
Mista snorts. “What information? The mistresses? The racist comments? The illegitimate children? Or a combination of all three?” He groans. “These guys are such assholes.”
Giorno hums in agreement, and stretches his arms out, his joints audibly popping. “I'd like to shower,” He rubs his hand against Mista's shoulder. “Join me?”
He looks at Giorno out of the corner of his eye. “You're gonna have to help me up for that to happen.”
Mista feels Giorno move off the bed to stand up, and shortly afterward the cool, alien hands of Gold Experience help bring him up into a sitting position. He holds his own hands out to Giorno, who gets him onto his feet.
“You'll feel better afterward.” Giorno says, then pecks him on the lips.
They step onto the granite flooring of their large, opulent bathroom. In the entryway sits a long, marble counter with two sinks inset into it, in front of a framed mirror that spans the upper half of the entire wall. A broad, stone archway leads into the bathroom proper. Their shower, one that could easily fit six, sits nestled in the corner, with a half-wall coming between it and the toilet. Across from it lies an elevated, oval, drop-in porcelain tub that's the size of a small pool, two marble steps leading up to it. Fine art lines the walls, and a glass chandelier hangs high above the floor.
Giorno takes off his pants and briefs and enters the small cave they call a shower, turning it on and waiting for the water to heat up. Mista manages to stop gawking at him long enough to shed himself of his own remaining clothes to join him.
He places a hand on Giorno's bicep and kisses his neck, letting warm water run down his tired body. Giorno turns and links his fingers with Mista's, and Mista bumps their foreheads together, wrapping his arm around Giorno's slim waist.
His thumb brushes over a raised spot, and Mista furrows his brow as he looks down at a long scar across his lower back. He's seen Giorno naked more times than he can count, but he's never noticed that scar before. A few other scars mar Giorno's back, but they almost seamlessly blend in with his pale skin.
“Woah, I never noticed those before. Were these from when we were guarding Trish? I'm surprised you haven't used Gold Experience to heal the tissue.”
Giorno's reaction is immediate and severe. He breaks away from Mista, almost as if he's been burned, and takes two steps back from him. He's shaking, just slightly, and Mista's hand stays hovering in the air as he tries to process what just happened.
“Giorno, what—.”
“Don't touch me.”
He speaks in a low, cold tone, and Mista bristles. He's two steps away from immense frustration until realization dawns on him.
“Oh.” Mista rubs at his arm. “I don't...do you want to ta—.”
“No,” Giorno interrupts, his stare placed firmly on the shower tile below him. “Let's just finish showering.”
Mista starts to reach out him.
“Hey, Giorno...”
Giorno's head jerks up and he cuts down whatever Mista was attempting to do. His eyes are dark and unmoving. The hot water of the shower does nothing for the ice in Mista's veins.
Resolve crumbling, Mista stays silent and reaches up to grab some shampoo that sits on an indent in the tile wall, and lathers it up in his hair. Giorno's tenseness fades, and he takes his own bottle of lavender-scented shampoo off its ledge.
They finish up the shower in silence.
They don't talk the rest of the night.
***
“This doesn't seem like something you need to do, Gio.”
Mista leans back in the Lamborghini, turning his head to the side to get a better look at Giorno, who seems nonplussed.
“Repeated attempts to get them to stop via intimidation haven't worked, and I have no intentions of bribing a drug dealer.” Giorno crosses his legs. “It's about sending a message, Guido.”
“Yeah, but I probably could've done this on my own.” Mista crosses his arms. “How long has this guy been dealing drugs? A month or so?”
“Longer than that, probably.” Giorno's cheek presses against the car window, and he sighs. “Signs point to this person being a stand user, and even though many of our soldatoj are good at what they do, a significant amount of them don't have stands.”
Mista hums. “Still, I don't think this is something you needed to involve yourself in. Like, I could've gone with another stand user and taken care of this.”
Giorno smiles, and Mista can feel himself relax.
“It'll be fine, Guido. If all goes well, we'll be drinking wine and eating bruschetta in an hour.”
The car turns and drops them off in a large, abandoned alley that's littered with cracked walls and graffiti, leaving no spot barren. Giorno and Mista begin to scope out the area the second their feet touch the dirty concrete.
“This is right, yeah?” Mista takes out his gun and checks the chamber. “Seems a bit...I dunno, seems kinda shitty even for a drug dealer.”
“From what we've been told, this is the place,” Giorno murmurs in response, pushing around loose debris with his foot as they round a corner away from the car. He keeps staring in the distance before his head sharply turns towards Mista. “Stay here and cover my back. Don't let anybody down this alley.”
Mista nods, and summons his stand. No. 6 follows behind Giorno as he rounds a corner. With his back up against a decaying brick wall, all Mista can do at this point is wait.
Five minutes pass until something feels off. It's a change in the air or something like that, but the hairs on the back of Mista's neck stand up, and he makes sure nobody is coming towards him before peeking his head around the corner.
Large swaths of flypaper litter the ground and walls, and Mista's eyes widen. He grabs a bullet out of his pocket and tosses it about a meter away from him, into one of the pieces of flypaper on the ground. The bullet lands, and sizzles, melting into a puddle of goo and soaking into the flypaper until no trace of it remains.
He's seeing nothing but red flags, and what finally gets him moving is an alert from one-sixth of his stand.
“Mistaaa! Giorno's in trouble!”
He bolts. It's tricky; flypaper is literally everywhere, giving him very little room for footwork. His balance falters, just enough for the leg of his pant to lower to the point where it touches the paper. Part of it sizzles and burns off, being absorbed and fading into nothing. Once the acid finally stops, he can make out indistinguishable voices around a corner about six meters away.
Mista jumps between the spaces, being extremely careful to not let any part of his body touch the flypaper. The closer he gets to the voices, the louder and more distinct Giorno's own voice gets. No. 6 is waiting for him, jabbing its little finger around the corner.
He sidles up against the corner, and peers his head around just enough to see what's happening.
A man has Giorno pinned against the dirty brick wall, one arm caught behind his back and the other pressed into a swath of flypaper on the wall, his pale skin burning away and filling the air with the stench of melting flesh. He's wearing jeans and a sleeveless denim vest, but what strikes Mista's eye the most is that the skin around his forearm looks utterly bizarre. What looks like a ream of paper—the same color as his splotchy flesh—is fanning out of his arm.
The man grins; any teeth that weren't missing entirely are a sickly yellow. “...It takes about five minutes for 'Scar Tissue' to completely disintegrate a human arm, clothes included.” He presses Giorno in closer to the wall, and Giorno glares at him out of the corner of his eye. “Next, it'll be your face, Giovanna.”
“Giorno!”
They both look towards Mista; both equal amounts surprised. Mista levels his gun, the momentary distraction giving him the perfect opening. He's milliseconds away from squeezing the trigger, before Gold Experience is out and the arm that Giorno has stuck in the flypaper is cut off by his stand.
Mista's eyes widen.
He's too stunned to move.
Blood gushes from the wound on Giorno's arm, but Giorno barely pays it a second thought. Gold Experience decks the man in the head and he hits the brick wall behind him, landing square against a sheet of his own stand. He doesn't even get time to scream before Gold Experience moves in crushes his windpipe. His body falls to the ground, lifeless, and the flypaper spattered around the area fades away.
Giorno sways on his feet, woozy from blood loss, but has Gold Experience punch out a brick from the wall. It transforms into an arm in just a few seconds, and he presses it against the stump, fusing together cells, veins, bone, and muscle until he's making a fist with his hand to confirm it's back on correctly.
He looks up at Mista, and smiles gently. The shock finally wears off for Mista, and he walks up to Giorno and shakes him.
“Giorno. What the fuck.” Mista hisses.
Giorno's eyes widen. It's not the reaction he was expecting.
“I had the perfect shot—he was going to have a bullet in his brain in a second. There was no reason for you to rip your arm off like that!”
He can feel himself raising his voice. Giorno scowls, and roughly removes Mista's hands from him.
“I had no guarantee that his stand would fade when he died.”
“There's only been two exceptions to that rule, Giorno! You couldn't have waited for me to shoot him before you ripped off your fucking arm?” Mista pulls at his hair with both hands, then rubs both down his face. “Don't—don't do that!”
“I can replace limbs, Guido. This isn't the first time I've done this, and I really don't think it's going to be the last.”
Giorno begins walking out of the alley, but Mista grabs onto his wrist to stop him.
“That doesn't make it okay! What the fuck?” Mista's voice is completely raised to a frustrated yell at this point. “There have been times where we've had to hurt ourselves to complete a mission, but this was not one of those times!”
Mista blinks, the red clearing from his vision, and he can see Giorno's entire body trembling. He lets go of his wrist like it's made of fire.
Giorno turns to Mista.
“Do not ever raise your voice at me.”
He tries to sound authoritative, but the tremor in his words betrays him. His hands, already pale, have turned even whiter from how hard he's clenching them. His eyes, normally a stoic and calm blue, are large and watery. Stray hairs fall from its normal braid, and frame his face in a way that makes the harsh angles look softer.
Giorno, Mista thinks morbidly, is finally acting his age.
All of the anger vanishes from Mista like a cloud of vapor. More than anything, he just feels so, so tired.
“Boss. Let's just get back to the car.”
Giorno doesn't respond to him, and Mista didn't really expect him to in the first place. They stand silently for a few more seconds before Giorno wordlessly leaves the alley and heads back to where the Lamborghini is parked.
The car ride back is silent. Giorno's reflection is in Mista's window, and he stares at it the whole time.
***
Three days later, and they've spoken less than 20 words to each other.
When a letter from SPW Foundation came in requesting a meeting with Giorno to “create a mutually beneficial business relationship”, all the details came from a meeting with Polnareff in the turtle. Giorno, conveniently, was out of his office when Mista entered and exited the turtle.
Just as conveniently, Mista wasn't needed for the discussion of how to go about meeting them.
That doesn't mean he didn't stand outside of Giorno's office and eavesdrop.
“You can't seriously be thinking about meeting him on your own,” Came Polnareff's voice, equal parts incredulous and concerned.
There's a brief pause in the conversation; presumably, Giorno is sipping his tea.
“We'll be meeting at a restaurant that I own. That I've been to several times, by myself, without issue. I really doubt that a stand user would attack me in such an obvious place.”
“There's always a chance,” Polnareff warns.
“Didn't you tell me that this man I'm meeting with was a stand user?” Giorno responds, his tone a little huffier than how a mob boss should sound.
“He's probably just as strong as you are,” Polnareff admits. “But he's not invincible. And neither are you.”
Giorno pauses again.
“I appreciate your concern, Polnareff, but I can take care of this on my own.”
Mista steps away from the open doorway, feeling a little hollow, and leaves before Giorno can tell he's been there.
Two days later, Giorno gets in his Rolls Royce and leaves for the restaurant. Five minutes later, Mista tails him on his motorcycle.
He hasn't done anything like this in a while, and it's nice to be able to get out of the palazzo without having to wear a suit. Even in ripped jeans and a grey hoodie, though, Giorno would easily recognize him, so keeping his distance is key. With a helmet covering his face, and a guitar case on his back to obscure the weapons he's carrying, he makes a sharp turn onto the street where the restaurant Giorno's going to is.
Mista can see Giorno's car drop him off at the entrance. The restaurant is open-air and viewing the sea, stone archways all around the perimeter. Marble stairs lead up to a second floor, thicker pillars holding up the ceiling with tables situated near the stone railing that runs along the second level. Potted plants hang from the middle of the archways, and granite tile lines the floor.
Not even two blocks away from the restaurant is a modest apartment complex, six stories high, giving Mista a perfect vantage point to watch Giorno from. He turns into a narrow alley, parking his motorcycle near a dumpster and placing his helmet on the seat. Eyeing the fire escape, he ascends as quickly as he can given the weight he's carrying on his back.
By the time he's at the roof, he's wiping the sweat off of his brow, and he drops the guitar case as gently as he can before opening it and taking stock. A revolver, useful as it is in most situations, isn't suitable for this range, so he picks out the semi-automatic rifle taking up a good 50% of the case and attaches the ammo cartridge and scope to it. Ostensibly, everything is ready to go, but Mista can't help himself. He looks longingly at his revolver, and decides to grab it and some spare rounds anyway. He places the gun in the back of his pants and the ammo in his jean pocket.
Everything is finally set up. There's no wind in the air, and it's a perfectly sunny day. A cement half-wall runs around the roof of the building, and he rests the rifle on top of it to keep it as still as possible.
Mista closes one eye, stares through the scope to get a perfect visual of Giorno, and then he waits.
Giorno is certain nothing bad is going to happen; Mista is going to keep that certainty in tact.
He sends out No. 3 and No. 6 to hover near Giorno; close enough give Mista a broader visual range of the restaurant but far enough away that he's certain Giorno can't see them.
Giono sits, poised, at a table in the middle of the restaurant, his position shifting as he sees someone coming towards him. Mista follows his gaze, and his eyes widen as he spots a large, hulking brute of a man in a white coat speaking indistinctly to the host before he's ushered towards where Giorno is. He says something to Giorno, who responds, but he can only make out faint murmurs. Mista places his finger on the trigger and keeps watching as he urges No. 3 and No. 6 a little closer so he can hear their conversation.
“...It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Kujo. I have to say, I'm surprised to be meeting somebody from America. I had assumed they'd send a European agent.”
Kujo pulls out the chair across from Giorno, and sits. “I wanted to meet you for myself.” He scoots his chair in. “This was a good opportunity.”
Giorno's eyebrows go up, and he leans back in his chair. “All this way just to meet the Don of Passione for a business deal?”
“Yes and no,” He responds gruffly. “It...has more to do with your birth father.”
Giorno looks confused, and a little stunned. Out of all the things Kujo could've said, that was hardly something he could have expected.
“You..knew him?”
Kujo pauses.
“I killed him.”
There's a shift in the air. Giorno does his best to put on airs that he's unaffected, but Mista can tell, even through a scope, that he's torn. His body language cools, his arms crossing and his back pushing further against the chair. Kujo himself doesn't try to speak, instead taking long sips of his water as he waits patiently for Giorno to gather his thoughts.
It's some time before Giorno opens his mouth to speak, and he's noticeably unnerved when he does.
“...I spent most of my life wondering who my real father was. All I had was a picture my mother gave me. I had thought, maybe, that we would meet, at some point.” Giorno's fist clenches. A childhood notion, held on for this long, finally dashed.
Kujo very obviously doesn't know what to say, so he keeps quiet.
Giorno collects himself, and breathes in sharply.
“...Did he deserve it?”
Kujo, stoic as he is, manages to convey an expression most would call “surprised”.
He takes a long sip of water.
“I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it.”
Giorno stares at him, silently urging him to continue. Kujo takes in a deep breath.
“Your father—Dio Brando...He killed hundreds of innocents—there's no official death toll, but I would put it at over 500.” Kujo gets quieter, and he stares down at clenched hands. “He killed my best friend. Two others were killed on his orders. He almost...killed my grandfather.”
Kujo's hand is trembling slightly as he brings it up to adjust his hat.
Giorno himself looks shaken, having to process too much information too quickly. Kujo has no reason to lie to him—his father being a killer dashes whatever fondness is left of him. He still has that picture in his wallet, and Mista has a feeling that it won't be there for much longer.
His eyelashes brush against his cheek as he blinks, and looks up at Kujo with a solemn expression. He responds, just barely above a whisper.
“I'm sorry.”
“...To give an answer your question: yes. I think he deserved it.”
It's quiet for a solid two minutes, before Giorno speaks up in a slightly wavy voice.
“How do you...cope? With losing your friends.”
Kujo smiles a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and doesn't respond.
The conversation comes to an end in two ways: one, with Kujo's lack of response, and two, with a gunshot that cracks the air from a gun that isn't Mista's.
It's not a stand user that tries to kill Giorno, but a regular assassin with a regular gun. It's something they rarely deal with anymore, but the oversight cost them.
No. 6 kicks the bullet out of the way before it can hit its intended target of Giorno's head, landing squarely in his shoulder instead. Giorno hisses and leans forward, grasping at his wound. The sound of a gunshot has the other patrons screaming and running out of the restaurant, leaving it and the surrounding area mostly empty within minutes.
Giorno has Gold Experience out, ready to turn the bullet into muscle tissue, and then something in the atmosphere changes and Mista feels his skin prickle. The table they had just been sitting at has been flipped on its side; Kujo looms over Giorno, hand on his bicep, looking at the wound on his shoulder as Giorno sits down on the floor with the table as his cover. A pit forms in Mista's stomach—it had been so nauseatingly similar to how it had felt when time skipped.
He dwells on the feeling for too long, too distracted to realize that a large, buff, purple man is holding No. 6 between its thumb and index finger. Mista blanches as No. 6 kicks and screams, trying to get out.
Kujo shows it to Giorno. “Is this a stand? Is this what's causing this?”
Giorno looks at it in utter disbelief.
Kujo dives over to another table and kicks it over to use as cover just as another gunshot goes off, clipping his long overcoat. Mista grinds his teeth, then lets go of his rifle, making a mad dash down the fire escape. His heart thumps in his ears, legs sprinting as fast as he can down the street and into the restaurant.
Giorno takes on a look of sheer bafflement as he sees Mista running towards him, loading his revolver all the while.
“What—.”
Several bullets are shot towards Mista and all are casually kicked away by 1, 2, 5 or 7 and made into holes on nearby buildings. He dives down once he gets close enough to Giorno, and takes cover next to him, who looks at him with a mix of confusion and irritation.
“What are you—.”
Mista ignores what he's about to say and places his gun on the ground next to him. He puts both hands on the sides of Giorno's face, and pulls him in for a kiss. Giorno reflexively kisses back, but makes a confused sound in the back of his throat. Mista continues to ignore it, and after he breaks the kiss, he wraps his arms around Giorno tightly, squeezing him, as if confirming he's really still there.
Kujo stares at them. Mista ignores him the most.
“God, you're safe, okay.” He places one last kiss on Giorno's forehead, then lets go. He narrows his eyes and looks over at Kujo, who is still holding No. 6.
“Hey! Let go of my fucking stand!”
Kujo blinks, and stares at No. 6 with mild amusement, before what Mista assumes to be his stand lets it go.
Mista jerks his head and sends No. 6 off to find the gunman, but Kujo does the work for him by pointing up at pillar breaking up the railing on the second floor. Mista sees a shadow on the pillar behind it, and relocates No. 6 a little to the left of where he's standing, then shoots.
He hears a gurgled scream, labored breathing, and a thud—then no sounds follow.
“Is he dead?” He yells up towards No. 6.
“Yup! Got him right in the throat!”
Mista sighs, and slumps down against the table. He reaches for Giorno's hand, and squeezes it tightly. The adrenaline still hasn't worn off, and his whole body is shaking.
“When we get back, I'll give you guys some pepperoni. The good stuff, I promise.” No. 6 fades away and he hears all six pistols cheer in the back of his mind.
The restaurant is utterly deserted now save for himself, Giorno, and Kujo, with a few new bullet holes added to the decor. He turns to Giorno, still gripping his hand, and notices the blood running down his suit jacket.
“Hey, you haven't healed your shoulder yet.”
Giorno blinks, eyes wide.
“Oh. Right.”
Gold Experience is out, and the hole is closed in a second. He barely even reacts, and in fact seems more upset that his suit is ruined than anything else.
Mista rises to his feet, and helps Giorno up as well. He's a little unsteady, likely from the shock of being shot at, but Mista helps right him. He glances over to see Kujo, who's still sitting on the ground. He's not hurt, but by all accounts, he seems a bit exasperated by the whole ordeal.
He walks over to Kujo and offers him a hand to help him up; Kujo takes it, and Mista wheezes from helping up a man two times his size, nearly toppling over onto the ground from the effort.
“You didn't get hit, right?” Mista grimaces, rubbing his hand.
“I'm fine.” Kujo cocks his head slightly. “Who exactly are you.”
“Uh, Guido Mista.” He jabs his thumb towards Giorno. “I'm his Underboss.”
Kujo raises an eyebrow. Mista's face reddens under the scrutiny.
“...Right. I should be getting back to my hotel.” Kujo adjusts his hat, and looks over Mista's shoulder at Giorno. “We'll be in touch, Giorno Giovanna.”
Giorno jumps slightly, still a bit dazed, then nods. Kujo brushes past Mista, and heads towards a payphone across the street to call himself a cab.
As they wait for Giorno's car to pull back around, Mista heads back up to the apartment building roof and gathers up his weapons, placing them all back into the guitar case he brought them in. As he's coming back down the fire escape, he sees Giorno's chauffeur open the door to the Rolls Royce for him, and Giorno enters it.
Mista saddles up in his motorcycle, revs the engine, and follows it back.
***
Giorno stays quiet even as they get inside the palazzo, and Mista doesn't even bother trying to start a conversation. He follows Giorno up to their bedroom and lets him get changed, lets him wash his face, undo his hair, and watches silently as Giorno walks out onto the veranda.
He closes the door behind him. Mista stares at him through the paneled windows.
Something in him cracks.
He can't do this anymore.
Mista stomps towards the door to the veranda and throws it open. Giorno turns around to look at him in shock.
The sun lights him up from behind, bathing him in a golden hue. His loose hair brushes across his face in the breeze.
“Guido?”
“I don't know what to do.”
Giorno looks at him quizzically.
“I don't know how to say—I'm not,” Mista runs his hand down his face and sighs, then steels himself. “You can't—you can't do that again.” He's mindful of how he keeps the tone of his voice, trying to stay low and even. “The only reason there isn't a bullet lodged in your brain right now is because I was there. Don't ever do that again.”
“I know. And I can't thank you enough, Guido, but I can't talk about this right now.”
“Giorno.”
He takes Giorno's hands in his own.
Mista breathes in, breathes out, and then starts to talk.
“Listen. I don't know what happened in the past to you. It's something you obviously don't want to talk about and I'm not gonna press you on it—if you ever wanna tell me, that's fine, but you don't have to and I don't expect you to. I just gotta tell you that you don't have to do this all on your own. You shouldn't have to do this all on your own. You feel so far away from me sometimes, it's scary.”
“I know you wish Bucciarati was here. I do too, y'know? He was always better at shit like this; I hate wearing these suits, Giorno, it sucks so much. He would be so much better in this position than I would be. But it's up to me, now. It's my responsibility. And more than anything, I want to keep you safe, but you have to let me. You've always made me feel like I can do anything, now let me put that feeling to use.”
Mista squeezes his hands before he gets down on one knee, and kisses the ring finger on his right hand. He lets his lips linger before rising to his feet once more.
“...I'm not here for Bucciarati anymore. I'm here for you, Gio. I'll follow anywhere that you go, but please, let me walk beside you.”
Giorno looks at him with widened eyes and cheeks dusted pink. Mista squeezes his hands and smiles at him. The ocean waves crash around them, sunlight glimmering off the water.
Giorno's golden hair flutters about his face as he turns his gaze downwards.
“...I remember making my own meals when I was two,” He murmurs, and Mista has to strain to hear him. “I learned how to do stitches by the time I was six because my step-dad...” He inhales sharply to cut himself off and lifts his head up to look at Mista with an emotion he rarely displays: uncertainty. “This...is entirely new territory for me, Guido. And I...I get scared sometimes.”
Giorno exhales sharply. The tension leaving his body is visible.
Mista pulls him into a hug, and Giorno winds his arms tightly around Mista's back, almost clingy.
“I'm just glad you finally said something.” Mista's voice is muffled in Giorno's hair, and he places a kiss against the top of his crown. “We can work this out. I'm...not great at this, either. But I don't want you to rely on just yourself from now on. Because you don't have to anymore.”
Giorno doesn't move or say anything for a bit, and Mista lets his words hang in the air. It's only several minutes later does he feel a small nod against his chest.
“...Okay.” Giorno pulls back, his hands sliding down to squeeze onto Mista's own once more. His voice is soft and tentative. Large blue eyes lock with Mista's own deep brown ones, and Giorno gives a small, genuine smile. “I can try. I want to try.”
Mista grins, and dips his head to catch Giorno's mouth in a kiss.
The sea salt lingers in the air as they stay on the veranda, watching the sun set. Mista keeps Giorno firmly in his arms. When the night air becomes too chilly to bear for any longer, Giorno takes him by the hand and leads him inside to lay on the bed. Throughout the night, they stay curled together in a warm embrace.
***
Things weren't always smooth.
Sometimes Mista had to insist more than he should have in order to get Giorno to crack. Sometimes Giorno would still take on more than necessary. Sometimes Mista would take long breaks outside of the palazzo because he was too overcome with frustration.
But things were improving. Things were better than they had been.
There was one day, one specific day, where Mista could tell the progress was being made—he would never be able to forget it.
He had woken up from a crick in his neck, his eyes adjusting to the soft blue hues of the room indicating the sun was starting to rise. Instinctively, he had looked towards the door to the veranda, but the curtains obscuring the windowed door had been closed.
Giorno had stayed, curled up against his chest, breathing softly, looking perfect even in his sleep.
Mista, with a grin on his face, had pushed back his hair and kissed his forehead, before wrapping an arm tighter around Giorno's waist and falling back into a deep, dreamless sleep.
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Summary: summer lovin happened so fast/summer lovin, dick in my ass
Warnings: its mchanzo
also cross posted on ao3 please comment i need validation
The party is starting to wind down.
In front of him, the bonfire that once raged high is now burning nothing but embers. He draws circles in the sand with the bottle of half-empty, lukewarm beer he has in a loose hold. With a crack of his neck he shifts his feet in the sand and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth to blow rings of smoke in the air.
Vibrations in the sand make him look up, and as tired as he is he recognizes a handsome face when he sees one.
Long fingers pluck the cigarette out of his mouth and throw it in the flickering bonfire. He tries to look put-off but he's too tipsy to really care about losing one smoke. He's also too enamored with the person in front of him to care about anything else in the first place.
“How many times have I told you to stop smoking these, Jesse?”
McCree grins and leans into the hand that placed itself on his cheek and wraps an arm around his trim waist and underneath the lacy, gray shawl.
“Was wonderin' where you went off to, Hanzo.”
“It was getting too cold to stay in swimwear,” He murmurs and allows McCree to pull him down and into his lap.
“Mh,” McCree toys with the waistband of Hanzo's short white shorts as his eyelids droop. “Your shirt's got sand on it,” He runs his hand up his bare stomach up to the black fabric to place a hand on his ample chest and brush away what little sand there actually was. “Better head back to your hotel so you can change, yeah?”
“We can go to yours,” Hanzo pushes his chest into McCree's hand. “I know you've been wanting to take me for a ride.”
McCree barks out a laugh, “Double entendre isn't exactly your strong suit, babydoll.”
“I was being literal.” Hanzo says flatly. “It is your mind that makes it dirty.”
“Aw, don't pretend you don't like it.”
The grin doesn't leave McCree's face as their foreheads touch. Their eyes close and their lips meet and slowly meld against each other.
Hanzo pulls back from the kiss, licking his lips. He stands up and steps back onto the soft sand, grabbing McCree's hands and pulling him up off the log he was sitting on. The smile on his face grows as McCree falls into him, his hands finding their way on Hanzo's hips. Strong arms wrap around his tanned neck and the lacy shawl falls around them as they kiss.
“C'mon,” He pecks Hanzo on the lips again. “Let's get going.”
They run along the beach and pass by washed-out party goers and drunken couples hanging off each other. Parking lot asphalt grinds against their sandals as they neared McCree's beat up Harley. Being out of breath and panting didn't stop either of them from laughing their heads off. Their hands touch palm-to-palm and their fingers intertwine as they stand under the bright glow of the moon.
Hanzo's white teeth peeks out of his smile as he looks up at McCree, “I'll be sure to hold on tight.”
McCree grins; his cheeks are starting to hurt, but God he doesn't care.
He kicks the engine into gear and relishes in the feeling of Hanzo's arms tightly wrapped around him.
The roads are empty. Reflectors in-between lane lines beam as his headlights pass over them. Streetlights flicker and illuminate the roads that get progressively worn and cracked and sprinkled with potholes. The houses match the roads in how run-down they look the farther they ride, dogs tied to chain-length fences and barking as they go past. Light pollution keeps the stars from coming out; the humidity outside makes McCree's hair stick to his face uncomfortably, makes sweat roll down his neck.
He comes to a stop sign and places his hand over Hanzo's. His heart is swelling.
A neon sign with the “NO” in “NO VACANCY” unlit comes into view and the motorcycle slows to a stop in the parking lot of a roadside motel where “dingy” barely begins to describe it. The paint on the walls that must have been purple at one point is chipped and faded. Pavement cracks in every direction and water and mud coagulate in the holes that scatter all over the lot. The neon sign above the main entrance has a blown-out letter C and an arrow underneath points to the “HECK IN”.
McCree does a shit parking job, managing to take up two spaces with his Harley, and he pulls off his helmet to put it in the bag on the side of his bike. Hanzo chuckles, handing him his own helmet and patting down his hair and pulling it up into a messy ponytail.
He just grins at Hanzo, dumb and in love.
Hanzo yanks him off the motorcycle and tugs him past the dilapidated ice machine right around the corner from the “heck-in”. He laughs and pulls Hanzo back and into him, wrapping his arms around his waist and swaying as he presses a line of kisses up his neck. A giggle leaves Hanzo, then a soft sigh, and then he's turning his head and pressing their foreheads together and gently letting their lips touch. It's fleeting and soft and they both yearn for more.
“M' room is right there,” He murmurs, kissing under Hanzo's jaw, his eyes flicking up to the door with the bronze number “105” hanging on it; the five is dangling upside-down.
They separate but their fingers stay entwined. McCree fumbles with the keycard as Hanzo embraces him from behind and grabs on tightly to his loose-fitting tank top that smells like the ocean. The green light on the lock comes on, and he turns his head and smiles at Hanzo. He breaks free of the embrace to pull Hanzo inside, and locks the door as fast as he can.
Hanzo is stunned, with a little bit of whiplash, and McCree takes the opportunity to hike Hanzo up against the door and kiss him senseless.
He keeps up astonishingly fast. His legs lift up to wrap around McCree's waist as he grasps at his stubbled face. His hands thread in brown, sea-breezed locks as the breath is kissed out of him. One of McCree's hands goes down past his back and squeezes. The other hand grabs Hanzo's own and presses it up against the door. Their fingers intertwine. A tongue tangles with his own. By the time they part mouths his eyes are half-closed and dreamy and his legs squeeze around McCree's midsection to pull him closer.
“You smell like the ocean,” Hanzo speaks softly, blinks slowly, smiles.
McCree places his forehead to Hanzo's and grins. His eyes are lit up.
“You taste like Fireball,” McCree laughs a little, squeezes Hanzo's hand that's pressed up against the door.
One gentle push is all it takes to move McCree off him as his legs slide off his waist and his sandals click onto the floor. Two swift little kicks take his shoes off, his fingers running through his mussed hair. Three steps to the bed and the lace shawl around his shoulders falls to the floor.
Four, five seconds pass before McCree stops gawking.
Hanzo hums and leans back into McCree as he slots up behind him. Goosebumps rise on his skin as McCree leaves fleeting kisses against his neck and shoulder and his long hair falls to one side as he tilts his head. Square fingers pinch the hem of his halter top and pull up, Hanzo's arms lifting up to allow ease of movement.
“You sure you wanna do this?” McCree's voice is low against his ear.
Hanzo scoffs, “I ride with you on your motorcycle and join you at your very shitty roadside motel room. You shove me up against a door and pull me against you and strip me,” Hanzo gives him a look. “Obviously, I am going to back out now.”
McCree sputters a little, “Well, I mean—.”
“If I did not want this,” Hanzo interrupts. “you would not be standing there right now. Now, are you going to take off your clothes or not?”
McCree blinks, stunned, then laughs and kisses him on the cheek
“Alright, you made your point.”
He tugs his shirt off over his head and sits on the edge of the bed. The sheets are starchy and the mattress is no goose-down in any sense of the word. Hanzo steps out of his shorts and underwear, utterly nude, and straddles him, his fingers carding through McCree's short brown hair. Two hands rest on his hips as their lips touch. He tightens his grip on McCree's hair as he feels his tongue run against his own.
Hanzo is briefly stunned as McCree breaks the kiss suddenly. He places his hand on Hanzo's cheek and strokes his soft skin.
“Um,” McCree's voice is soft as he averts his gaze, “When are you...going back to Japan?”
“The end of summer,” Hanzo mumbles and leans into the hand on his cheek,“We still have time, Jesse.”
“I just, I want this to last,” He tilts his head forward and rests against Hanzo's collarbone.
“Let's talk about this later, okay?” His hands cup McCree's face and their eyes meet, his voice dipping into a low timbre. “I want you.”
Hanzo prepares himself quickly and pulls down McCree's shorts with the same impatience. His hair falls over his face as he sinks down. The palm of McCree's hand rests against the back of his neck as his fingers tangle in his hair. His other hand rests on the small of his back as he pulls their bodies flush together, and Hanzo's arms wrap around his back. A breathy sigh comes out and he squeezes his arms around McCree.
“Hey...” McCree kisses his temple, massages his scalp with his fingertips. “You okay?”
Hanzo breathes out.
“Yes...”
Neither of them last long; too pent up before they even made it to the bed. Their bodies press together as they move in tandem. Hanzo's nails scratch down McCree's back as he muffles his moans in the crook of his neck while McCree grips his hips like a vice and rocks into him. He bites down on Hanzo's shoulder and sucks until it blossoms into a bright red mark that'll fade into a hickey by tomorrow. The nail marks on his back that have turned into deep, angry lines won't be covered by any of his tank tops. Both of them have claimed what's theirs.
McCree climaxes first but Hanzo follows right behind him. Their bodies stay flush against each other as their heated skin rapidly cools.
Hanzo moves first by placing his hands on McCree's shoulders and slowly bringing himself up and off. The smile he gives is tired but dreamy. He cups McCree's cheek and runs the tips of his fingers through his messy, tangled hair. In spite of his exhaustion, McCree grins at him with his teeth showing and leans into his hand as his eyes close. He hums a little tune that has Hanzo feeling drowsier by the second.
“Let's get some sleep,” McCree's opens his eyes with great struggle. “I'll treat you to a romantic breakfast.”
Hanzo cracks an eye open and regards him with slight disdain, “I know you are just going to take me to Waffle House.”
McCree flashes a grin at him, “I'll take you somewhere nice, I promise.”
The air leaves Hanzo's lungs in a wheeze as McCree yanks him down onto the bed and into his arms. He huffs and turns his head to glare at McCree and receives a wink in response. Rolling his eyes, Hanzo turns in his hold to face him and places his hands on his chest. McCree takes his smaller hand in his own and moves it closer to his heart; Hanzo can feel the thump-thump against his palm.
They sleep with their limbs tangled together.
***
It's an early afternoon when they finally rise from bed with mutual hangovers. Hanzo's hair sticks up in the places where it isn't completely flat and greasy. McCree, half awake and still a little delirious, tries valiantly to pat down Hanzo's cowlicks and almost ends up slapping him in the face. A groan that sounds like a whine comes from Hanzo. He squeezes his eyes shut and bats away McCree's hand and sits up in bed and turns to place his feet flat against the floor.
“Ffffff...” Hanzo starts and rubs his eyes with his knuckles. “Fuck.”
McCree falls out of bed soon after and they head to the bathroom to shower together. The fluorescent lights do nothing to help their hangovers and they rub at their heads as the pain of the sudden light fades into a dull throb. Hanzo moves first to strip off his clothes and McCree follows his lead to let his clothes fall to the linoleum tile that probably hasn't been properly maintained in over thirty years.
“God dammit.” McCree hisses as he fiddles with the shower and tries to set it on a temperature that isn't scalding hot or freezing cold. “How the fuck do they always make these things impossible to work?”
It takes a minute for him to finally set it on a comfortable temperature and he steps in, holding Hanzo as he gets in so he doesn't fall over. Their minds might as well be playing static as they wash each other up. The deep-seated exhaustion between the two of them makes the situation metaphorically and literally flaccid as bags settle between their eyes. Hanzo starts drifting off underneath the warm spray and McCree has to steady him and help him wake up. Another groan escapes him and he mumbles something unintelligible and rests his forehead against McCree's collarbone. McCree's hand awkwardly hangs in the air for a second before he pats him on the back.
“Here.” Hanzo grabs for the soap and attempts to hand it to McCree but it falls out of his hands. “Ugh.” He bends down to pick up the soap only to drop it again. “Fuck!”
McCree laughs despite Hanzo's glaring at him. He laughs even harder as Hanzo drops it twice more before finally picking it up.
They finish quickly and dry off with the starchy white towels provided for them. Stomachs growling, they come to a quick understanding that they dearly needed to eat. However, the thought of getting on McCree's motorcycle to go anywhere for food is the least appealing thing to both of them. Hanzo wears a too-big shirt McCree gives him and the shorts he wore yesterday. McCree wears a band t-shirt so faded the text is nigh unreadable and also the shorts he wore yesterday.
“Where can we walk to for food?” Hanzo asks with a yawn as he ties his hair up in a messy ponytail.
McCree grimaces.
The walk to Waffle House takes five minutes max. McCree has one hand holding Hanzo's while the other shields his eyes from the sun. Hanzo takes to groaning and rubbing his eyes while they walk across the parking lot that might as well be the Mojave Desert from how strongly the sun is hitting the asphalt.
“I did not even drink that much.” Hanzo rubs his forehead as they get inside and settle into a booth. “At least, I don't think I did.”
“You sure as shit weren't doing kegstands but I don't think you went ten minutes without a bottle of vodka in your hand, sweetheart.”
Hanzo makes a face and leans into the scratched glass table.
“I don't even like vodka that much.”
“I hear there's another party tonight.” McCree sips on his water. “Let's not go.”
“The best idea I have ever heard.”
A waitress who looks to be four decades older than them takes their order and sets it out for them not long after. Hanzo picks at the fries that came with his hamburger while McCree looks at him with an almost insulted look as he pours syrup onto his waffles. Hanzo catches on and raises one sculpted eyebrow at him while munching on his food.
“...Um. Is there a problem?”
“We're eating at a place called Waffle House and you got a burger and fries?” McCree gestures at his plate. “That's just wrong.”
Hanzo cannot possibly roll his eyes hard enough.
They sit in silence as their hangovers gradually begin to fade away. McCree sneaks glimpses at Hanzo as he chews on his food, trying to be discreet and failing. Hanzo stops organizing his fries in order of length as he feels McCree's gaze on him. He meets his eyes and raises both of his eyebrows. McCree flinches, looks away, coughs a little. Hanzo sighs and reaches over to place his hand over McCree's.
“You are not being subtle.”
McCree places his fork down and grimaces as he rubs at his forehead.
“This—we—Hanzo, look, I just, how much longer we got?” He twines their fingers together. “I don't want this to end when you leave. I like you, a whole damn lot.”
Hanzo sinks back in the booth until his chin touches his chest and his ponytail is a mess of black against the ripped red cushion.
“I feel nervous, too.” He bites down on his lower lip. “But to not give it a try at all...”
McCree sets his fork down and gives his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Yeah. And like you said, I mean, we still got time. Best make use of it.”
Hanzo takes a bite from his burger and chews with a thoughtful expression.
“After we finish eating,” Hanzo starts, “do you want to go back to your room and sleep some more?”
“I guess, but I mean, Hanzo, don't you got a really nice hotel room, y'know, right by the beach?” He shrugs. “Could just take you there. Don't know why you didn't just go back there last night. I know you've been wanting to ride my Harley for a lil' while, but...”
He scoffs, “Yes, let me go back to my amazing hotel, so I can pay extra for bottled water.” Hanzo props his elbow up and places his chin on his fist. “It's so stupid. I can fill a, a...canteen for free by using a sink.”
McCree brings his water up to his mouth to hide the smile on his face.
“Hanzo.” He says after he takes a drink. “S'okay. I like bein' with you too. Doesn't matter where.”
Muttering something indistinct, Hanzo turns his head to hide the blush on his face.
It only takes them a few minutes to finish their food. Hanzo pays despite McCree's numerous protests. He tries to tip as well, but McCree forces the money back in Hanzo's grip and slaps his own crinkled bills on the table. Their waitress gives them a hard stare as they pettily argue over the payment and she's met with two sheepish smiles in response. A roll of her eyes gets her some mumbled thank-yous in response. The table is cleared of all plates and cash and the two walk out of the door hand in hand as their shoulders bump into each other.
Hanzo stands on his toes and kisses McCree on the cheek and laughs when he sees the bright shade of red his face turns to.
The sun is still a yellow blight in the sky as it scorches the two of them. Being no longer hungover, however, makes the trek back less of a crawl across a wasteland and more of a tiresome chore. Exhaustion still creeps in though, and Hanzo has his eyes closed and is leaning against McCree as he fiddles with the key to his room once more. He swears as he fucks up the card again and then again once more until finally the door beeps and a green light appears. Hanzo barges past him and wastes no time in kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his shorts.
“You don't waste any time, do you?” McCree says with a laugh as he locks the door.
Hanzo hums and curls into a ball in the middle of the bed.
McCree kicks his shoes off and flops down on the bed beside Hanzo. A big yawn comes from him as he wraps an arm around Hanzo's back and tugs him in close. McCree moves in as Hanzo wraps his arms around him and presses his face into his chest.
“You goin' back to sleep?” McCree mumbles and strokes the top of Hanzo's head with his thumb.
“I will later.” He opens his eyes and peers up at McCree. “Tell me one of your stories.”
His eyes close and he listens to McCree go on about something that happened when he was in high school that ended with one of his teachers coercing his class into cleaning his car. He's not really listening and McCree knows it and Hanzo knows that he knows it but appreciates that he keeps talking anyway.
One day this is going to end.
Hanzo is going to have to take a 12 hour flight back to Japan. He'll be back in his large bed with his 500 count sheets. McCree will go back to his 1bd/1ba apartment where he routinely hears the distant sounds of gunfire. Hanzo won't be able to feel warm, chapped lips on his neck anymore and McCree won't be able to run his fingers through silky, black hair. The promises they've made are all they have.
Even though the future is uncertain, they know they don't want to give up.
“Hey.” McCree tilts his head and runs his fingers through Hanzo's hair. “You still awake?”
“Mhm.” Hanzo places his hands flat against McCree's chest and kisses him gently on the tip of his nose. “I like being here with you, Jesse.”
McCree responds with a grin and dips down to kiss him. Hanzo links his fingers behind McCree's neck and feels the reverberations of McCree's laughter against his lips. He starts laughing, too, for no other reason than McCree is, and soon they pull back and simply laugh until their cheeks begin to hurt. One of his hands leaves McCree's chest to grab for McCree's own and he twins their fingers together. He surges up and places kisses all over his face, leaving McCree to giggle even harder.
Their fits end with both of their faces red and small teardrops in the corners of their eyes.
His face softens as he looks at Hanzo. With a gentle tug he pulls him in closer until their bodies are flush together. He smooths back his hair and tucks it behind his ear and kisses him so gentle and sweet that Hanzo feels himself melt against him. Hanzo tangles their legs together as he lets McCree nibble on his bottom lip. His other arm throws itself around McCree's neck and lets his fingers dig into short, brown hair.
The words “I love you” are whispered against his lips and Hanzo squeezes his hand in silent affirmation.
so.i was super intent on finising it like Yes i gotta do this. and after i wrote a whole bunch like 10 pages of important character conversations openoffice crashed or i didn't save or something but i lost a bunch of progress and went "THATS IT CANT DO THIS ANYMORE" ill get back to it. ive been wanting to finish it. but after i lost all that progress of writing i REALLY LIKED and havent been able to replicate i literally Wanted To Die
Hi I love your writing! I was trying to find a fic I'm pretty sure you wrote? It was NC-17, and involved Jotaro and Kakyoin still with the Dio fleshbud. They did the deed in the forest up against a tree IIRC? Do you still have it posted by any chance? Maybe I just missed it. Thanks and have an awesome weekend!!
tumblr likes to NOT NOTIFY ME when i have asks because it has spaghetti code worse than a bethesda game
also i found it took me a while because i cant tag for shit apparently
also cross posted on ao3 but with a REALLY pretentious title
Series: Overwatch
Pairing: McCree/Hanzo
Rating: NC-17
Summary: it’s literally JUST porn
Warnings: it’s mchanzo
His hands travel up from Hanzo's thighs, up his waist, and rest against his pecs. He rests his chin on Hanzo's shoulder, and squeezes his chest. The airy moan he gets in response is delicious.
Completely in the nude, on his knees in the middle of the bed, with his long, dark locks falling over his shoulders, Hanzo looks the best he's ever looked.
“We've barely even started, Hanzo.” McCree murmurs, his hands kneading his chest, his thumbs running over his nipples, “And you're already leaking. Like an eager little whore.”
Pre-cum dribbles out of the tip of his cock and slowly slides down his shaft. McCree collects it with his thumb, and licks it off. Hanzo's pupils blow wide as his arousal blossoms further.
“Jesse...” He ekes out, gripping the front of his flannel shirt, “Please...”
“Please what?” He brushes Hanzo's hair off of his face, staring at him with large eyes and mocking innocence.
Hanzo grits his teeth, “I swear to god...” He warns dangerously though it undermined by the red blush on his cheeks.
A lecherous grin grows on McCree's lips.
“Oh, Hanzo...”
His lips breathe hot air against Hanzo's ear.
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
He runs his tongue around the shell.
“Want me to pin you down and fuck your pretty little hole?”
His teeth catch and release the lobe.
“Or would you rather choke on my cock?”
Hanzo lets out a shudder, his arms finding purchase around McCree's shoulders, his fingers digging into his shirt. Goosebumps pop up on Hanzo's skin as McCree runs his finger down his spine. He arches his chest further against McCree, sensitive nipples rubbing up against the flannel.
“Let me taste you, please.” Hanzo says in a hushed, frantic whisper. He stares up at McCree with widened eyes.
A low hum vibrates from McCree's throat as he cups the side of Hanzo's face. Hanzo grasps at the hand with his own.
“Alright. Go ahead, sweetheart. Put those pretty lips of yours to work.” Their lips meet, so fleetingly that Hanzo chases after him when he pulls away.
Hanzo lowers himself down to his stomach as gracefully as he can, deft fingers making short work of McCree's belt and zipper. McCree's cock releases with a slight bob as he pulls down his pants just enough, and Hanzo cannot help but lick his lips as he takes the head of his cock into his mouth. His fingers leave white marks against McCree's jeans as he scratches down them.
“Oh baby, you can suck dick so much better than this. Take my cock down to the hilt.” He croons, and Hanzo braces himself on McCree's thighs as he goes down. The moan that comes from McCree is nothing short of sultry as he hits the back of Hanzo's throat.
He sighs out Hanzo's name and entwines his fingers in his thick strands of hair. A slight tug gets a small moan from Hanzo, and the vibrations send a tingle up McCree's spine. Love fills his eyes as he stares down at Hanzo, and his gaze is met with hardly a wait. All he's done to Hanzo is stroke up his body and let him suck his dick, and he's red in the face and glassy in the eyes.
Hanzo's head bobs, pulling back to suck on the tip as his hand works the shaft. His ass is high in the air, trembling, catching McCree's interest. He sucks on a finger and leans over, running it around Hanzo's hole.
“Mhhm, I can feel you twitching, baby. You're tryin' to suck me in.” He grabs a handful of Hanzo's ass, “I can tell you're hungry for cock.”
A tug of Hanzo's hair gets him off his dick. His head lifts up and his dark locks of hair fall in front of his face once more, concealing the dark red tint on his cheeks.
One broad hand cups Hanzo's cheek once more and pulls him in while the other settles on the small of his back. Their lips meet sloppily as McCree settles Hanzo back down on the bed. His hand slips around from the small of his back, grasping Hanzo's cock and pressing his thumb into the slit. Hanzo lets out a small “oh” sound and squirms beneath him, fingers pulling the sheets taut as McCree kisses down to his chest and takes one of his nipples in his mouth.
“Nn.” Hanzo covers his mouth as the moans begin to slip out.
Hanzo is left wanting as McCree pushes himself up, his hands moving up to grasp at Hanzo's pecs once more. He squeezes the plush muscles together as his thumbs flick at his nipples and Hanzo writhes against the bedding, begging and keening for more.
“Jesse, please, oh―.”
“Look at you...” McCree murmurs, “Such a beautiful slut, moanin' my name. So eager for my cock you can barely help yourself...”
The rough pads of his thumbs push down his nipples, and Hanzo groans McCree's name, his arms circling around his broad shoulders.
“I could play with your pretty chest all night long, sweetheart.” He murmurs against his ear, “But I got a better idea.” He gives Hanzo one last kiss, “On your hands and knees.”
Pulling back, he watches with a smug, satisfied grin as Hanzo's entire body shakes. The effort it takes him to get into the position is immense, but his grin only grows wider as Hanzo finally settles in and arches his back, pointing his ass up just the way he likes it.
“Oh, that is just perfect.” McCree traces his finger down Hanzo's spine, slowly, teasingly, “Get your ass higher―ah.” Hanzo pillows his head on his arms as he drops his chest to the bed, pulling his knees into his body and presenting himself beautifully, “Now that is what I like to see.”
“Please, Jesse.” Hanzo whispers, “I cannot take your teasing much longer.”
McCree chuckles, and kneads Hanzo's ass, his thumbs tracing around his pretty pink hole.
He presses kisses against the base of Hanzo's spine, “What's the word before you―oh right.” His grin was nothing short of wolfish, “Itadakimasu.”
The look of annoyance from Hanzo is the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes and works his tongue inside of Hanzo's hole. His hand moves up Hanzo's back to press between his shoulder blades and force him harder against the mattress. Hanzo's cock is so hard it looks painful. McCree doesn't care.
Hanzo has not ceased rocking back and forth in a desperate effort to pull McCree in deeper. In a show of mercy, his hand slides back down to Hanzo's ass and opens him up further and twists his tongue around inside. By the sound of Hanzo's breathing and from how tightly his body is drawn, McCree is genuinely surprised Hanzo hasn't come yet.
“C'mon babydoll, tell me what you want.” He kisses around Hanzo's hole as he talks, his voice a muffled hum.
“Fucker.” Hanzo hisses past gritted teeth.
“What's that, cupcake?” McCree inquires sweetly, and Hanzo can feel the smile on McCree's lips touching his skin, “Didn't quite catch that.”
He presses the flat of his tongue against Hanzo's puckered hole and licks. Hanzo bites down on his knuckles to suppress the whine that very audibly comes from him.
“I-I can't, oh, I cannot beg like this―.” His eyes are dark and heady as he angles himself to look back at McCree, “Y-You know what I want.”
McCree tilts his head in a grand display of faux innocence, “Do you want my cock?” He kisses the base of his spine as Hanzo groans, “Want me to pound into your tight ass?” His shaggy brown hair just barely brushes against Hanzo's soft skin as his lips move up his back.
The little whimper Hanzo gives goes straight to McCree's cock, and he moves seconds after he sees the gentle nod of Hanzo's head. He leans over Hanzo's body to grab the lube sitting on the nightstand, accidentally letting the head of his cock catch against his hole and then not-so-accidentally grinding into him.
“Jesse.” Hanzo breathes out, both irritably admonishing and painfully turned on.
McCree purposefully doesn't respond but the grin on his face speaks volumes.
His hand is slick and wet and the slapping sounds that echo in the room as he lubricates himself up only serves to arouse the two of them more. By the time he's rubbing his hand on the sheets, Hanzo is breathing so hard and quivering so much that McCree can tell he's at that place of utter desperation that he so rarely allows himself to get to.
“M'kay, gimme one sec, sweetheart,” He puts his palms on Hanzo's thighs and begins to turn him over, “c'mon, don't go actin' like a sack of potatoes.”
He rolls Hanzo onto his back, licking his lips as he sees the slow ooze of pre-cum from the tip of his cock. Hanzo mutters something unintelligible in Japanese and throws his arm over his face. With a tut, McCree pulls it off and brushes all the hair off that's hiding his pretty, flushed face.
The arousal in Hanzo's eyes turns softer as he gazes up at McCree, and McCree goes dumbstruck, breaking character as he stares into them with pure awe. His chest goes tight as the corners of Hanzo's eyes crinkle with an adoration only meant for him.
“God.” Jesse gives an awkward, nervous chuckle, “I love you so much, you know?” He presses his forehead to Hanzo's, and smiles as Hanzo gives a little laugh that shows off his pearly white teeth.
Hanzo cups his cheek, and strokes his fingers through McCree's thick brown hair, “You are doing wonderfully, Jesse.” Hanzo kisses the tip of his nose, “I love you, as well.”
McCree pulls himself back and slides his hands down to Hanzo's legs, bending them and pushing them up until his ankles were by his head. His hands stay on the back of Hanzo's thick thighs, licking his lips as he stares down at Hanzo's twitching hole.
He lines up his cock and pushes in, biting down on his lower lip at the tight, tight squeeze. Eyes clamped shut, Hanzo grabs into McCree's flannel and refuses to let go.
“Oh honey.” McCree grits his teeth, catches his breath, “You are suckin' me in so god damn good. S' like you were made to take my cock.” He leans down, and licks a long stripe up his neck, “Ha...how'd you like that, sweet pea? Ngh...s-stay in bed all day, pampered n' split on my cock.”
Hanzo says something in Japanese, but McCree doesn't particularly care as he pulls back out and thrusts back in. He keeps his hands on Hanzo's ankles for leverage, his hair falling in front of his face as his pace builds up from languid to brutal in the briefest of times.
His rhythm is far from steady. Intense, needy, he shoves his cock inside of Hanzo and grits his teeth at the way Hanzo clenches around him. As Hanzo squirms beneath him, he gasps and cries for more and please in two languages as he shoves his cock inside of him to the root. Hanzo quite literally rips his shirt off of him, the buttons popping off and flying to somewhere neither of them care about at the moment. He's pulled down until his chest is touching Hanzo's and his tongue is mapping out Hanzo's teeth.
The next thrust, rough and slick, has Hanzo breaking the kiss and crying out for God.
McCree chuckles, as out of breath as he is, and rolls his hips into Hanzo as an animalistic instinct surges in him to mark up his neck, blotting it with dark hickeys. He can feel Hanzo's nails scratching up his back, can tell just how red those lines will be in the morning, but for the moment he can't bring himself to give a damn as his balls press against Hanzo's ass again and again and again.
“Yeah...” He sighs against Hanzo's neck, “You take cock so fuckin' good, Hanzo.” He laughs once more, breathless, “Like the perfect whore you are.”
It doesn't surprise him how close he feels to climax already. Hanzo engulfs him so well, clenching so hot around him, that McCree knows he won't be able to hold on much longer.
His already fervent, broken pace turns feral as his fingers dig into Hanzo's thighs and as Hanzo's fingers dig into his back. Their lips meet in a sloppy kiss that ends in them panting heavily against each others mouths. McCree manages to glance down as he feels Hanzo's cock touch against his stomach. It's bright red and drooling; even the slightest bit of stimulation would get him off.
Hanzo grunts and sinks his teeth into McCree's neck, doing anything he can to smother the lewd, desperate sounds that continue to pour out of him. Of course, the second McCree rolls his hips quick and hard inside of him has Hanzo breaking off and moaning loud enough for the sound to bounce off the walls, the sultry noise echoing in McCree's ears.
“M' bout to come, sweetheart.” He kisses Hanzo's brow, “You just...keep takin' me so deep in that I, nh, can't hold on much longer...”
His breath is wet against Hanzo's neck before he sucks against his skin. Hanzo bucks up against him, desperate for friction.
“Please, Jesse, I, ha, I n-need to come.” Hanzo opens his eyes, bleary that they are, and gazes at him desperately while he pants for air, “Jesse.” He commands, “Touch me.”
McCree leaves a trail of bites and kisses as he makes his way to Hanzo's mouth, their lips moving together in a frenzied heat. Ever so slightly, Hanzo can feel McCree lightly trace a path to Hanzo's cock. One of his large, square fingers runs its way down from the tip where pre-cum dribbles out to the root where his balls lay tightly pulled in.
It's all the stimulation he needs.
The moan that leaves Hanzo is a breathless little noise that sounds like it was punched out of him. His back arches beautifully and come splatters against his abs and stomach. In his haze, he distantly hears McCree grunt and swear, and he feels teeth sink into his neck as McCree spasms and shoots his seed inside of him.
For a few moments, McCree stays on top of him, worn and flaccid, his hair curtaining his face as he takes in deep gulps for air. After what feels like hours, he rolls off of Hanzo and lays flat on his back on the bed, catching his breath. The blissful silence is only broken by their harsh gasping and gentle shifting on the bed.
Once he can bear to think about anything other than how nice laying down and not moving is, McCree closes his eyes and furrows his brow, his hand going down to pick at his jeans. He groans.
Hanzo twitches in response, but doesn't actually make an attempt to move, “Hm?”
“I kept my damn jeans on.” He groans once more, “They're sweaty as hell now. No wonder I feel so hot and gross.”
“It is a good thing I ripped that flannel, then.” Hanzo mutters, “You would have been even more sweaty.”
McCree's lips downturn into a mild pout, “I liked that shirt, too.”
“I will get it fixed.”
Hanzo gathers up the last vestiges of energy he has to move his hand, grasping for McCree's and twining their fingers together.
“Could we stay like this for a little while longer?”
The soft, tired and dulcet tone of Hanzo's voice makes a grin tug at McCree's lips. Once more, he realizes just how in love he is.
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Hey there just wanted to say that I love reading your fics so much! :D you're probably one of my favorite writers and no one should ever stop you from doing what you love ^____^ I've been reading your jotakak fics over and over again when I'm not feeling great cause it lifts my mood up a lot 😭 so keep up the good work and thank you for providing everyone with good quality content!!! 🙏🙏🙏 Hope you're having a swell day!
It's cool, and thanks for the apology! Idk if that'll get you removed off any lists, personally I think the authors list is helpful for recovering victims, but I think it's great that your educating yourself at least when so many authors refuse to.
oh the authors list is definitely helpful but the bad things need to be weighed against everything else they’ve done, and i don’t think one or two shitty fics means they should be on it
Same anon: Isis can easily be interpreted as either a reincarnation love story or a story of childhood abuse leading to the victim becoming what the abuser wanted from them. That's what had me conflicted & scared by the end tbh, idk which was true.
yeah i understand. i tried to make the relationship complicated but i’m legitimately sorry if i caused you any distress, you don’t deserve that
and to be fair i didn’t know what grooming was until like
two days ago.
but yeah i understand where you’re coming from now even though i disagree and i apologize for any undue harm
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It was the possessiveness, isolation, and the sexually charged atmosphere when he was a minor & earning his trust that felt like grooming for me. He waited til he was 18 but he still had those feelings beforehand. Does that make sense?
i guess so
like the possessiveness i really tried to downplay and keep out but on next readings Yeah i understand it’s there and i should’ve done a better job
but the isolation part was just a straight nod to Acutal Kakyoin who was like “i dont wanna make friends because they cant see my stand friend” and jotaro was just kinda like “well alright”
the sexually charged atmosphere i get where people uncomfortable, but again its this impossible situation that i found really intriguing to write. how would u react if u had the love of ur life, as a teenager, continuously hitting on you, and he still doesnt have his memories back and you still love him
its like i really tried to make jotaro be Sensible but also really torn and wanting to take advantage of it but he couldn’t because he wanted to be a Good Person and not fuck things up again
i can totally understand now why somebody would be uncomfortable though. i still don’t agree but yea i see it now
I like your writing & even parts of Isis but, even with Jotaro keeping Kakyoin at arm's length as a kid, his behavior towards a minor/young adult he's a guardian of is highly inappropriate grooming type shit. Idk how you see it otherwise.
i really never saw it as grooming.
like its literally an impossible situation but i found it interesting to write where the reincarnated love of your life is a horny teenager and you are an adult With Morals so its part desperately trying to be a good person and part going “this is Fucking Hard To Deal With”
the gift giving and stuff like. there was always plot reasons for it?? maybe i’m just a dumbass but i literally never saw it as grooming. i know the age difference skeeved a lot of people out and i understand that but the grooming thing, i just dont see it
