[Oh. Oh, Giorno thinks, eyes wide as Fugo runs his hands over him, down from his jaw all the way to his hips. He's flushed a delicate pink by the time Fugo settles, pressed close; his heart is beating a little faster, his movements slow and more curious than tentative when he creeps two fingers up the back of Fugo's neck to twine in his hair.]
That's what you want, huh . . . ?
[Fugo is very cute. Fugo is also really easy to bully. Giorno would think, logically, that if Fugo is decisive and straightforward about how much he enjoys being flustered, it would be less heart-racingly delightful.]
[In practice, this is not the case at all. All at once, Giorno's eyes light up. He twists just a little, dumps Fugo sideways on the bed, crawls over him, leans in. Very close. But not kissing. Not quite, not yet.]
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That's what you want, huh . . . ?
[Fugo is very cute. Fugo is also really easy to bully. Giorno would think, logically, that if Fugo is decisive and straightforward about how much he enjoys being flustered, it would be less heart-racingly delightful.]
[In practice, this is not the case at all. All at once, Giorno's eyes light up. He twists just a little, dumps Fugo sideways on the bed, crawls over him, leans in. Very close. But not kissing. Not quite, not yet.]
Are you sure?