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Working in the mafia, and especially as a hired killer, making enemies, witnesses, and potential avengers was an easier task than, as is customary, taking candy from a child.
So, if you weren't prepared to be extremely reverent, careful, and thoughtful about every step you took, then you either shouldn't have been where you are in the first place, or you’re already dead.
There is never too much caution.
But whatever you do, the mark you leave on history remains there forever, no matter who you are.
And in most cases, such "unfortunate" outcomes of events can be corrected almost immediately, they’re hard to miss.
Although sometimes you don't even realize that you can run into an enemy superior to you.
This was unacceptable.
But it's one thing to have a problem.
It's much worse not to understand where it is and, most importantly, how to fix it.
It all started a few, maybe about a couple of months ago.
It was hard to explain.
A strange, constant tension in the chest, in the back of the head, a tight lump in the throat from an inexplicable feeling, as if someone was watching, no, burning with a gaze.
It affected everything.
Melone could neither properly concentrate on work, nor rest, nor even distract himself with something else, he could not even sleep.
His body and brain were exhausted from constant tension, as if someone was standing right there, above his soul, drilling him with a gaze, but he was ready to swear with everything he had, with all his common sense, that there was no one, nothing, anywhere.
Eating was also impossible.
They generally didn't have enough money to afford a full, rich meal, so every meal was more valuable than any gold.
And as a result, especially with his build, he couldn't even put a fork in his mouth, feeling the back of his head burning.
He was already sick of it all.
This was definitely not paranoia. It couldn't be.
But at the same time.
How is this even possible?
He stopped killing personally a long time ago.
He never chose women in the company, especially men, it was too tedious. On top of that, he didn't particularly like adults, who had clearly been used more than once.
He always made sure that the expectant mother was completely alone, without witnesses, only then he would go to meet her.
Had he made a mistake somewhere? Didn't notice a witness? Perhaps. He really had problems with his eyesight, but he was sure that he had learned to suppress this problem.
Damn, if Risotto finds out…
The lungs are filled to the brim with fresh oxygen, slightly damp from the rain outside, before the oppressively deathly silence is interrupted by a metallic ringing.
A time-worn fork flies to the other side of the table, thrown by Melone, exhausted by nerves.
With a poisonous whine, he leans back in his chair, wiping his face until his eyes blur and trying to collect his thoughts.
– Bullshit.
There was no strength to look at this nauseating plate of bland pasta. It was embarrassing to even call it pasta. Any self-respecting Italian should have a stroke at the sight of this mess.
At least that's what it looked like in Melone's eyes.
He casually gets up from the chair, wanting to just throw it out the window, but instead only roughly pushes it aside with a rough creaking sound, in order to get out and go to the modest bedroom of his small rented apartment somewhere in the wilderness of Naples.
He would have preferred to stay in Tuscany, but it was irrational to be so far away when the main base was here.
Right now, he just needed to clear his head.
Just think about something for a second, other than the fact that they were planning to kill him in his own home.
However, he can't even do that calmly.
His heart stops for a moment, hearing a metallic ringing behind him, piercing to the point of goosebumps.
Turning around, there was a damn fork on the floor, having fallen off the table in spite of himself and, most interestingly, spinning around its axis.
His breathing quickened involuntarily from what was so expected, considering that he had thrown the cutlery to the edge, but still frightening, considering how tense he was.
He needed a rest.
Even with all his attitude towards smoking, smashing a couple of packs seemed like an indescribably tempting pleasure right now.
To hell.
Cutting his tongue under his breath, Melone turns away, not even thinking about picking her up, and goes off with his things to take a long-awaited shower.
He needed a towel and
That's it.
He couldn't stand sleeping in clothes. It was uncomfortable, hot, and bad for the skin.
And how many squeals this area had heard over the years when Ghiaccio would periodically come to him in the middle of the night to spend the night.
That was also a plus.
Once in the bathroom, a clean and fresh towel ends up on the hanger, while the home clothes he was wearing, on the contrary, fly straight to the floor. Melone will wash them later. Much later.
When he runs out of clean clothes.
Finding himself completely naked, feeling the long-awaited lightness in his body, the lightness in his chest did not even think to arise.
Slowly, if not lazily, finding himself in the shower, he carefully adjusts the water before turning it on, and exhales deeply, almost groaning, when a multitude of cool streams crash and envelop his tense body, almost burning from the sharp contrast of temperatures.
A fairy tale, one could think in those happy seconds.
But this hellish feeling inside was eating away at him from the inside.
He couldn't stop looking around, even at some point he stopped noticing how his eyes twitched of their own accord to the side from where, as it seemed to him, he was being watched.
His fingertips nervously tapped on the tiles, so much so that the first fanalgi began to go numb at some point, so deeply immersed in this paranoid feeling.
How his head was splitting.
Although, it was probably more because he hadn't slept properly for a long time.
He would definitely fail the mission if Risotto sent him out in this state. Instead of brains, rotten mush.
Ruffling his already wet hair, Melone lightly pushes the shaved length back on one side, revealing light to his blind, unmasked eye.
The soapy washcloth carefully rubbed every corner of his thin body, erasing the weight of thoughts and worries that filled his head following the soapy foam flowing down.
He stood under the running water for another 5 minutes after. Just to rest. So as not to think about anything at all.
Useless.
He glances nervously over his shoulder again and then freezes, his good eye darting around to avoid any blind spots.
Melone's Adam's apple trembles slightly as he swallows hard, pursing his thin, dry lips despite the moisture on the body, but not looking away for a moment.
He blindly turns off the water with one easy movement, not wanting to get into debt for the water on top of everything else, only deciding to get out of the shower a few seconds later, stopping first on a small soft rug.
Damn, what if the enemy somehow tracked him down? What if he wasn't careful enough during the mission?
Risotto would be furious.
Without lowering his eyes, he slowly walks on, already hating every second of his stay here.
He needs to call Ghiaccio.
He takes the towel with his fingertips and begins to wipe his face first, wipe it with literally a few quick movements, so that he can quickly raise his gaze back.
His nerves are already giving out.
With his teeth clenched painfully, Melone began to casually, either in a hurry or annoyance, or maybe both, wipe the rest of his body, not particularly thoroughly, just to remove the main moisture, but still leave a feeling of slight coolness.
Right. He almost forgot to brush his teeth with all this mess.
Casting a tired, simply exhausted glance at his own reflection, inadvertently at the same time looking around for the presence of someone behind him, he bared his fairly even teeth, at least for this he could thank his parents, teeth, assessing the color of the gums.
This was a standard process to monitor one's own health too.
Tracing the front incisors with the tip of his tongue, Melone feels how everything in his chest and throat begins to squeeze harder, he literally begins to feel sick from this force. His hands trembled, as if he had been watered and then pushed into exposed wires, a nervous exhalation escapes from the same trembling lips, choking on the root of his tongue.
His hand involuntarily, almost instinctively, grabs the scissors and swings a clear blow behind his back, before a rough, bone-breaking pain hits his body in the same second.
An inexplicable but demanding weight presses down on him from above, pressing him tightly against the washing machine, twisting his attacking arm behind his back and holding him in this uncomfortable, even more painful position.
– Stand!
Melone growls, trying to prove to himself that all his paranoid thoughts were real.
He summons Baby Face, but as a result, he immediately feels how something inexplicable pricks, almost tears him apart from the inside, forcing a quiet, painful groan to break through his clenched teeth.
– Bastard.
Melone could have sworn he tasted poison on his own tongue as his brain fought the urge to grin and smirk as paranoia rapidly grew, turning into irritation and contempt that some bastard had been terrorizing him all this time.
At least he wasn't crazy.
That was something.
He fidgets desperately, no, intently, intently enough to feel the phantom outlines of thick, even rough fingers, not only tightly squeezing his wrist, but also twisting his hand at an unnatural angle.
He kicks, not knowing where, not only because he can't see at all, unable to simply turn his head to the other side to see anything but nothing, his blind eye turned toward the attacker.
It didn't really matter, considering that the one who attacked him was the same nothing.
– Shit.
He didn't even have a chance to summon a stand, this invisible bastard seemed to sense every attempt.
So this wasn't just some street scum, this animal knew its business.
Knew how the blood boiled at that moment, how the veins pulsated, how the muscles twitched and strained, separating soul from the body.
Knew clearly enough to pierce him with a sharp pain at the very last moment, blocking the moment of stand activation.
This is even worse.
At least that's what he thought, until he was pulled out of his own thoughts about trying to figure out, at least guess, what to do by a touch on his thigh.
Exactly.
He's completely naked.
And even still partially wet.
Melone shudders, trying with animal zeal to pull away, to jerk away, to strike, everything he is capable of in such a position against an obviously stronger and bulkier opponent, but the phantom something only squeezed his buttock tighter.
He felt how nails mercilessly cling, dig into soft, tender skin, leaving marks, if not future bruises, small wounds.
Bastard.
– Just dare.
The callous hiss was barely audible even to himself, let alone to the enemy. He squints until his eyes are white, with an excitedly beating heart, unable to resist how he is roughly opened, exposing the center twitching from tension.
A heavy, almost metallic lump rises in his throat from the fleeting creak with which the cabinet behind the mirror opens.
Various types and shapes of jars, bottles for the care of everything that can be imagined, even partially not belonging to him, move with a grinding sound along the shelves until the enemy finds something that Melone cannot see, only catching and hearing the movement itself from above.
The door of the cabinet slammed shut with force, raising questions about how nothing collapsed, makes Melrne involuntarily shudder from the aggression in these movements.
Judging by the sound of the bottle opening, it was a small metal jar of cream, which Melone usually used to treat wounds.
It was a rare event, so there was quite a lot of cream.
It was hard to say whether it was fortunate or unfortunate.
It didn't burn, it lay softly on the skin and coated the surface well.
Somehow this Porshivnik had found a surprisingly ideal replacement for lubricant.
It was surprising that he even thought about lubricant in such a situation.
However, it was entirely possible to assume that this semblance of an evolved monkey felt confident enough to take care of his own pleasure, because Melone himself would not be able to relax at least psychologically, not to mention that he would not even think of giving the enemy pleasure, even at the cost of his own suffering.
To be the victim, the woman this bastard thinks he can play with as his smooth brain pleases? He'd rather kill himself than let that happen.
The cool touch of the soft, slippery cream, carefully rubbed between the wrinkles, sends a heavy wave of goosebumps down his body, hitting him like a lump in his chest.
Melone immediately, choking, jerked upwards in the hope of catching him with the element of surprise, but, as expected, he was immediately pushed back onto the unfortunate washing machine with the same jerk and a rough blow, as if they knew that he would resist.
However, it can't be ruled out that this only brought additional pleasure.
Melone was not sure that he understood.
Or rather, he understood.
But doesn't share it.
He wasn't going to scream, wasn't going to throw a senseless stream of abuse and insults. It was a waste of energy and dignity.
The main thing now, the most necessary thing, was to understand what the hell to do, to assume all possible and impossible outcomes.
His eyes frantically dart across the tiles opposite, until he is distracted by a new sensation, with disgusted feels how tight, unprepared and extremely uninterested walls slowly stretching around emptiness.
Teeth ache from the force with which Melone clenched them in desperation to bite down on anything.
His Adam's apple twitches, shuddering against his will from the pressure of the length of his index finger plunging into it.
He had enough knowledge and experience to determine, to distinguish the movements of the index finger.
What a loser.
Who ever inserts the index finger first?
He writhes and squirms from something penetrating deeper, breaking his brain with the distinct sensation of each unevenness, but at the same time not seeing the source.
His damn body treacherously simply could not help but shrink from the tension and discomfort from the creamy texture of the tasteless ointment, which was carefully rubbed over the bumpy walls inside.
His breath shuddered from the first, even slightly embarrassing with their slowness and thoroughness of movements, confusing.
But this idiot seemed to hear his thoughts, almost immediately changing his rather gentle and attentive movements to sharp thrusts, hitting the squeezing buttocks with the rest of his palm, cutting in with the tip of his finger and bending it in different directions, painfully stretching.
Scum.
Legs buckle, though more from contempt than pain, as the walls are forced to open wider, barely allowing me to hold back my voice.
This bastard was either a damn virgin, or he just liked to tease.
Both options were terrible.
Mouth is full of saliva that my brain didn't even think of swallowing.
There was simply no room for this seemingly insignificant thought.
It squirted from his lips from the shaking he was subjected to by strong hands, dripping onto the surface of the rubbing, sliding washing machine as they effortlessly manipulated him like a rag doll, forcing him to struggle to accept what he could only assume were three pushing fingers, opening wide in a triangle as if this guy was knitting socks for his dead great-grandmother, opening him up without even allowing him to realize previous dimensions.
But it would have been better for him to endure this hostility of clumsy and uncoordinated movements than what was to happen next.
The moment when he was suddenly emptied, knocked out of his rut, instantly clarified the situation and the approaching long-awaited dessert of this event.
The attacker began to lubricate it more thoroughly from the outside, not missing a single trembling fold and crevice.
It was both irritating and frightening.
But was it scary?
He caught his breath with negative anticipation, and broke out in a cold sweat.
This bastard was really going to do it, putting and putting it off, just mocking him, mocking him morally.
Just do it already, do it and leave it, let slit your throat while you're unaware, satisfied with what he had done.
The cream was certainly of high quality.
No wonder, considering Melone stole it from Prosciutto.
Accidentally.
Almost.
Anyway, such an asshole would have a small dick, right?
It's not that Melone was a fan of this theory, on the contrary, he always found the stereotype of muscular thugs with small size extremely ridiculous.
But how he wanted to believe it now.
Believe until he directly feels something... something round, involuntarily completing the picture in his head.
Round and, damn it, thick already at the tip, pressed against his trembling hole.
Damn damn damn how bad this is.
How did he manage to allow such an outcome, he knew, he damn well felt it.
But still found himself in such a humiliating situation.
A pitiful squeak crashes into the bathroom tiles for a split second before Melone can realize and immediately control himself. Teeth mercilessly cut into his tongue, choking on his own voice, which, as if on purpose, escaped his lips.
This could not be allowed to happen again under any circumstances.
He would not allow this freak to hear his moans, screams, anything but silent hatred.
The walls are tight, almost cutting off, around the phantom, which is pushing itself inside, filling him to the brim and at the same time with absolute nothing, only roughly revealing its hot, contemptuous insides for all to see.
It wasn't shameful.
It wasn't embarrassing.
Only the expectation of ending it as soon as possible.
Drops of scarlet, slightly crimson blood fell on the washing machine in small but so saturated colors, but eventually mixed with the splashing saliva, so hard he bit himself on everything that came under his teeth in a hellish struggle for dignity and humiliation at the same time, taking one push after another, not giving him a chance to even get used to these sizes, not to mention the pace.
But it was even for the best.
He had no desire to waste a second in vain in such a position.
The phantom thickness caused genuine real sensations.
And far from the most pleasant.
The spine was pierced by shooting tingles, the limbs were giving way, the hand behind the back was starting to go numb.
The whole body was aching, even despite the smoothly sliding, thanks to the large amount of cream, length, around which Melone was squeezing so tightly, of and against his own will, but this bastard, it seems, didn’t even feel the resistance, freely sliding inside and hitting.
– Fuck... shit shit shit…
The hoarse whimpering was barely audible even to Melone himself, who with each new push grew even more angry from the tears that appeared in his eyes.
But not from pain, not at all, not even from humiliation, but only from the force with which he desperately, no, persistently held everything in.
From the energy seething inside, his eyes darkened, his head split from unbearable pain, a bell orchestra rang in his ears, and his temples throbbed as if he were pecking at oak bark instead of a woodpecker.
His own cock didn't even hint at interest in this whole sickening situation, only sluggishly twitching and occasionally jumping in time with the blows of invisible, but clearly perceptible strong and even heavy thighs crashing into his ass.
The abundance of sounds, which were only amplified by the damn echo of the bathroom, began to drive him crazy.
He was ready to swear that he began to hear extraneous, unnatural sounds, until
At some point, Melone's eyebrows closed in concentration, leaving him to freeze unconsciously.
Something was wrong.
He tries to calm his own ragged breathing so he can hear something around him.
The grinding of the washing machine, the slapping of his own flushed skin, the slurping of the ointment inside, the ringing in his ears, but also
Something
Something was interrupting it all, something extraneous, a new sound in this crappy collection.
A painful, squeezing tingle flares up in his chest as his ears finally catch on and effortlessly identify the sound that's drowning out his headache.
The sound of those damn bells, jingling softly above the back of his head.
It all started to make sense.
All those odd details make sense now.
His whole body shudders unconsciously from the sensations that have suddenly mixed with each other, he tilts his head, resting his forehead on the plastic surface, slightly scratching the skin, arching his thin neck, before the voice that he has so carefully suppressed finally bursts out of him. His Adam's apple jumps up, and ragged, absurd chuckles escape from his lips, gradually turning into a rough, sincere laugh, realizing the true stupidity of what is happening.
– Hell...
When the thrusts stop, Melone is finally convinced of everything, left giggling, motionless, filled and finally able to breathe freely.
The weight gradually, unhurriedly shifts, after so much time releasing the numb hand, so much so that he had long forgotten that he had one, before finding himself sandwiched between the washing machine and the bulky emptiness.
– Risotto..
Melone whispers very quietly, as if not believing in all this after everything that was imagined and experienced.
The emptiness slowly but noticeably clears up, forming such a familiar, dear image, a feeling, the sight of these unexpectedly calming red eyes, from which all the cold sweat, as if by a click, was replaced by warmth in the relaxed chest.
– I was going to desecrate your grave.
– After cut open my stomach?
Melone almost stops breathing, as he hears, as always, a calm and measured heavy voice above him.
– And stuffed your own head in there..
He was ready to listen to this voice forever.
– Sorry.
Risotto doesn't move, allowing Melona to enjoy the peace, understanding, and lack of abuse of his own body for the first time in a long time. He stands meekly over him, listening to the deep, guttural laughter.
With a heavy breath, seeing the heightened and more relaxed mood, he carefully leans down, soothingly burying his nose in the golden, asymmetrical hair, damp with sweat, saliva, and blood.
Melone had gone over so much in his head, he had already managed to regret so much for so much time, even for these minutes of being in a role he hated, he had cursed everything alive, until he miraculously listened to this damned ringing.
– Porco cane…*
With a quiet but distinct smile, Melone whispered, thinking about all this.
The thought that Risotto, who usually turned up his nose at anything that even slightly hinted at an erotic subtext, had been watching him all this time as he slept, washed, changed clothes
Lived
The longer he thought about it, the more something inexplicably wrong inside flared up, preventing him from breathing.
And he felt his presence after all.
He unconsciously, with difficulty controlling the flow, the storm of thoughts and sensations inside, scratches the plastic covering until he suddenly feels a confusing emptiness inside, but not the same as before.
Risotto, lowering his languid gaze, carefully moves the soft, albeit not the most lush buttock to the side, slowly, allowing them both to feel how the ointment-covered walls envelop every curve of his hard, but still not so captivated due to the unusual circumstances organ. This sensual picture is so enticing that he does not even have time to realize how all his professional habits hit his head from the hand twitching before his eyes.
Melone, with a strength unnatural for him, roughly grabs him by the absurd bells hanging from hat, almost literally saving him earlier, pulling them together with a clang and jerking downwards.
So abrupt and unexpected was this act, even by the standards of Risotto, that he doesn't have time to even think about resisting, even reflexively.
Their bodies pressed tightly together again, pressing the skinny body against the washing machine with uncontrollable force and forcing the protruding half of the twitching member back inside against his will, hitting the wall inside and making them both groan raggedly through clenched teeth.
– You watched me for so long, almost broke my arm and now you're going to stop halfway?
– Is that blood?
– Wrong. If you stop, I'll call up baby face, spit on metallica and show you what real rape looks like.
Risotto's eyebrows jump up in surprise for a moment, then frown and pierce Melone with red eyes that glow from such impudence.
– Are you threatening me?
– No way. I'm revealing my intentions.
Risotto, shocked by such a reaction, purses his lips and stretches his neck, slightly moving away from the strong grip, despite the previously numb hand.
Maybe he really had been letting this man get away with more than he should lately, especially since things had started between them.
Spoiled, insolent bastard.
So respectful and obedient in front of witnesses, but in reality he wasn't afraid of ending up with a piece of rebar in his throat.
And everyone knew that Risotto could.
Even Melone himself.
Growling under his breath, he finally pulls away completely, yanking his head out of the headdress that has slipped down, leaving it in the hands of a sobbing Melone. Risotto grabs him roughly and slams him back down by his thin neck, squeezing his other buttock, leaving deep marks in the shape of five crescents, and gently, in warning, pulling back a few millimeters, only to make the first, after a while, thrust, announcing the renewed pace with a resounding slap.
This time the bathroom was filled with a sincere, freely coming out voice of different tones and volumes, not afraid, not embarrassed to break from each collision of hips pumped up by a harsh life and training against a flat ass.
They both barely breathed from the tightly enveloping thick, pulsating girth by the walls, so briskly and jerkily ramming fragile insides.
So much so that Melone himself gives in to meet for more friction, for more contact, arching his surprisingly straight back and pressing his hips back more tightly.
– You're so fucking sick.
Risotto spits through his teeth, this time quickly catching with his gaze the trembling hand reaching out towards him, clearly trying to grab the wrist that was suffocatingly squeezing his throat.
However, he quickly enough pulls his hand back and crashes it into Melone's palm, pressing it just as firmly into the washing machine, slowly, with permission, intertwining thin long fingers with his own, rough from work and the stand.
Melone almost immediately responded in kind, closing sensual grip.
Smeared with his own blood, saliva and sweat, he clings to the white covering with his teeth, sobbing from the uneven but gradually increasing tempo, accompanied by the deafening echo of slaps coming from behind the walls of the bathroom.
– Cum...
Hoarsely, barely legible, begged, no, ordered Melone.
– And you?
With lips pressed into a dark pale line, Melone shook his head negatively, despite how violently all his movements, words, and banal noisy breathing echoed with heat in his groin.
Risotto could only sigh deeply from yet another stupidity.
A ruthless, socially dangerous killer, and he behaves like a damn child.
Firmer, even to the point of a slight tingling in the joints, squeezing the intertwined fingers, he forces the puzzled Melone to give in and rise.
A soft back with barely protruding vertebrae is pressed tightly against an elastic, protruding chest, a wide palm in a black fingerless glove slides down, tracing a bony thigh and throwing an equally thin leg with its knee onto the edge of the washing machine.
– Shit, this is even worse.
Melone gasped, feeling every inch that the cock sank deeper into him.
– Or better?
Unable to respond sensibly from impotence, limp in the confident grip of the leader, he nods slightly in response, convulsively tilting his head back, just to be closer to the cold warmth of Risotto, into whose neck a blissful moan suddenly crashes.
A rough palm, not so much from fabric as from skin, confidently grasps the cock, wet with pre-cum, twitching from sudden attention.
He was ready to cum from this feeling alone, from this thought alone.
Risotto gently but firmly embraces the thin waist, which is in no way comparable to his own, kissing the elongated, tense neck with its clearly protruding muscles, and with the tip of his tongue touching the twitching Adam's apple under the thin, sensitive skin, twitching after each moan.
The fingers were carefully twisting, Melone had taught him this movement, around the leaking length, which finally felt all the juice of this "merciless abuse", sending hot, almost scorching blows down the abdomen with each deep thrust, rubbing against the curved tender insides.
The precum undoubtedly gave out everything that this stubborn boy feels, mixing with a barely perceptible milky shade.
– Hnngg, Risotto...
– Come on, a little more..
Risotto whispers almost inaudibly, pressing his lips to the ear pierced by a purple earring, burning with his hot, excited breath.
Melone desperately clings with his free hand to the strong muscles wrapped around his limp body, as if trying to force to swallow him completely and irrevocably.
Yes.
This prospect suited him much better.
If he were to take the role of a woman, then only with Risotto, only where he would feel like himself, without the role of a victim who is used for the comfort of carnal pleasures.
His stomach twisted, his spine ached from the poison accumulating inside, threatening to simply dissolve Melone from the inside if it didn't break out as soon as possible.
But damn, how Risotto tried, how much attention and care was in every movement.
Melone couldn't help but notice, couldn't help but feel how he became more focused and confident in his own actions.
– I feel how you pulsate.
Melone was a strange man. From the very first time they met.
Perhaps if he hadn't become part of the mafia, part of their team with Risotto at the head, he would have really become a threat to society.
Women's society.
But that's why Risotto knew his unhealthy, sometimes perverted habits very well, which would never come to mind when you see this calm and silent guy.
That included a passion not only for the pitiful squeals of the victim, partner, but also dirty, including inhuman conversations, pushing and provoking the beast in him.
But Risotto...
Risotto preferred not to overdo it.
It was a bit hard to get used to all this at first, he in general had never been a big fan of conversations.
They both weren't.
But today he was going to make an exception.
He barely opens his lips to finish his words before he is shut up in a sharp kiss, crashing hard into his teeth with a corresponding, rather loud knock.
Blood spurted from the lips of both, renewing a wound in one, opening a new one in the other, savoring and mixing each other's tastes.
It suited them both more than well.
Risotto kissed back almost immediately, pushing Melone in time with his own movements.
The metallic taste played on the tongues dancing in the heated sparring, enveloping him in a sensual whine and a sudden moan as Melone squeezed around him.
He had been waiting for this.
Melone's voice breaks as he moans into the unbroken kiss, spontaneously jerking in different directions and cumming thickly on the washing machine panel, desperate and clouded in his mind, clinging to Risotto and biting bloody lips.
He'll worry about possible infections later.
– FFU-CK.
Risotto whispers in a quiet echo almost simultaneously with Melone's scream, clenching his teeth and squeezing his fingers intertwined in an unexpected display of closeness, finishing himself off with several heart-rending thrusts, finally reaching orgasm and catching at the same moment as the first streams of hot semen burst forth, the corners of Melone's lips raised in pleasure, as if provoking him to bite into them with his teeth.
– It's beyond my comprehension.
Melone says to himself with a long exhale, finally lying calmly on his bed, while Risotto hung over him, lying perpendicularly and propping up his head with his hand.
It's amazing how, with his bulky size, they both fit on this semblance of a cheap old bed.
If you can even call it that.
– Someone put you up to it or-
– No.
Melone almost immediately chuckled, making a slight guttural moo.
It seemed so obvious and unconditional that the instigator was either Gelato or Formaggio.
After all, he knew that this ice cream couple wasn't bored in their personal life.
Not by his own free will, of course.
Almost.
– Mm, I'm not the biggest fan of something...
– Extreme.
Not so much interrupting as catching Melone in time, helping Risotto finish his words.
That's what he thought.
– Exotic in terms of...
– Sex.
– Intimate life.
– Yes, I know.
Melone nods lazily but understandingly, watching as the red eyes slowly lowered, barely peeking through the ridiculously cute, especially due to the contrast with the menacing appearance, straggling bangs, from the end of which water was still periodically dripping from their shared shower.
– You said you wanted something emotional and unexpected.
– You mean role-playing games?
Risotto winces awkwardly at the specific name of these entertainments.
In the end, his family and life in Sicily made him rather conservative, but he could hardly refuse Melone.
– Something like that.
– You've been following me for months just to surprise me?
– I suppose so.
The cherished, touched "pfft" escapes through thin, ointmented lips after their inhuman kisses, foreshadowing the light, barely audible laughter that follows.
This man, terrifying in appearance and in fact, really sometimes seemed to him nothing more than an awkward kitten.
– Damn, I wanted to stab you with nail scissors.
Risotto himself felt himself struggling to contain a small smile in response, unable to look away from such a rare and vivid display of emotion on this usually stoic and cold face.
– I thought I was crazy.
– Actually, I didn't plan to drag it out this long, just a bit..
– Afraid?
The white eyelashes on his eyelids twitched slightly, it wasn't clear from irritation or the precision with which each addition hit the mark.
– Wasn't sure.
Melone finally and in defeat breaks into a broad, somewhat sarcastic smile, not believing that this sexually conservative man had gone overboard for him, making one of his wishes come true, which was not even a direct conversation. It was such a fleeting mention that he himself had forgotten about it, not to mention thinking or hoping that Risotto wouldn't only agree, but even think about something like that.
Although he didn't quite understand his words in the right direction, they really scared him in the first moments.
But now, thinking more and more, it makes this experience even more valuable and satisfying.
After all, it opens up so many possibilities.
– Well, there you go again, making me want to say "those" words.
– Which ones?
Just one glance, jumping to the side after a counter question, like a click, clarifies what those words were that were stuck in the throat.
Giving in to meet him, Risotto carefully, barely perceptibly touches their lips in a much softer and gentler, perhaps even loving gesture, not even thinking about the fact that a little earlier they were tearing each other apart like wild animals.
– I got you. Me too.