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The limits of bodies are a strange thing.
Their boundaries are sheer cliffs; places he cannot breach. For most of his life, Diavolo has carved away at the limits of his body. In sharing it; in shaping it. He has been sliced with scalpel to remove unwanted tissue; he has pierced his flesh with needles to deliver substances that alter both his body and his mind. Diavolo has created himself in his own image; rebelling against the limits of his flesh. But there has always been one thread he could count on to transcend all of that; there has been one glimmer that has always meant more than the limitations of his flesh.
His Doppio. His sweet, adorable, darling Doppio.
Being a voice on the phone meant Doppio knew Diavolo at his purest and least constrained. It meant Doppio knew Diavolo by word and deed, not by shape and sight. And for quite some time, Diavolo thought it would be all he would ever need. That his adoration of his Doppio was a thing too pure to be tainted by the base nature of flesh.
When, then, did it begin to change?
When did he begin to long to touch him?
The longing, he knew, was not his alone. He heard it in the sweet notes of Doppio's voice; his shuffling on the other side of the line; the little hitching breaths when he lavished Doppio with sweet words. He wanted, and he was wanted; he longed to give something Doppio ached to be given.
But there was that limit. The barrier of flesh. The limitations of his body- the things he simply could not do; be it through surgery or science or Stand. He could not meet Doppio, and....
Even if he could, he would lack the things Doppio expected of him.
Diavolo knows (in rather shameless detail) the things Doppio likes. How Doppio likes to gasp breathlessly into the phone as he presses two fingers into his slick cunt; how Doppio pleads to be filled, held down, taken. They settle with hunger and weight in his ribs; he has coaxed Doppio over the edge with sweet words time and time again.
He, himself, however...
Diavolo has tried to pursue solo pleasure before. Laid in the dark, bare and studded with goosebumps. Let his hands skate his body- the phantom sensations of his nipples, the dull null of the thin scars beneath his pectorals. He likes to explore the planes of his ribs, the sharp jut of his hipbones, the downy hair over his thighs and belly. Diavolo is not at odds with his flesh (not anymore); his body- like his empire- is something he has reached out and taken, claimed, made his . There is a fierce pride in it that echoes into his touch; he has made himself, and he likes to feel that, to be reminded of it.
It's only. When he tries to do as Doppio does- to slip his fingers between his thighs, to curl them into his cunt, to stroke over the slick, stiff nub of his cock...
It isn't that it's unpleasant , per se. Diavolo understands the sensation; has explored it enough to know what parts feel pleasure, where to touch, how to touch.
It's simply... unsatisfying.
He thought, once upon a time, that he might simply lack interest in sex. He told himself it was beneath him; that he had all he needed, that he did not care for the clumsy indulgence of base instincts. And for a while, this remained true, but...
Doppio. His Doppio. The things he ached to do to his Doppio.
It was no compliant indulgence; no "going with the flow". It was a hunger, fierce and ravenous. His mouth watered with the thought of burying his face between Doppio's thighs and feeling Doppio's heat beneath his tongue. He wanted to feel Doppio squeeze tight around his fingers, dig his nails into Diavolo's back, hiss desperate syllables into his ear. Fantasies sprung up unbidden at any given time- hazey daydreams of Doppio's sweet, slight frame beneath his, of Doppio's oft-chewed, blunt nails digging into his back. He wanted , almost more than he could stand.
He simply... didn't particularly care what happened between his thighs. His body could be an object of desire; his body could be lustful, could be powerful, could be something he reveled in. But his cunt was the least interesting part of it. Why worry about a few nerve endings clustered in one place, when the entirety of his flesh and his strength could be so much more ? When he could use everything - his hips, his hands, his tongue, his thighs, his core, his voice- to bring his Doppio pleasure?
The point was moot, as it was. He and Doppio could never meet; and so he let the precise details of his anatomy slide; let Doppio speak of parts Diavolo didn’t have, things he couldn’t do. All that mattered was the fantasy; all that mattered was bringing Doppio pleasure.
That was, as he had thought, the end of it.
But the universe was often strange, and it found ways to surprise him. Diavolo, beloved by fate, had long since accepted that even fate could not give him the thing he truly desired, until…
Until one day, it could .
If Diavolo had spent all that time searching for doctors and surgeons to make the changes he and Doppio desired for their bodies… was it so far-fetched to search for a Stand user that might grant the final leap?
It's nearly unimportant, all told. What the Stand does , exactly, or who its meek little user is. Only that he tracks it down- a power that can make one into two.
How funny. How strange. How whimsical. A lifetime together; a lifetime of being closer than any other lovers in existence. And yet Diavolo had never expected this until he held it: the warmth of Doppio’s cheek under his palm. The tickle of Doppio’s lashes when he blinked.
It is new and at times bizarre ; Diavolo cannot help but feel that a new barrier has been raised between them- a new boundary he never had to cede to before. For all his careful reclamation of his body- for all that he has built it as a palace worthy of the Crimson King- this is, perhaps, the first time in a very, very long time it has felt incomplete .
What is a palace if he does not have his Doppio to share its walls?
He would find it terribly lonely; he would find it nearly unbearable. At times, it is . And yet…
It was lonely before, at times. When he’d find himself at the front, in a quiet moment, watching the lights of whatever city they were in this week, or alone in a hotel room, and he’d think-
I wish you could see this too.
Doppio had always been Diavolo’s sun, and Diavolo his moon, but the nights were long and dark after the setting of the sun. Diavolo was always there; even when Doppio was present, he lingered like the pale moon during the day, but…
Doppio had never been able to cross that final mental threshold. His memory clung fiercely to falsehoods and self-deceptions; every time Diavolo tried to share with him the nature of their coexistence, Doppio’s pain and confusion were too terrible to press on. Doppio needed to believe Diavolo was a faraway voice on the phone, and Diavolo… he could never deny him anything.
It is lonely, being unable to feel the warmth blossom in Doppio’s chest and unable to feel the flush of his cheeks. But the night they meet in the flesh, he steps out onto the balcony to light a cigarette- a vice he has tried and failed to keep from becoming a habit, and he looks over the lights of Firenze below, and in this still, quiet moment- the kind that Diavolo would spend wishing his other half did not sleep so soundly-
Doppio steps out onto the balcony with him. Folds his arms against the railing, leans his head on Diavolo’s shoulder and watches the lights quietly with him.
There are limits to flesh, but the unmapped edges of this valley don’t seem so yawning when he’s able to observe them with company.
Diavolo knows the gravity and the weight of the tension between them will crush them both any moment now.
There has been no time until now. There was so much flurry and fever and rush- seeing Doppio, being seen by Doppio for the first time. Laughing. Gasping. Clutching at each other like this is a miracle, like if they dare let go they will lose one another for all time. They have been giddy like children. They have been tangled in limbs, pressing kisses wherever they could reach, tracing one another's features with reverence. They have finally, finally, landed here, both sitting on the hotel bed, both aware that it is the only bed in the room. They have always only needed one bed before.
Doppio breaks the silence. He is so brave. So wonderful.
"Boss," he begins, then falters. He takes a breath then begins again. "Boss. All those times we talked about, um…"
Diavolo's throat sticks when he tries to form even a fraction of the filthy words that he once whispered so eagerly into Doppio's ear. He had not considered how much larger and more present they would feel with Doppio's body right at his fingertips. "About… doing things together."
"Right." Doppio folds his hands in his lap, then unfolds them. Folds them again with the opposite hand on top. "I… would still. I would still really, really like to do those things with you."
Heat lurches and coils in Diavolo's belly at even the merest suggestion. He feels as though he will break out in a sweat. "My Doppio… I would… That is, I… I don’t know if you will…"
Doppio turns to look at him, big honey-gold eyes wide and shining. "I do! You're… God, Boss, you're more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. I wanted- I wanted you so bad when I just knew your voice , seeing you-" Doppio falters. Stutters for a moment. Then his brows knit together in determination, and he leans into Diavolo's space. His breath is hot by Diavolo's ear. "I've been looking at you all day thinking about dropping to my knees and sucking your cock right there," he breathes into a whisper.
It sparks liquid-hot up Diavolo's spine, pools in his throat and his belly and his underwear and under his tongue, makes his hands curl into his fists and his toes curl and his breath catch.
It trips him, though, right in that same motion. Because his body wants and wants, but-
"Doppio," Diavolo begins, very quietly and carefully. "There's something I need to… tell you."
Doppio hesitates. Leans back, brows knitted in concern. "Is it-" Doppio hesitates. "Oh, no… Boss." His face crumples into such sweet and awful sorrow. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, if it- if you're not feeling the spark in person, if you're not… attracted to me, now that we've met, I get it, I-"
"My Doppio," Diavolo interrupts, breathless. "I want to make love to you until we rattle the windows of this hotel. I want to take you until you scream, make you come until you can't see straight. I want you, too. Unbelievably badly."
Doppio's sorrow flits away in the wake of the brilliant, adorable, cherry blush that blossoms across his entire face to the tips of his ears. "O-oh. Then…"
Diavolo clears his throat. "It is just… my Doppio, I had no intention to deceive you. Not ever. It's just… my anatomy may be…" Diavolo pauses and tries to steady his breath. " Different than you are expecting."
Doppio, still a darling shade of crimson, glances at Diavolo's face with open confusion. His eyes linger there, then slowly slide down Diavolo's body, to-
"Is…" He looks up, worried. "Is it going to have a second, smaller one above it? Like Epitaph??"
"What? No, I-" Diavolo cannot help the laughter; it builds behind his ribs until it bursts, ringing out low and loud and shaking his whole body. " A second smaller one??"
"I don't know!" Doppio somehow turns even redder. "I don't know, I worried that might be a thing!"
"My darling Doppio, where did-" Diavolo shakes with laughter again, shoving a hand over his mouth and quaking with it until he can catch his breath. Finally he sighs, still shaking with silent peals. "No, I do not have a second smaller cock at the end of my own like epitaph." He snorts, and it does serve to lessen the weight of the confession. "I… don't have. A cock at all. Not two, certainly, not even one. I'm sorry…in our conversations, I always spoke of- filling you, pressing inside you, leaving my seed-" God, that's embarrassing to say to Doppio's face instead of from inside of it. "... but, ah. My Doppio, I must confess, I… have much the same anatomy as you do."
Doppio's confusion hovers for just a moment more before Diavolo can see the light bulb click in his mind. His brows immediately lift. "Oh. …. Ohhh. " He blinks at Diavolo for a second. "Boss… who cares about that?" He lifts one curved brow. "So what? Come on, I'm trans too, you think that your junk will change my mind? I want you regardless of what's in your pants."
Diavolo had not realized he was holding his breath. He had never expected any other answer; he had told himself over and over that if anyone understood, it would be his sweet, perfect Doppio. So like him; flesh of his flesh, heart of his heart. And yet…
And yet, the relief is immeasurable. "I didn't- I never meant to hide this from you, I just-"
Doppio immediately leans back towards him, planting both hands on Diavolo’s knees and looking directly into his eyes with fervent intensity. "Hey. Don't apologize. I get it, yeah?" His hands smooth over Diavolo's thighs, gentle motions. Up and down, soft over the fabric of Diavolo’s pants. "We talked about what we wanted. Of course in that fantasy you have the freedom to have whatever kind of body or bits you want." Doppio smiles gently at him. "I thought I'd never meet you. I wanted you even if all I could ever have was your voice. Getting to touch you… I'm over the moon. Even if you can't, you know, creampie me or whatever."
Diavolo laughs again, short and sharp and startled. " Doppio. "
Doppio grins, mischief rising in response to Diavolo's gentle disbelief. "I mean it." He creeps closer, more of his body drawing close to Diavolo's, his warmth more and more present against Diavolo's skin. "You're so hot, Boss … God, I want you any way you'll have me." He laughs again, bright and wicked. "What do you like? Will you sit on my face? God, I bet you taste so good-"
Diavolo's breath stutters out in a needy little sigh. "Doppio… ah, that dirty mouth of yours is so… so much more this close…"
Doppio's smiling like the cat that got the canary; he inches forward until he's practically straddling Diavolo's lap, hands sliding up his body. "Yeah? Is it getting to you?" He half-grins, lopsided and cheeky. "Boss… bet you're getting wet thinking about it, aren't you?"
Diavolo's hands wind into Doppio's shirt, and he pitches forward and presses his face to Doppio's throat so he can hide his shivery moan. " Doppio … I want… I want…."
“Tell me what you want, Boss,” Doppio purrs, slipping his hands up Diavolo's ribs and under the mesh of his top. His fingers brush gently against Diavolo's scars and Diavolo shivers pleasantly at the sensation; absent but present, reverent. Doppio hovers over a little knot of scar near Diavolo's rib, an area that had been particularly troublesome during healing. Diavolo knew it with an intimate familiarity, both on his own body and-
Doppio bore the same mark. Diavolo hears Doppio's breath hitch a little- recognition? Desire?
Either way, it grips him with so much hunger that Diavolo's hands raise to grip Doppio's shoulders; he crushes him close to his body, mouth over Doppio's throat, kissing up his jugular to the tender junction of his jaw and his ear, leaving a lurid smudge of dark lipstick behind as he sucks there.
"My Doppio," he breathes, voice shivery and dark. "Kiss me."
It's an order, not a request, though Diavolo never meant to demand it with such intensity. Still, it's one Doppio happily and eagerly follows, surging forward with such fervor that his teeth clack with Diavolo's as he clambers into his lap.
Doppio's mouth is perfect. Doppio's slick, clever little tongue is perfect. The pressure of his inscisors and canines in Diavolo's bottom lip is perfect. He's perfect as he makes eager little sounds; he's perfect as Diavolo wraps his hands around Doppio's waist and uses all his strength to flip the both of them over, pressing Doppio's back to the sheets and draping his body on top of him, pressing Doppio back to the bed with his weight and feeling Doppio gasp into his mouth. Doppio's low, shivery moan is perfect, as is the way he throws one leg over Diavolo's waist, dragging his whole body closer even as Diavolo is crushing Doppio down into the mattress.
Doppio is perfect as Diavolo tears himself away only long enough to grab at the hem of his cropped sweater and tug it up; Doppio half-sits up to finish the job, pulling it over his head and flinging it forcefully to the side. Doppio is perfect as Diavolo dives back to him, catching his mouth and pushing him back onto the bed. Doppio's body feels so soft and plush under Diavolo's harsh angles; his sharp hipbones grind against Doppio's. Doppio moans anyhow, though- makes this delighted little noise in the back of his throat that Diavolo could hear in his dreams by now.
His hands itch even as he continues devouring every kiss Doppio offers up; and ah, isn't that the thing that's always kept him hungry? The sensation he thought of, craved- Doppio's soft body under his touch; the curve of Doppio's pretty throat; the soft plane of his chest, the gentle raised texture of scar; the gentle swell of his belly, the little dusting of pink fuzz that trails down into where his pants sit- so low, always so enticingly low- on his hips.
He half-rolls to the side, mouth still on Doppio's, leaning on one elbow so his other hand can trace, tease, toy. Doppio's bellybutton, the gentle little crease where his belly folds, the swell of his love handles, the meat of his hip just above his ass. Warm, he's so warm, and Diavolo knows that- even if he can't see right now, eyes closed as he explores the heat of Doppio's mouth- every inch he touches is dusted with freckles, little marks begging to be kissed.
His fingertips trace the shapes of him with reverence, feeling goosebumps crop up in his wake, feeling Doppio twitch and flinch and sigh as he arches into each touch.
This, oh, this . Diavolo moans in turn into his Doppio's mouth, feeling Doppio catch it, sigh back, rise to press his hips to Diavolo's fingers. Diavolo traces across his warm stomach, slips his fingertips to Doppio's cute bellybutton, traces down the path marked by each soft hair that leads directly to the waistband of Doppio's pants. Pauses there, pulls back from a kiss, breathless, to ask "Can-"
"Yes," Doppio blurts, barely letting him finish the syllable. "Yes, touch me, please ."
Diavolo moans, leans back to catch him in another needy kiss, and slips his fingers under the waistband of Doppio's pants. He finds the band of his underwear and tugs at the elastic, sliding his fingers underneath, feeling the sparse hairs of Doppio's stomach grow thicker and coarser the lower he goes.
There's heat, too, trapped between Doppio's skin and the fabric of his clothes, growing hotter with each millimeter he creeps towards the space between Doppio's thighs, almost unbearably hot as he gently scratches his nails through Doppio's bush and slips down, down-
"Ah-"
He isn't sure which of them makes the sound, only that he feels it in the air between their lips, and that it spikes through him with such intense craving that he feels his body shudder as he slips his finger low enough to feel the slick, hard nub of Doppio's cock beneath his touch, pressing his fingers to it hard enough to feel Doppio's pulse jump there.
Doppio's hands dart up to grasp at Diavolo's back, his blunt nails immediately digging in as he clings tight to his Boss, his thighs falling further apart near-involuntarily. Diavolo groans and explores, circling Doppio's slick cock with his fingers, roaming down lower, seeking, finding-
"You're so wet, my Doppio," he pulls back from their kiss and groans, almost falling to pieces with it.
Doppio whines, trying to chase his mouth back up even as Diavolo coos his praise. His eyes flutter open, looking up, and Diavolo looks down at how beautifully wrecked Doppio looks already. His hair is a mess, his cheeks are red, but that look in his amber eyes- oh, Doppio.
"I told you," he breathes, with a little laugh. "I told you how wet you got me."
He did, and Diavolo shudders with the memory- filthy words, exchanged back and forth like whispered promises. Doppio curling his fingers hard into his cunt, purring "I'm so wet, Boss, I want it so bad-"; the ache that burned in Diavolo's belly with it; the way he wanted his own fingers there instead, to feel every moment of Doppio tensing and squeezing around him-
He groans and presses into the wet heat, curling just one finger at first into Doppio's slick cunt. Doppio whines with it, eyes squeezing shut again, and Diavolo lets every secondhand sensory memory guide him as he curls and presses in, curling his finger to beckon every moment of pleasure from Doppio's body. He's shocked and delighted by the texture of Doppio under his fingers; how much he can feel it when he finds the right spot, the texture of Doppio's g-spot against the pad of his finger and the way Doppio shudders and gasps with it and how Diavolo can feel him squeeze down, how Diavolo can feel Doppio grow tighter around him.
Oh, god, that's exactly what he's craved. It takes him catching his breath and resting his forehead against Doppio's so he can fight off the flood of want long enough to carefully slip a second finger in.
Doppio squirms, then, hips lifting to meet Diavolo's every move, breathing desperate little sounds into the hot and humid air between them, chasing against Diavolo's touches to try and grind him down harder, more, there , inside him. He rolls his hips down and Diavolo curls his fingers against the motion, pressing up as Doppio arches down, slicking both fingertips against the hot insides of Doppio's cunt and shuddering with each pulse and twitch and squeeze of it around his knuckles. Doppio is wet, so wet, and Diavolo hears the lewd, nearly filthy slick sounds of his touches, the way Doppio's wet slicks and pools between his fingers, gathering in the webbing between them, leaving strands and glistening trails when Diavolo pulls momentarily out and soaking Diavolo's hand and the fabric of Doppio's underwear as Diavolo presses back in. He gasps and keeps pressing, curling, his wrist aching with the angle but unwilling to slow down despite the pain. He works his fingers in, stroking and curling-
"Wait," Doppio gasps, "god, wait, Boss-"
Diavolo's hand barely wants to still but he forces himself, body trembling as he holds his position, his breath ragged, pulling back to look down at Doppio from under half-lidded eyes, swallowing the dryness in his throat until he can muster talking again. "What?"
Doppio's hands release their grip on his back, fumbling down and scrambling to the button of his pants. His nails scramble and fail to find purchase on the purple courdoroy; Doppio swears and blindly feels until he's found the button, unbuttoning them with a groan. He hooks his thumbs under his pants and underwear both, tugging them down, lifting his hips so he can slip both under the curve of his ass, shimmying his clothes down his thighs. Diavolo keeps his hand between Doppio's legs all the while, unwilling to surrender the touch and the heat of Doppio's cunt to the necessities of undressing. Still, Doppio manages to finally kick his ankle free of the leg of his pants, and then he's there- fully bared to Diavolo; skin flushed and warm, the little hairs on his thighs and the back of his arms raising to the cool night air.
His body. Oh, his body, Diavolo has never known such want .
It has always been strange how different the two of them are in shape- what things Doppio has held onto even as Diavolo changed; what parts of himself he was unwilling to surrender even as he, like Diavolo, reveled in the changes that modern medicine could grant them. Diavolo had worked to ensure he was all muscle, lean and long, had carefully toned himself to be lithe like a runner; had worked to make sure that his chest was not only flat, but broad with his pectoral muscles. Doppio had never done the same, and Diavolo had always marveled at their ability to keep themselves even as they shared the same flesh. Doppio had always enjoyed his plush hips, his heart-shaped ass, his thick thighs. Diavolo's sense of self occupied a certain shape, a certain frame, a certain looming, tall, lean presence. But Doppio's shape was Doppio's ideal all the same- and Diavolo found it oddly alluring how much of their body before hormones or surgery Doppio had woven into the fabric of himself. Diavolo had loathed the breadth of his hips, the pear-shaped body that had acted as his hostile prison. Doppio had enjoyed it; had turned in the mirror to admire the fit of his new pants each time they purchased some, had smoothed his hands over the curve of his thighs happily.
It made it harder to detest those things. It made it harder to detest anything about their shared body; not when Doppio loved them. How could he in the same breath condemn the things of him that were soft, 'pretty' or round, when Doppio preened in the mirror carefully curling his long bang around his finger, ensuring he looked as soft and gentle and 'cute' as Doppio could manage?
Diavolo couldn't hate any part of the body that he and Doppio once shared; he couldn't look in the mirror and see anything but the parts of him that echoed Doppio's .
His own changes, then, became more about desire . Not an attempt to purge something unwanted and hateful- rather an attempt to chase what could make him feel the same way about himself. He wanted to feel the same way Doppio did when he looked in the mirror- wanted to feel that gentle, high, fluttering thrill that caught Doppio when Doppio trailed his hand against the curve of his side, mapping his wide hips up to his broad ribs, and then tracing the crescent curve of scar tissue in towards his sternum. Doppio loved these things. Diavolo, then- he wanted to find what of himself he could love. What could make him respond with giddy thrill every time he touched his own body.
Their strange and illogical nature allowed for some freedom. It allowed Diavolo to learn; to grow; to change on his own time. But now- now ? Standing in his own flesh and blood, looking down upon Doppio's body? Diavolo got it. He finally felt at home. He finally felt that he had shaped the walls of this house, each to his specification, that he was no longer borrowing someone else's frame to hide within.
Better still, he finds Doppio looking up at him with the same reverence that Diavolo is pouring over Doppio's body. Doppio's hands raise up, carefully tracing his fingers over Diavolo’s ribs, slipping them up under the lace of his top. Diavolo shudders with pleasant apprehension, sits back as Doppio pushes up on his elbows, sits up so that he might tug at the hem of Diavolo’s lace top, raises his arms to help lift the garment over his head. He doesn’t pay attention to where it lands when he throws it aside, too distracted already with the heat of Doppio’s mouth on his collarbones, his sternum, his pectoral.
“Can I kiss your chest?” Doppio purrs, looking up at him through his lashes, and Diavolo nearly melts into boneless wonder at the expression alone.
“Yes,” he rumbles, tipping his head back and sighing contently as Doppio’s mouth trails down, hot breath and kisses roaming his body, kissing over the curve of his scar where it puckers slightly near Diavolo’s sternum, then up towards his nipple.
“Can I-” Doppio’s mouth hovers near the edge of Diavolo’s nipple, shivery little motions from his lips raising goosebumps in his wake.
Diavolo pets over Doppio’s hair, gently brushing his long bangs behind one ear, humming a low, absent rumble of sound. “I lack sensation in the left,” he notes, “but you may put your mouth on either. It’s… nice, even where the nerve endings lack.”
Doppio murmurs his assent, gently kissing again, hot breath curling against Diavolo’s skin. His tongue flicks out to lick a hot stripe up Diavolo’s chest, and the absence of feeling for a brief moment as his tongue passes over Diavolo’s graft feels almost like one of King Crimson’s skips. He finds it strangely pleasant- comfortable in a way difficult to name. Even without feeling, the visual pools heat low in his belly, and when Doppio moves to kiss and lick at Diavolo’s right side the same motion gives him shivery, tingly tactile feedback that surges all the way up his spine.
Dopio’s hands trail down his ribs, starker and more tangible than Doppio’s. Where Doppio is all soft curve, Diavolo found himself grow leaner and sharper every year, his body hungrily burning fat to muscle, carving new lines in him. His belly is a little concave; his hipbones a little sharp. But just as Doppio does, he has a dusting of new body hair that makes him burn with pride; dusted across his sternum, down his belly, growing thick and wiry the further it dips between his legs. Doppio’s mouth quests over it with his hands, lips and tongue gentle but heated as he follows the paths of Diavolo’s body. His hands curl around Diavolo’s sharp hips, tugging him closer, licking a hot stripe up Diavolo’s belly, leaving Diavolo shivering in the wake of his tongue.
Diavolo’s heart stutters for a moment as Doppio’s thumbs dip momentarily into the waistband of his pants; Doppio looks up at him through his lashes again, peppering little kisses as his hands shift to the button of Diavolo’s pants, popping it open and tugging the fabric down over his hips. Diavolo lets him; shifts and helps kick them off as Doppio shuffles them down his hips. Doppio hesitates at the waistband of Diavolo’s underwear, still, looking up. “Can I take these off?”
Diavolo looks down at him; cups Doppio’s cheek gently with one hand, petting his thumb over Doppio’s flushed and full lips. He considers for a while.
“I’m not sure,” he admits, hand drifting to pet Doppio’s bangs back from his face, smoothing his touch over Doppio’s soft cheek. Neither of them ever made much headway in the matter of facial hair, but he likes the small prickling he feels here and there at Doppio’s jaw and where his hairline dips into the space near his ears. Doppio shaves it, he knows, carefully pruning back anything coarser than his peach fuzz.
Doppio simply nods, kissing the space below Diavolo’s bellybutton, his hands moving instead to Diavolo’s hips, his thighs, petting Diavolo’s sides and his strong thighs. Diavolo feels his chest loosen again; another thing he never even realized he worried about.
“I am… sorry,” Diavolo begins, voice hesitant and stumbling. He’s not used to apologizing.
Doppio glances up, tracing hot breath and open-mouthed kisses up Diavolo’s hipbone to his side. “Why?” he asks, voice genuine.
“For not…” Diavolo gestures vaguely at himself. “Not wanting to be touched there.”
Doppio shushes him with a gentle but no less heated bite, right at a particularly tender spot over his ribs, and it makes Diavolo shudder and moan quietly. “Hush. Don’t apologize for that.”
Diavolo bites his lip, eyes squeezing shut, head tipping back. “I want you,” he assures, voice husky. “I want you so badly. I simply- I don’t like to be… Not there.”
“Yeah?” Doppio nuzzles against the spot he just bit, glancing up. “S’ok. I get it, you know?” He kisses again, trailing kisses up Diavolo’s pectoral, licking at Diavolo’s nipple again with a gentle, playful swipe of his tongue. “You just tell me what you like. I- I mean, it’s you , I’d do anything with you. Everything. I just wanna do what you like .”
Diavolo swallows the lump in his throat, suddenly overwhelmed. He’s thought of this a thousand times; imagined every touch and kiss and sound and sensation he could draw from Doppio, but his own sensation has always been shockingly absent from his fantasies. Every lewd and filthy conversation always came back to the same- his cock, thick and hard inside Doppio, rocking into him, Doppio coming with Diavolo buried deep inside him.
“I want to fuck you,” he admits, doing his best to hold back the tremor in his voice. It makes its way to his hands instead, a persistent thrum of anticipation. He reaches down to rest his hands on Doppio’s shoulders, petting over the smooth curve of them. These, like so many places on Doppio’s body, are deliciously dotted with freckles as well.
Doppio grins up at him. “Oh, good,” he purrs. “I want you to fuck me. It works out perfectly.”
Diavolo laughs, low and husky, chewing on his lip a moment. He’s loathe to stop touching Doppio even for a moment, but he remorsefully draws his hands away, shuffling backwards and sitting back on his heels, looking over Doppio’s bare body for another long, savoring moment. “I have-” He clears his throat. Talking about this was so easy over the phone, but the words dry in his mouth when he has Doppio right here , so close, so easy to touch. He starts over, centering himself. He is too powerful to be stumbling over simply describing how he wants to fuck his darling Doppio. “I have a harness and a toy,” he states, with more conviction this time. “If you’d like that.”
Doppio’s half-lidded eyes and sharp, catlike smile answer even before his voice can. “Oh, Boss. I’d really like that.”
“Good.” Diavolo’s voice hovers somewhere between a low, hungry growl and a laugh. He slips off the bed, shuffling to his feet, grinning sheepishly as he turns to trek to the hotel room’s small closet and his luggage there.
The harness had, he admits, been something of a whim. He’d chided himself for buying it several times over, assuming as he did back then that he’d never even get a chance to wear it. He’d stuffed it into a small pocket in their shared luggage and done his best to ignore the impulse buy for several weeks, a strange shame burning in his mind where it dwelled, an irritant under the tongue of a clam, worrying it over and over.
He had given in, he remembers, late one night- alone in that way that he only felt when his other half slept too deeply in their shared subconscious to be reached. He’d sat on the edge of the bed holding the leather straps in his hands, thumbs worrying at the buckles and rings, willing himself to simply… try it on. He’d felt like a fool fumbling over the buckles and straps, trying to determine how the damn thing even went on. But when he’d finally secured it and slipped the silicon cock into the o-ring at the front, he couldn’t stop staring at his reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror. He’d held the length of the toy- no, his cock - in one hand, watching raptly how his fingers curled around it, the length of it jutting out from his skinny hips, the weight of it, the way it rested in his palm.
The next day when Doppio awoke, Diavolo could barely wait long enough to allow Doppio to settle into his day before he was calling, voice low and seductive, regaling Doppio with hungry and lascivious accounts of how he’d fold Doppio in half and fuck him senseless. Doppio had been delighted that Diavolo left the toy out for him to use, and he made the most delicious noises into the phone as he fucked himself with it, cooing about how good the Boss felt inside him.
It’s enough of a pleasant memory to push Diavolo past his initial nerves as he fishes out the harness and his cock from his luggage. He begins tugging the leather up over his hips, over his underwear, fastening buckles and tightening straps with far more ease than that first time.
He glances sheepishly over his shoulder, on the verge of apologizing for the delay, but his breath stills in his chest at the sight that greets him. Doppio’s laying back against the headboard, his hand between his thighs, languidly playing with himself as he watches Diavolo gear up. His hands slowly tease circles around his cock, his cunt slick and flushed with want, his thighs parted to give Diavolo a perfect view.
Oh. Oh. That singlehandedly knocks any remaining nerves directly out of Diavolo’s mind, tripping past all reservations to throb and ache and want as Diavolo fumbles to slip the o-ring around the base of his cock, motions clumsy with sheer eager desire. “Oh… oh, my Doppio,” he groans as he crawls back up the bed, feeling the heavy weight of his cock between his legs as he crawls up to lean over Doppio, holding himself up on his hands and looking his lover over.
“You look so good, Boss,” Doppio purrs, smile all sharp and toothy. “You gonna just hover over me, or you gonna fuck me?”
“Patience, Doppio,” Diavolo murmurs, leaning down until he’s almost-not-quite kissing Doppio. “We have all night.”
Doppio whines a little, brushing his nose against Diavolo’s, breath ghosting over his mouth. “I don’t want to wait all night. I want your cock inside me.”
“You’ll be the death of me,” Diavolo whispers against his lips, groaning and vaguely rolling his hips. He feels the harness catch and tug as his cock slides against the slick slit of Doppio’s cunt, teasing but never breaching. Doppio’s hips work along it, grinding along his length, and Doppio laughs against his mouth.
“I’ve waited so long,” Doppio whines, chasing the feeling as he rolls his hips against Diavolo’s length. “Boss, please .”
“Spoiled rotten,” Diavolo coos, though he leans down to catch Doppio’s lips in a half-starved kiss. He licks over Doppio’s bottom lip, drawing back to speak once more into the heated air between their mouths. “And I spoil you.”
He can never tell Doppio no. He reaches down, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock and holding it to angle it, to line up with the hot, wet entrance of Doppio’s cunt. He catches his breath, holding it in his lungs as he slowly- sl o w l y - pushes in, breaching inch by inch into Doppio’s cunt.
He knows Doppio has taken this exact toy many times over; he’s been there on the other end of the phone, watching Doppio fuck himself roughly with it, hearing Doppio gasp and plead. But he wasn’t prepared for how much more visceral it feels pushing it in with his own hips; the way his core muscles would tremble and ache with the slow push. The anticipation and hesitation that stilled him from pushing too hard; he’s gripped by the fear he’ll hurt Doppio, push too hard or too fast despite how wonderfully, deliciously wet Doppio is.
Doppio moans against his mouth with the slow press, leaning up to catch him in another kiss, his hands raising to wind into Diavolo’s hair and grasp tight, clinging until the roots of Diavolo’s hair aches a little. Diavolo feels how easy the glide of his hips is as he slowly rolls back, pulling out just a little before pushing in further, careful to watch for any resistance or any catch in his movements. But none slows or stills him; Doppio opens up for him beautifully, gasping between kisses as Diavolo slowly works himself deeper, deeper, a little at a time.
He knows how Doppio likes it- hard and relentless and ruthless; he’s watched Doppio fuck himself so hard on this toy that Diavolo worried he’d struggle to walk when he next took control of their body, but he can’t bring himself to rush, not yet. The sensation is too intoxicating- the bunch and release of his abdominal muscles, the vague tremor of his arms as he holds himself over Doppio, the way the harness tugs at his back and the strap between his thighs vaguely grinds against him with each motion. It’s phantom sensation through his underwear, light and barely-present, but it’s exactly as much stimulation as Diavolo can stand, rewarding feedback as he slowly rolls his hips and fucks languidly into Doppio.
Doppio’s clinging hands unwind from Diavolo’s hair to slip down to his back, clutching there with his nails digging into Diavolo’s trapezium, and he moans around a kiss, breath heavy and panting when he pulls back to catch it. Diavolo stares down at him- his flushed full mouth, his eyes closed, fluttering under his eyelids, his lips parted with a silent gasp or plea. It’s…
It’s so much. It’s so much, it’s so good , and Diavolo’s hunger drives his pace to fuck Doppio properly, drawing his hips nearly all the way back before they snap forward hard, thrusting all the way into Doppio, drawing a sharp, startled, delicious sound from Doppio.
“Oh, fuck , Boss, just like that,” Doppio whines. “Fuck, fuck-”
“Yes, my Doppio, yes-” Diavolo feels himself descend into near-nonsense, murmuring sweet nothings as he draws back and shoves in again, and again, his pace picking up with the heat coiling in his chest, fucking hard into Doppio again and again, chasing those sounds.
Doppio throws a leg around his waist, dragging Diavolo closer and holding him there so that every roll of Diavolo’s hips shoves his cock deep into Doppio, preventing him from pulling out so much, and Diavolo gladly follows his lead, working in shorter, sharper motions, using his thighs to piston rather than his core muscles. He’s rewarded with a beautiful symphony of gasps and moans, Doppio’s tongue tripping over his own half-cognizant phrases- “Oh, fuck , like that like that, there, Boss, there there there like that-”
“Doppio,” Diavolo half-gasps. “Doppio, my Doppio, you feel so good inside.”
He worries Doppio will question that- knows as well as anyone that he can’t really feel inside him- but Doppio catches on without a moment’s hesitation, pressing his forehead to Diavolo’s forehead and gasping, “you’re so hard in me, Boss, your cock feels so good -”
It’s just like every promise over the phone, and it sparks heat inside Diavolo’s body that fills his chest with such radiant glow that he thinks he could ascend. He feels his thighs trembling with the effort of fucking Doppio, his core muscles trembling, his breath a heavy cascade of pants and gasps, perfect harmony with Doppio’s own breathless sounds.
“Fuck, like that,” Doppio pleads, gripping harder at Diavolo’s shoulders. “Don’t- stop- Boss, fuck, just like tha-aat, fuck-”
“I won’t stop,” Diavolo promises against his mouth, breath hot and wet between them, his hair sticking to his face with sweat and exertion. “Not for a second, won’t stop, won’t ever stop-”
“ Fuck ,” Doppio hisses, his head tipping back, his back arching under Diavolo, his eyes squeezing shut. He bares his teeth, an almost-snarl of pleasure pulling at his lovely mouth. “Fuck, if you just- just stay like that, just like that, just like- I think I can-”
The heat in Diavolo’s chest grows brighter, a blaze of desire that threatens to consume him wholly, and despite every ache and tremor in his body he doesn’t dare stop or change or slow, matching Doppio’s pace and working into him with ruthless snaps of his hips, eager to push Doppio over the threshold. “Do it, for me, my Doppio, come for me come for-”
“Fuck, fuck!” Doppio gasps, drawing big hungry lungfuls of air, and his head snaps back and his nails dig into Diavolo’s shoulders as his grip goes to iron, as his thighs snap around Diavolo’s hips, as his body twitches and jolts, and Diavolo feels the drag and resistance of Doppio clenching down hard around his cock, gripping him so tight he can’t do more than twitch his hips, tiny shuddering movements that barely work his cock into Doppio as Doppio trembles and twitches and gasps and comes .
He stays inside him through every whimper and jolt, through every little aftershock, as Doppio whimpers aimless pleasure nonsense- “good, so good, so good, so so- Boss, Boss , so good-” until he feels all the tension and tightness slowly bleed from Doppio’s body. Doppio slowly melts in Diavolo’s arms, going slack and boneless and giddy as he struggles to catch his breath, still shaky with tremors running down his body.
“My Doppio,” Diavolo moans, dipping down to catch him up in a hungry kiss. “Oh… oh my Doppio, you’re so…”
Doppio kisses back, hungry and half-laughing, giddy as he pulls back and slumps back onto the pillows. He does laugh, then, and gasps on the tail of his laughter as it tightens him around Diavolo’s cock, still buried deep inside him, which only makes him laugh more. It catches, rumbling through Diavolo’s chest as he slowly and carefully draws his hips back, feeling Doppio tense and whimper with overstimulation until Diavolo finally slips free.
“I didn’t,” Diavolo murmurs, laughter still warm in his voice, “know you could come just from that.”
“Neither did I,” Doppio laughs, voice bright and delighted, and he throws his arms around Diavolo’s neck to draw him down into a tight squeeze. “Oh, Boss … that was….”
He never ends up finding a word, but Diavolo knows the sentiment as he drags Doppio close and squeezes him tight, laughter warm in his chest. It certainly was.
He and Doppio lay and bask for a while, catching their breaths, sweat cooling on both their skin, until Diavolo finally untangles himself from Doppio’s arms to sit up and begin unfastening the straps on his harness, fumbling with trembling hands at the buckles. He has a delightful ache through his body- tension still in his core muscles, a tremor in his thighs, and it feels like afterglow, the way it radiates through his body.
Doppio rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, brows knitting together. “Do you want me to- you didn’t come,” he mumbles, sheepish. “Do you want me to touch you? Hold you while you get yourself off?”
Diavolo shakes his head silently, tossing aside the harness and toy so he can crawl back to Doppio, tucking himself against his lover’s back and dragging him close. “I got everything I wanted,” he murmurs against Doppio’s hair, burying his face in the soft mess.
Doppio laughs, flopping back against him, eyes drifting closed, smile still audible in his voice as he settles, limbs loose and boneless and satisfied.
“Yeah, me too,” he murmurs. “Me too.”