petronia

The Mista/Giorno from yesterday, with minor edits. How creepy this fic is appears to depend on your native sensibility. XD

As

jokersama noted, anything as gorgeous/colourful/sparkly as Giorno in nature tends to be violently poisonous.

Dragonflies

Months later most of the palazzo's gardens have been restored. Corners of dilapidation remain, however, and some of the waterworks are overdue for cleaning. Standing water breeds mosquitos; mosquitos attract their natural predators. Giorno, who likes to linger over ruined pools, plucks seed heads from long grass and turns them into dragonflies.

Mista is a city boy, and distinguishes species only by colour: there's one that gleams iridescent red, another blue. Giorno's cortège on the other hand is gold tinged with green, buzzing around him like an insectoid version of the Pistols. When the dog days of August arrive the dragonflies ignore meals and hold aerial orgies over still and moving water, darting restlessly until they catch hold of a mate. Then any solid landing spot will do, even floating twigs or patches of scum. They're like couples stumbling through the door of the nearest empty room with their eyes fixed on one another and buttons half undone. Even Giorno's personal guards abandon their posts. Giorno lies on the lawn and plucks grass blades to create more, but they lock onto each other almost as soon as they leave his fingers. The male clutches the female from above and curves the lower half of his body to join with hers, pumping seed down his abdomen. There's something frightening about the resulting shape, like a single insect split incompletely in two – doubled sets of wings and legs, heads indistinguishable from tails. But Giorno watches them too intently, as if he has nothing better to do.

Just before the silence becomes unbearable he rolls over and catches at Mista's sleeve and kisses him.

So Mista says nothing, and lets himself be pulled down. The sun is hot on the back of his neck. Giorno slips his tongue into Mista's mouth, hitches up his shirt. He shifts under Mista to fit their angles together. Wisps of hair work free from his braid as they catch on the grass, gold on green. He's still too young and never has to raise his voice to anyone. He'll get Mista's sweat on his skin; he'll reach down between their bodies and wrap his fingers around the grip of Mista's semi-automatic, and take the safety off, and leave it there as he works. Mista's gunman sense issues a warning. They're exposed from all sides: the lawns too geometric, the yews too well-clipped. From a distance he could be killing Giorno like this, his hands cupped over the milky skin of Giorno's exposed throat. But he wouldn't do it that way even if he were stupid.