Moody Blues had apparated before him, static fizzling as Abbacchio sought the moment he was looking for.
It was a quiet hallway in an upscale hotel, no one there to interrupt him, no one to cause a sound beyond the dial-up tones of his Stand. Which was good, because if anyone did show up, he’d have to punch them out cold. Word could get out he was here.
He paused Moody Blues. Looked behind him, just to check there was truly no one else. Even if he knew it. He was a professional, he knew how to scope shit out. But a guilty conscience put a man on edge. And god fucking knew.
But he found where he was looking for, the numbers on his Stand’s forehead blinking.
-04 : 03 : 20
Four days, three hours, twenty minutes ago.
Abbacchio let his Stand take the form of the person who had been in this spot then:
This was fucked up. Beyond fucked up. But he, himself, was fucked up. More, a fuck up. So who gave a fuck.
Buccellati opened the door to the hotel room, held it open, gesturing for whoever he had been with to walk in. Polite. Of course. Buccellati was a gentleman as much as one could be in their crowd. …Abbacchio took up the empty place of the other person, stepped into the room.
The door closed behind Buccellati, then stood in place, lifting his arms into the air and holding them out in a manner that was incredibly awkward without a second person standing there. But Abbacchio wasn’t going to apparate the other person.
He didn’t want to see the guy Buccellati fucked.
Rewind a bit, Buccellati took a step back, his arm reached behind him toward the door. Pause. Abbacchio stepped forward into the approximate spot he needed to be.
Then Buccellati’s arms were around him.
The right height, arms just looped around Abbacchio’s neck. A guy taller than Buccellati. (Did that mean he was Buccellati’s type? Fucking presumptuous, Abbacchio.)
A hand slid up the back of his neck, combed through his hair, and rested on the back of his head. Then Buccellati was pulling him down, lips already parted, into a kiss. The point of no return for Abbacchio. He didn’t fucking care.
It wasn’t rough, it wasn’t passionate-- Buccellati wouldn’t be either of those things with a stranger. (Maybe not with anyone. As much as Abbacchio wanted him to do horrible, awful things to him. Spit on him, step on him, pull his hair and have him beg sir .)
It was more mechanical. What you did when you kissed someone.
Abbacchio kissed back with more fervor than Buccellati returned. The lack of response was a jarring reminder that this wasn’t real-- but then, Buccellati’s hand was grabbing his ass and he couldn’t care less. Not his proudest moment, he moaned into the kiss when he felt Buccellati’s fingers pressing into the muscle of his ass. When he kneaded it. Fuck it, he could be excessive in his masturbatory fantasy.
He bit Buccellati’s lip and groaned against his mouth. Buccellati just licked him.
Then hands were on his shoulders, pushing him backwards. Toward the bed. Right to the business, it seemed. Impersonal as hell.
Abbacchio liked that. That this wasn’t some person that meant something to Buccellati. Wanted that to be him. Felt disgusted that he wanted that to be him.
He’d be satisfied with being Buccellati’s impersonal fuck.
It was really right to business, as Buccellati’s clothes fell away in an unnatural manner, and Abbacchio barked a laugh-- he just unzipped his whole outfit. The person he was fucking probably didn’t have a clue what was going on. Just suddenly... his clothes were gone. (And that wasn’t something Abbacchio had considered before, Sticky Fingers undressing Buccellati, and now it was an image that was plastered in his mind.)
The laugh was gone as Buccellati started crowding him on the bed, and Abbacchio realized that maybe he should get undressed, too. He had probably unzipped his partner’s clothes, too. (That, for some reason, made him jealous. Stands were for them. )
Pause. Abbacchio slipped off the bed, stripped unceremoniously as Buccellati stood hovering over the bed. Static sparking off of him as he was paused. If Buccellati were looking at him, he’d have stripped proper, let him have a good look. Or let him unzip him and take control. Or rip the fucking clothes to shreds off his body-- that wouldn’t happen.
Abbacchio climbed under Buccellati, resumed. Buccellati moved from his frozen state, got on top of Abbacchio. And Buccellati was kissing him again, this time more dominating. Fuck, did he like that. He wrapped his arms around him, slid his hands over the lithe muscle of Buccellati’s back. It flexed under his fingers in delicious ways as Buccellati moved.
Then, they weren’t kissing anymore.
Bright. Fucking. Red. Lips.
Were being painted on Buccellati’s jaw, his neck, his collar, almost down his chest.
Abbacchio hissed as Moody Blues paused in his anger.
He grabbed Buccellati’s face. Pressed his own lips against each mark, covering the red with black. Left a few marks of his own lips where there had been none. The expression on Buccellati’s face was sexy as all hell, and he was pissed that red-lips had made him make it.
Fuck. Abbacchio told himself he wasn’t going to get jealous in this. But here he was. Seething. His anger was bad, but predictable. He knew he would get jealous. He fucking knew it. What a piece of shit.
Take-a-deep-fucking-breath. He closed his eyes. Opened them, stared at Buccellati’s chest, where his tattoos swirled in a hypnotizing fashion.
Abbacchio reached his hands up, started tracing the lines. Buccellati’s skin was soft, his muscles hard beneath. God, how he’d wanted this.
The recording played.
Buccellati’s hands grabbed his wrists, pinned them to the bed. Fuck. That was what Abbacchio wanted. More of that.
His face pressed into the crook of Abbacchio’s neck, just behind his ear. Lips, tongue, warm down his jugular. Teeth. Abbacchio groaned and his back arched and he wrapped his legs around Buccellati’s waist.
More teeth, on the shell of his ear. Buccellati’s breath was growing faster, heavy and wet against his ear. Hot air blowing into it sent a shiver down his spine.
One hand released, Buccellati’s hand going straight for his ass and grabbing it firmly. A tiny puff of laughter into his ear.
Abbacchio’s cock fucking jolted. He groaned, arched back into Buccellati’s hand, felt fingers press into soft flesh and hard muscle. “Fuck me, capo,” he hissed, unheard, eyes screwing shut.
He wanted a hand on his dick-- yeah, his hand was free, sure. But he’d rather it be Buccellati’s. And he just might put his hand on it. Or, better, he might stick his dick in his ass and fuck him so hard that he nuts all over himself without even touching it. Beautiful torture.
His hips rocked back against Buccellati’s hand on his ass, and he threaded his free hand into Buccellati’s hair, grabbed hold.
“Fuck me, capo,” he repeated, in a pathetic whine, his deep voice going high.
He was pathetic. Didn’t matter. Buccellati could call him pathetic and he’d want it. (Buccellati wouldn’t. Buccellati was too good for that.)
Buccellati pulled back, did some more odd movements that made no sense without the props. Seemingly, he unzipped a condom-lube packet out of himself. Responsible, capo, but still so weird.
His fingers moved down, shiny with the lube that Moody Blues replicated, and Abbacchio had to reposition himself, find the place where Buccellati’s partner’s asshole had been-- fuck, this was ridiculous--
But he found it. And Buccellati’s fingers were on him, unfairly gentle, then pressing in, and Abbacchio hissed and dug his manicured nails into Buccellati’s shoulder blades. He was a nasty bitch and didn’t need the prep, but Buccellati was polite, and it just served as teasing to make his cock ache further and have him biting back noises.
Anyone else wouldn’t work him up like this. Anyone else, he would have barked to move on.
Buccellati working him open, though, had him tensing his thighs around his waist, ankles crossing over the base of his spine where more intricate swirls began to lace around his hip bones. His thighs covered most of their path, but they had a clear direction: framing his dick. Buccellati was hard and of course had a beautiful dick, perfect in all ways except that it was not inside of Leone Abbacchio.
But, since Buccellati was fucking perfect, he was retracting his fingers, hand going to grab Abbacchio’s ass once more (a taste of his, it seemed, and one for him to file away into his mind--) and he was lining his cock up to press into Abbacchio.
“Buccellati,” Abbacchio groaned, eyes half-lidded as he stared at Buccellati’s dick, “god, capo, fuck me.”
His wish was more or less received, as Buccellati slid into him in one movement, no teasing, no fucking around.
Another tiny puff of laughter as Buccellati looked him in the eyes. His mouth took on a smirk-- not his true expression. The sort of smile he wore when he was acting. When he was intimidating an enemy. It was a chilling expression. No joy, no humor in his eyes.
So this really was just a fuck.
That went straight to Abbacchio’s dick.
(But left his chest feeling heavy.)
Buccellati began moving, his head falling back to that space just behind his ear. Abbacchio moved against him, hips bucking upward, heels digging into his spine.
Moody Blues would do its best job to return a playback to its original shape when manipulated.
Abbacchio rolled up, knocked Buccellati out of place, he fucked in rougher.
He was fucking living, his mind in and out of the moment, all focus lost. There was no perfect angle with a recording, no response to Abbacchio’s cues, no way for Abbacchio to respond to Buccellati’s. But it still felt fucking good.
His poor, poor neglected dick finally got the attention it needed when Buccellati’s hand moved to wrap around it. It was rough, a tight grip. (Buccellati’s partner had a smaller dick than him. That had Abbacchio smirking.) But that was exactly what Abbacchio wanted at the moment.
Jaw hanging open, his head lolled to the side, a trickle of drool went down his lips. Noise escaped his throat without his conscious.
Of course, he came all over his chest. All over Buccellati’s. Onto those gorgeous swirl tattoos. He wanted to trace the pattern with his tongue as Buccellati ordered him to clean the mess.
Buccellati’s hand kept moving, his hips kept snapping.
Abbacchio’s body tensed and he squirmed, his cock far too sensitive for the treatment after he’d come, every brush against his prostate having him jolt. It was too much. Torture. And more than Abbacchio could ask for. Buccellati’s name spilled from his lips with every wheeze.
A few more, far rougher, rolls of Buccellati’s hips, a few slower strokes on his cock, had another small, painful orgasm coaxed out of him. He could fucking cry, could kiss Buccellati’s boots in thanks, in reverence. And Buccellati was coming, too, his face contorting beautifully, his breathing halting.
Abbacchio wanted to feel it, for Buccellati to raw him and fill him up and--
Buccellati rolled off of him.
Abbacchio laid on his side, watched him. Both of their chests moved heavy in their breaths, almost in sync. Buccellati then stood, composing himself nearly immediately.
Walked to the door.
A wordless encounter.
Abbacchio stopped the recording as an inexplicable sharpness pierced his chest.
He felt disgusting, now, in post-orgasm haze. Moody Blues stood where Buccellati had just been. Numbers glowing brightly, showing the time that Buccellati had left. Thankfully, Buccellati had those bangs to cover the numbers. He didn’t need to feel disgusting while he was fucking his own Stand.
Closing his eyes, he pondered what to do. He could sleep here, lie in his fucking shame, it was a bed and he was tired. He could go to the hotel bar and buy too-expensive liquor and let that knock him out instead of post-coital hormones.
Or his cell phone could ring.
“Abbacchio. We need your Moody Blues.”
Internally, he cursed. The words spoken, the voice speaking them. Cursed himself, most of all.