It wasn't easy, being married to such a powerful Don. It wasn't like he was the only one around--you knew that on account of your father being one as well, by some luck of the draw--but he was certainly one of the more powerful, and one of the less corrupt. That alone was a rarity. But Giorno was one of a kind in that he often insisted on overseeing every last little detail of his operations himself. It wasn't that he didn't have good lieutenants, it was just that he was an extremely fastidious man. It was one of the many reasons you love him.
It's also one of the many reasons you’ve been looking forward to this evening.
Your own father was pleased as could be with how successful your marriage had been, and how happy you were, given how tentative you had been about the whole thing at first. But there was still business to do, and grand-scale parties were a great place to do it. With no paper or lawyers in sight, deals could be made and broken in a matter of moments, and even that was helpful to let you know who was on your side and who wasn't.
Your husband was one of the best. You felt pride filling your heart at how he glided from person to person, capturing allegiances like it was as easy as breathing, moving as lightly and lithely as he always had. There was something within him, even from the moment you’d met, that seemed to shine--something others coveted and would draw near to try and seize.
But he was across the room, and you were no broker, not like he was. No, you were an enforcer, the iron of your fists to be feared. You were no delicate thing, born into a high-rank as so many assumed. Your father had thoughtfully made sure that every second possible, you were learning to fight and defend and control. Having a Stand only made this easier. But the fact of the matter was that diplomacy never came to you quite as quickly as your attacks and defenses did, and so you stayed away in an attempt to be helpful and not sabotage Giorno’s hard work.
So of course something goes wrong. You really ought to expect it by now, but you’re somehow unrelentingly optimistic. Damn your positivity.
“Buonasera.” You startle slightly, taken aback by the sudden presence at your side, offering you a glass of white wine. You can hardly help the slight curl to your lip as you glance up towards the face that you already feel is going to annoy you.
And you were right. He’s handsome enough, golden skinned and dark haired in a way that reminds you of Mista, but with this awful simpering expression that tells you immediately all he’s hoping for is bragging rights that would come from sleeping with you. Anger flares up in your gut, both at this disgusting, snivelling little man--and at the world you live in at large. Again and again, you find yourself reduced down to associations: you are your father’s child and Giorno’s spouse before you are yourself. You are something that belongs in relation to a person, not someone who exists on their own. Regardless of your achievements, this never seems to change.
You feel your nails dig into your palms, and you aim to control your breathing. There is too much at stake tonight to start a fight, to make a fuss. You are better than this. You won’t ruin a single iota of Giorno’s hard work, so you make sure that your voice is smooth and even when you speak.
“I'm not interested. Have a good evening.”
“Wait, wait, I haven't even introduced myself! My name is--”
“I don't care.” Your voice is icy cold, removed as you yourself start to walk away. But now you feel a hand on your wrist, and your pursuer is managing to grate on your nerves in a special kind of way that leaves you speechless. Your first instinct is to grasp his wrist, twist it around behind him with a pivot, and break it. Your second is to grasp his wrist and send him into the wall. The third is to murder him, right here and now, with your Stand. But none of these are options. You’ll do right by Giorno, and so you find your nails digging into your palms once more, and you breathe. So when the idiot in front of you opens his mouth to presumably tell you what it is he thinks you want, the sound of another voice shocks you out of your glacial fury.
“What have we here?”
You shiver automatically, a rush coursing down your spine at the steel in your husband’s voice, a brief crackle of electricity dancing across your skin as you find his gaze already locked on you, so intense you forget that there’s an idiot beside you. Already, your skin feels warmer where he’s placed his hand half-atop the one you’d just strained against, his warm skin only just barely touching your own. It makes you feel important, safe. And considering your lifestyle, those were both rare enough to not be taken for granted.
The snivelling little man who’d thought to pursue you stutters something out and rushes off. You hardly notice, feeling something within you tremble at the intensity of your husband’s gaze. You follow the warmth of Giorno’s touch, finding yourself drifting closer to him without a single thought in your head. All else seems to fade away, your reality narrowing down to the perfect blue of his eyes--until you feel someone edge by you, the brush of their shoulder an explosion of unexpected touch that leaves you startled back into the reality of the crowded ballroom.
Giorno’s gaze remains unchanged as you start to speak, but you feel something more within it-like he’d been pulled into your gravity, too.
“I'd ask how things are going, but you're clearly---”
“Ready to go home.”
You pause at that. Giorno never interrupts you--ever. In years past, even if you spoke of something with the least amount of importance, he would always pay rapt attention. The one time you asked him why, he told you it was because he loved to hear you speak and the words you used. This was the tip off--that he was so preoccupied by something that he interrupted you, so you take a moment to look him over. It won’t be apparent to anyone else, but you know this man as well as you know yourself. The tension is there in the rigid, sharp line of his broad shoulders, in the perfect roundness of his pupils, in the most minute trembling of his hands as he takes yours.
“I've finished all I need here. Have you?”
Worry fills your heart at why he could possibly need to speak to you privately so badly. What’s gone wrong? You nod wordlessly, and without another thought, your husband wraps his arm around your shoulders protectively and leads you out.
It's perfectly silent when you retrieve your coats from the coat room, and the only noise outside is the gentle singing of cicadas before the telltale sound of rubber on gravel as the driver pulls up for you two.
As always, the front window rolls down, and Giorno looks at the man expectantly.
“Oh! Uhm, r-right. The password is “the night is bright.””
A fraction of the tension leaves Giorno, and he nods wordlessly as he opens the door for you to climb in. You do, and he after, and you aren't surprised to see the partition already up. Once the door closes and the engine starts, you turn to your husband to ask what's wrong.
You don't get that chance.
Almost immediately, he’s pulling you into a searing kiss, his hands already winding into your hair. Pinpricks dance all along your scalp as Giorno’s fingers grip you hard enough to drag you closer into him, but not so indelicately to hurt. No, he strikes that perfect balance of pain and pleasure that tantalizes you so, that always leaves you hungry for more and more of it.
The breath is stolen right out of your lungs as your husband takes your mouth, his teeth giving the slightest tug at your own lower lip before the sweet slide of his tongue with your own. Heat begins to fill you up at the sensual, wet slide of his mouth over yours, the small sounds he's already coaxing from you aren't audible.
You grip the lapels of his perfectly pressed jacket, no doubt rumpling it, but you don't care. How could you, with your husband’s hands already rucking up your own clothes in a hungry attempt at having more of your skin under his fingertips? His mouth slides from yours, and you can't help your low, soft groan as his teeth find purchase in the curve of your neck, his breath deliciously hot against your tender flesh. The sweet scrape of his teeth on your skin means that there will be a mark tomorrow--and you don't mind.
“I want you,” he manages. It's not a request, or a demand--merely a statement of desire followed by a harsher bite that has you arching into him, fingertips biting into his shoulders sharply. “The second we are home...”
He doesn't need to finish his sentence. From the way he pulls you to straddle a powerful thigh, you know. And you want it.
“Please,” you murmur, soft but heady, and you can feel his inhale. He takes your mouth again, just barely speaking against your lips in that soft, commanding tone.
“As soon as we are home, I’m going to make sure the only word you can remember is my name.”
You can't help a wicked smile of your own, and your purr of “Promise?”, watching as a similar smile unfurls on his face as well. The sight makes your heart pound a little harder---to think you managed to become one of the few people who see Italy’s most powerful Don in the moments when he isn't as perfectly calm and collected as he’s believed to be....it warms something within your chest.
The warmth remains and travels south, slowly, as Giorno pulls you back into a kiss--still searingly passionate, but not as rushed. No, it's almost teasing, especially when his hands travel to your hips and pull in such a way that you can tell what he wants--for you to rock your hips against him.
Almost tentatively, slowly, you drag your hips back just the littlest bit, and you shudder at how good the friction is. As the years have passed, your husband began to resemble his paternal linkages (both of them), his lithe form giving way to a more statuesque musculature. You would love him however he looked, but you have to admit that the sheer friction you're getting from grinding down into a thick, powerful thigh is leaving your breath hitching. Matters are only made worse when you feel the strong bite of his fingers into the flesh of your rear, his hands pulling you down into him further as he presses his thigh up into you, increasing the sensation in a bright burst of arousal. You can’t help the short cry that escapes your lips as you fall against you husband, shivering against his chest as he keeps up his teasing, his hands helping you to rock your hips down into him. The friction might well drive you mad, your breath coming faster and faster in pants as you're helpless to Giorno’s advances.
“Please,” you gasp, unsure of what it is that you're pleading with him for--more, or less, or something between perhaps? All you know is that you can feel his heart’s beat, and you want it to be faster. So you arch up and pull him into a kiss, your lips parting for him almost immediately. All of you is open and welcoming to him, every part of you yearning for more of his touch, more of his love, more of anything he’d deign to give you.
“Amore mio,” you hear him breathe against your own mouth, a shiver running through you. It's a small thing, but you love how only you, so compliant and obedient to your darling husband, can be the one to unravel him slowly. By the end of the night, you'll both be undone, helplessly intertwined, and you cannot wait for that sweet satisfaction.
“Giorno, Giorno....I need you,” you mewl as he lays you back against the seats, spread out beneath him, his lips and teeth finding purchase in your neck as his hands slide slowly up your sides. “Please, make love to me, please--”
You're silenced with a kiss, one more ferocious than any other this night, drawing out a shuddering moan from you. You think you may very well reach your peak already when his voice, rough and low, reaches your ears, those blue eyes ocean-deep as he speaks.
“No. I’m going to fuck you.”
And as he takes your mouth again, teeth and tongue and lips all possessive, claiming you for his own, you can't help the urgency that rises within you as you long for your own home and the bed you can't wait for him to pin you to.