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Despite how similar their interests and hobbies were, their lifestyle took its toll.
Squalo's nighttime wakefulness was sometimes even useful. Not washing dishes, of course, but coffee in the morning, fresh hot breakfast in bed were a pleasant surprise every time.
Honestly, such surprises weren't always.
They were still young enough to have spontaneous needs at the most unexpected, sometimes inopportune moments.
But that wasn't the problem.
The problem was Squalo's decisions to stay and stain the bed with human waste, which, moreover, had to be tried to wash off.
They had already talked about this.
But, apparently, the needs of the body prevailed.
After this little entertainment that Squalo allowed himself, having forgotten himself in his own lust and stupidity, Tiziano spent about a day to tidy up not only the bed linen on which they slept, but also himself.
It wasn't that he had any problem with Squalo or sex with him, he was ready to jump on that red-haired idiot every time he saw him, but Tiziano was still and remains damn squeamish, even when it comes to people close to him.
And if, without his knowledge, various types of liquids fall on his body in the middle of a sweet sleep, he will die if he doesn't spend at least two hours in the bathroom immediately.
Not to mention sleeping like that at all…
While Tiziano was trying to practically douse himself with holy water, having spent the whole day messing around the house, all Squalo could allow himself was to look like a beaten, helpless puppy who had accidentally bitten his mother during play and now silently followed him everywhere.
Tizano was sitting in the bath?
Squalo was sitting by the door.
Tizano was washing clothes?
Squalo was sitting next to him on the bathtub.
Even the daily routine of the house wasn't without company, cooking, watering the flowers, feeding the fish, Squalo was always hanging around nearby, his head down and fiddling with his own fingers.
Tiziano himself didn't comment on this.
None of them said anything, if think about it.
As they ate, all Squalo could bring himself to do was reluctantly pick at his food, breaking it, fiddling, and moving around on his plate.
– We missed breakfast, we need to eat lunch.
Only after these words he finally start eating, because if Tiziano wanted it now, he wouldn't forgive himself for not doing it.
There was no work today, which was good news, because when Tiziano finally got fed up with being followed wherever he went, without exception, Squalo sat on the living room sofa while the other finished his business, making full use of the time that had turned up free from murders, stalking, torture and kidnappings.
At some point, in fact, Squalo fell asleep altogether, exhausted by oppressive feelings, emotions and thoughts, drooling, to his shame, on the sofa, falling on his side and burying his nose in the soft velvet upholstery.
His fighting spirit, of course, is strong, making him ready to fight almost to the death, but even a purposeful desire to do nothing, so as not to interfere, to sit with his hands folded was beyond his strength.
However, he still did not deny his guilt and was ready to take all the appropriate preventive measures that only Tiziano would consider necessary, if this would help to smooth over his little prank, which they had already talked about more than once.
He was awakened from his lazy sleep by a rich aroma that enveloped not only their modest house, from where they were periodically moving from place to place, but also met him nearby.
His eyes opened of their own accord, taking a few seconds to focus on the clear image in front of him and almost immediately seeing the plate of lasagne ricce con la ricotta on the coffee table, immediately waking him up completely with the realization that Tiziano had made the dinner himself.
Lazily rubbing his eyes, he sits down and picks up a plate, looking at the always perfect presentation, the golden cheese crust and the perfect cut with all the layers on display, prompting him to look into the kitchen. Either to thank Tiziano, or just to check if he was there.
There was no one.
But there was a note nearby, saying "Eat" in a sweeping, thin handwriting, more reminiscent of tangled vines in a harsh jungle.
He had already gotten used to the way Tiziano wrote, so it was not difficult to read, even more, he damn well liked his handwriting, as elegant and sometimes incomprehensible as Tiziano himself.
Anyway
Who is he to argue with paper.
After eating fairly quickly, mostly just stuffing it all into his mouth, he stands up and goes to the sink, chewing the last of the food he's stuffed into his cheeks in a hurry, and freezes when he sees a new note that says "Don't wash."
No problem.
He's willing to follow such instructions as long as it takes.
He carefully sets the plate down, dropping it into the sink, chewing quickly and heading towards the bedroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he goes.
The door opens almost silently under his pressure, and he glances inside briefly, taking in the surroundings before fully opening it and stepping through the doorway with relative boldness, glancing at the sleeping Tiziano.
Well, yes, he should've guessed.
The food was quite cold, apparently not having broken through his own sleep for a long time earlier.
And it was already dark outside.
Really, Squalo would have just turned around and gone back to sleep on the couch, but that would probably be too rude of him, especially after he hadn't left Tiziano's side all day.
As quietly as physically possible, he closes it, which seems to make the room itself quieter from his presence.
The T-shirt casually flies towards the dresser, barely hitting the same place with the shorts, so that he remains in his underwear.
Tiziano slept in a surprisingly modest position, turned on his side and hugging the pillow, burying his face in it.
He had tried to hug or grab something in his sleep before, if not always, but now he clearly felt the tension, the stiffness in this position.
Apparently, he was still angry.
With a deep sigh, Squalo slowly, almost reluctantly, but still carefully climbs onto the bed, casting another fleeting glance at Tiziano and climbing under the covers, mimicking his pose.
The bed exuded a mixture of scents, the detailed melody of which he lacked the skills to decipher, but it smelled delicious, the smell of freshness and a subtle, soporific hint of something floral.
The pillows were soft, clearly plumped up before sleep.
He could even hear Tiziano's relaxed breathing, occasionally fidgeting in his side.
However, Squalo himself was wide awake.
All he could do was lie there, staring into the darkness, occasionally closing his eyes, but not even to sleep better, simply because it was dark anyway.
It was hard to say how much time had passed, lying in this position, and how much more time might pass before his conscience took pity and finally allowed him to fall asleep.
And perhaps he even feels better when, after a small rustling sound behind him, he suddenly feels a firm pressure on his back, against which Tiziano is undoubtedly pressed. Elegant but strong arms, capable of knocking him down with one precise blow if desired, gently embrace him around the waist, pressing their whole body tightly, as he always did.
A barely perceptible, silent sigh of relief escapes Squalo's lips from the realization that perhaps everything really is all right, the edges of his mouth even lift slightly, feeling the lazy, sleepy touches, the quiet, moderate breathing over his ear, with which Tiziano buried his nose in the back of his head.
However, the very next moment the smile falls from his face as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a slight excitement and a stony tension in his body from the feeling of a soft palm sliding down along his stomach.
A nervous glance immediately darts towards Tiziano, and Squalo can't help but bite his lip from the expected appearance of the tyrant's unflinching closed eyelids, playfully and sweetly teasing the underside of his clenched belly like a snake stalking its prey before pouncing on its victim, burrowing slowly and terrorizingly under his underwear.
Squalo barely blinks, petrified by the spontaneous playful mood.
He closes his lips, biting his own tongue at the soft sensation of long fingers sliding over his cock, twitches with tension.
– Tiz…
His voice is barely audible in an indistinct whisper, barely moving his tongue. His Adam's apple twitches from the energy that overflows his body, and head from thoughts, before he bites the tip of his middle finger in a fit of emotion.
The tanned hand does not stop, continuously slowly exploring the tightness of the soft fabric, studying the flesh pulsating with excitement in his palm and soon sticking it out.
As if on display, Tiziano demonstratively allows the already bashfully partially hardened organ for Squalo's eyes to be gazed upon in silence, before elegant fingers finally close around the swelling thickness.
The thumb traces a savoring line along the upward direction, gathering the soft skin of the foreskin around, and only then, finally, making the first slow thrusts along the shaft, which reacts so vividly against Squalo's own will to skillful, knowledgeable touches, perfectly understanding its effect on him, especially right now.
It only took a few correct, weighty slaps for his cock to become completely hard in the insistent grip and drip, no, leak with hot pre-cum that caught the fingers of Tiziano, who was still peacefully buried in his shoulder, rubbing the slippery substance between palm and organ.
Like a mute fish, Squalo opens his mouth to speak, but all he can manage is a shaky, restless wheeze.
As a new, fresh string, his body is taut with the weight of the thin, sinuous thread pressing against his balls and the base of his cock.
It took him a second to glance down to realize.
The first thing his eyes caught was a tanned palm, clasped around the cockhead, and below it was added a thin tentacle, tightly wrapped around it.
Now that was not good.
He could endure the torment that Tiyano's unhealthy brain could subject him to, but when a malicious stand joins in with these evil games, he would rather jump out the window than endure it.
– Tiz. Calm down. You can jerk off on the bed, I'll wash it all off.
Squalo whispers nervously and barely audibly, convulsively clutching Tiziano's wrist with his other hand, then choking on his own tongue as soon as his buttocks reflexively tensed from the two tentacles pressing against them, sticking with their suckers, and one sliding between them.
– T-too much. Tiz. It's too late.
All he manages to get from Tiziano in response is a languid, drawn-out exhalation somewhere into his neck, covering half of his body with goosebumps.
And through his throat, a broken moan immediately breaks out, which he barely stifles halfway, tightly covering his mouth with his hand in a piercing spasm.
He's well acquainted with this sensation.
A sensation that makes him writhe, twist and choke uncontrollably, like a worm, under the influence of a wriggling tentacle that has slipped inside.
The tenacious suction cups, tightly clamped between the tense, lumpy walls, pressed tightly, clinging and peeling off with difficulty, each time sending burning impulses straight into the chest and lower abdomen, as if twisting in a vice. This tiny bastard definitely took advantage of his master's knowledge of the intricacies of human anatomy.
Both Squalo and his cock were going crazy, pulsing, twitching and squirting, shooting sticky but fragile threads of pre-cum into the tightly closed palm that painfully caressed the most sensitive edges.
His temples pounded like a Guinness World Record drum roll, his lungs could barely function, sucking in air, and his heart threatened to stop from the overabundance of emotion.
The tentacle played with his balls, rolling the two swollen balls, squeezing and letting Tiziano feel their tension, enjoying the quiet sobs of Squalo curling up in his arms like a kitten.
– Too... intense..
He gasps, squeezing out the last of his sane voice before growling like a cornered animal under the pressure of Tiziano's thumb rubbing his wet, needy, aching urethra, desperately begging for release.
Even through the impenetrable haze of various sensations, half of which Squalo could not even describe in words, he could feel from all possible sides these irritating little appendages, pushing against and pushing apart his buttocks, until, like a bolt from the blue, he was pierced straight through the prostate.
As if stung, he sharply darts his gaze at the imperturbable, theatrically dozing Tiziano, regretting every life decision he has ever made in his life, admiring the relaxed expression on his face, the white eyelashes lying softly on his cheekbones, until he begins to realize how everything before his eyes began to swim under the persistent pressure of a tentacle rubbing at one specific point.
This stand was enjoying its position, no doubt about it.
Tiziano's wishes aside, this cephalopod creature would have definitely done the same and worse for its own pleasure.
The suckers savored and courted the treasured swollen mound, tugging, kissing and sucking.
This was no longer revenge.
It was pure torture, and Tiziano was clearly getting his own rotten pleasure from it, just as much as his little damn stand.
Well, they were one after all.
And Squalo loved him for it.
Loved everything about him.
Even though he wasn't sure how long he'd live if all his orgasms were this intense.
– Tiz, I'm gonna die..
Squalo could have sworn he felt a vein in his neck bulge with tension and pent-up energy, emotions bubbling through his body like a cauldron.
– Wanna cum…
He sobs pitifully into his own palm in a stream of irresistible despair and need, sweating profusely.
A deep groan hits the walls, either from disappointment or gratitude, when a thin palm focuses on the head of his penis and persistently begins to caress it, rub and tease it even more, urging Squalo to avoid unnecessary noise, as if someone else could hear him, burying his face in the pillow already wet with sweat and saliva.
Tears form in his eyes from overexertion, soaking into the fabric of the bed linen.
– Fuck, Tiz…
A continuous stream of heavy, tight blows from three sides, outside and inside, at every point of his helpless and taut, like a string, body made his heart stop.
And it was far from a fact that this was just a beautiful exaggeration.
As if he was being mercilessly shot, forcing his muscles to pulsate.
Shark teeth sink into the pillow, like a predator into its prey, and swallow the last fatal groan before the exhausted wheeze abruptly turns into the howl of a wild dog dying somewhere in the yard.
His whole body, every corner and every cell lives the orgasm that has fallen on him, cumming abundantly into Tiziano's palm, who was in no hurry to stop, continuing to move, smearing the white substance over the ejaculating trunk. The annoying tentacle shared the intentions of its owner, continuing to torment the prostate for its own pleasure, giving out from the testicles everything that had accumulated during the day.
Squalo jerks involuntarily, bending under the weight of excessive sensitivity.
He lifts his head from the pillow and removes his hand from his mouth in a silent growl, only to immediately meet Tiziano's hand, completely covered in thick seed.
Fingers are pushed into his mouth like a battering ram, and he barely has time to squeeze out a counter moan from the shocking change in the situation.
He resists, however, not for long, the first seconds even doing it more out of surprise, in an attempt to understand what is happening, only after freely letting them inside as deeply as his dear fatal tyrant desired.
As expected, even through the pale against the background of the other sensations of the impact on the taste buds, he felt this lingering bitterness of his own seed, but so sweet when it was on Tiziano's hands.
The rough tongue bends under the weight of two pressing fingers, allowing the organ to be played with and fingered hesitantly, brushing against the teeth and sliding across the smooth roof of the mouth until at one point they reach the last phalanx and crash into the back of the throat, provoking a gagging reflex before being pulled back abruptly the next moment, leaving Squalo to swallow air greedily through coughing.
His cock and ass are released from their torment right after, leaving a feeling of lightness, but at the same time a strange, even unpleasant feeling of emptiness.
A movement is felt and heard behind him, to which Squalo instantly reacts, turning briefly over his shoulder and not thinking about anything, as if even a slight Tiziano's movement annulled everything that happened and recharged him with his former energy.
– I'm going to the shower.
Briefly, as if he hadn't just made Squalo walk to the light at the end of the tunnel and back, Tiziano commented, slowly, lazily sliding off the bed.
Squalo himself, however, is left in shock watching how the man who gave him both hell and heaven in a second gets up, ignoring his confused and life-beaten look.
– What's wrong? I thought you liked to jerk off at night.
These words seem to turn into hand on their own and make him look away guiltily.
– And yes. Your offer about doing the laundry still stands.
He adds, to which Squalo can only nod in disappointment, not because of the laundry, of course, but under the weight of that languid and unshakable gaze of Tiziano, which he, on the whole, wore most of the time.
However, he suddenly stops at the door, and his gaze changes to a questioning one, looking at the poor baby shark.
– And you won't even offer to share the bath with me? I won't sleep with a sweaty and spermy mess.
The livelier tone of voice seemed to magically awaken a second wind inside Squalo and the determination to look up at the slightly smiling Tiziano, whose smile he couldn't help but reflexively adopt.
In a rush, like a lover caught in bed with someone else's wife, he jumps out of bed, tripping over his own feet and hastily pulling on his soiled underpants on the way to Tiziano, who was leaving the bedroom.
He really was no different from his mischievous stand.
After all, that's what he liked about him.
But will he really stop jerking off in bed after this?
Well…