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“Show me your face,” said Risotto Nero.
Blood bubbled up his throat as he spoke, eyes half-lidded from the scorching Sardinian sun. Metallica crawled weakly along the curve of his forearm; they, too, were on the brink of disappearing. His voice was hoarse, completely jumbled from the mess his trachea had become. Whenever he took in a breath, blood came spouting from openings where bullets had embedded themselves into toned flesh.
Diavolo wanted to laugh, he won, fortune was on his side once again. He loomed over the man, green eyes filled with nothing but macabre intrigue towards the fallen.
The man would’ve been a valuable asset to Passione, but the gang wasn’t the most well-managed, and Diavolo had himself to blame for it. Metallica was a powerful stand, perfectly suited for assassinations, but it wasn’t why Diavolo coveted the man. He wanted what he couldn’t have — the man’s thoughtless devotion. Risotto was the type to blindly follow, and the type to blindly give. He cared from the bottom of his heart, though he cared too much, because this same sense of sympathy became his flaw, and ultimately ruined him.
A lost cause, Diavolo noted, peering into those downcast reds. He wanted to see these eyes fill with peerless affection and piety — he coveted Risotto all for himself. If only he’d known more about Risotto before this, then maybe… he’d have a chance to mould the assassin into whatever he wanted. “Oh, Risotto Nero,” he cooed. The afternoon rays were warm against his back, he was blessed by fate and destiny. “If only you were loyal to me…” I would’ve cherished you.
Risotto now lay helpless in front of him, slipped halfway into Hades’ embrace. He was dead silent, but the devil needed no answers.
“You’ve done well to push me this far,” he pried open the man’s mouth, running a thumb along the bloodied lips. His hunger for iron grew stronger at the sight, he could feel his stomach lurch at the mere thought of tepid crimson thickening on the tip of his tongue. He drew a dismissive hand over Risotto’s eyes, and leaned in close. He could smell death in Risotto’s hair, so florid it almost felt fake.
There was no time to waste, his eyes fluttered shut when he took the first bite, teeth catching derma, canines breaking through the carnal barrier with ease. He was hungry, and rightfully so — Risotto Nero was his trophy, the champion’s dish in this debauched feast. He indulged in the familiar tang of betrayal, drinking deeply the twisted flavour of the ocean, tinged with an indescribable bitterness that gushed generously into his mouth. He could feel Risotto struggle beneath him with all the strength he had left, the feeling of pins and needles gathering in his skin as Metallica strained to cluster up whatever bits of iron had left in his bloodstream, the weak quivering of the body below only further swelled his hubris.
“Your time is over, Risotto Nero. The dead can do no more,” he murmured, yet he lunged for the man’s throat, throttling him, until his nails clawed deep into stiffened flesh. His other hand snaked along the chest kept strapped behind harnesses, going lower and lower till the man hissed in either exasperation or contempt. “However,” nimble digits crept along the waistband of Risotto’s trousers, no longer hiding their intent as they toyed with the elastic, “I never said you could die in pride, or in peace.”
Risotto whimpered, finally — a feeble gesture of submission that caused Diavolo to draw in a sharp breath. He had to hear it again, it was to tantalising to have it come from the man’s lips.
“You wouldn’t dare,” snapped the assassin. The boss’ hands were lukewarm, still recovering from the blood loss, it felt cold against his skin. They were sickeningly gentle, calloused fingers parting his thighs, drawing at his trousers until they gathered and hung from his ankles, goosebumps bloomed all over his legs in response. Risotto shuddered, and whimpered again. The hands in turn gripped him by the torso, pinning him in place. Amidst the confusion, something had entered him — god, the humiliation.
The Sardinian sun shone ever so bright, as a dazzling mockery of his defeat.
Risotto Nero was absolutely delicious. Diavolo noted, teasingly running his tongue along the shallow cleavage, and nipped at the sensitive buds until they perked. At each thrust Risotto trembled, moans threatened to escape his lips had he dared to part them for a breath — he made every effort to silence himself. Through budding tears and flushed cheeks, he glared into speckled greens with seething hatred.
“Sorbet and Gelato, was it?”
The assassin hissed at the mention of their names, but it only piqued Diavolo’s interest further, he thrived on schadenfreude. Pressing his lips against’s Risotto’s earlobe, he made sure to whisper in low, drawn out purrs, “They offered themselves to let the other live, saying things like ‘I love you’, and ‘we’ll see each other in the next life’… don’t you think it’s meaningless?” He fucked harder into Risotto’s body as he spoke. Never did he expect this to be so… pleasant, he’d simply done it to degrade the man, yet here he was, carried along by lust’s current. He wet his lips, “Though if you were the one begging… I might just consider letting you go.”
The limbo of pleasure and indignation overtook the assassin’s senses, he clawed at the boss’ back, taking handfuls of purple fabric in his fists, while garbled noises in his throat gave away his arousal. King Crimson had his arms held above his head with its icy hands, keeping his wrists pressed against smooth stone. He jerked at a particularly good thrust, a low whine of defeat rumbled in the depths of his throat. His cock stood fully erect, the tip nudging his stomach as his legs were raised. He was unbearably sensitive — in order to be meticulous in his assassinations, he had no time to relieve his desires at all. I’m not about to come untouched, he said to himself, watching precum dribble down the sides of his member, I’m not.
Risotto took in a mouthful of ocean air, it tasted immeasurably bitter. He hated himself for losing, and even more so for succumbing to the boss’ tyranny at his dying breath.
Diavolo paid no mind to his excitement, he was the scarlet king, and Risotto was nothing but fodder for his own use. He finally kissed the man, lipstick smudging on skin in greyish smears. “You wore black lipstick before, didn’t you?” Risotto’s flavour lingered thickly in his mouth, he loved it. “I’m so glad we have the same taste.”
“Shut up.”
“Brighten up a little, will you? We were destined to cross paths, you and I.”
King Crimson finally let him go, and for once in his life, Risotto didn’t know where to put his hands. They hovered pitifully above his head, until Diavolo took ahold of them himself. The assassin’s palms were surprisingly soft, Metallica had completely replaced his need to wield weapons, his nails were cut neatly, half-moons prominent under keratin.
They’d be pretty in black, Diavolo thought, and kissed his knuckles. He entwined their digits, “Swear your loyalty to me.”
“No,” Risotto hissed, before breaking into a cry when Diavolo bucked his hips, body quaking from the sensation. He was terribly close to reaching an orgasm, he could almost feel the beginning of it creeping up the small of his back, working its way into his very bones. His body had begun to look forward to the next thrust — the next burst of pleasure that would shake him to his core. He shut his eyes, pale lashes fluttering weakly against his lids. Just come already, damn it.
The boss stopped moving.
Risotto’s eyes snapped open in a start, a moan was lodged halfway in his throat.
“Swear your loyalty to me, and we’ll continue.”
“I’d rather die,” he answered through gritted teeth.
Diavolo broke into a low laugh, “You can barely hold yourself together.” He rolled his hips, and smiled at the moans that came forth, “Just like a bitch in heat.”
A bitch in heat, Risotto held back yet another whine. He craved anything that could get him up and away from the current state he found himself in — he wanted to feel good. His cock throbbed painfully from pent up desires, utterly defenceless against every action the boss made.
Diavolo wrapped his hand around the shaft, and Risotto felt a noise bubble up his throat. The heat was unbearable.
“You like that, don’t you?”
The hand was already slicked wet with precum, Risotto swallowed at the sight. He could easily imagine how pleasurable it would be if they moved. The lewd noises from the rhythmic strokes, combined with the frolicking down under, he would most certainly lose his mind. It would’ve been this easy to get him to cum, he was on the edge of it all, but the boss was here to torment him.
Diavolo’s finger traced along the outlines of his member, featherlight touches testing every ounce of will Risotto had. He couldn’t bend the knee, not like this. He gasped at the sensation of the boss’ lips against the crown of his cock, hips shaking as he tried to push himself towards a release. He wanted it so bad — no — he needed it.
“Boss,” he whispered.
The man looked up at him, irises clouded with intrigue.
Risotto bit his lip, “I…” he drew in yet another mouthful of salty air, forcing down the shame in his chest, “…I’m yours.” Disgust suffocated him.
“That’s right,” Diavolo said, softly, fondly, “That’s right, Risotto Nero… good boy.” He was smiling, “Everything you have belongs to me, your hair, your eyes, your lips…” His lips were upon the assassin’s again.
The boss kissed like he ate — hungrily. It was as though something was taken after every touch, the emptiness that followed tore into Risotto’s head. He was surely losing it, he thought to himself, taken along by the tides that pushed and pulled, fucking him so well he felt like he was going to die.
“Let me see your face,” He had to know what the boss looked like at least, he was so near, he could just about taste it. The man leaned into his touches, pink strands giving way when he brushed it aside.
Green, fragmented green. Risotto couldn’t tear his gaze away from the chaos that resided within those shattered worlds, and it stared right back at him. It was beautiful, to the point where it seemed inhuman. Freckles dotted the bridge of the man’s nose, though they were pale in comparison to Doppio’s, half-faded away into pallidness. And the lips — Risotto had seen enough of them, still glossy despite the numerous kisses they’d shared. The boss’ mouth was slightly parted, pinkish tongue visible behind painted black. Risotto swallowed thickly, Lucifer was the most brilliant angel of all.
“Like what you see?”
He didn’t respond, and instead, prayed that his hat was enough to hide the reddening tips of his ears. It wasn’t.
Diavolo kissed his neck, nibbling dangerously on the flesh of his nape. Risotto trembled in concealed anticipation, a bite would be what he needed to finally — oh.
Sickly sweet was what he’d describe it. The orgasm wracked through him, rocking him to his very core. He thrashed against the boss’ grip, and shuddered. The feeling worked slowly, yet painfully up his spine, he could barely catch his breath before he trembled again, teeth gritted for a stifled scream. He hated it — the pain that turned him on much more than it was supposed to, and he came from it. Warmth splattered onto his stomach in strings of white, he felt filthy.
“A diamond in the rough,” the boss said. His hands caressed the curves of the assassin’s waist, easing away the tightness in his abdomen. “You know… Doppio would really like you.”
Risotto buried his face into sweater fabric, he thought he’d caught the scent of lilies.
Vinegar Doppio never liked having blackouts. He’d dream in those momentary darkness, and hear screams, see fire, smell blood. He jerked awake in a start, the back of his head throbbed, the migraine was about to split his head open if he didn’t do anything about it. He called for his boss almost subconsciously, the muddled disarray in his mind could only be eased if he could hear the boss’ voice. He dove for the phone when it rang, picking up the closest thing he could possibly find.
“Boss,” he said, “About Risotto—”
“I’ve already taken care of him.”
His incompetence troubled the boss again. “I — I’m sorry, boss,” he faltered, “If only I tried harder, then I could’ve…”
“No, my Doppio,” the man softly answered, “You did enough.”
Did he really? Doppio looked down at his sweater. The cloth was caked with dried blood, purple dyed into a shade of deep crimson. He could’ve done so much more, the boss granted him power, yet —
“I have a reward for you.”
He perked up at the mention of a praise, “What… would that be?”
“Look, my cute Doppio,” the boss’ was gentle, “Right there, behind the rocks.”
The underboss obediently followed his instructions, taking shaky steps towards the formation of the stone. He could see it, the glimmer of hair in sunlight, silver strands glowing in pretty crescents as the Sardinian heat beat down on the two of them.