Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“He texted me with no emojis,” Leone whined and showed his cell phone to his cool, sexy roommate Risotto. 

“That sucks, lemme see.” Risotto grabbed the phone from his dumbass cop roommate Leone. 

On the screen was a text message from one of Leone’s current boy toys, a little blond barista named Giorno Giovanna. It said simply, “Can I come over?”

Author’s note: The Archive makes it hard to use emojis, so I will have to describe how these text messages look using my words.

“Oh, that looks fine,” Risotto shrugged.

“But Giorno’s never texted me without an emoji before,” Leone pouted.

“Just text him back. Maybe he’s upset.”

“Upset about what?” Leone all but panicked. “Upset at me?”

“No, dumbass,” Risotto frowned and batted Leone upside the head. “Unless you did something? Should he be upset with you?”

“No!” Leone answered and batted at Risotto back. “I’ve never done anything wrong in my life.”

“Okay. Well then text him back.”

“And tell him what?”

Risotto turned his palms up in an annoyed gesture. Leone Abbacchio sure liked to cause his weight in problems. “Well, what do you want to tell him?” 

“Oh, duh.” Leone leaned into Risotto’s side and typed into his phone. He replied “Yes,” with a ton of heart emojis, two nonbinary cops (skin color 1), some kissy lips emojis and a tiramisu. 

Risotto watched Leone typing and smirked.

The two tall goth men sat in intimacy and silence, as roommates who are bros are want to do. 

Giorno’s reply came fairly quickly. “b there in 15,” it read.

Leone felt tears welling in his eyes. Still no emojis. 

“K,” Leone replied, following up the single letter with a flurry of flowers and kisses and cop cars and sirens and hearts.

Risotto’s lips curled into a smirk and he wrapped an arm around his roommate. “You’re such a baby, Leone.” He chided lovingly. 

“Am I your baby?” Leone smirked back and edged himself up, onto Risotto’s lap.

“Of course, dummy,” Risotto cooed and folded his hands over Abbacchio’s crotch.

Abbacchio wiggled his hips over his roommate suggestively, rubbing his ass slowly over Risotto’s clothed half-chub. The silk-satin fabrics of their matching pajama pants swished against each other, a soft, erotic whisper. 

And then Leone received another text from Giorno: a single red heart. Leone slammed his hips down against Risotto, suddenly really horny.

“Look at this, bro,” he said, and held his phone up for Risotto to look. He didn’t stop rolling his hips.

“What did I tell you?” Risotto grinned, rutting very gently against his roommate’s plush ass. “You’re in the clear.”

“Thank God,” Abbacchui exhaled. He started composing a response to the blondie, one that consisted entirely of gaudy emoticons. Then, to seal the deal, he sent a gif of minions leaving smooch marks on the phone screen.

“Are you trying to fuck right now, bro?” Risotto offered. “Get a quick one in before your boy arrives?”

“Aww, I’d love to, bro, but if he’s in a real bad mood, I don’t wanna be disrespectful, y’know?” Abbacchio sighed. “But lemme get you hard, so I can speed up your inevitable jerk-off sesh.”

“Aw, thanks, Bro, you’re the best.” Risotto rested his chin on Leone’s shoulder. “No homo though, right?”

“Oh shit!” Abbacchio laughed, wiggling his ass to wedge Risotto’s big pierced boner between his cheeks. “You almost caught me! I was aboutta do this all, full homo!”

“Oh, damn, bro, that would really be the end of the world, wouldn’t it.” Risotto sucked his teeth in faux-worry and held onto Abbacchio’s hips to guide him to the right pace. “Doing what we do full-homo? That’s so against the bro code.”

“The bro code,” Abbacchio repeated mindlessly, palming at his own boner though his pants. “Wouldn’t wanna break the bro code.”

Risotto was groaning a deep, hungry groan against his roommate’s neck when they heard a knock at the door. 

They both exhaled, disappointed. 

“Yeah, I should probably,” Leone stated, standing up and willing his boner to stand down. 

“Yeah, go get the door,” Risotto agreed, and positioned a couch cushion over his crotch. 

Leone did, and there standing before him in a pink velour tracksuit and carrying a matching duffel bag, was Giorno Giovanna.

“Come in!” Leone gestured him in. Then he noticed that Giorno’s face was red and his lip was shaking. “Oh— I— Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Warm milk? Beer? Wine? Leftovers—?”

But Giorno waved his offers away. “No,” he replied with a cracked, ragged voice, “I’m just going to go to your room.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there! Tell me if it’s too warm, or too cold, or if you need a—” Leone worried, but Giorno brushed past him and slammed the door. 

Risotto shot his roommate a knowing look. “What did I tell you?” he chided quietly.

—

Leone knocked on his own door before walking into his own room with a plate of cut fruit. 

Giorno was there, sitting on the edge of Leone’s bed. He didn’t look up from the floor until Leone sat down next to him and the mattress boughed under his weight to push Giorno towards him. Leone offered him fruit. 

“I told you, I’m fine,” Giorno mumbled. 

He obviously wasn’t.

“Dude, that shit isn’t going to work.” Leone frowned. “Eat a piece of apple, and tell me what’s wrong.”

Leone held the apple slice out in front of Giorno’s face until he took it. He told himself that he was only taking it to make Leone feel better, not because he was hungry or because he (god forbid) needed help. This was for Leone, and to get him to stop bothering him. But when the crisp fresh juice broke over his tongue, he coughed up just the very beginning of a sob. 

“Good boy,” Leone comforted him. “What’s wrong, Giorno?” It felt weird to be comforting him like this, like lovers. They’d been fucking for a few months, but they weren’t lovers, were they?

“It’s just dad stuff. You know how I have two dads?”

Abbacchio nodded.

“Well, the one I like is moving back to England.”

“Why don’t you go with him?” Abbacchio offered. It didn’t matter to him whether one random blonde barista stayed or went.

“I’m almost done with my botany program here. Plus, nothing interesting even grown in England,” Giorno pouted.

“Hmm,” Abbacchio agreed. 

“Anyway, enough of my weird daddy drama. Do you want to fuck?” Giorno abruptly changed the subject.

Abbacchio’s breath caught in his throat and he almost dropped the plate of fruit. “O-Oh, is that why you came over?” He choked.

“No, I came over because I couldn’t be around DIO and Mista is hosting some prospies right now.”

“I see,” Abbacchio lied.

“But I still do wanna fuck,” Giorno clarified.

“Are you… are you sure it’s gonna make you feel better?” Abbacchio frowned and popped a slice of a mandarin orange into his mouth. It tasted heavenly and made him smile even despite the ridiculous situation. 

“No, I'm not sure, but It’s my best bet,” Giorno answered, finally cracking a little bit of a smile.

The smile was encouraging to Abbacchio, so he put the fruit plate down on the floor.

“Isn’t Baffy going to eat the fruit if you don’t put it up high?” Giorno asked, referring to Melone’s stand.

“Baffy isn’t real,” Abbacchio countered. “He’s just a ghost Risotto made up cause he was lonely, I think.”

Giorno shrugged. “Alright, well don’t complain if the fruit’s gone after we fuck.”

Leone had no idea what Giorno was talking about so he just wrapped an arm around Giorno and rolled them both onto the bed.

“Checazz’, took them long enough,” Risotto thought, stroking his massive cock in lose strokes once Giorno’s refrains of “daddy, fuck me already” started to pierce from Leone’s room through their flat. No harm in jerking off to your bro’s sex noises. In fact, Leone and Risotto had a habit of jerking off to each other’s hookups and recounting the stories afterwards. If the jacker-off had the better nut than the sex haver, the jacker-off would win a blowjob from the other. But that hadn’t happened yet. 

“Daddy, fuck me already,” Giorno whined, rolling his naked hot dripping pussy at Leone.

“Wait!” Leone insisted, frazzled. “I can’t find a condom!”

“I don’t care!” complained Giorno. “I have an IUD! You know this!”

“But what if—” Leone tried to protest.

But Giorno stuck some fingers down there and spread himself open. “Please, daddy, I don’t fucking care! Just fuck me already!”

Well, fuck, at this point, saying “no” just felt disrespectful. And Giorno was in a bad mood. He needed a win, right? He needed to get what he wanted?

So Leone pushed his hips forward, letting himself sink into the velvet heat that was Giorno Giovanna. All the breath left him the second he breached him, he felt so good. 

“You’re a whore and a half, huh,” Leone growled. “All these problems with your fathers so you need to come fuck your daddy”

“Yes, daddy!” Giorno begged. “Fuck me harder, daddy!”

And so he did. And did and did and did and did, raw and stupid and thoughtless and hot. 

“Oh fuck!” Abbacchio stammered, moments too late. “I’m going to come!”

“Yes! Daddy!” Giorno begged, “Come in me!”

“N— NO— FUCK!” Abbacchio shouted and squeaked and came all while trying to free his cock from Giorno’s gorilla grip pussy. It was a whole mess and left him shuddering. 

Giorno shouted too at the sudden behavior, and the rough motion of being shoved, paired with the visual of cum sputtering out of Leone’s big sexy cop cock, shocked him into an orgasm of his own. Not the best one he’d ever felt, but then Abbacchio immediately rolled over to lick his clit… and then Abbacchio shoved his fingers immediately in to fill up the empty space left by his spent cock… and then Giorno was coming again, and this time it was a full-bodied warmth that overtook him. This time his eyes crossed and he saw stars. This time he screamed so loud that…

Risotto’s hands on his cock and balls jolted tighter, startled by Giorno’s sudden glass-shattering scream. It took just a couple more heavy motions of his hands and then he was groaning in harmony. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself, and then tasted the cum off his fingers. “7.5,” he rated it, and stored the rating for later. 

“Jesus christ Giorno… I’m so sorry….” Abbacchio begged for forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to come in you!”

Giorno rejected all of Abbacchio’s weird Catholic self-flagellation. “Leone, let me sleep. I’m on birth control, I promise it’s fine.”

—

Leone must have fallen asleep at some point, because next thing he knew he woke up and Giorno was gone. He wandered out to the kitchen to the welcome visual of Risotto sitting at the table reading his book. “Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey,” Risotto answered. “I made oatmeal, it’s in the slow cooker.”

Leone nodded his thanks and got himself a bowl. 

“So, how was last night?” Risotto asked. “7.5, for me.”

“Oh, 8.9 for me, easy. I think I mighta, uhh, I mighta cum in his pussy a little. Maybe. I think.” Abbacchio bragged.

At the mention of a creampie, Risotto’s face blanched. “Oh, fuck, I was meaning to—have you gotten tested recently, bro?”

Abbacchio felt his heart drop. “Not as recently as I’d like, dude. Why?”

“‘Cause Melone texted me,” Risotto answered.

“And?” Abbacchio trembled, waiting for the second shoe to drop.

“Gonorrhea.”

Chapter Text

The reality of Melone’s text message came down like an anvil to the head in a vintage Looney Toon: “Gonorrhea.”

Abbacchio felt a shudder run through his bones. “The clap? Seriously?”

“Yeah, dude.” Risotto warned. “You gotta get tested, right away.”

“Fuck,” Abbacchio whispered, “Giorno’s gonna kill me.”

“You have to tell them that, bro,” Risotto instructed him, leaning towards Abbacchio and letting his hand slide up Abbacchio’s thigh towards his cock.

“Can we fuck first?” Abbacchio shuddered.

Risotto sighed, heartfelt expression of his deepest regret. “No, you’re going to call them first.”
“They’re at work!” Abbacchio argued. “Surely it can wait until after work!”

“Absolutely not!!” Risotto cupped a big hand around Abbacchio’s balls, loose in his silk pants. “You know what they get up to in the back of house!”

“Ugh, god, you’re right. Fine. But jack me off while I call.”

“Sure, no problem bro.”

Abbacchio first texted Giorno a simple “call me.” With no emojis. Which, as you can imagine, was a first.

At the Cafe, Giorno and Mista were working a morning shift. They got through an insane rush of customers, and then a welcome lull. Giorno heard his phone ding, but the stress of doing his day-to-day job had him too horny. Whatever was on his phone would have to wait. He grabbed Mista by the wrist and hissed into his ear, “I need to suck your dick. Lemme suck your dick.”

Mista didn’t have to be told twice. 

He taped up a sign to the door reading “Be back in 5!” and then pulled Giorno into the supply closet. Closing the store for a quick fuck—one of the many perks Mista enjoyed as an assistant store manager. 

Giorno fell to his knees and found himself face-to-face Mista’s erection, straining against his skintight grey lululemons. Giorno nuzzled his face against it, rubbing his soft cheeks against the technical fabric. His round face, with its deep-set green eyes and wide nose and plush lips, looked angelic glued to Mista’s crotch.

“As much as I want to dry hump your face until I cum down the front of my leggings,” Mista panted, “I do have a store to assistant manage, so I’d suggest you hurry your cute ass up.”

Giorno didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled Mista’s leggings down off his hips and let his fully-formed erection boingoingoing up into Giorno’s face. Its flushed brown tip was already wet with precome. It made Giorno absolutely salivate.

So, right there on the food-safe Cafe’ floor, Giorno took his manager’s cock into his mouth. He bobbed his head up and down with a fervor. He deep throated it easily, barely choking as it bulged out his esophagus. 

Mista whimpered and cupped Giorno’s hollow cheeks. “Fuck,” he groaned, “I want to pin you to the wall and fuck you standing up. Right here, right now.”

“Fucking do it then,” Giorno garbled out over Mista’s cock taking up space in his mouth.

Well, fuck the cafe, Mista decided. If there were any customers that wanted coffee, they’d have to just use the Starbucks like everyone else. He picked Giorno up by the strings of his apron and slammed him against the wall that housed the calendar, thank-you cards, and mandatory labor fliers. Giorno rolled his hips against Mista and wrapped his legs around Mista’s waist. Today, Giorno was wearing one of Abbacchio’s Carabinieri Academy T-shirts as a dress. So it was easy enough for Mista to nudge up the cotton curtain and push Abbacchio’s briefs to the side, revealing his pink-brown, throbbing pussy. Mista adjusted their hips so he could nudge his cock into those tantalizing folds. He could feel the heat of Giorno’s pussy before his cock even touched it, and he found himself thankful for the stability of the wall as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. But he didn’t stumble and his motions didn’t even stutter as he stuck his cock up, up into Giorno. Without even the thought of a condom. Mista knew that Giorno was on birth control, and that was enough for him. He ground in and in and in, each smooth moment out of Giorno’s pussy only calculated, only permissible, because of the knowledge that he’d be going right back in. That excited him, that certainty that his employee’s pussy would always admit him back in. So he took bigger risks with the motion of his hips, pulling out so far that that Giorno’s pussy just barely clung around tip of his cock, and then plunging back up, all the way to the hilt. All the way into Giorno’s soft, thirsty pussy. Giorno’s pussy that was throbbing and alive and greedily milking Mista’s cock. Giorno’s pussy that was so tight as to create an unhandleable suction around his entire length. Mista howled and moaned. he savagely slammed his hips up into Giorno, rattling the mugs on the drying rack. 

“Fuck me so hard the mugs fall down,” Giorno panted, taking advantage of the situation.

“Gladly, but I’ll deduct whatever you break from your next paycheck,” Mista assistant-managed.

“Take whatever you want from me,” Giorno exhaled, squirming on Mista’s cock. “I’m gonna squirt, but—your leggings—so much time left on shift—”

Mista snarled. Giorno had a good point. So Mista dug his fingers into Giorno’s ass and shifted his weight fully onto himself so he could carry Giorno around the corner over the dishwashing sink. He supported Giorno’s entire weight in his big buff arms, suspending the man over the stainless steel basin. 

“Here you go, cutie. Now you can squirt on me. Come for your Mista.”

“Mista, Mista!” Giorno agreed. 

Mista loved the sound of his own name, and he felt his body seize up as it echoed throughout the back-of-house. “Giorno, your voice is so hot—I think I’m gonna come—”

“Come in me, come in me!” Giorno insisted. 

Mista adjusted his angle just a tad and then jackhammered himself into Giorno’s inviting insides until he came all up inside them. He pumped sexy barista cum deep up against Giorno’s cervix, mixing with Leone’s leftovers. 

The feeling of the hot, hot proof of Mista’s devotion washed over Giorno, and he clenched around Mista’s throbbing cock. He clenched down and felt himself instantly tip over the edge into unbearable throes of pleasure. As it washed over him, it washed over his pussy and Mista’s cock just as literally. He came buckets of liquid, some squirting out of his pussy and spattering on Mista’s bared tummy. Some of it dripped down and spilled over his thighs and stomach and into the heretofore clean dishwashing sink. “Mista! Mista! Mista!” He chanted breathlessly. 

“You can do better than that,” Mista panted, slowing down his thrusts to get him emotionally ready for the cruel reality that was life with his dick outside of Giorno. “Call out my name like I ordered a really complicated drink and I’m nowhere to be found.”

Giorno huffed a little hint of a laugh. “Mista!” He cried, this time projecting his voice throughout the whole building. 

The two of them listened to Giorno’s voice quickly fade, and then Mista finally let his soft cock slide out of Giorno along with a healthy floe of cum and squirt which spattered into the basin of the sink.

It was then that they noticed that the cafe’s landline phone was ringing. 

“How long has that been ringing?” Giorno mumbled, woozy.

“Don’t know, and don’t care. Get yourself cleaned up and I’ll see what this crazy Karen, whomever she is, wants.”

“Call one more time, bro, I’m sure it’s just crazy busy and they haven’t heard the phone yet.” Risotto instructed Leone, one hand calming on Leone’s shoulder and the other exciting on his rock hard cock. 

“Okay,” Leone stammered and hit redial on his phone to call Giorno’s cafe one last time.

To his surprise, this time there was a fairly prompt response. “Hello, you’ve reached Caffe’ Cento, this is Guido, how may I help you?”

“Mista? Mista, good, is Giorno there?” Abbacchio all but shouted into the receiver. 

“Huh? Who is this?”

“Me!— God—!”, Leone interrupted himself as Risotto stroked him. He tried to keep his composure on the phone, though. “Have you and Giorno had sex yet? Let me talk to Giorno!”

“Oh, Leone?” Mista finally identified the voice on the other end of the receiver.

“Yes!” Abbacchio whimpered. “Have you two had sex?”

“Giorno’s like super busy right now,” Mista lied. “We’re slammed at the shop and Giorno’s on reg. Is it urgent?”

“Yes! And d-d— don’t have sex with him. And tell him to call me back at his e-e— earliest convenience!” Abbacchio panicked and hung up the phone.

“That was a trainwreck,” Risotto comforted Abbacchio with a shallow kiss on the lips.  

“I’m so sorry, I panicked. I hope they didn’t have sex!” Leone melted into his roommate’s body.

Risotto pretended to be patient. “Yeah, haha, sure bet they didn’t,” he lied without even pretending to be sincere.

“It’s Leone,” Mista explained to Giorno, who was drying himself off after a little rinsey-rinse in the dishwashing sink. 

“Leone? What does he want?” Giorno asked while nonchalantly sauntering to the front door of the cafe to prop it back open.

“He wanted you to call him.”

“Huh.” Giorno popped back to the back of house to check his phone. “Oh, shit. He texted me like an hour ago without any emojis. I think I do have to take this.”

“No worries, it’s fine, leave me with the cafe all to myself,” Mista rolled his eyes. Oh well, it didn’t look like anyone was out on the street, and at 10am on a weekday it was now well past rush hour.

Giorno called up Leone.

Leone picked up immediately, but he couldn’t speak. He was too lost in Risotto’s fingers now both cradling his cock and stroking inside his ass. So all Giorno could hear was his jagged, labored breathing.

“Leone?” Giorno asked, annoyed. “Did you pull me away from work just to listen to you jerk off?”

“’s not me…” Leone whimpered. “’s Risotto…”

“Oh,” Giorno changed his tone, as if the owner of the hand on Leone’s cock had any bearing on the current situation at all.

“I needed to… fuck!” Leone tried to explain why he called Giorno. “Did you fuck Mista? D— don’t fuck M—”

“Yeah, of course I fucked Mista,” Giorno answered, annoyed. “I always fuck Mista at work.”

“Fuck!” Abbacchio cussed, more at poor Mista’s fate than at the way Risotto’s fingers suddenly curled into his prostate.

“Why?” Giorno demanded, growing impatient. He could see that a line was forming in the damn cafe again, and he needed to help Mista with the orders.

“Oh— well— fuck—! Just— Just don’t fuck an—yone else and com— come here after w— after w— af—!”

“Are you coming at a time like this?” Giorno berated Leone.

“Y—yeah!” Leone admitted, helpless, before his voice completely fell away and Giorno once again heard only the soft hiss of Leone’s desperate breathing. Giorno could only imagine how Leone was letting his roommate use his body like a puppet right now, how deep Risotto’s big fingers must be inside the sexy tall cop. It sure piqued him. 

“Do I bring Mista?”

Leone whimpered through the rest of his orgasm before he was able to respond. “Yes. Please.”

“Okay Leone, well I’m going back to work, then.” Giorno said finally into the phone.

“Okay,” Leone whispered.

And then Giorno hung up. 

The two bariste did as they were told, and arrived at 69 Via Scopa #2 pretty soon after work. Risotto and Abbacchio ushered them into the living room and Abbacchio put on the tea kettle.

“So?” Giorno asked, impatient.

“Well, I—” Leone stumbled over his words.

Risotto smacked his ass to encourage him to open up. “You have to tell them,” he warned.

“I Melone gonorrhea.” Leone stammered, all at once.

“HELLO?” Giorno shouted, standing up. “But you came in me last night!”

“Yeah, exactly,” Leone muttered miserably.

“And I came in you this morning!” Mista dismayed.

“Fuck,” Risotto whispered under his breath, and then removed himself from the situation, retreating to his room.

“Are you sure you have it?” Giorno demanded.

“Well, I, er… I had, uh, unprotected penetrative sex to completion with him multiple times during the window where he would have been contagious, so…”

“So you had raw sex and creampied Melone’s pussy?” Giorno parroted, incredulous. It was inconceivable to him that Leone would creampie Melone but refuse to creampie Giorno. 

“Well, yeah. Exactly.” Leone answered.

“So you almost definitely have gonorrhea.”

“Yep.”

“So now me and you and Mista all have to get tested.”

“And Risotto, yeah.”

Mista watched this rapid-fire conversation between Giorno and Abbacchio, darting his eyes between the two of them until he got dizzy. “Hey guys,” Mista complained, “let’s just light up some fat doinks and deal with this tomorrow. The clinic is closing in like an hour anyway, and even if we do have the clap, it’s not that bad.”

“What, like you’ve had it before?” Asked Giorno.

“You haven’t?” Mista answered back, incredulous.

Giorno and Leone both shook their heads.

“Damn! Looks like I got some real hygiene nerds on my hands. Moreso than I thought. But yeah, it just hurts when you pee then you get an antibiotic shot in your ass and it clears right up. It’s really not that bad.”

Giorno and Leone shared an uncomfortable look, but Mista seemed confident in his subject matter so they decided to take him up on the offer for fat doinks. 

When Risotto heard Mista’s rolling music (“Brass in Pocket” by the Pretenders), he came back to the living room for the promise of smoking some fat doinks. Mista rolled them five blunts from a 5-pack of Black-n-Mild(R) wine flavored cigarillos, because even though there were only four of them present, Mista didn’t play games with chance. And with the strains of nineties girl-pop in the background, the occupants of 69 Via Scopa #2 elegantly hotboxed their living room.

Chapter Text

Giorno, Mista, and Abbacchio were high as kites when they ended up in Abbacchio’s big bed together. 

“On God, bros, we’re gonna get through this gonorrhea together,” Mista grinned, arms around his boys. He was trying to cheer them up and, because they were both whores, it was working. 

“Like… together together?” Giorno whined, looking up at Mista with big puppy-dog eyes.

“Yeah, how together?” Abbacchio dogpiled.

Mista unzipped his pants and popped out his cock. “Like, together together.”

Giorno picked up Mista’s dick between his thumb and pointer finger and inspected it like an old-timey detective.

“I don’t see anything wrong with it, though.” He puzzled. “Are we sure we shouldn’t just make Leone use a condom? I bet we’re fine, right?”

Mista scoffed. “Nah, it takes like two days for symptoms to present. Like, Leone, you’ve had it for a couple days now? Show us your cock, dude.”

“Yeah, probs four days since I fucked Melone last,” Abbacchio confirmed.

“Four….” Mista whispered, scandalized. “Of course it was four days ago.”

“Stop it! Just show us your meat, Leonino,” Giorno lamented.

Leone pulled down his pajama pants and did as instructed. He had to pull himself up to a straight-backed sitting position to give the other two a good view of his wee willie winkie. He pressed his fingertip to his tip and came away with a smudge of yellow-green discharge. He chuckled to himself. “Hey look, it’s ya boy, uhh… drippy penis.”

At the vine reference, Giorno wretched a little in his mouth. 

“Yeah, if his cock’s like that bad, we definitely already have it,” Mista confirmed. 

Giorno thought a little bit, juggling alternative options in his woozy high-brain. Well, if he already had it, what’s a little more gonorrhea? You can’t get, like, gonorrhea two, can you? He reached his conclusion and quieted the inner turmoil. Then he tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear, closed his eyes, and leaned down to lick the gross whatever-it-was off of Abbacchio’s dick. 

“Giorno— wh— ohhhhhh,” Abbachio moaned, cut off by Giorno’s mouth on his achey breaky cock. The burning warmth of Giorno’s tongue was a welcome respite from the burning pain he felt when he pissed. 

“It was so easy for you to infect me last night,” Giorno cooed, looking up and making eye contact with Abbacchio.

Abbacchio felt really strange, to be honest, hearing those words coming out in Giorno’s husky seductive voice. Even in the literal midst of receiving a blowjob, he wasn’t really sure whether he should feel turned on or not. But Giorno was palming at himself under his borrowed T-shirt, and the flush on his cheeks looked honest enough. So he decided it might be fun to dedicate himself to the bit. “Y—yeah,” He stammered, experimentally. “Yeah, you’re such a little… gonorrhea whore?”

Mista grinned. “Oh, a schtick? Are we doing doing a schtick right now?”

Giorno winked at his coworker before answering Abbacchio. “Yeah, clap daddy, infect my whore mouth just like you did my cunt.”

Mista was struggling to contain his laughter. Like, seriously? Clap daddy? But then he cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “You heard your little boy, clap daddy,” He sneered. Those summers spent at acting camp were going to pay off. “Dirty his pretty little throat, Leone. Don’t keep your baby boy waiting.”

Leone’s cock sprung fully to attention in an instant, causing Giorno to gag slightly. His eyes were so red and droopy and his cheeks were so hollow around Leone’s cock…. And Mista’s scratchy voice calling him daddy…. Abbacchio’s hips locked up. He was about to come, but he didn’t want to waste the night. He grabbed a handful of Giorno’s hair and pulled him off his dick to make him stop. There was a beat in the action where all three men watched Abbacchio’s dick, all bright pink and dripping and engorged, throb and sputter a weak dribble of pre before rearing down. Leone cringed at the way his balls ached as he forced himself back from the edge. “S-sorry babe,” he panted, “I— Clap daddy doesn’t wanna… cum too fast?” Leone floundered, looking to Mista to save him. 

Mista nodded a polite little nod over at Leone to tell him he was doing a good job. “Good boy,” he praised Giorno, “now give me some of daddy’s clap too. Give your big bro some of daddy’s clap.”

Giorno didn’t have to be asked twice. He got himself over to Mista and went down on him, post-haste.

“That’s such a good little slut, yeah” Abbacchio grinned, taking his cue from Mista’s schtick. He meanwhile helped pull Mista’s lululemons all the way off of his buff, hairy legs. He kissed his legs on the way down and got some curly black leg hair stuck in his stubble.

Mista moaned, “Lil bro, your mouth is— so gross—!” And he held Giorno’s face lovingly between his hands. “Lil bro, I’m kinda jealous that you got gonorrhea before I did~”

“Mmmmm, big bro,” Giorno hummed over Mista’s giant cock. “Don’t worry, you’ll be dripping like Daddy by the end of this.”

Leone still felt, like, super weird hearing them all this. But from the ease of their rapport, Leone guessed that the two slutty barista boys did role-play like this on the regular. So he decided it wouldn’t be too weird to stroke his cock to it. 

“Daddy, fuck me,” Giorno whispered, taking Leone by surprise. “Fuck the clap through my body and into big bro. He needs it. We need to infect him.”

“Alright, Gio—I mean baby boy!” Leone grinned proudly and puffed out his chest as he positioned himself behind Giorno. He pulled Giorno’s soaked panties to the side and lined himself up. “And you want me raw, baby, right?”

“Mm-hm, raw! Make sure you infect me!” Giorno drooled and panted over Mista’s cock. 

Leone grunted and pressed into Giorno’s raw and ready pussy. He slammed his cock into Giorno, causing him to whimper and then choke on all his own drool. 

Mista smirked up at Leone. “Spit-roasting the little boy? Good one, Daddy.”

Leone felt his pulse rush and his cock shudder inside Giorno. He could get used to being called daddy. He wasn’t sure if he could get used to the gonorrhea, though. “You— you got it,” He tried to reply to Mista, but his coherence was lost in the friction between his cock and Giorno’s hole.

“Aww, you’re not going to offer to share?” Mista pouted and cocked his head at Leone.

“Huh?” Abbacchio looked up.

Then, Giorno whimpered.

“Yeah,” Mista crooned, pushing Giorno away and arching the poor young man’s back so severely as to make him cry out, just so he could get his face right next to Leone’s. “I wanna make sure you get those dirty germs of yours all up into my cock, right? What better way than to fuck me inside your little boy’s poisonous pussy? Hit me with that corrupted cock?” Mista was letting his creativity run away with him, and he was having fun with the process. Can you blame him?

Leone cringed. He could blame him. But even then, he helped collect Giorno up into his lap, and grab his legs in a full nelson and spread him out so Mista could get to his hole. 

Mista whimpered when Giorno’s mouth was yanked off of his cock. But it was only left out in the cold for a few moments before Mista was pressed up against Giorno’s body and his cock was dragging along Abbacchio’s into Giorno’s pussy.

“Y—you’re really stretching baby to his limits,” Giorno mumbled, more congratulation than complaint.

“You good though?” Leone stammered back as he rubbed his cock against Mista’s, sliding easily with all the juice and spit.

“Yes.” Giorno hissed, mad at Leone for ruining the moment. “J-just force me wide open so I can fit both your diseased dicks,” he moaned out loud. “If I get micro-tears I’m even more likely to transmit the infection! Fuck me hard! Fuck me so hard we all have to get sick!” His voice was getting higher and higher with each demand, and his pussy was clenching desperately around his boyfriends' cocks that filled him so desperately full. He was about to cum, and both Abbacchio and Mista knew it. They started thrusting in deeper, deeper, deeper, acquiescing to all of their little boy’s requests. 

“Yes, baby, come for daddy,” Leone whispered, low and seductive in Giorno’s left ear.

“Make sure you get your big bro infected,” Mista teased, playful in Giorno’s right.

Giorno yowled an over-pleasured yowl and he came, bearing down tight. Then he collapsed forward into Mista’s arms. He did his best to keep his lower back stiff, though, to give the boys both something nice to fuck into. 

Not surprisingly, Leone’s postponed orgasm was not far behind. His manicured fingernails dug into Mista’s sweaty back, leaving long claw marks down his shoulder blades. And he blew his biohazardous load raw and unprotected against both of his boyfriends.

“Fuck, daddy, you absolute maniac. You really did it,” Mista panted, and drew his dick out to survey the damage. It was covered in Leone’s sticky spunk as well as dripping with eau de Giorno. “That’s so hot, though—!” His voice caught and he tightened a fist over his wet boner. “That’s so hot—!”

Abbacchio and Giorno sensed that they were needed, and both instinctively flew their hands to Mista’s cock to help him out.

“That’s so friggin’ hot!” Mista jumbled out, fading into a whimper as he jetted a stream of cum up into the air, only to fall back down—plop!—on his boyfriends’ hands. 

“What’s so friggin’ hot?” Bruno Buccellati, the landlord of 69 Via Scopa and resident of unit #1, wondered out loud to himself.

It was normal for him to hear his tenants fucking. The floors and ceilings of this building were fairly thin, not to mention the air vents… He put his ear closer to his bedroom air vent to try to discern whose voices he was hearing. It was Leone, and that two boys he’d been going steady with for a while. Notably, Bruno didn’t hear Risotto’s voice, but he knew Risotto was home. Which meant, from Bruno’s experience, that Risotto was probably epically sexually frustrated. Poor guy, Bruno thought, stuck down there listening to those horndogs fucking with nothing to put his dick in. So he pulled out his phone and texted Risotto a peach emoji and a question mark emoji. 

Risotto was still sitting on the couch, stoned out of his god damned mind. He had smoked all of Mista’s leftover weed and then dipped into Melone’s secret stash, so he honestly wasn’t super sure if he was even sitting or standing. But he did know that his phone just went off, so he picked it up to look. The bright screen swam in his vision, but he was able to figure out what was going on. It was a text from his goddamn landlord. He unlocked his phone and stared at the peach emoji. He wracked his brain. Peach emoji, peach emoji…. Did Buccellati need some produce? Risotto could go for a peach right now, honestly. Eating something sweet would hit so good right now, he decided, and got up to ransack his kitchen.

He’d already gotten halfway through a roll of pizzelle before his phone buzzed again. It was another text message from Buccellati, and this time it was the smirking devil emoji and “right now? I can come down”

Risotto couldn’t think fast enough to really comprehend what was being asked, but he figured that sending Bruno a positive answer was the best way to placate him. So he responded with a simple “k.”, black heart emoji, wilted rose emoji.

Some time passed, and Risotto got bored of the pizzelle and moved on to some hard salted licorice.

Then Bruno knocked on the door and let himself in. He was wearing a midnight blue silken blouse, bulged out by a genuine John Paul Gaultier cone bra. The shirt was tucked into his customary linen slacks with the weird zipper-pull design, and his feet were bare.

“Oh… hi?” Risotto slurred, mouth full of sticky licorice. 

“Hello, beautiful tenant!” Bruno trilled, and closed the door to #2 behind him as he approached Risotto.

The licorice coin sitting half-eaten on Risotto’s lip fell down to the floor with a limp little bounce.

“You called me down here… or am I mistaken?” Bruno teased.

“Oh, yeah, guess I did,” Risotto decided.

Bruno shrugged off the shoulder of his silk blouse, exposing a bra strap. “So? Take me to your bedroom, wonderful neighbor.”

Risotto groaned. The absurdity of the situation was sobering him up faster than he’d like. “You have the same floor plan as me,” he muttered, but lead Bruno to the master bedroom anyway.

Once in his room, Risotto’s instincts took over. He closed the door and then shucked off his striped clown pants. He didn’t take off his bell hat or chest harness, but that was fine, since he wasn’t wearing a shirt in the first place. 

He plopped down butt naked on his bed and pulled out a dark plastic bottle of Sliquid liquid silk. “So?” He asked his landlord.

Bruno smiled that cold smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So,” He lilted, “you are quite the male specimen, beautiful tenant.”

Risotto grimaced. “Er, so are you.”

“You haven’t even seen me naked yet!” Bruno chided.

This was patently untrue. Risotto and Bruno had fucked countless times, of course. Bruno was trying to do a bit, probably, but Risotto’s thoughts were lulling in and out of his brain too slowly to parse that desire. “Huh?” He vocalized and cocked his head just a little bit at Bruno Buccellati. The bells on his hat jingled a little with the motion.

Bruno slunk over to Risotto and positioned himself between his legs. He stripped off his shirt and held it around Risotto’s shoulders, allowing its smell of dry clean chemicals and patchouli oil to waft into Risotto’s nose. In Risotto’s high state, the dissonance between the two smells was all-encompassing. He stopped focusing on looking at Bruno, and instead let the shirt’s smell swirl around in his brain for what felt like hours. When Risotto finally blinked back to a cohesive consciousness, Bruno’s whole naked waxed chest was on display and he was shimmying out of his underpants. Cool.

Risotto put his hands on Bruno’s ass and rubbed little circles. It was tantalizingly smooth and soft and firm and it made Risotto smile. He wasn’t sure why touching Bruno’s ass was giving him such a rush of endorphins; to be honest, it was probably the sativa talking. But, he went with it, and spanked Bruno’s ass lightly.

“Mighty feisty for a tenant, Mister Schiavone,” Bruno teased, using Risotto’s legal last name.

“Kinda whack for a landlord to demand sex from his tenant,” Risotto countered. It would have been quippy but for the way his words came out of his mouth slower than molasses in January.

“Risotto, no one is demanding anything,” Bruno clarified.

“Oh… Yeah, I thought we were doing a bit,” Risotto answered, because he had finally figured out why Bruno told him he’d never seen him naked.

“You’re too high for a bit,” Bruno laughed. 

This registered pretty slowly, but then Risotto nodded. “That’s big true, my guy,” he agreed, and then used his hands on Bruno’s ass to nudge him onto the bed with him. 

Bruno didn’t bother making any more conversation with Risotto, because the big man was simply way too zooted. Bruno just continued the roll onto the bed and used momentum to push Risotto onto his big wide back. Then he reached down to touch himself. He’d been mighty excited all evening from hearing the other boys fucking, so his pussy was already damp. It just took his pointer finger a little pointing around before he was dripping and slicked. He straddled Risotto’s hips and brought his pussy hands to Risotto’s leaning tower of Pisa. 

Risotto laughed. “Little lower there, soldier,” he said gently and repositioned Bruno’s hands towards the base of his cock. 

Bruno arched his back and wiggled his hips in rhythm with his hands. And he made quick work of his task. Soon Risotto’s massive, heavy, pierced cock was standing fully hard. It was so big and engorged that it wouldn’t really stand up straight without Bruno holding it up. The head throbbed against its Prince Albert piercing and each of his little Jacob’s Ladder barbells glinted in the lamplight. Risotto’s skin was dark, and darker still around his cock and balls. His shaft had a juicy purple undertone, delineated from his ruddy tip by a well-healed circumcision scar. His pubes were a smattering of tight coils in white and grey tones that contrasted his dark skin beautifully. It smelled like thick pheromones and clean warm sweat.

Risotto watched Bruno admire his dick, then position his own hips over it. He felt the heat from Bruno’s pussy radiating onto his tip, but then his heart leapt. He raised up a hand and bade Bruno, “Stop.”

“Why?”

“I think we need to use… a condom,” Risotto figured. His high fog was rolling back in and his voice was slurred. Over his already atrocious Neapolitan, it made him quite hard to understand.

So Bruno asked him to repeat himself. “Why do you need me to stop, Risotto?”

“Uh…. Condom. I think. We have to use a condom,” Risotto repeated, intelligible this time.

“Why?” Bruno frowned. “We like never use condoms.”

Risotto’s vision spun and he put down a hand to steady himself. He legitimately didn’t know where this urge was coming from. “It’s… a hunch,” he admitted. “I don’t… remember why.” 

“You’re such a goofball,” Bruno decided, and playfully batted at Risotto’s shoulder. “I’m clean.”

“Hmm,” Risotto answered. “But I feel like we’re supposed to.”

“I’m on birth control, dude,” Bruno practically begged. “Plus, you don’t even know why not. Like, I’m willing to take that risk.”

Risotto squeezed his eyes closed against the bad spinning of his vision. He wracked his brain, but he just couldn’t figure it out. Plus, the way Bruno’s damp pussy was straight up dripping on him… That didn’t make it any easier to make good decisions. “You sure?” he mumbled, but he had already relaxed his grip on Bruno’s waist to let him sink his body down.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Bruno smirked and used his fingers to help angle Risotto’s massive pierced head into his pussy. The barbell was just the slightest bit problematic, because Bruno couldn’t squish it and stuff it into him, but after a little remedial fingering he figured it out. And the sound he made when he figured it out! When Risottos’s cockhead slipped into the tiny tight cavity of Bruno’s boyhole, Bruno’s legs turned to jelly. His breathing doubled its pace and he threw his head back and whined like a fucking bitch in heat.

It was cute. It made Risotto smile. He was supporting Bruno’s entire weight now that the man’s legs had given out, but that was fine. Risotto routinely curled upwards of two hundred pounds at the gym, so bouncing a hundred and thirty something pounds of coconut-headed landlord up and down on his cock was not a tall order. Risotto’s motions were a tight choreography learned from years of stoned sex, and he worked Buccellati down onto his cock no slower than absolutely necessary. 

Bruno responded well, softly moaning the whole way down. 

“So…. you like takin’ tenant cock, huh,” Risotto slurred, attempting dirty talk. 

Bruno just hummed a little and, in a shimmer of blue, zipped Risotto’s mouth closed. 

Author’s note: Stands exist in this AU, sorry I didn’t tell you explicitly earlier. But not everyone is a stand user during the time this story takes place. Risotto, Melone, Giorno, and Bruno are all stand users, but Leone and Mista are not. In chapter 1 I alluded to it with the part where Giorno and Risotto both know about Baby Face (“Baffy”) but Leone doesn’t think that it’s real.

Risotto smirked with the zipper, and then immediately pried it open by pushing an iron wrench out of his mouth. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he laughed, and thrust up into Bruno. 

“I—! I don’t wanna,” Bruno gasped. “So would you please shut the fuck up, beautiful tenant?”

“Yeah, 10-4, boss,” Risotto rolled his eyes. He’d apparently started to pick up Leone’s dumb cop habit of using radio codes.

“Hm.” Bruno didn’t waste too much time making a sour face at Risotto before he ground forward a little and his eyes fluttered closed. He moaned a light moan and then issued his usual request: “Call me landlord.”

“Yes, alright Landlord. Alrigh—Alright Mr. Buccellati,” Risotto mumbled. He was starting to get lost in the way their hips were rutting together too, and the weed just made the sensation that much more delectable. It was hard to remember to make any noise at all. It was hard to remember to breathe.

Bruno wasn’t having that problem. He fell forward, resting his hands on Risotto’s broad shoulders. Their faces were close enough that Risotto could feel the heat from Bruno’s forehead, but not close enough that they could kiss. Not that Risotto and Bruno had any desire to. 

“Ohh,” Bruno moaned, “Did you and your boyfriend break up again? Nggh, You’re seldom home alone…”

Risotto tried to process the question. Usually he could make these quick comebacks with his landlord, but usually he wasn’t so stoned that he could feel sounds. He idly rolled his hips into Bruno as he thought. I have a boyfriend, yeah… Melone… and we are back together, but we’re not fucking because—

And then, unfortunately for him (but very fun for us the audience), the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Gonorrhea!” He shouted, like he was remembering the answer to the most obvious question in the world. “That’s why we had to use a condom! I have gonorrhea!”

“Hmmmm,” Bruno sighed, and fucked himself shallowly on Risotto’s cock. He shrugged. “That’s fine. I’ll just take the antibiotics out of your rent.”

Something was definitely off about Bruno’s response, but Risotto couldn’t really place it. “Antibiotics…” he muttered, trying to figure it out.

Bruno took this opportunity to pinch Risotto’s pierced nipple and demand, “Now fuck me, Mr. Schiavone.”

Risotto grunted and dug his fingers into Bruno’s hips. He fucked his good-for-nothing landlord like a big heavy Italian fleshlight, just bouncing him at pace up and down and up and down again. Buccellati was an extremely hot fleshlight, dripping and whining and moaning and begging for more. Risotto could feel his barbells dragging against Bruno’s taint as he fucked in and out of him, and that tiny bit of out-of-time friction was what finally pushed him over the edge. He held Bruno’s hips down flush with his own as he blasted fat ropes into Bruno’s boy pussy.

Bruno’s voice cracked as he howled and clenched around Risotto’s cock. The Prince Albert all the way up near his cervix was just so deliciously rigid. Bruno focused on that pinpoint sensation and whimpered, “My tenant.” And then his toes were curling into the sheets and his chest was heaving and he was coming too, all loud and obnoxious and screaming. 

Risotto wiped sweat off his brow. “So no hard feelings about the…?” He gestured vaguely to his genital region.

“Nope! Thanks for telling me as soon as you remembered,” Bruno smiled. It was a horrifyingly quick bounceback from having the life fucked out of him, but Risotto wasn’t interested in seconds at this particular moment.

“Yeah,” Risotto muttered and gently nudged Bruno off of his cock. He rolled onto his side and curled around his Sepiroth dakimakura. “Now, can you please go home, Buccellati?”

“Of course. Have a wonderful night, Ris!” Bruno’s voice was just as unreadable as ever, and Risotto fell into an unrestful weed sleep before Bruno even left his room.

Chapter Text

Two days later

Bruno woke up to a familiar itchiness in his nether regions. He’d had the clap so many times before, it didn’t even faze him at all. So he scratched where his balls would be *Timmy Turner’s dad voice* if he had them and jopped out of bed. 

His bedroom was full of house plants. Super tall floor plants lined the walls, and a small aerial garden hung down from the ceiling. His carpet was a grassy shag too, so it gave the impression of being a whole jungle. Bruno Buccellati’s first order of business every morning was to go around to each plant and wish it good morning, which he did. As he paced to each plant, his white bathrobe, which was monogrammed with his zipper pull design and his initials, flowed out behind him.

Next order of business was to check his phone. Bruno Buccellati left his phone in the microwave while he slept, because he believed that would protect him from all the 5G. So he made his way to the kitchen and got his phone out. He scrolled past:

• an email from Pesci, resident of unit #3 , with the subject line: “URGENT! Wiring in the living room needs repair!”
• an email from the local florist advising him about new arrivals
• an email from his bank warning him that he was about to default on his credit card
• a missed call from his bank, presumably about the same problem
• two missed calls and a text from his mother that just read: “Baby please call me. It’s important!”
• a text from Abbacchio that read “Did you just fuck my roommate??” with about sixteen alarm and cop car emojis

Finally, he clicked on a snapchat notification. It was a selfie from his ex, Ivan “Prosciutto” Vetchina. It pictured Prosciutto licking on a fairly sizable cock and flipping the bird. In the dark lighting and slight blur of the 3-second long snapchat, Bruno wasn’t able to determine whose cock it was. He figured Pesci’s wiring could wait, so he sat down in his wicker chaise lounge and dialed Prosciutto’s number.

The phone didn’t even ring a full time before it was picked up. A testy voice came through the speaker: “What.”

“Mr. Vetchina! It’s been so long since I’ve seen that sullen face of yours. Why’d you have to send it and ruin my perfectly nice morning?” Bruno sang.

Prosciutto was silent for a minute, before mumbling, “It wasn’t meant for you.”

Bruno licked his lips. “Oh, you deplorable little man. Don’t you know better than to lie to me? I can taste your liar’s sweat practically through the phone, honey.”

So Prosciutto tried a different approach. “If I’m so deplorable, why’d you call me?”

“I may… have a present for you.” Bruno twirled the long chunk of hair he kept out of sync with the rest of his bob around his fingers. “A surprise. If you’re interested.”

“It better not be chlamydia like last time,” Prosciutto snarled back.

“Oh, no.” Bruno chuckled quietly to himself. “It’s nothing like last time.”

Prosciutto sighed. “Fine. See you in 30? Drive your tenant’s Bugatti or no deal.”

Bruno checked his apple watch (super deluxe version). “Okay, then I’ll have to be back here by probably 10AM. I don’t expect him to wake up before then.”

“Sounds good. See you when I see you,” Prosciutto answered, more amicably than he meant to. Then he hung up the phone.

Bruno kept copies of all his tenants’ car keys. And his tenants’ boyfriends’ car keys where applicable (ie the key to Melone’s motorbike). He needed them, of course, so that he would be able to move them away from the building in case of emergency. He made the copies in secret, so his tenants were none the wiser. But, really, he had snuck a clause about key copy consent into the absurdly long lease contract, so there was nothing wrong with what he did. Being a landlord was awesome!

So he plucked the keys to Risotto’s Hermés special edition Bugatti Veyron off of his elegant little key rack, which he kept behind a ripoff of the Mona Lisa. (In fact, the Mona Lisa wasn’t the only ripoff he owned. All of the art pieces in his living room were bad fakes he’d gotten scammed for on the art blackmarket. His house looked as if you had bought everything Redd tried to sell you in Animal Crossing and flung it up haphazardly on the walls.)

It was less than ten minutes before Bruno Buccellati was ringing the doorbell of 420 Cupa Indica Unit #1.   

Prosciutto opened the door in a plush onesie that looked like his usual everyday suit. His eyes were puffy as if from allergies and, honestly? It rounded out his gaunt features so he actually looked healthier than normal.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Bruno asked.

“What’s wrong with your attitude?” Prosciutto snapped back. And then: “I’m allergic to cats.”

“There aren’t any cats that live here,” Bruno answered, nonplussed. He knew the rules in all of his competition properties, because there was actually a secret congregation of landlords that met and set the rules for each price rung, to make sure no one was undercharging for the generous gift of shelter.

“Yeah?” Prosciutto replied. “I can go places that aren’t here.”

“Ghiaccio? Pasquale.” Bruno pressed.

“You mean the cock last night? None of your business.” Prosciutto snarled then made a horrible sound, hawking up enough spit to launch a loogie right onto Bruno’s exposed chest. 

Bruno dipped a finger into the glob of phlegm, then brought it up to his lips to taste it. “So it was one of those two,” he confirmed.

“Please don’t do that, you fucking freak.” Prosciutto snarled and then turned tail to head into his flat.

Bruno followed him right behind, thwarting Prosciutto’s attempt at slamming the door in his face.

Once inside, Bruno shucked off his robe and dropped it on Prosciutto’s couch. Prosciutto’s apartment was gaudy in that kind of uncoordinated way. By the disconnect between the elegant furniture and all the crap piled on his coffee table, it was pretty clear that he’d hired an interior decorator like once and then decided (incorrectly) that he could do it better himself. 

“Quite a cozy apartment you’ve got here,” Bruno hissed. It was an insult, of course it was an insult. In realty speak, cozy meant small and disorganized.

Prosciutto stepped out of his onesie and threw it onto the couch as well. “Bold words, coming from someone with such a rustic property,” he accused. Rustic, of course, here meant old and in disrepair. 

Bruno and Prosciutto circled each other like cats on the prowl. Bruno wore only his black lace teddy, which left nothing to the imagination. Prosciutto was completely naked under the onesie, save for his neckerchief and good-luck pendant. 

The two men had only one nipple between them. Bruno’s were both gone, zipped off because he liked the aesthetic better smooth; and Prosciutto’s body had rejected one of his after his top surgery. He now sported a somewhat scarred nipple on his right pec with a pink heart tattoo to mirror it. Not that this actually matters here, but I wanted to force you (the reader) to see my vision.

“If my property’s so rustic , then why does your tenant spend all his time over at my building?” Bruno tested, raising his claws.

“Who cares where he spends his time?” Prosciutto showed his fangs. “At the end of the day, his rent money all comes back to one place. Me.”

Then Bruno lunged. He sprung forward off his heels and tackled Prosciutto to the ground. Prosciutto took it gracefully, rolling into a backwards somersault to redirect the power of Bruno’s attack. The counter left Bruno helpless on his back for just the precious second it took for Prosciutto to get his hands on Bruno’s shoulders. His manicured nails pressed small crescents of pain into Bruno’s smooth flesh. Bruno hissed and spat up at Prosciutto, but the smaller landlord didn’t let go. So Bruno curled his knees up to his stomach then threw them out, and the force of his bridge was enough to weaken Prosciutto’s elbows. Bruno squeezed his eyes shut and let his skull crack against his rivals as he rolled forward onto all fours.

Prosciutto hissed in pain and spat at Bruno again. Now they were circling each other on all fours, all snarls and teeth and palpable adrenaline. Bruno faked a lunge to the left and Prosciutto fell for it, rolling to the right. Bruno intercepted his roll, pinning Prosciutto on his back with his knees on his thighs and his elbows digging needles into his upper arms. There were mere inches of hot, wet air between their chests, and Prosciutto found himself heaving deeper and deeper breaths in the hope that his chest would expand so far as to brush Bruno’s. But Bruno kept his breaths shallow like a predator and didn’t allow Prosciutto to get what he wanted. He dipped down his head to lick a wet stripe up Prosciutto’s face, which Prosciutto grimaced and tried to wipe off onto the floor. 

Prosciutto strained against Bruno’s weight, but the pinpoints holding his body down like an insect in a display case were insurmountable. Even when he grabbed at Bruno’s shoulders, even when he tried to bend his knees or buck his hips, he couldn’t make Bruno budge. Options exhausted, he tapped the floor with three quick taps. 

Immediately Bruno rolled off him and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He had broken a sweat, and was breathing somewhat heavily. 

Prosciutto gasped for air as well. “How long was that?” He asked.

“Didn’t time it, but you really held your own,” Bruno replied with an encouraging smile. Then he fluidly brought himself up to his feet and held his hand out for Prosciutto’s.

Prosciutto snarled at Bruno’s outstretched hand and instead pushed himself up to standing too, but way less graceful than Bruno. Prosciutto had to get on one knee, then push himself up with trembling hands. But he made it up without help nonetheless, which is what mattered. “Let me get you some water. I’m still your host this morning, Signor Buccellati.”

“Funny you should say that, Signor Vetchina,” Bruno played along, “but if you’re hosting guests like a B&B, we’re going to have to have a chat with the landlords’ association.

Prosciutto handed Bruno a glass of water and poured one for himself as well, before rummaging through the cupboard and producing a wad of bills.

Fake, colorful, paper bills. Monopoly money, to be exact. He waved the Monopoly money under Bruno's nose, and challenged, “Is that so, Signor Buccellati? Because I have money that might say something otherwise.”

Bruno sipped his water calmly before accepting the money. He played like he was counting it. “A paltry fifty million lyre? I’d like to see you try and bribe anyone on the Landlord’s Association Board with this sorry change.”

Prosciutto chugged his whole glass of water in one go, then set his glass down lightly in his kitchen sink. He then rolled his body forward, all fluid and sexy and inviting. “Then maybe… I can offer you something better than money?” He whispered into Bruno’s ear. 

Bruno finished off his glass of water. “Whew!” He exclaimed, and wiped sweat off his brow. “You’re sexy! We should have sex.”

When Bruno pushed his hair back, the letters of his large, gaudy face tattoo were visible: “GANG☆STAR” scrawled in cursive across his forehead. Even though Prosciutto had seen it so many times before, it still never failed to give him a bit of a shock. It was so uncharacteristic for the usually so suave and fashionable Buccellati to have such a tasteless thing obscuring a quarter of his face! But, Prosciutto had accepted his weakness and admitted that the absolute gall of the tattoo, its jarring juxtaposition, its inherent out-of-placeness… it kinda turned him on. (Back when they’d dated, and before they’d come into property ownership, Prosciutto had pressured Bruno to get it removed by lasers so he could look more “presentable” for the “workplace.” Now, Prosciutto was glad Bruno had resisted back then, because seeing it now with adult eyes, he understood it was sexy and definitely some “bad-boy james dean type of shit.”) He reached up and swiped his finger across Bruno’s sweaty brow, then brought the finger to his lips. He held out his hands in an exaggerated mockery of Bruno’s italian hand-speech(TM) and said, in a thick Neapolitan brogue, “By golly, I c’n tell datyer tellin da truth!”

Bruno snarled. “Don’t make me evict you, Prosciutto,” he threatened with a voice like knives. 

“I’d luhv ta see you try,” Prosciutto giggled back. 

Prosciutto had Bruno on his back, lying on the guest bed with monopoly money spread like confetti. His teddy was unsnapped and rested all haphazard and loose on his chest. His hands were held back by a zipper of his own making, and his hair was stuck to his forehead, obscuring the tattoo. Prosciutto loomed over him, all small and slight and absolutely packing with his favorite dick. It was one of those super-realistic ones, all flesh colored, dual density and pink. (And circumcised, which would matter a whole lot more if there was any context at all so we won’t actually include this) It was 8 inches long and uniform in width, with an understated head. Altogether an understated dildo, but Prosciutto felt so powerful with it on. Felt like it really was his own dick. And so it was like he was fucking Bruno with his own flesh, the way he was whining and moaning as he fucked into Bruno.

And Bruno was just as loud of course, all whimpering “Landlord, oh Landlord, ” and begging to be fucked harder. And then Bruno came, all gushing and hot and dripping down Prosciutto’s cock because Bruno always was a squirter. Prosciutto fucked into what he imagined it must feel like inside Bruno, so hot—and wet— and—

Prosciutto’s hips were stopped by Bruno’s unwelcome hand holding him into place.

“I’m fine, I came,” Bruno mumbled.

“I know,” Prosciutto hissed back, “this is for me. I wanna try and cum just from fucking you.”

Bruno knew Prosciutto’s clit wasn’t sensitive like that. They both did, they’d had more than enough sex to be on the same page with that. To know that Prosciutto needed some heavy duty g-spot stimulation to cum, and just vaguely using his pubic bone to shove a single sided dildo into Bruno was just never going to do that. So he gently hooked his heel into Prosciutto’s hip bone and pushed him away. “Yeah, but I came,” he warned. “So I need you to stop fucking me before I report you to the Union.”

“Like a tenants’ union?” Prosciutto asked, caught off-guard. He stopped swinging his hips and sat down next to Bruno to chat. “They’re not allowed to have that , are they??”

“They better not be,” Bruno answered and knit his brow. “That would be a total abuse of power. I’m glad we don’t have to deal with one.”

“Yeah, that’s sure a blessing!” Prosciutto laughed. “What if Secco found out what Melone and Illuso are paying for the exact same apartment?” 

Bruno rolled his eyes. “You’re saying that like I don’t do the exact same thing. You know, Risotto and Abbacchio have lived there so long it’s goddamn rent controlled . Pesci doesn’t need to know he’s picking up the slack!” 

“God, you’re such a property genius,” Prosciutto growled into Bruno’s neck. He was now just gently grinding his cunt on Bruno’s thigh, still insatiably horny since Bruno hadn’t let him cum yet. 

“You flatter me,” Bruno laughed, and then with a flash of blue and gold he zipped Prosciutto’s dildo out of its harness and onto Bruno’s thigh. 

Prosciutto’s breath quickened at the sight. Bruno wanted him to ride his goddamn thigh? Then, yeehaw, he’d show him a hell of a rodeo. 

The two got into a more comfortable position, and then Prosciutto lowered himself onto the disembodied dick. He’d chosen it because it felt good in him, and it never failed to satisfy. It wasn’t the flashiest or the biggest thing on the market, but it was dependable and believable and fucked him so good every time. So he understandably was wetter than a slip-n-slide as he lowered himself down onto Bruno’s sweaty strapped-up thigh. 

Bruno held Prosciutto’s slight waist and helped him angle his hips just right so the dildo would spear into him where it mattered. “Quite a rustic property you have here,” Bruno mused, running his thumb gently over the age spots appearing in Prosciutto’s skin. 

It was a low blow, seeing as the premature aging was caused by The Grateful Dead and it wasn’t something Prosciutto could control. But Prosciutto felt the way Bruno was handling him like something delicate a lot louder than he heard the hurtful words, and he melted into that touch and rolled his hips against the dildo to rut it heavy and deep against his g-spot, again, again, again, until he was whimpering and drooling and gushing and coming, coming, coming. 

His high pitched shrieks of pleasure would have been loud enough to wake the whole building if Prosciutto hadn’t heavily insulated the floors and walls to make sure no sound traveled between apartments. He didn’t need to hear any of his tenants’ private business, and they didn’t need to hear his. 

Bruno just ground his thigh up into Prosciutto, forcing him to keep coming even when he had thought he was done. His thumb and forefinger yanking on Prosciutto’s little cock didn’t hurt either. Prosciutto let each orgasm wrack through his body until he was panting and shuddering and so overstimulated he couldn’t even make any more noise. And only then did Bruno gently lift Prosciutto off of his leg and lay him down on the bed.

He zipped the dildo off of him and placed it on Prosciutto’s nightstand.

“Now, I think I have to go,” he sighed. “Like I said, I think my tenant wakes up at 10, and it’s 9:30 now.”

Prosciutto was too blissed out to bother responding with more than just a “huh.”

Then Bruno was just about to open the door when they heard the front door opening.

Prosciutto jolted awake and grabbed Bruno by the arm. “Ssh!” He hissed. “I think it’s my boyfriend!”

Bruno shook off Prosciutto’s grasp. “Why should I care about that?” he scolded. 

“His stand’s OP and if he sees you here he’ll kill us!?” Prosciutto offered by way of explanation.

Bruno nodded. “I see.” But his clothes were still on the couch in front of the door…. No matter. Stark naked, he zipped himself sideways out of the room and rode the outside of the building down into the garage. Time was running out, so he didn’t stop to get clothes on his way back to his own building. 

A flash of exhaust and burning rubber, and he was home. He scampered up the stairs, and got himself safely into his apartment without seeing any of his tenants.

Or so he thought.

Risotto had arisen early this morning, because Abbacchio was having a nightmare and Ris had to run damage control. Which meant he had actually been at the window at 9:45AM when Bruno Buccellati drove a Bugatti that looked suspiciously like the Hermes limited edition Veyron of which Risotto was undoubtedly the owner. And he had seen their naked landlord’s blindingly pale ass streaking from the parking spot to the building. 

He shook Abbacchio up. “Dude, I think I just saw Buccellati stealing my car!”

Abbacchio groaned but rolled over in bed so he could look out the window. “What do you mean, bro? It’s parked right there. Love you, by the way.”

“Love you too, bro. But I mean, like five minutes ago, it wasn’t there. And then Buccellati drove it here, and then he got out of it. Naked.

“Dude, are you sure it wasn’t a nightmare? And, no homo, right?” Abbacchio stretched out his arms and yawned. Then he reached over and palmed around his bedside table until he found his keyring. “I still have my key, do you have yours?”

Risotto nodded haltingly. “Yeah, no homo, always no homo. I’ll go check.” And he got out of bed, and he checked the key bowl. And to his slight confusion, his car key was still there, safe and secure. “Yo, there are only two keys to this car, right?” He called out to Abbacchio.

“Yeah, 100%. You bought it and they gave you two, then we made that secret handshake because we were a pair of 10s with a pair of keys to a 10.”

“Oh, fuck, you’re so right,” Risotto nodded and threw himself back into bed with Abbacchio. “We sure are a pair of 10s, no homo.”

Abbacchio pulled Risotto’s clown striped boxers down just enough to let his dick out. He licked his lips, and then went in for the kill, both hands needed to cover Risotto’s incredible size. But he could at least get the head in his mouth and just rub the rest. 

Risotto relaxed into his bro’s mouth like it was the most normal thing in the world. He patted Abbacchio’s head encouragingly. “If we still have the keys, what the fuck did I just see?”

Abbacchio shrugged and winked a tear out of his eye and Risotto’s Prince Albert jabbed deep into Abbacchio’s soft palate.

“Unless…” Risotto mused, and wiped the tear away with his big soft thumb. “Remember how right after I got the car, your keys…” His voice trailed off and he had to catch his breath. Leone was ducking deeper now, crushing Risottos’ third leg in his tight, ridged throat. He choked a little, but like, quietly and politely. Quiet and polite choking to let Risotto know that even though he was full past bursting with cock in his throat, he was still listening. Risotto tucked some hair behind Abbacchio’s ear to get a better view of his face, and then finally regained his train of thought. “Your keys just  disappeared for a couple days, remember? And you kept telling me you just misplaced them but like, I’d never seen you lose your keys in my life?”

Abbacchio shot up, letting Risotto’s meat spill out of his mouth. “Are you implying—?” He started to ask. But Risotto clicked his tongue and shoved Leone back down on his cock, deep enough to get a real, wet, unmuffled choke.

“Finish something you started, for once!” He laughed and held Abbacchio down just for a quick count to two before letting his bro go back to sucking him at his own pace. It was like the way Abbacchio’s throat swallowed and squirmed when he was trying to gasp for air was too irresistible to let his bro off the hook. 

Abbacchio sputtered around Risotto’s cock for as long as he could, but began to crinkle his nose up at him a couple times, their code language for “stop.”

Ristoto nodded, out of breath from the squeezing pressure on his cock, and let Abbacchio come up for air. “Dude, I was just about to come,” he panted. He wasn’t really annoyed at Abbacchio for using their safe gesture, but he was still sad he didn’t get to cum down his bro’s desperate esophagus. 

“Don’t worry, I got you,” Abbacchio smiled his pretty, colorless morning smile up at Risotto. “But first, are you seriously implying that Bruno made a copy of your keys?” Then he nodded back down to finish Risotto off for real.

Risotto winced and then his expression softened and then his mouth fell open and he completely lost it. He hella jizzed all over Abbacchio’s tongue and lips and nose and cheeks and hair and hands. It was a mess, and it was the first cum of the day, right, so there was a whole lot. 

Once he was done panting and whining in pleasure, Risotto shrugged. “I mean, Buccellati is insane. But maybe copying keys is a little too far… right? It was probably just a nightmare.” 

Chapter Text

Gaspare Teresa “Ghiaccio” Coppola was a cross-country trucker. This meant his work had him away from home for days on end. He had chosen this job because of his antisocial behavior. Working with others wasn’t exactly his forté, and sitting alone in the cab of a container truck seemed like an ideal way to spend his time. It was was even relaxing to drive on an open road with no other drivers. 

Of course, it is in the nature of driving that there usually are other drivers. So, all-in-all, Gaspare was a terrible truck driver. He gained the nickname “Ghiaccio” when he’d been driving a container of ice skates up the N94 up through the Alps. He’d hit bad weather around Briançon, and instead of waiting, He’d tried to forge ahead. Of course, he skidded on the ice and totaled his truck, sending ice skates flying. 

They say if you go out on an icy day in Briançon, to this day, you can catch some of Ghiaccio’s Runaway Skates.

His Union was strong, though, so he only got a slap on the wrist and was able to restart as an entry-level driver if he just passed driving school again. He did, and he hadn’t had any accidents since then. 

He’d met Prosciutto while taking his time off in metro Naples. Prosciutto was running a B&B back then, called “Palazzo alla Prosciutto” or something absolutely cringe like that. This was about a year ago now. A year of Prosciutto and Ghiaccio not seeing each other very much, but keeping up a spicy rapport of erotic texts and phone calls. 

He was lucky enough to have four days off this week, downtime in his hometown of Napoli. Of course he wanted to spend it with his boyfriend, but he wanted it to be a pleasant surprise. So this Monday morning, around 9:30AM, he unlocked the door to Prosciutto’s apartment and stepped in. The white robe on his couch, monogrammed “BPB,” should have tipped him off that something was wrong, in retrospect, but Ghiaccio was too excited to see his boyfriend to give it much critical thought. He pushed the bathrobe to the floor and made himself comfortable on the couch. He heard some noise from Prosciutto’s room—zipper noises?—which also should have tipped him off because he did know about his boyfriend’s ex’s Stand, but… Man, that was the absolute last thing on Ghiaccio’s mind right now.

Prosciutto stuck his beautiful blonde head out of his door. 

“Ghiaccio!” He greeted. “I didn’t expect you to be home today?”

“Surprise!” Ghiaccio grinned and opened his arms.

Prosciutto stepped out of his room, completely naked. A third strike that really should have been a tell because Prosciutto never slept naked. Ah, sweet folly of love.

“Wait—stop,” Ghiaccio smirked. “I want to try something.”

Prosciutto tilted his head, but waited patiently for Ghiaccio to explain.

“Just… go back into your room,” Ghiaccio smiled, and showed off his awful teeth. (At least Prosciutto had tried to straighten his teeth with braces, it’s not his fault he lost his retainer. Ghiaccio on the other hand… hadn’t even tried.)

He gave Prosciutto a moment to collect himself, then dialed Prosciutto’s cell phone number. He could hear Prosciutto’s phone ringing through the thin door to his bedroom, and it made his heart swell, knowing that his beloved was so closeby. Proximity is a hell of a drug.

Prosciutto picked up the phone, and the smile in his voice made it clear that he was on the same wavelength. “Good morning baby!”

Ghiaccio put on his best concerned voice. “Why did you miss my phone call 15 minutes ago?”
“Sleeping in,” came the simple answer.
“You don’t sleep in,” Ghiaccio warned, but the performative anger in his voice didn’t mask the genuine amusement he was feeling, doing this silly act with his pretty, amazing, faithful boyfriend.

“No honey! I swear I was just sleeping in!”

“Why, were you out late last night with someone then?” He taunted.

“No, of course not! Last night I had my Jewish Literature book group at the Synogogue!” (This, actually, was true.)

“Gotcha. And this morning?”

“Sleeping in, I promise!” Prosciutto protested, adorable gap-toothed smile basically audible. “Who has hookups in the morning anyway?"

Ghiaccio vibrated with excitement and popped open the buttons on his 501s. “Well, us, pretty soon. Wanna give me road head, Prosciutto?”

Prosciutto’s enthusiasm came clearly through the tinny phone speaker: “You know I do, Ghiaccio! What are you wearing?”

“I’m wearing an Juventus jersey and Adidas,” Ghiaccio invented. “The pull-away kind, though, so I’m ready for you.”

"I’m waiting by the side of the road… I’m hitchhiking. I have my thumbs up and I’m pointing Northbound on the A1 through Napoli."

“Just your luck! I’ve spotted you, and I’m trying to decide whether or not to pull over. What are you wearing?”

“I have a sharp suit on, my hair’s done up in the four buns, and I have just a single briefcase right now,” Prosciutto decided. “I look all distinguished and suave and scary, like one of those motorcycle lawyers you see ads for on the highway.”

“Beautiful!” Ghiaccio grinned and stuck his hand into his pants to stroke himself. “I lick my lips as I’m pulling over and I leer down at you, so my intentions are clear. I want your pretty professional lips on my cock.”

Ghiaccio could hear a muffled groan through the wall before Prosciutto responded, “I know exactly what you want, and that’s what I have in my briefcase, actually. I’m a traveling, uhh, condom salesman.”

Ghiaccio stopped moving his hand in his pants. “That doesn’t make any sense. If you’re just going to suck my dick, why would I need a condom?”

“Fine, alright.” Prosciutto tried to problem-solve. “How about… I’m a vibrator salesman?”

“No good! You can’t use a vibe while I’m driving, because I would definitely crash and kill us both.”

“Babe, It’s just hypothetical—”

Ghiaccio snarled and put his hand on his shoulder, a weight to try and ground himself. Try and calm himself down. He didn’t like when Prosciutto was difficult like this. “It’ll hypothetically get us killed,” he snarled. “You can’t be a traveling salesman who only preys on gay lonely truck drivers. Especially not with only one briefcase. Think of something better.”

Prosciutto groaned. “If you want it to be so perfect, you think of it!”

“No, I’m driving! I can’t world-build, carry your sorry ass, masturbate, and focus on the road all at the same time!” Ghiaccio argued.

Prosciutto stuck his head out of his door again. “Ghiaccio, you’re not actually driving,” he said, holding the phone to his chest so Ghiaccio would have to listen to his voice in real time instead of through the phone.

Ghiaccio waved Prosciutto back into his room. “This is pretend! That’s the fucking point!” He shouted.

Prosciutto didn’t need a shouting match. Not this early in the morning. So he closed the door again, and when Ghiaccio heard his voice again, it was resigned. “Why do we have to… Okay, how about I’m a white collar bank robber.”

“Prosciutto! Take this seriously!”

“I’m… a lonely divorceé with all of my belongings packed into the one briefcase.”

Ghiaccio brought his hand back down to his hardening cock. “Perfect! I let you get into my car. So, where ya going, hotcakes?”

Prosciutto’s little snort of laughter ricocheted through the apartment. “Hotcakes? How old are you in this, fifty?”

“No, no. I’m same age as normal, thirty.”

“So you just talk like you’re fifty. Got it.”

Ghiaccio rolled his eyes but didn’t stop rubbing himself. “Where are you headed, sweet cheeks?”

“Trying to get to Tuscany. You’re going north, yes?”

“How observant you are. I’ll give you a ride, for a price.”

Prosciutto’s voice was husky and flirtatious now, and Ghiaccio could be pretty sure he was touching himself too. “I’m perfectly happy to pay for gas money—”

Ghiaccio hummed. “Please, if I was here to steal your money, I’d just do it. No, I’m looking for something a lot more rare out here on the road. I’m talking physical company.”

“I untie my neck scarf and wrap it around your neck. Well then you’re in luck, because I’m actually the sexiest dancehall girl in all of Naples.”

Ghiaccio took his hands out of his pants again and raised his voice. “You can’t be a dancehall girl, I’m gay in this!”

Prosciutto fought back: “But you always want me to be a lonely divorceé!” 

Ghiaccio shouted, loud enough to shake the room, “Because it always gets me off! C’mon, Pro, I’m on the clock here!”

Prosciutto’s voice was strained, tiny. “You’re not even—? You’re insane. Well you’re in luck, then, Mr. Truck Driver—”

Ghiaccio decided to let that first comment slip. “Please, call me Gaspare.”

“You’re in luck then, Mr. Gaspare, because my husband just left me—"

“Gay marriage isn’t legal!”

“But you can still call—”

Ghiaccio had just about had it. “No you can’t! Words don’t just mean any old thing! You can’t—”

Prosciutto cut off Ghiaccio’s shouting with his prettiest, flirtiest voice that always did the trick. “You’re in luck then, Mr. Gaspare, because my Life Partner just left me and I’m super horny and lonely right now!”

“Guess I am in luck! I grab your neckscarf from you and take a big whiff of it.”

Prosciutto described, “It’s a silk Hermes scarf, and it smells, oh-so-tragically, of my ex-partner’s cologne.”

Ghiaccio whispered as he clasped his hand around his cock in earnest, “That’s so hot."

“Well? Get to driving, Gap!  I reach down and I slip your dick out of your pants.”

Ghiaccio’s breath caught in his mouth, but he really couldn’t let this inaccuracy slip. “Uh-uh-uh! They’re tearaways, remember.”

Prosciutto course-corrected. “Oh, fuck, yeah. I just go in and in a fluid, unexpected motion, I just rip your whole pants off of you.”

“I’m not wearing any underwear.”

Prosciutto snorted again. “Slut.”

“What can I say? Life on the road gets lonely! Anyway, my cock is so hard right now. And all flushed and big.” Ghiaccio wasn’t lying about that. 

A low, rumbly hum came from Prosciutto’s room. Ghiaccio knew that sound. Prosciutto had started up his vibrator. He sweet-talked, “Oh, I know it’s big. I dip down between your legs and start to lick the head. I’m not using my hands, it’s just my head in your lap. Fuck, you taste good.”

Ghiaccio frowned. “I mean, I’ve been driving all day and my A/C’s broken so I’m drenched in ball sweat—”

But Prosciutto insisted, “Fuck, Gaspare, you taste so fucking good.”

Ghiaccio was too horny to fight back. “I—I taste good,” he agreed.

“I keep my hands behind my back, like I’m showing off. Like it’s some weird flex. I dip down and take your dick all the way down my throat, easily, on the first try.”

“I thought you said I was big!” Ghiaccio crowed, stroking himself in rhythm again.

“You are! But we both know I can deep throat you on command. Done it before, will do it again.”

Ghiaccio’s breath caught again as he tightened his hand around himself. “I was talking in character, babe. I thought you said I was big!"

Prosciutto was moaning in earnest now, cute high noises nectar in Ghiaccio’s ears. “I raise my whole head off my cock, and all of a sudden you’re cold and dry and covered in uncomfortable spit. Well, maybe mot as big as my ex-partner.”

Ghiaccio closed his eyes and let them roll back. God, Prosciutto was good at this. “I see how it is. Well, hitchhiker, don’t forget I could pull this truck over at any minute.”

“Ivan.”

“I didn’t ask your name. Keep sucking.”

Prosciutto whimpered an especially desperate moan. “So I do, I keep sucking and deep-throating and choking on your cock. It’s huge, and I can feel it bulging out my throat. I want to show you, but your eyes are on the road.”

Ghiaccio made a bit of a strangled noise in his throat and increased his pace. He could feel the heat already building in his belly. “I reach down a hand off the steering wheel to cup your neck anyway, so I can feel it bulge out as you bob up and down."

Prosciutto was barely intelligible. “And it does bulge out! Your cock is ch-choking the shit out of me, but I take! I take it— like a— champ. You can tell I’m an expert!”

Ghiaccio forced himself to pull back from the brink. He wanted to keep going. “So, why’d your man leave you? It certainly wasn’t for lack of head game.”

“N-no, of course not. It was—”

“More sucking, less talking.”

Prosciutto gulped, choking himself with his fingers to make nice, wet SFX. “You sassy bastard!” he laughed.

“You love it.”

“It’s fun from time to time. Aren’t you jerking off?” 

“Yeah, I am,” Ghiaccio confirmed with just a shadow of a whimper. “Sorry if it’s hard to hear through the door. And you?"

“Oh, yeah. Franklin’s tower’s way deep inside my pussy.” (Franklin’s Tower was the name of Prosciutto’s dildo, named after the eponymous Grateful Dead song.)

“That’s not a good simulation of—“

“And neither is your hand, but it feels good. Please let me at least have this!” Prosciutto whimpered.

Ghiaccio whined too, and didn’t stop stroking his cock. “But, the accuracy!”

“Please!!” Prosciutto shouted, and Ghiaccio could hear it both IRL and through the phone speaker. “Oh—fuck—please…”

Ghiaccio had lost. “Fine. You’re doing it anyway, aren’t you.”

“Y-y-yeah…”

“Then, as the divorcée, you can be fingering yourself.”

“Y-yeah, whatever… Ugh, um, I…”

Ghiaccio grunted a little bit and squeezed himself tight, like he liked to. “You were sucking my dick.”

Prosciutto choked himself again, before whimpering and replying, “C-c-c-cyka, Gaspare, your cock’s so p-p-p-perfect i think i needa touch myself—”

Ghiaccio hummed. “Go right ahead.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank—Thank you for the ride and f-for the nut, oh fuck, oh my god”

Ghiaccio panicked. He wasn’t ready to cum yet! “Prosciutto! Don’t cum yet! That’s not—”

But Prosciutto was too far gone. “Plea- plea- please, Mr. Gaspare, Please,  I n- need you to cum in my mouth—“

“Prosciutto…” Ghiaccio grumbled, but he reached under his own shirt to pinch his nipple, hard, and run his hand up and down his cock. 

Prosciutto whimpered, “I can’t wait! Please, Mr. Gaspare! Please cum in my mouth! I need it how your truck needs fuel to drive, I need your cum inside me! Please, Please!”

“If y— If you cum now, I’m going to d-d-drop you by the side of the r-road and you’ll have to wait for someone—for someone else! to pick up your sorry slutty little ass and bring it t-to Tuscany!”

Prosciutto’s moaning and thrashing was so easy to hear even through the closed door. “I don’t care! I don’t fucking care, Gaspare! I just need you to cum because I need to cum so fucking bad!”

Ghiaccio was getting there. He couldn’t resist the way Prosciutto’s voice got all strung out, and he didn’t want to, either. “God, alright,” he instructed, “keep saying that. That’s so fucking good.”

“I need you to cum I need you to cum!” Prosciutto chanted. “Gaspare, sexy, I need you to cum! I need my mouth pumped full of your—”

It worked, and Ghiaccio came all over his hand and his jeans and a little bit on Prosciuttos couch. He caught his breath, and then interrupted Prosciutto to tell him, “I did it.”

“C-came?” 

“Yeah. I did it. You have all my hot cum in your mouth now.”

“Aaaaaah! Thank you Mr. Gaspare! Thank you, thank y—I’m coming! OH, fuck, oh shit, I’m cumming…"

“And,” Ghiaccio elaborated, “my cum is dripping out of the corner of your mouth, and your hair’s been messed up by the static from my jersey. You look nothing nearly like as suave as you did—”

Prosciutto screamed a blood-curdling yell as he kept cumming and kept cumming until he had to force himself to stop. Once Prosciutto caught his breath, he was sitting in a deep puddle of his own cum, and it wasn’t even noon on a Monday yet.

Ghiaccio had to take another breath, then he got up to go rinse himself off in the kitchen sink. The kitchen sink which had not one, but two, water glasses in it. But Ghiaccio’s brain was too fogged with cum to wonder what that meant.

Prosciutto called out from his room, “Babe, come in here! I wanna kiss you!”

Ghiaccio tucked himself back into his pants and went to go cuddle with Prosciutto. Prosciutto curled up in Ghiaccio’s arms, and Ghiaccio noticed that Prosciutto smelled like sex. He took that like it was a given, like they’d just had sex and Prosciutto smelled like him. He didn’t really think about the fact that, technically, Prosciutto had just been masturbating, and he had no good reason to smell like sex.

“We’ll make it a boy’s day,” Risotto agreed, rolling up the last of his famous papassini into a little picnic basket for later. 

“I can’t believe I’m going with you to get STI tested!” Abbacchio agreed, enthusiastic. “It’s just like the good old days!”

“The old days?” Giorno parroted, weakly. What the fuck was wrong with Abbacchio and his roommate?

Mista hovered around the door. “Do we get to take the Bugatti?” he asked.

“We’re picking up Melone on the way, and the Veyron fits two, so… do the math?” Abbacchio rolled his eyes. “We’re taking Driftwood!”

“Not the station wagon!” Giorno despaired. Driftwood was Abbacchio’s 1981 Ford Escort station wagon, complete with a wooden grain trim. It broke down constantly and wouldn’t pass a smog check even with divine intervention, but it did have four doors and a bench seat. So, it got the five men to their destination, a shady clinic up by the Sails that took any insurance and that Risotto had found on Craigslist.

Dr. Giulio Lombardi was terrifying. He had a sickly green sheen to his skin, and dyed-green white guy dreadlocks pulled back with a produce rubber band. His teeth were just a little bit too far apart, but it almost looked intentional. And his mannerism was just… very off. He took them in one by one for their swabs, then had them wait in the waiting room while he “analyzed” them. He seemed to have one lab technician, a shorter man who was covered head to toe in single-use PPE, so… there was a chance it was legit. And anyway, the squad was impatient enough to just go with the flow. 

The results came back positive for everyone except Mista. So Dr. Lombardi shot up antibiotic into the hips of Melone, Risotto, Abbacchio, and Giorno, and then instructed them to stand in the waiting room for fifteen minutes to see if anyone got allergic.

Mista leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs. “Beginner’s luck,” he laughed. “God didn’t need me to get the clap again, but I guess for y’all, first time was the charm!” 

Giorno shot him a dirty glance to try and get him to shut up, but Abbacchio and Risotto laughed.

“You’re not the only veteran, here!” Melone huffed, like that was a good thing.

Well, no one got allergic, and so the five friends left the clinic, picked up a couple racks of Carlsberg, and headed to the nearest park to eat sweets and drink beer.

And, as it tends do when you’re all renters in your mid twenties, conversation turned to housing arrangements. Risotto mentioned that he thought he’d seen his landlord Bruno stealing his Bugatti.

“Wait, no. No shit. What time?” Melone asked, looking deep into Risotto’s eyes and chewing on a biscuit.

“9:45ish,” Abbacchio burped, deep into his nth can of beer.

“No shit,” Melone shook his head. “It was in front of my place when I left for clinicals at 9.”

“No shit,” Risotto answered. “Are Bruno and Prosciutto—?”

“Definitely,” Melone confirmed. “Wait, what do you and Leone pay for your place?”

“Around twelve hundred. What about you and ‘Luso?” Risotto shrugged.

“Twelve hundred?” Mista spat. “Your place’s way nicer than mine and I’m payin’ a grand just for a bedroom!”

(Giorno sat this one out because he still lived with his dad.)

“Twelve hundred!” Melone repeated. “Luso and I pay three and a half g’s for our place, and it’s smaller than yours. That’s, like, fucked up.”

“Yeah, double fucked up if your landlords really are together. I bet it’s some kind of conspiracy!” Mista raised his eyebrows and gestured widely.

“Ours is rent controlled, I think that’s why,” Abbacchio shrugged. “Not everything’s a conspiracy, dude.”

“No, I think it’s definitely a conspiracy,” decided Melone. “We gotta talk to Pesci and that recluse who lives upstairs from me. I think his name is Elia?”

“I’m gonna talk to Pasquale and Narancia too,” Mista agreed. “If all the tenants work together, it’s like, we got strength in numbers or something.”

“Like a union?” Giorno perked up, excited to finally be helpful. His dads had been on opposite sides of a labor dispute and had talked him through it way too many times—so he knew a thing or two about unions.

“Yeah… like a union!” Abbacchio agreed, and held up his beer can. “To the creation of a tenants’ union!”

Everyone held their cans up too, and cheered.

Chapter Text

Prosciutto and Ghiaccio were cuddling on the couch in each other’s arms when they were interrupted with a knock on the door. 

“What’s that, honey?” Ghiaccio asked. “Were you expecting someone?”

“No.” Prosciutto furrowed his brow, and got up to open the door.

It was a tall, lanky dude with his long, shiny hair in a bunch of pigtails. He wore a crop-top bedazzled with rhinestones and a picture of the Powerpuff Girls, a pair of silk trackpants, and a big giant MONCLER down bathrobe. “Hey, ‘Sciutto,” he nodded.

“What, Illuso?” Prosciutto snarls, then nods to Ghiaccio. “It’s just my tenant.”

“I just saw some weird little dude with a bowl cut taking a zipline buck-naked down the side of our building.  Is everything okay?”

Prosciutto froze.

Ghiaccio stood up slowly and started stalking towards Prosciutto.

Prosciutto turned saucer-eyes to Ghiaccio, hand shaking, and tried to close the door. But Illuso was big and broad and taking up the whole entire entrance and Prosciutto was too image-conscious to just slam the door on his tenant. “I-Illuso,” he stammered instead. “A-are you sure it wasn’t just another hallucination?” He reached up patted a calming hand on Illuso’s shoulder. His height was completely dwarfed by the bigger man. 

“Wait. Let him talk,” Ghiaccio interrupted. "A guy in a bowl cut. Did he have nipples?” Ghiaccio hissed, a threat on his lips. He stalked, catlike towards his boyfriend.

“Uhh, how’d you know?” Illuso didn’t brush Prosciutto’s hand off his shoulder. “That was the weirdest thing, he didn’t”

Prosciutto’s legs were jelly. He watched the realization dawn over Ghiaccio’s face, as he went from suspicious to angry to a full-out conniption fit. 

“PROSCIUTTO??” Ghiaccio shouted at the top of his voice. “Is that the same coconut head man you say you see only ‘AS COLLEAGUES’ at those landlord association meetings that go WAY TOO LATE ON FRIDAY NIGHT?”

Illuso grimaced. “Am I… interrupting something, Landlord?” He asked.

“No, stay,” Prosciutto almost plead. He congratulated his past self for having put a hand on Illuso’s shoulder.

“YOU’RE CHEATING ON ME WITH YOUR FUCKING EX?” Ghiaccio shouted, and suddenly all the entire room was an icebox. Ghiaccio was skating himself in circles, carving deeper and deeper in the ice. Circles smaller, smaller, until he spun in a tight like a top. There were sparks flying from his skates.

And all of a sudden, he was gone. And the room was back to normal.

Prosciutto looked around, disoriented. “Where the hell…?”

Illuso cracked a smile, and the dimple was on his left cheek all of a sudden.

Prosciutto wondered if psychosis could spread through physical contact. He lowered his hands off of Illuso’s shoulder, and nothing changed.

“What’s wrong, little guy?” Illuso asked, voice smooth as silk. “I saved your life.”

“I… how?”

And so Illuso introduced his landlord to Man in the Mirror.

“Stand users are drawn to stand users, I guess,” Prosciutto sighed. How the fuck else could he have ended up with a tenant with Stand powers?

But, Illuso’s power certainly made it make more sense that Melone and him were able to share a one-bedroom apartment while not being a couple.

He pointed out the mirror on the wall, through which they could watch Ghiaccio spin himself in circles, looking around frantically for the pair of them.

Illuso stood behind Prosciutto and slipped an arm around his shoulders. 

“You must be feeling pretty bad right about now.” Illuso teased into Prosciutto’s ear.

“I was cheating on him,” Prosciutto answered flatly. “I should have expected he’d find out.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Don’t you need a little company?” Illuso tried again, pulling his body closer to Prosciutto’s.

“If you’re suggesting I call a prostitute with your rent money—” Prosciutto admonished, voice fading away when Illuso pulled him even closer. Closer enough for Prosciutto to feel Illuso’s warm boner against his back. “—Oh.”

“Well? Whaddaya say.”

Prosciutto watched Ghiaccio get bored of searching and then leave the apartment frozen. “But I have to deal with this…”

“Not yet, you don’t,” Illuso smiled sweetly and lead the way for Prosciutto to go downstairs to Illuso’s side of Melone’s apartment. It was tricked out exactly the same on this side, which surprised Bruno. There must be some way in which only humans could pass through the mirror, while inanimate objects had to stay perfectly reflected on both sides. 

“You and Melone sleep in the same bed?” Was all Prosciutto could think to ask.

“Sort of,” Illuso shrugged and took out a Pax pen. 

“What’s that?” Prosciutto asked. “Because you know there’s no smoking allowed—”

“What are you, my landlord?” Illuso hee-heed. “No, it’s a vape. It’s odorless, see?” He took a drag and then exhaled the herbaceous vapor into Prosciutto’s face. Prosciutto breathed it all in, and it was sweet. Fuck it, he wanted to get high too. But he preferred to keep up the farce, so he told Illuso: “I’m sorry, I missed that. Can you get any closer with the next sample?”

And so Illuso leant his head right up into Prosciutto’s face and exhaled, slowly, from his lips and nose like a dragon. Close enough that they could feel the heat between their skin. 

“The smoke’s tasteless, too,” Illuso lied. “If you want to try it?”

“Yes,” Prosciutto replied, breathless. He couldn’t believe he was getting so wet so soon after fucking not only Bruno but also Ghiaccio. “I think I’ll have to verify your claim.”

And that’s how Illuso’s lips ended on Prosciutto’s, THC-rich vapor finding its way out through the corners of their mouthes and their nostrils.

“Shit, that’s strong,” Prosciutto smiled.

“I’m not sure you caught it. Would you like another taste?”

Prosciutto didn’t even respond, just pulled Illuso in for another kiss. Not to be a stereotypical yaoi lemon, but their tongues really did battle for dominance. Prosciutto’s was a pointed, darting thing, used to asking questions and making its concerns known. But Illuso’s was well matched, thick but nimble, strong and supple and confident. The men pulled each other closer, gnashing teeth between lips to allow more room for the struggle. 

Illuso’s lips were so soft, though, they caught Prosciutto off-guard. And his big languid thing pinned Prosciutto’s to the bottom of his mouth. And then he pulled away.

Prosciutto understood what that meant just as well, like telepathic communication. As if what they’d just done, a strange, sexualized thumb war, was something that was normal and made sense. He pulled his Snuggie off and bared his ass for Illuso.

Illuso acted just as fast, pulling his silk pants down to his knees and hiking up his Moncler dressing gown. 

“So you and Melone fuck on the same bed,” Prosciutto confirmed.

“More or less,” Illuso frowned in distaste. “But you don’t have to put it like that.”

Prosciutto leaned over, standing, and braced his elbows and chin against the bed. He arched his back, showing off his neat little pussy, with its slightly scarred clitoral hood and its scattered, lime-green curls.

Illuso stood behind him and jerked himself off, the soft plap plap plap not at all dampened by the fact that they were inside a mirror. 

“You ready?” he breathed, husky and happy.

“Yeah, put it in,” Prosciutto grinned back at him. “Love me some tenant cock.”

“You slutty devil,” Illuso growled. “And so fast after you were dumped!” He lined up the head of his thick, dark-brown cock with Prosciutto’s dripping pussy. 

“I’m sorry you had to hear—ah!” Prosciutto’s sincere apology was cut off by Illuso slipping in, low-profile head soft and round, and then filled to bursting by his chubby shaft. 

“I can tell you were just fucking, landlord,” Illuso grinned.

“You’re not my only tenant,” Prosciutto teased back, but his heart wasn’t in it. He just wanted to get his sad, post-breakup nut, and then take acid and stare at the ceiling for a couple of days. (There was a reason he named his stand the Grateful Dead.) 

Lucky for Prosciutto, Illuso was a selfish lover. He fucked into Prosciutto all the way to the hilt as soon as he could, and the tight heat made him lose his breath for a second. Then he was leaned over little Prosciutto, arms on the bed on either side of the little guy’s shoulders, and he was thrusting into him with a passion. More of a passion than a sorta-stranger ought to have on a first hookup. Prosciutto didn’t mind it though, It felt much better than Bruno’s rushed, businesslike sex or Ghiaccio’s not-even-real sex. (Seriously, what was up with that?) 

Illuso fucked himself just about halfway to where he wanted to be before he, panting, asked Prosciutto to roll over and threw one of the small, liver-marked legs over his big tan torso, and pressed into him again. He fucked slowly at first, to let Prosciutto get accustomed to the new depth, then soon he was drilling down into him fast with passion and force again.

Prosciutto bit down on a handful of covers to muffle his voice, but small little muffled moans still found their way to Illuso’s ears. So Illuso kept fucking him, rhythmic, and watched the flush bloom over his gaunt cheeks. Watched him heave breaths as his eyes rolled back, but fluttered down, trying to hold eye contact with Illuso. And watched—and felt—as Prosciutto lost it and actually came, tight and throbbing and wet wet wet around Illuso’s cock. 

Illuso’s stroke game immediately fell to pieces, and he pulled out to shake his sperm out all over Prosciutto’s heavily-scarred chest. 

Prosciutto caught his breath, too fucked-out to be angry about it. 

Illuso fell to his knees between Prosciutto’s legs. “You enjoy yourself?” He asked.

“Oh yeah, I came,” Prosciutto breathed. “Hey, can you grab my phone? I wanna check it.”

Illuso laughed. “It’s always business with you, landlord.”

“Hey, I have friends too!” Prosciutto kinda lied. 

“Oh, checking if Ghiaccio texted back?” Illuso teased.

And Ghiaccio had texted back. But amidst all the text walls to the effect “why did you do this to me” and “come out and confront me like a grown man,” were two text messages from Bruno MF Buccellati.  

“Why, G-d?” Prosciutto asked, gesturing his hands to the ceiling. “Why me? Why now?”

(Well, the answer to “why me” was obvious—because he had sex with Bruno Buccellati, known haver of various STIs, right after that guy offered him a “present.”)

“What it is it?” Illuso asked, and snatched the phone before Prosciutto could even lock the screen. As he read, his face scrunched up. He threw the phone back at Prosciutto. “Get out, landlord. These goddamn bugs better pay rent for living on my body.”

“Very funny,” Prosciutto choked out. “Where’s the mirror I can exit from?”

Illuso snarled and waved a hand. “Upstairs in the hallway, same one we came in in. You can show yourself out. I’m sure you understand why.”

Prosciutto dragged his sorry ass back upstairs and back into the real world. His heart tattoo “nipple” was back on his left side, where it belonged.

—

Ghiaccio stress-skated, long and far away from Prosciutto’s property. He wanted to be anywhere but there. He wanted to destroy Prosciutto, and he wanted to destroy that horrible ex Bruno too, for stealing him. Ghiaccio skated faster and further than he remembered being capable of. But soon he found himself tired, and also near a small business street with some bars on it. He de-activated White Album for just the precious second it took to realize he was still wearing just his underwear. So, catsuit it would have to be. He walked into a random pub, and stood next to a jovial group of men with brightly colored hair. He ordered himself a hot toddy (with very specific instructions for how it was to be made). And then he heard the name: Prosciutto.

In 99.9% of situations, in a pub in Italy, if you heard two people discussing prosciutto, they’d be talking about ham. But in this one-in-a-million good luck situation (greatly amplified because stand users attract stand users), they group of men actually was discussing the man Ivan “Prosciutto” Vetchina. 

“Prosciutto is terrified of unions,” the one with garish pink hair was explaining. “His boyfriend is apparently in this union that got him his job even though he caused like a million in damages to his company. He uses that to tell us that if we caused a million in damages to his property, we’re absolutely on the hook for the loss no never mind about it, because he can always replace us so easy or whatever.”

“Exactly,” the small blonde one answered, “But if we as tenants all band  together, telling no to the union is like telling no to the prospect of ever getting a tenant!”

“That’s so genius,” the lilac-haired cue ball headed one was slurring, clearly too drunk for the full pint of Guinness he sloshed around in his hand.

It’s too good to be true. It’s like God is serving Ghiaccio a nice large takeout plate of revenge, piping hot.

So Ghiaccio stepped forward and cleared his throat to get the attention of the gathering.

“I know a lot about unions,” He explained. “I may be exactly the man you’re looking for, in fact. I’m Ghiaccio, the aforementioned “boyfriend.” Except, now, it’s ex-boyfriend. So let’s take down your landlords!”

—

Not three miles from the pub where the first inaugural meeting of the Northern Napoli Tenants Union was being held, two very strange men got up to some very strange antics. 

“Secco, sweetie pie, open wide!” Dr. Lombardi crooned to his PPE-covered lab technician. Or, something.

Elia “Secco” Pertosa, MLT, was crouched on all fours, mouth open wide and tongue lolling out as he looked up at the doctor. He panted like a dog, and didn’t speak a word.

Lombardi produced a Q-tip and swabbed it suggestively against Secco’s tongue, at first in playful circles, then shoving it further down the back of his throat. “Can you believe that guy?” He asked, relaxing his shoulders.

Secco shook his head emphatically and then closed his lips to suck on the Q-tip.

“He really came in here, all confident, with no insurance to speak of!” Lombardi complained. “I know my clinic is right next to the check cashing place, but come on. Healthcare is expensive!”

Secco “hmm”ed in response, but he was skeptical. The tests that Lombardi provided tended to be used as insurance cash cows, and the guy was smart enough to scam both big pharma and his customers out of so much money, why would it matter if he took one uninsured patient here and there? And, anyway, Secco had a specific attachment to this particular insurance-less subject, so he didn’t want to let Cioccolata deny him care just on the basis of that. 

“Come on, Cioccolata,” he’d begged, “If you turn him away and he gets sick and he can’t come to work, it’s my ass on the line.”

“Oh, fine, Secco, since you’ve been such a good cute little dog all day, I’ll give him his healthcare on the house. For you, good good good good boy!” He’d petted Secco’s head lovingly before heading out into the waiting room and calling the name “Guido Mista.”

So, as payment for giving Mista the clap test, that ended up coming back negative anyway, Secco let Dr. “Cioccolata” Lombardi do his best to infect him with everybody’s cultured samples.

It was… something to do. And look, when you’ve rotted your brains on enough mold to take a house off the market in the swampiest part of Louisiana, maybe bug chasing stops sounding like a terrible idea and start sounding like a fun hobby. Or something like that, I don’t know. 

So that’s the backstory that found Secco sucking on a Q-tip after hours in the dingy clinic laboratory.

“Good boy,” Cioccolata repeated, and removed the swab, then tossed Secco a cube of sugar. 

Secco caught it with his obscenely long tongue, and then growled like a dog.

“Yes, that’s right!” Cioccolata answered, as if those guttural noises were somehow an actual mode of communication that he could understand. “Get up on the bed, your ass is next!”

Secco gleefully vaulted himself up onto the paper-lined exam bed and started to strip off his PPE. First the single-use stuff: The hairnet, the face shield, the latex gloves, the gauzy-paper gown, the shoe covers. Under that, he was dressed a lot more normal, still waring a surgical mask though looped over his ears. His hair was disheveled and dark brown, his eyes piercing between his dark bangs and blue mask. He wore a black, long-sleeve T-shirt and black jeans, which he unzipped and kicked off onto the floor, followed by his red briefs. And under that, he sported a brushed-pewter chastity cage. (probably not pewter, that’s way too dense/heavy a metal, but something like that.)

Dr. Cioccolata danced with glee seeing that his faithful pet, or lab technician or whatever, had worn his cage to work today. He was supposed to wear it 24/7, but Cioccolata had no way of enforcing that, so whenever he saw that Secco was still following his orders it gave him such an intense blast of serotonin. He fished out the key from his key ring, and leaned in to unlock the thing. It fell away with a clank, and exposed Secco’s little soft penis and his dirty hole. The downside of this particular chastity belt was that it made it hard for Secco to wash his ass.

Oh well, for the purposes of today’s bug-chasing experiment, I guess that’s kind of a good thing, Cioccolata decided. 

So Secco spread his legs and Cioccolata got a fresh swab, this one cultured from Giorno’s vagina, and shoved it in dry.

Secco protested, but then Cioccolata reminded him that the trauma to the skin would make the bacterium more likely to catch. 

“Fine,” Secco purred, and let Dr. Cioccolata have his way with him.

After the swab, came a generously-lubed and latex-gloved finger, causing Secco to sigh in satisfaction.

Cioccolata climbed up onto the exam table, one knee between Secco’s legs. He worked his one finger into his lab technician, or loyal servant, or whatever Secco was.

Secco whined and stuck out his tongue, waiting for his treat.

“Aww, fine, since you begged so nicely,” Cioccolata crooned and placed a sugar cube on Secco’s tongue.

Secco’s tongue wrapped around it and let it dissolve into his thirsty mouth as Cioccolata kept stretching out his asshole, wiggling in gloved fingers at a disorienting, arhythmic pace. 

Secco closed his eyes and focused more on the taste of sugar overwhelming him than the third finger that was now skewering him and curling towards his p-spot. He took a deep, shaky breath, and then Cioccolata asked him: “Are you ready, pet?”

Secco purred and arched his back to let Cioccolata know how he felt, and Cioccolata postively cooed with satisfaction. He stripped himself out of his lab coat and scrubs, whipping out his big disfigured cock. He had those pearls embedded under the skin, so the whole thing looked unnaturally bumpy with its hard bulges at irregular intervals up and down the shaft. He had an ‘X’ of barbells punched through the head of it too, with glinting green gems. And, of course, his pubes were dyed the same sickly green as his dreadlocks. 

This was the cock of Secco’s dreams. He’d already done so much for this unique pound of flesh, and he was willing to do so much more as long as Cioccolata kept coming back to him. Which is why now he found himself whining like a bitch in heat and angling his hips desperately, trying to show Cioccolata how open and inviting his hole could be.

“Patience, pet,” Cioccolata scolded and started unscrewing the gems from the barbells in the head of his cock. He slipped out the cumbersome jewelry and put it aside, “For the condom.”

Secco whined and rolled his hips. Made puppy dog eyes up at Cioccolata while the doctor rolled on a green, too-thick latex condom. 

“I don’t want the clap, remember? You do remember, don’t you…” Cioccolata cooed and scratched Secco under his chin.

Secco smiled despite himself, and then Cioccolata gripped him by the wrists and, with a generous squelching of lube, just fucking shoved his cock in. 

He couldn’t feel much, because the condom was made out of, like, dishwashing glove material instead of normal super-thin latex. But that didn’t matter. He could feel the resistance Secco’s hole put up against the size of his cock by the way he had to really press his hips in. He could feel Secco’s heat through the proxy of his panting breaths. There was something magical in the way it felt like he was fucking his pet with a prosthetic instead of his natural cock. 

“Come for me,” Cioccolata whispered and stroked Secco’s cheek. “Come for your doctor.”

Secco nodded and then stuck out his tongue.

Cioccolata knew what that meant. And anyway, the time until he had to put his piercings back in was drawing near. He probably wasn’t gonna cum, but like, who cares. He picked up a sugar cube and placed it daintily into Secco’s mouth.

It dissolved for an instant and then Secco clenched his jaw shut and arched his back and let his eyes roll into his head and came a strong, juicy cumshot right between their two warm bodies. 

Cioccolata smiled. He wanted to lick the cum up off of his pet’s delicious skin, but he restrained himself because of, y’know, the gonorrhea. 

Chapter Text

Recall, if you don’t, that Mista and Giorno are co-workers at the Caffe Cento, which is managed by Secco. 

—

After closing time, Secco cornered Mista. Giorno wanted to hang around, but Mista shooed him out of the way. Mista was sure he was about to get chewed out for some assistant manager stuff, and he didn’t want to suffer that embarrassment in front of Giorno. 

What Mista didn’t expect was his boss’s concerned tone of voice, when he whispered in Mista’s ear, “You know, you really should be more careful with what you stick your dick into. It might come back to haunt you.”

“What?” Mista hissed, feeling confused and threatened and just a little turned on. 

Secco’s mouth curled up into a smile behind his black cotton face mask. “I know something you don’t know I know!”

“How?” Mista whispered back, not even thinking to ask what the hell his manager was talking about.

Secco reached up and held Mista’s chin. Tilted his head down until he was looking straight at him. “I promise, my sugar, you don’t wanna know.”

Mista was definitely feeling turned-on now. “I— er— huh? Don’t— call me that!” he protested, voice trembling, but he didn’t actually turn or try to walk away. And it’s not like Secco could physically overpower him, and it’s not like he couldn’t get another job. In fact, he was already looking around and had his eyes on that advertisement that promised to fully train heavy machinery drivers. So it wasn’t any of that kind of stuff, no anxiety nor fear that held his feet in their place. No, it was full-on curiosity. 

See, Secco wasn’t actually too rough on the eyes. The black face covering he wore helped a little bit because his teeth were pretty fucked up, but not badly enough to completely ruin his appeal. And his skin was kinda blotchy, but nothing that his angular-handsome bone structure couldn’t overcome. And then, between the top of his dark mask and below the dark messy mop of his hair, he had these mesmerizing, piercing brown eyes. 

Secco never seemed to show interest in anyone, at least not as far as Mista knew. Like, Mista and Giorno used to postulate that Secco was probably asexual or didn’t even know what sex was, seeing as Mista and Giorno never got caught having sex at work even though they made it pretty fucking obvious at times. 

So seeing Secco showing interest, actual interest in him, gave Mista pause.

Too much pause.

Enough pause that he forgot that Giorno was waiting outside to drive them to Abbacchio’s apartment for “cocaine and jimmy neutron.” 

“Hm,” Secco smirked, and let go of Mista’s chin. “You may go now, if you want. I can close up myself, you know.”

“N-no,” Mista stammered, “No, I’ll, can, uh. I stay and help.”

“Hm,” Secco repeated, and nodded. “Well, get to work then.”

—

The two of them worked in silence. Giorno stood outside the cafe, watching them through the window with narrowed eyes. Mista tried to wave to Giorno, tried to signal to him that this was gonna be a long night, and so Giorno left in an annoyed huff. Mista could swear he heard Secco chuckle when Giorno stomped away, but maybe that was just the espresso grinder getting rid of the excess beans. It was impossible to really tell behind the mask.

—

“Well, er boss… that’s everything,” Mista said finally, just to hear himself speak.

“Hm,” Secco agreed.

“Can I, uh… ask you something?” Mista tried to get an answer out of Secco. 

“Hm?” Secco asked, his tone and eyes suddenly growing dark.

“What did you mean earlier? About my,” Mista gulped, “dick?”

Suddenly, Mista found himself pinned between the wall and Secco’s body. How did Secco move that fast? Or was it the wall that moved?

No way, stuff like that wasn’t possible. Mista shook the thought out of his head. 

“Stop asking questions you don’t want to know the answer to,” Secco threatened. “Unless you want to lose your position.”

Oh, Mista realized, So this is the game we’re playing.

“My position? You wouldn’t take that from me,” Mista smirked. 

“No?” Secco asked, eyes impassive and expression hidden.

“I’m too valuable to let go,” Mista taunted. 

“Literally anyone can manage a café, Guido,” Secco countered.

“Not valuable for my soft skills,” Mista mouthed and rolled his hips out against Secco’s body. “For my hard one.”

“Hm,” Secco hummed appreciatively. “Well I do love a man with a nice hard skill.” He was about to meet the roll of Mista’s hips with his own when he moved his hips and was reminded of something. Something a lot harder than one hard skill. Something that wasn’t just stiff, it was difficult too. And, situation considered, really fucking annoying.

“What’s that?” Mista asked. Apparently he had noticed the hard situation in the crotch of Secco’s pants. 

“Hm,” Secco grunted, dejected.

—

“A chastity cage? Are you kidding? Who the fuck makes you wear this?” Mista gasped, open mouthed, after Secco explained the situation and dropped trou. 

“That’s a secret between me and my master,” Secco grinned back, “But luckily for you, it doesn’t matter today, because you’re gonna get me out of this thing.”

Mista didn’t even have time to ask “how?” before Secco was back with what looked like a bent hairpin. 

“You seem like the kind of guy who can pick a lock,” Secco said, and handed the hairpin to his employee. 

Mista didn’t know what that meant, but it just so happened that Secco was right. Giorno, the little klepto, watched so many lock picking youtube videos at night that Mista had seemingly picked up the skill by total osmosis. He had his boss free of the cage in no time. 

“Wow,” Secco breathed, stroking his cock almost reverently, “Freedom.”

“Uhh, what’s that?” Mista asked, gesturing to the yellowish leaky discharge hanging from the tip of Secco’s little prick. 

But Secco just shrugged and told Mista “just gunk from the cage” and Mista’s horny brain, usually pretty alert in situations with a high risk for STI transmission, was simply too gullible to question it any further. 

—

So, yeah, Secco and Mista fucked. They also re-fired up the La Marzocco, so it was a cycle of fucking and espresso shots that continued until both of them were bouncing off the goddamn walls, both figuratively and literally. Mista bent Secco over the disinfected counter, bounced him on his cock in the back of house, held him like a wheelbarrow and fucked his face on the freshly mopped floor, even fucked him up against the newly-windexed glass. And then Mista emptied his load into an espresso glass and Secco, that absolute maniac, chugged it. And then Secco jazzed into that same glass, and not to be outdone, Mista took that white liquid down his throat as well. And then he burped. 

“Holy shit, boss, look what we did to the place!” Mista blurted out. 

The cafe was indeed an absolute mess. splatters of… well, could be disinfectant, could be dairy, could be cum, but was probably a mixture of it all painted the floors and counters and the “clean” drying rack. The bag of rags had fallen over and spilt its contents on the floor, and there were quite a number of loose unroasted coffee beans also skidding across the tile. 

Mista hoped Secco wouldn’t be mad at him.

“Hm,” Secco observed, with an animated sigh. “It’s fine, Mista, go home. I can’t afford you working overtime.”

It was a lie, but it was enough. Mista stuffed his dick back into his pants then shuffled off to go back to his apartment and tell his roommate about the absolutely bonkers news. 

—

And so Mista did go home. And what he ran into in his house made his jaw drop open.

Enter Formaggio, twenty-seven. He’s Mista’s roommate, and a regular at the Caffé. He’s built like a refrigerator, six-foot-one, with buzzed red kinky hair, a strong nose, and orthodontically straightened teeth. He usually wears these cringe-inducing “DIY” vests he’s very proud of: they’re generally, like, thrifted knockoff Carhartt jackets where he cuts off the shoulders than punches them with way too much goddamn bedazzling. Rhinestones, patches, shaky-handed embroidery…. 

But, he’s not wearing one tonight. 

He’s not wearing anything. 

Enter Narancia, twenty-five. They’re one of Formaggio’s fucking “joyfriends,” which just meant that Mista had to hear the sounds of their forced-aggressive grunts whenever they spent the night. They’re five-foot-four on a good day, scrawny with a budding beer belly, and they call themselves a dom and exclusively wear black canvas pants and leather. Mista likes them a lot, to be honest. They’re funny and cool. 

What Mista doesn’t necessarily like to see is this tiny little fucker with Formaggio on a leash, fucking him mercilessly over the shelf where Mista’s vintage Gamecube lived. 

“Shoo, shoo, you two!” Mista snarled and waved his hand dismissively. “Can’t a guy get some peace in his own home? Seriously!”

Formaggio laughed and flashed Mista a shit-eating grin from over his shoulder. And then Narancia yanked on Formaggio’s leash and told him to “shut up, mutt,” so Mista made his exit stage left into his own room. Once situated and comfortable in his bed, he realized with a jolt that he had just, like, completely ghosted Giorno.

He reached for his phone to shoot a text to Giorno, but what he heard next made his hand stop in its tracks. 

It was the sound of an impact, sharp and bright like a whip. And the sound of Formaggio shouting in pain. 

Mista closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. He figured it was just a kink thing, but still, he was a little worried about Formaggio. 

Then he heard Formaggio’s voice, all breathy and strung-out, croaking “You can do better’n that, boss.”

Great. Mista let himself fall backwards into bed and stared up at the ceiling. Tried not to think about what absolute debauchery was transpiring in his own living room. 

“Quit yer whining!” Narancia complained.

“Make me, boss,” Formaggio laughed. 

Oh, God. Did Formaggio really have to call him boss?  Mista’s hand abandoned any thought of reaching for his phone and started to reach for his own crotch instead. Before he knew it, he had unbuttoned his True Religion jeans, and his hand was hovering over his bare, half-hard cock. 

Another crack of the whip. And then a thudding sound, hard and deep and dull like a paddle. And this time, Mista’s roommate’s verbal ejaculation was different, more surprised and pained than the lascivious grunt he made at the whip. 

And that was hot.

It’s no secret I think Formaggio’s hot, Mista told himself, as he finally closed his sweaty sausage-fingers around his cock. Honestly, he’d probably be more offended if I didn’t jerk off to this, he rationalized as he started to do just that.  

It wasn’t long before the impacts and shouts and taunts faded away into a more predictable rhythm. Just the slap of skin and Narancia’s rhythmic panting-growling that they always made when they were topping. God, that was one sound that really, seriously did nothing for Mista. 

But it was easy enough to drown out Narancia’s fucking weird noises when he had Formaggio’s desperate “Boss! Boss! Boss!” To focus on. Well, at first, it was the actual words Formaggio spoke, the actual title of respect. But as Formaggio drifted off into what had to be some intense-ass throes of pleasure by the sound of it, Mista couldn’t hear any consonants anymore. It just sounded like Formaggio was chanting “mwah! mwah! mwah!” But by that point, it didn’t matter. By that point, Mista was running his hands up and down his cock in time with the two little fuckers in the living room, and he was chanting “boss, boss” on the top of his breath, to match Formaggio. 

It would have been so easy to jerk off to this if Mista could just project himself into Formaggio’s shoes. But he couldn’t, because the thought of calling Narancia, of all people, any title of respect at all made him so flaccid he could laugh. Mista tried projecting himself onto Narancia instead, but it just didn’t stick. He was too married to the idea of calling someone boss that jerking off to the idea of domming just didn’t cut it for him. 

And then it all clicked: Secco.

Mista closed his eyes and kept mouthing “boss, boss” as he focused hard, imagining it was Secco, his literal boss at the literal coffee shop, bending him over and fucking him so hard the China cabinet chattered. 

“Boss, boss,” Mista mumbled, and reached behind himself to tug at his asshole. He let his mind wander: Would he really let Secco fuck him like a dom? Did he know anyone else who could do the job instead? 

But no, Mista thought: Giorno was too sub, Abbacchio wasn’t respectable enough, Narancia was too small, Formaggio was clearly more comfortable of the leash… his mind circled the drain but always came back to Secco. And then that's where he got the really bad thought: If he could find out who was responsible for Secco’s cock cage, maybe he could set Secco free once and for all. And Secco would be indebted to him enough to fuck him like he deserved. He didn't take tips from the cash tip jar, so this was the least Secco could give him. As an employer and as a partner. 

Chapter Text

With the gonorrhea epidemic appearing to slow down, it is important now to remember that Patient Zero is still absent from the equation. We’ve tracked the bacterium as far back as Melone, but who gave it to him?

Good Question. I think it would be fun to take a little trip back in time and find out.

Here’s what we know about Melone: He’s a medical student, or at least has been at one point. He still claims that he has classes to attend and tuition bills to pay, but no longer has ever been seen doing homework. He’s an ugly, twisted motherfucker with sunburnt cheeks and awful tan lines. He and Ristotto are kinda married. In a really bad, infidelitious, toxic-as-all-hell way. In a back-and-forth-every-week-can’t-make-up-their-minds kind of way. But, as is the way of this world, Melone has fucked just about as many of the main cast here as has, say, Leone or Risotto. 

And what I think would be super fun right now is to depict Melone makin’ sweet, sweet love to his ole sailor pal Tiziano Marghabel. Yeah, that’s be way nuts. 

“Tiziano, how long in port will you be?” Melone cooed at Tiziano, bending his body around a pole in the general direction of Tiziano. He’s dressed in a lace-and-taffeta 1860s-style slutty barmaid’s dress. They’re in just the piazza, not any sort of place that would satisfactorily contextualize this behavior. In short, they’re freaks.

Tiziano is swarthy and dark-skinned, wearing white rope twisted into his hair, an orange silk scarf tied around his head and hiding his roots. He’s wearing an all-white sailor’s outfit, capri pants and mitty shirt, low shoes and gondolier’s gloves. He’s gorgeous but is just as clearly in costume as Melone is. 

“My sweet Mattea, I am only in port for a single night. I have important business to attend to in Iberia and I must hie on my way at first light tomorrow.” (It’s not false, exactly, but bro, nobody fucking talks like that. And you know it’s called Portugal now, right?)

Tiziano slips his gloved hands around Melone’s corseted middle and hoists him up into the air, spinning him around and then letting him fall into a crossbody carry. “I’m sailing away, I’m sailing away, my own true love. I’m sailing away in the morning. Is there something I can send you from beyond the sea? From the place where I’ll be going?”

“There’s nothing you can bring me, my own true love,” Melone coos back up to Tiziano, as he’s lowered back down to let his weight deposit on his feet. “There’s nothing I’m wishing to be owning. Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled from across that lonesome ocean!” It’s also, technically, true. At this point, Melone was still living openly off of his mothers’ coin. He wanted for nothing but, like, sex and love and whatever other things he could find in the crevasses of those situations and emotions. And Tiziano is his main sidepiece, because with his breakneck schedule of boat guy things, he could be trusted to be discrete and never demand enough time for Melone’s husband Risotto to get suspicious. 

“Aw, but I thought you might want something back? Made of silver? Or, of golden?” Tiziano counters, dancing fingers down the bodice of Melone’s dress. “How about from the mountains of Madrid? Or the coasts of Barcelona?”

Melone falls to his knees on the cobblestone, dress billowing out from him with the motion. He continues the song as he nimbly unbuckles Tiziano’s belt. “If I had the stars from the darkest night, and the diamonds from the deepest ocean, I’d forsake them all,” he paused to unzip Tiziano’s pants with his teeth, and then fished Tiziano’s cock with his hands as he finished singing the phrase: “for your sweet kiss,” and punctuating the word with a single kiss to the head of his cock before he looks up again. “That is all I’m wishing to be owning.”

Tiziano’s gloved fingers curl into Melone’s hair, shoving his face down to his own cock almost before Melone’s even done singing. He scoffs, and smirks, and continues to hold the struggling Melone down by his hand in his hair as he continues: “Well, I might be gone a long old time,” He warns, teasing: “And it’s only that I’m asking, Is there something I can send you to remember me by?” He pulls Melone’s face off of his cock, only to spit a wet loogie onto the bridge of Melone’s nose and then some him back down. “To make your time more easy passing?”

“Oh? How can? How can? You ask? Me agin?” Melone fires out every four or so strokes as Tiziano graciously allows him to come up for air. Then in a burst of defiance, he leverages his body weight against Tiziano’s hips, spit drooling from his mouth to the tip of Tiziano’s average little uncut cock. (maybe compare to a fish?) He tilts his head up at Tiziano, teeth bared and brow crinkled in an appraising manner. “If you, my love, must think that way, ” He figured, “I’m sure your mind is roaming. I’m sure your thoughts—” At this point, Tiziano’s grip in Melone’s hair has tightened and his arms have started to tremble with the exertion of keeping his lips away from Tiziano’s dick. “Are not with me, but with the country that you’re going.”

Then Melone loses his battle, and Tiziano bucks his hips hard enough to overpower Melone’s resistance. Melone chokes loudly on the cock being shoved down his throat, and then he lets out a battle cry and sinks his teeth hard as he can into Tiziano’s shaft. 

Of course, Tiziano screeches and hops away. He ended up sitting on his ass and looking up at Melone, eyes wide in something mirroring surprise. If there’s anybody left in the Piazza, they better have scrammed by now.

Melone shuffles to his feet. “So take heed,” he warns, “Take heed of the western wind. Take heed of stormy weather~! And, yes, there is something you can bring back to me—“ He kicks Tiziano’s face gently with the side of his foot: “Spanish boots of Spanish leather.” 

And then the two of them fell back laughing, and Tiziano stuffed his little cock back into his tidy white sailor capri pants. 

“That was fucking insane,” Melone laughs.

“Bob Dylan bootlegs do that to a motherfucker!” Tiziano agrees. 

And then they’re standing, and then they were doing their secret handshake, and then they were drinking, and then they were fucking. And that’s how Melone got the clap from a literal freaking sailor, and started this whole entire goddamn mess.  

***

So that’s what’s up with that.