[Something about that phrase--I know you--makes Giorno's ears burn even more fiercely. It's true, though, isn't it? Fugo knows him so well that even when he doesn't have words, Fugo can figure him out most of the time. And for all the times it's embarrassing there are a hundred when it's just good.]
[This is good. He needs this. He needs Fugo, who understands what to do somehow when all of that bluster falls away and leaves Giorno needy but unable to ask for anything in real human words. For the millionth time even just today, he wonders what he'd do without Fugo. Fall apart, probably.]
[Or maybe he'll do that anyway. He shudders helplessly and presses an ungraceful, open-mouthed kiss against Fugo's throat at the purposeful positioning of nails at his shoulder. I know you. You already showed me. The realization shoots down his spine, how much Fugo loves him and takes care of him, how he'll be realizing that over and over again until the day he dies--and he manages two more quick, begging kisses before he doesn't have to beg anymore.]
[He doesn't know how Fugo manages to be too much and not enough at the same time all the time. He doesn't know how to put words to this other than it feels good, not sharp enough to be pain but a manifestation of need so insistent that it's impossible to pay attention to anything else. It makes him feel like he's losing control of his hands, and he is a bit; as he arches into the touch with a wordless, hungry whine, his fingers twitch against Fugo's stomach, scratching and then petting and then scratching again. By the time they settle--one running restlessly along Fugo's left hip, one gripping his right thigh tight enough to bruise at five points--he's gasped his breath back against Fugo's shoulder.]
[And bitten down.]
[In fairness: he does let go quick. He didn't mean to, and he certainly didn't mean to bite that hard. But then he does it again, gentler but slower and more pointed, because it feels right and--Fugo did say to be greedy.]
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[This is good. He needs this. He needs Fugo, who understands what to do somehow when all of that bluster falls away and leaves Giorno needy but unable to ask for anything in real human words. For the millionth time even just today, he wonders what he'd do without Fugo. Fall apart, probably.]
[Or maybe he'll do that anyway. He shudders helplessly and presses an ungraceful, open-mouthed kiss against Fugo's throat at the purposeful positioning of nails at his shoulder. I know you. You already showed me. The realization shoots down his spine, how much Fugo loves him and takes care of him, how he'll be realizing that over and over again until the day he dies--and he manages two more quick, begging kisses before he doesn't have to beg anymore.]
[He doesn't know how Fugo manages to be too much and not enough at the same time all the time. He doesn't know how to put words to this other than it feels good, not sharp enough to be pain but a manifestation of need so insistent that it's impossible to pay attention to anything else. It makes him feel like he's losing control of his hands, and he is a bit; as he arches into the touch with a wordless, hungry whine, his fingers twitch against Fugo's stomach, scratching and then petting and then scratching again. By the time they settle--one running restlessly along Fugo's left hip, one gripping his right thigh tight enough to bruise at five points--he's gasped his breath back against Fugo's shoulder.]
[And bitten down.]
[In fairness: he does let go quick. He didn't mean to, and he certainly didn't mean to bite that hard. But then he does it again, gentler but slower and more pointed, because it feels right and--Fugo did say to be greedy.]