𑣲⋆ im literally playing dollies here. i come to this blog to have fun and sometimes i’ll break my own rules or edit posts after they’re public.
𑣲⋆ i want to do justice by any requests and WILL close my inbox liberally! i appreciate folks’ patience.
𑣲⋆ do not feed my writing to AI. it should go without saying.
𑣲⋆ edit 5/30: if you like my hcs and want to use them in your own fic, feel free! I only ask that you credit me if you publish them anywhere but please enjoy building upon them if you so desire :)
✩⋆ ✮ RULES
𑣲⋆ do write: NSFW, poly, dark/yandere content (will be tagged), AU (please be specific), ficlet/drabble (1k-2k words), headcanons, full scenes (4k-5k words)
𑣲⋆ DON’T write: incest, gross out, slash, any characters under 15 (if you’re interested in child! Reader i highly recommend @adeadcreator . I prefer to write dating/friendship stuff!)
𑣲⋆ op will do his best to minimize white reader generalizations. Im happy to research specific holidays or events for HCs only, please feel free to message me in private if you have an idea.
𑣲⋆ reader will be written gender neutral. Please specify NSFW.
 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡Characters I Write For (6.21.26):
𑣲⋆ JoJos p. 1-7
𑣲⋆ JoFoes p. 1-7
𑣲⋆ JoBros p. 1-7 (kind of a wavy territory ik. for sake of this blog, i’d consider anything akin to Bucciarati’s gang in terms of screen time.)
𑣲⋆Lisa Lisa
𑣲⋆ D’Arby bros + Dio minions (case by case. Pls dm if you’re nervous i dont bite :)
𑣲⋆ La Squadra (Risotto Nero please interact)
thiiiiiiink that’s all, lol thanks for reading! this post will get updated so :) please check it every now and again.
You mentioned once you thought of Ermes as potential yandere? Would you elaborate on that? Ngl, your Josuke yandere HC were amazing. I would not thought about him as one but you made it work!
❤︎˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ Yandere Hermes Costello x Fem Reader ❤︎˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚˚ ༘
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) Ooooo thank you for requesting this and for your kind words! Hermes as a yandere let me really pick my brain but ultimately I think she’s pretty sinister. Sink-with-me type. I hope you enjoy <3
Notes: violence, yandere themes
❤︎ I clock her as a sweet, sinister type, concealing a great potential for brutality. Danger lurks in the carceral system. She knows.
❤︎ Hermes has seen you in almost every prison she’s been in. But you’re nothing like her. She has a mission, but… what are you doing here?
❤︎ Offhandedly, she tries to learn about you, snarky, teasing you about how similar your stints are. She isn’t ready for how you laugh miserably, throwing your hands up because for god’s sake, you don’t want to be here. You just have to survive, and money is hard to come by.
❤︎ Shuffling between concrete castles wasn’t how you pictured your youth either, but shit kept falling through the cracks.
❤︎ Hermes’ heart tugs. How many types had she seen just like you? Completely divorced from her own chosen destiny, you were someone who just kept getting unlucky. She has a friend like that. And it endears you to her.
❤︎ Especially since, despite your repeated terms, it seemed whatever tough skin you developed was ripped off over and over.
❤︎ But she’s a good friend. She doesn’t want to see you drown in the system.
❤︎ Feigning exasperation, she offers to help you stay alive. With a laugh more like a scott, she says she’ll tell you how to really rob a place without getting caught so you don’t have to come back. You tease her weakly, that if she was here every time with you, wasn’t she awful too?
❤︎ That’s when she decides it. You really were… weirdly innocent, despite it all. You had no idea of the evil she was constantly fighting.
❤︎ If you’re becoming anyone’s bitch, it’s hers.
❤︎ But you’re not. Definitely doesn’t feel like it.
❤︎ Because Hermes is really just taking you under her wing. That’s all.
❤︎ Someone shaking you down for money? She’ll make them taste pennies. Unable to get a spot in line for a phone call? That guy can’t talk with four broken teeth.
❤︎ Hermes is the friend you wished you had ever since you were a teen. Whip smart, sarcastic, protective, creative— sometimes a little goofy, and even cute though she wouldn’t want to say it.
❤︎ You follow her like a puppy, clinging to her strength. She’ll tell anyone else that you’re hers, and in Green Dolphin that could mean… just about anything, but for the time being, it just means you’re under her protection.
❤︎ She teaches you to hold your own, the best ways to dash and dodge out of danger (latent cross country training), how to make food with any of the junk you can trade for, the best people to swap and sell with, and who even someone like you could shake down.
❤︎ Kiss is her invisible companion in her plot, occasionally placing stickers that snap your opponent’s limbs back into themselves, making your blows look even more intense than they are. She also duplicates your money with stickers, sometimes letting it shred itself on its own snapping back together and you run to her with a teary, frustrated look over how someone must have gotten into your cell. Why not keep your stuff in hers until you can get transferred into hers? Hermes won’t steal from you.
❤︎ When she sees you grin after landing a punch, she’s conflicted. She wanted you to be stronger, so you felt more confident, but… something twinges inside her at the idea of you losing some of that tenderness.
❤︎ You compliment her jewelry, her tattoos, and her cheeks go warm, her shakily reprimanding you for trying to flirt with her, what, she’s trying to get you out of here! Isn’t she?
❤︎ Shit. Shit, shit. She sees your smile, and realizes that maybe… you weren’t as weak as she thought. Was she the one getting saved, by saving you?
❤︎ Gloria’s memory floats through her head every time she slings her arm around your shoulders. She’s acting just like her, isn’t she? Acting she knows better, that she’s protecting everyone and they just don’t understand it.
❤︎ But she is. Gloria protected her, and she can protect you. And if you get out before her, she can’t do that. Panic begins to settle in. No, she can’t let you do that.
❤︎ And Hermes knows people. Even if she’s been in Green Dolphin the same amount as you, she has that networking advantage that made her able to manipulate you in the first place.
❤︎ All it takes is one wrong place, one wrong time. Story of her fucking life. She’s got something to do, and until she’s done it, she needs you.
❤︎ It doesn’t matter if you’ve already started dating, or if you’re still just friends. She’s keeping you. You feel too good in her arms, against her hungry mouth, your heart is too fragile for this world. She’s tough. She’ll always be tough, for you. Just let her love you.
You sob. This corner of the library, this time of day, thankfully no one is around— if anyone was, they’d have to answer to the broad armed girl holding you anyway. Your right shoulder throbs, the canvas strap of your sling scratching against the back of your neck, it reeks, god when was it washed? Your tears soak into Hermes’ shirt. She stays silent.
“I-I dunno what happened… I’ve gotten into so many fights just like that, there’s girls who have done MORE and, and… and I get three more years?” Your voice cracks.
Hysteria bubbles in your chest, pushing against your bruised ribs. You can barely breathe when you remember how the warden sat you down and unleashed insult after insult, delivering the final blow of the years added to your sentence for assault. Those girls… you hadn’t even met them before! Why did they… why?
Sunlight streams through the bars behind you, mocking as it burns into your back. Moldy paper and acrid ink mingle with the sweat and salt in your nose; bile in your throat, you might throw up. But Hermes sighs, pats your cheek a little strongly.
“C’mon. I know, it sucks. It sucks. But I’m here with you, y’know?”
“I know, but—“
“Hey.”
She tilts your head up. Puffy cheeked, red eyed, you must look an absolute state compared to her. She always looked so strong, so put together, regal even; the damn queen of Green Dolphin, even if she had only been here a year with you. Green eyes calm as the low tide, her twists immaculately kept, gold jewelry glimmering. The warm undertones of her hair and skin glowing in the afternoon light.
“Didn’t I tell you? Second you admit defeat, the sharks start swimming. Get it together. We can cry in my cell, but I don’t want people seeing you like this on the way.”
Sniffling, you nod. She was right… she always had the best advice. As you stood by her, you felt stronger, more adaptable. You could survive here. Or anywhere. So long as she was there.
While distracted, you don’t see it. The flicker of dark current in her irises. The shameful curl of her lips.
Named for the god of medicine, she healed you; though truly Hermes was more akin to Scylla, with you helplessly caught in the whirlpool she stirred around you.
I’ll end up selecting who ends up as the subject of whatever I write :) largely because the last two times I polled fic topics, P5 swept. as much as i love P5, love writing for it, i feel it’s also the part w the lion’s share of content in general.
👽 anon returning because I got hit by an idea before bed! Jojos and Jofoes love triangle! Aside from their part's plots they'd also be fighting to win reader's heart! (No I am not greedy, I just like attention lol)
This is less a rivalry and more a moral battle for your affection.
Jonathan approaches you with warmth and sincerity. He brings flowers, offers his arm when walking, and treats you like someone precious. Dio?
Dio is the complete opposite.
He leans against doorways watching Jonathan court you like it's a show meant to amuse him. “Tell me,” Dio says one evening, voice smooth as velvet. “Do you truly prefer a man who worships you… or one who could give you the world?”
Jonathan’s jaw tightens immediately. “You should leave them alone, Dio.” Dio smirks, his eyes never leaving Jonathan “Oh? Are you afraid they might choose me?”
Jonathan isn’t afraid. But the way your eyes flick between them makes him nervous. Because Dio doesn’t just flirt.
He hunts.
Jonathan wants your love.
Dio wants your devotion.
Kars vs Joseph:
Joseph’s method of romance is simple:
Chaos.
He flirts constantly, tells dumb jokes, and tries to impress you with ridiculous Hamon tricks.
“Watch this!” he says proudly, lighting a spoon on fire.
You clap politely.
Kars watches from across the room like a disapproving god.
“You court them like a clown,” Kars finally says.
Joseph gasps.
“A clown?? This is charm!”
Kars approaches you instead, calm and elegant.
He kneels slightly, taking your hand with unsettling grace.
“If you wish to see the world, I could show you civilizations older than humanity.”
Joseph sputters.
“HEY THAT'S CHEATING— YOU'RE LIKE 10,000 YEARS OLD!”
Kars doesn’t even acknowledge him.
Because unlike Joseph’s loud affection, Kars’ attention feels dangerously intense.
Joseph makes you laugh.
Kars makes your heart race.
Josuke vs Kira:
Josuke’s crush is obvious.
He gets flustered, buys you snacks, and punches anyone who makes you uncomfortable.
“Anyone bothering you?” he asks immediately.
Kira watches this like a man studying insects.
His attraction to you is quieter.
Controlled.
He admires your hands when you gesture while talking.
The shape of your fingers.
The way you hold things.
One day he calmly tells you:
“You have beautiful hands.”
Josuke nearly explodes.
“WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT THEIR HANDS LIKE THAT?!”
Kira simply adjusts his tie.
“I appreciate aesthetics.”
Josuke drags you away immediately.
“Don't listen to that guy!”
But unfortunately for him…
Kira’s calm composure has its own strange charm.
Giorno vs Diavolo
This rivalry is dangerous.
Giorno treats you with quiet devotion.
His attention is gentle, protective, sincere.
“You deserve peace,” he tells you.
Then there’s Diavolo.
You rarely see him.
But when you do…
His gaze is intense enough to make the air feel heavy.
“You interest me,” he says one night.
Giorno steps between you immediately.
“You should leave.”
Diavolo smiles faintly.
“I merely wished to see what captivated my successor.”
Giorno’s voice becomes ice.
“You will not involve them in this.”
Diavolo only chuckles.
Because if there’s one thing he enjoys…
It’s watching Giorno lose composure.
Jolyne vs Pucci
Jolyne flirts like a gremlin.
She steals your hoodie.
Sits too close.
Smirks whenever you blush.
“Relax,” she says. “I'm just being friendly.”
Pucci watches from the background with unnerving calm.
Unlike the others, Pucci sees your relationship as destiny.
“You and I were meant to meet,” he tells you quietly.
Jolyne nearly throws something at him.
“STOP SAYING WEIRD CULT STUFF TO THEM.”
Pucci only smiles slightly.
Because he genuinely believes it.
Jolyne wants to date you.
Pucci believes the universe itself arranged your meeting.
Johnny vs Valentine
Johnny is awkward with feelings.
He stares.
Gets jealous easily.
And absolutely refuses to admit he likes you.
Valentine?
Valentine is extremely confident.
“My dear,” he says smoothly, kissing your hand.
“You deserve someone capable of protecting your future.”
Johnny rolls his eyes.
“Yeah because dating the president isn't suspicious at all.”
Valentine smiles politely.
Johnny mutters to Gyro later:
“I swear he's flirting like he's campaigning.”
Gappy vs Tooru
Gappy approaches romance with pure confusion.
He studies relationships like a science experiment.
“Is this… flirting?” he asks while holding your hand.
You shrug.
“Maybe.”
Tooru appears whenever things seem peaceful.
He leans against walls like he’s always been there.
an enemy stand user whose ability is turn the victim into a cat hybrid…
featuring: johnny joestar, gyro zeppeli, diego brando, hot pants.
tags: fem! reader, nsfw content, INAPPROPRIATE USE OF SCARY MONSTER, sub! johnny, handjob, nipple play, praise kink, fingering, headlock, mild brat-taming, teasing, thigh-humping, MILD GORE/VIOLENCE, implied relationships, dom/sub dynamics, PET PLAY, cigarette burns, set during sbr, possessive! hot pants, dare i say yandere… | divider creds @angeliicide | 🏷️: @manaribbons @sshikoyo @lovelacesonnette @batwngs
JOHNNY is trying so hard not to lose it in the aftermath of the fight. Your stupid comment about how sections of the hair that poked out of his beanie looked an awful lot like cat ears soon became reality when there's one pair literally jutting out of his head, and worse, a fluffy tail that swings at the first whiff of your scent.
Turning away from your teasing smile, he frowns in embarrassment.
"C'mon, they're cute~"
"They're not."
"The color matches your hair!"
He fucking hates them.
Or maybe not so much. With his head buried in your tits and your hand fisted around his cock as of now, Johnny might as well be in Heaven. His mouth greedily nurses your nipple, licking, sucking, and swirling his sandpaper-like tongue around the swollen buds until he feels your breath hitch. You run your fingers through his hair and scratch behind his fluttering ears; the other busies itself with pumping his dick, cooing about how much of a good boy Johnny is. Hips buckling into your palm, his tail curls around your arm as he whimpers.
Can these stay for another two hours?
—
The sight of your ears twitching when so much as a bug flies by amuses GYRO to no end. Initially just as concerned as you are, he mellows out the second you tell him there's no pain except a very mild, lingering sensitivity, courtesy of your new… features. Now the Italian blonde has made it his entire life mission to sing about how cute you are in your matching cat ears and tail, his big hands messing up your hair with every aggressive pat.
"You want some catnip, gattina?~”
“S—Shut up!”
Well, he won’t, and if Gyro is gonna be the loud one here, he’ll make sure that you can’t keep your mouth shut either. Said as easily as done, you’re now a whining mess with his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy and his thumb circling your clit; his other arm wraps around your neck in a firm yet gentle headlock. Gasping into the muscles of his bicep when he nibbles on one of your ears, voice low and content between the lewd squelching noises your cunt makes as it gobbles up his fingers.
He should keep you like this a little longer….
—
Congrats, there’s no way in hell DIEGO will take you seriously with those feline features and the way your face scrunches up in annoyance every time this asshole eyes you down. Every complaint you have to say goes in one ear and slips right past the other; he’s too fascinated with the way yours react anyway, reaching out to try and grab them. Smirking when you all but hiss at him.
“You look so fucking dumb.”
“Speak for yourself, you stupid lizard!”
Over a million possible combinations of the English lexicon, and it’s that one phrase that got him to snap.
You’re pushed onto your back within seconds, clothes torn off and wrists pinned above your head in one clawed hand—since when did he transform?—while Diego’s other one holds your jaws, demanding your undivided attention. His tail slithers up between your legs, rubbing against your soaked pussy and flicking your clit a few times before he thrusts it in, smiling smugly at the loud moan that leaves your lips. The appendage wiggles inside your gummy walls like it has a mind of its own, hitting all the right spots.
Dinosaurs are the pinnacle of power; he'll drill that fact into your head tonight.
—
“C’mere, kitty.” HOT PANTS beckons. “Sit on my lap.”
On all fours, you crawl past the dying body of your enemy and sheepishly make your way towards her. Eyes fluttering shut as you climb onto her legs and nuzzle into the crook of her neck, a purr leaves your lips when her fingers massage your scalp, gently tugging on your ears. Your tail curls around her waist, trusting and obedient.
“Good girl.”
She huffs out a laugh, taking a long drag from her cigarette. You lean against her chest, peering up at your girlfriend curiously.
"Can I try it too?"
Hot Pants tilts your chin up. Your lips part, and she blows the smoke directly into your mouth, followed by a hungry, claiming kiss. It's mildly sweet; you taste licorice and plum on the roof of her mouth and the back of her tongue when it rolls slowly against yours. There's a desperate noise, but it comes from neither of you.
It comes from behind you, actually. The enemy Stand user, the man whose throat burst open from Cream Starter's attack, is now gurgling on the ground like he's choking on every breath that he takes. Under the shimmering moonlight, you see the faint outline of his exposed windpipe where the tube rapidly flutters and contracts, trying to pull the air into his lungs... well, lung. He only has one lung left.
“Should we finish him off?” You ask as Hot Pants strokes along your tail. “He’s just a regular rider.”
“Hmph,” is all she says with her nose buried in your hair. “Sounds like you’re pitying him.”
You giggle at the barely concealed jealousy in her tone, turning around to curl into her chest. Hot Pants relaxes into your touch.
“He got his dirty hands on you. I won’t forgive that.”
She takes another drag. Burning red hot cherry, nearing its end.
“Still, I want to keep this look on you a bit longer. You’re adorable.”
Her fingers return to your ears, scratching them. You purr happily and lean further into her warm body. Seeing as the ember dims, though, you’re quick to give her blouse a tug, eyes big and pleading.
She smirks, savoring the final drag. “You sure?”
Your ears twitch as you nod, pulling the hair away from your neck.
The first burn on your skin is electrifying. Your body stiffens; you let out a whine, cheeks rosy. Hot Pants holds it there for a long second before moving on to make a second imprint, then a third, a fourth, a fifth, going until the cigarette dies out completely. She throws the stub aside, pulling you down by the collar and smoothing her tongue over the burn marks. The relief is instantaneous… and so is the sensation of your cunt growing wet.
Desperately, you start humping her thigh. Hot Pants chuckles into the blemishes on your neck, flexing her leg to grind it up against your clothed clit. Her hands are all over you—grabbing your tits, kneading your ass as she lets you chase your pleasure. Smiling as she pulls you flushed against her, fingers combing through your sweat-matted hair.
“Want more, kitty?”
“Meow~”
a/n: to be hot pants’ cute mewling kitten… tysm for reading...
ANOTHER AVDOL FAN WOWOW 🥹 He's so underrated. Personally I think he could have been written better tbh but I still love him
-🌻
YES I LOVE HIM SM
On my first watch of SDC I was actually pissed off when Hol Horse shot him bc I REALLY didnt like Polnareff haha ;-; (I came around to him) and I thought he was dead
And totally, I regret that he’s portrayed somewhat in the “noble savage” archetype that makes him the ~ooo mysterious fortuneteller~ giving everyone their tarot stand names and being constantly associated with “unknowable wisdom”, pointedly being extra polite to Joseph (a white man)… also the lips sometimes. It’s a bit much. I do see Araki’s intention and feel Avdol is more complex than the stereotype at least. If they let me start using my literature degree to analyze JoJos I would write a textbook lmao
He’s intelligent, and empathetic, but he also has his flaws; I love the argument between him and Polnareff where the latter points out how Avdol ran because it exposes such a difference in philosophies. Ultimately, Avdol did the right thing because he avoided getting a lil brain squid, but Polnareff [in that moment] REALLY thought he was better because he faced the danger head on, exposing his immaturity…. Ooogh…. I love him sm…
. ♬ ݁˖ Nothing More Than You Can Feel Now (Leone Abbachio x Fem Reader NSFW) . ♬ ݁˖
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) This got reaaaaal long but honestly I’m pretty proud of both of these pieces. I like how they flow :) and also mmmmmmmmmmmAbbachio
This is a part two to this request requested by poll.
Notes: Abbachio is emotionally constipated what’s new, light violence, harrassment, degradation, cunnilingus, overstimulation, penetrative sex
“Well.”
It’s not your fault. And you know it’s not your fault. But as you watch the grainy footage, you can’t help the twinge of guilt as Piovene murmurs with someone on the edge of the dance floor, neither you, nor Abbachio, visible on the screen. Out the corner of your eye, you catch his lip twitching. Shit.
“I know that guy.”
Both of you whip around. The curvy, white painted and velvet-draped woman straightens clumsily in her chair and jolts her fascinator down her bangs in the process. An eyelid twitches as she says, “Loubert. He’s a French student living around here. Comes every Tuesday.”
“Does he pay by credit card?” You ask. She nods.
As if pricked by a pin, you exhale, feeling yourself deflate. Thank god. The universe really was on your side tonight. You set a hand on your hip.
“I’d like to see his record,” you request, polite, but assertive. She bobs her head quickly in a nod, and swivels to the door. “Daniel?”
A short, broad shouldered man with curly black hair down to his chest opened the door, leaning in. The woman exhales.
“Can you pull up Loubert in the credit card bills?”
Daniel nods, and, wordlessly, bows his head twice for both you and Abbachio before turning and disappearing again. The other employee does the same, slipping out of the door, leaving you and your partner alone.
He better not say it. Better not.
You exhale, rolling your shoulders. “Should be easy to—“
“You’re lucky we have a few days for this mission.”
You glare at him. Asshole doesn’t even look at you, his fists clenched at his sides as he looks at the footage irritably. His eyes are dark.
Your ears heat up and you pinch your leg.
“Yeah. We are lucky. Anyways…” you stare at him pointedly, and he continues to avoid your gaze. God, Bucciarati knew how to pick em. “Once we get the full name, wanna use that oh so lovely Stand of yours? It’s only been fifteen minutes since they left.”
Sisters of Mercy shivers in your soul. Both of you are thrumming with energy, at this point. As much as you’d like to just shake him by his lapels and drag him by his hair— god who knows, he acted a masochist, maybe he’d like it— civility was preferable. The slight flirtiness you’d drawn out of him earlier is gone, and with it, so is your own high. Sobering up, in a few different ways, you need to either get moving or get to sleeping.
It doesn’t help, either, that the tops of your thighs rub together where Abbachio ripped open your tights.
Chrissakes, you needed to focus. That’s what got you into this damn mess in the first place. Now you—
“Student housing for foreign nationals is less than a kilometer from here.” The pale haired man taps his foot and strides to the door without giving you so much as a second look, before you grab his wrist.
If you didn’t have the fact that he just went to his knees because he couldn’t resist you tucked into your back pocket, maybe you’d shrink at his look. Maybe. It stings, burns even. But you hold fast. Don’t think about what happened after he looked at you like that before. Even if your ears are heating up.
“By all means, just pause Moody Blues halfway down the block if you’re in such a rush,” you say patiently, and let go of his arm. Thankfully he doesn’t bolt.
“I still want the credit card record of this guy, if we can catch him buying drinks for anyone else besides Piovene, we could unravel anyone else involved.”
“Fine.” Did he have to grit his teeth, any time you were right? But he sighs, shaking his head as he continues. “Likely he’s just bringing them in without knowing. Student, young, cocky. Foreign.”
“I agree. So we just need to scare him and remind Piovene who pays for his peace, yeah?” You reiterate. His lips part— stop staring there, you command yourself— and he stops himself from whatever he was about to say and instead just nods curtly.
“I’ll meet you down the block.”
Suddenly, an idea flickers in your head. Your hand brushes his palm, and before he can go, you grab him and press your lips to his.
Stiff, stiffer than before, clearly he was hoping to just leave. But as you continue to kiss him, just as you’re about to pull back, he locks his hand around the back of your neck.
Your heart trills. His fingertips press insistently right behind your pulse point, the vein warming and your face completely flushing with blood as he nips at your lower lip.
Just when you reach your hands up to rest on his back, he releases you.
Blinking, cheeks warm, you look at him confusedly. That was it? Though—
Shivers run through you. His gaze is hazy, heavy, even. His face shifts for a half second before assuming his dour expression once more and sliding through the door.
“Meet up with me in a few minutes,” he calls, before his steps disappear into the distance, mingling with the muffled bass, the cries of the last call, and stomps of dozens of booted feet, dancing, completely unaware of anything else that’s happened.
Exhaling loudly, you curse him (and yourself), leaning against the spackled wall.
You were an idiot. But so was he.
-
There wasn’t any reason for either of you to rush. Really, you think, clutching the flimsy paper record and shoving it into your purse.
It was funny— you hadn’t touched it all night, hadn’t had to. Yet you looked in that damn mirror for so long with… him. You bite the inside of your cheek. Damn.
Outside once more, the cool air wraps around you in a soothing, sobering blanket. You suck in a deep breath, and peer down either side of the street. Crud, he hadn’t even been able to tell you which direction he was headed, had he?
The mission was important, and you needed to get it done, sure, but now you were about to run at least a kilometer in your heels and Bucciarati was probably fucking asleep. Both of you had been allotted three days to finish this mission, after all.
“We’ve confirmation that he has sold narcotics to at least two individuals, but not that he has a supply. Recently he went to the hospital for a minor injury, but he hasn’t a history which would require extended usage.” Bruno closed his laptop and looked up at each of you calmly. “I doubt it’s a much larger deal than five individuals.”
Most likely. The jobs sensitive to the boss’s interest were far and few between now, and those that invited his ire were given longer execution periods. From all you’d gathered, in the short transition between joining the gang and the movement to Giorno’s leadership, much of the drug trade in Passione’s domain was trampled; even Leone, who glanced to the side and didn’t argue when Mista offhandedly complimented the teen.
It was better than one would think. Life in the gang was only as stressful as anyone made it out to be. And right now, you think, gripping the satin of your skirt you so adored earlier that only bulged like a trash bag now, it was damn stressful. No thanks to your partner.
Abbachio…
Your eyes soften. Every word, you’d meant. The man was undeniably attractive, and apart from his self-flagellating nature, he was someone you wanted to spend more time with. And—
“I’d have dragged you off an hour ago.”
Fuck. You slap your cheeks. Focus, focus so you can sleep.
Back where you came you were certain there were no student dorms. You stride carefully in the opposite direction, head swivelling like a camera. Leone could have waited to tell you the direction at least. But you bite your tongue and squint. Lamplight tosses a golden blanket on your shoulders. You peer forward.
“Pretty girl… you looking for a good time?”
“Already had one,” you say flatly, and continue to walk forward, kicking out your heel to make the stride longer. Behind you, the sound of boots multiplies. One. Two. There were three men.
Great. After how much you managed to avoid, you would, of course, still encounter some asshats like this. How far had Moody Blues gotten?
“But what if the good times didn’t stop? They don’t have to, for something as pretty as you.” Boots stomp dully on cobble. Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you push past a corner store with neon lighting and a gaggle of cackling youths. The stars aren’t even visible with this much light. To your left are a cluster of boxy, dormlike apartments-- bingo. Now, where was Leone?
“I don’t need any more. Get lost.”
Then, annoyingly, your wrist swinging back and forth mindlessly, is caught in something. You attempt to step forward. Your stride is cut short.
Gods. You grit your teeth. Sisters slides down your leg, black eyes flashing, tiny claws starting to stretch.
“Listen—“
The guy suddenly curses and stumbles back, releasing your wrist. Unprepared to be free, you lurch forward in a half step, and pivot— blinking in surprise.
“Leone? How’d you loop back that quickly?”
The pale haired man doesn’t answer you. His fist lands, for the second time, into the chest of the guy who had his hand on you. Greasy fucker falls flat; there’s barely a thump against the cobble. One of the others you’d heard takes a step towards Leone. Without another thought Sisters slides across the ground and sinks its teeth into his leg. He yelps, and you lunge into a punch where you feel each crack of the bones under your knuckles and a warm gush of blood. His head shoots back.
“Hands off.” Leone spits on the man on the ground, landing a sharp kick into his ribs. The guy wheezes, curls up. Your target clutches his broken nose, making gurgling, gasping noises, the gleam of black-red on his hand clear enough that the last man, a tall, pimply brown haired boy, really, skitters back on the pavement with a wide eyed expression. You frown. Why did he look--
“Loubert.”
Ah. How convenient. Leone’s cold gaze pivots to him. Your eyes drift down to his hands-- one of them is dripping, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s his or the other’s blood. The thin man freezes at the sight of your partner. It’s hard to blame him. The man looks like he’s ready to kill.
“Heard you make a little money on the side. Mind sharing some of that with us?” Abbachio rasps. His voice trembles with barely contained anger.
Loubert trembles, pulling a small bag of white pills from the inside of his jacket pocket. Your stomach curls at the sight, but you snatch them from him, letting your nails scratch the back of his hand.
He winces. You roll your eyes…. Jeez. Babies, all of these guys were. Both laugh worthy and pathetic.
“I know that’s not all your store,” you say. Your look is ice. He continues to shake, Abbachio flanking him, hand still dripping. Where was Moody Blues? Had he even brought it out? “How about a house call?”
“No need.”
Your head snaps to your partner. He still doesn’t look at you when he says, “Already searched it. Barely any space, found it quickly. Your piss stain of a pal Piovene, at least he knows how to be hospitable.”
Damn, he was quick…. That club’s computer system was slow as hell. You nod appreciatively, and turn your gaze back to Loubert.
You’re sure his knees would be knocking together if he wasn’t wearing pants. You snort, and tug him to look you in the eyes by his lapels. Blue eyes nearly cross on your nose, he’s so focused, and you have to hide your laugh.
“Dunno what flies in France, but we don’t play with that shit here, yeah?” You cluck your tongue. “Next time it won’t be so easy. Go clean up your place.”
You shove him back, and he almost trips back over the body of his friend, still coughing on the ground and struggling to sit up.
Leone’s eyes flash, but as he starts to raise his foot, you grab his arm.
He spins to you. Pissed off was his default expression, sure, but… he looked angry. The furrow of his brow is so deep, you’re amazed he didn’t give himself a damn headache. You sigh.
“Hey. Let’s go.”
His face shifts, but you squeeze his arm once, letting your shoulders slump.
“Maybe you’re better at staying up this late than me, but both of us are still going to crash. You want to hit up that shop and go to our hotel or what?” you ask, tapping your heel on the ground insistently. It throbs. Oh god, that too… you silently pray for no blisters.
He shakes his head, mutters to himself. You sigh loudly.
“Run that by me again, Abbachio.”
“We’ll have to call Bucciarati in the morning,” he repeats, and straightens, cracking his neck. “Let’s go.”
Saying it like it was his idea. You roll your eyes and follow him, striding off into the night-- the men behind each of you still cowering, confused over what the hell just happened.
-
Steam rolls off your aching muscles and you sigh, face fresh and makeup-less, ready to slump over. Loose shorts and a big tee shirt on, you slip from the bathroom.
Shale blue wallpaper trimmed in gold and ivory, the modern boutique hotel wasn’t massive but set up the remainder of your night wonderfully with a small fridge filled with sparkling waters and a cozy mattress— plus these didn’t hurt, you think with a childish glee, tugging out the snacks you’d picked up from the crinkling plastic bag on the bed.
You flop back on the bed.
Christ, what a night.
It was like you’d lost fifteen pounds taking off your outfit, the corset, the skirt. Peeling your tights off before the shower, you peered at the ripped spot.
Frayed ends to the net didn’t look like they’d continue… but you should probably ditch this pair.
Then again. After taking down your tights, you looked at your thighs.
Purple lipstick was smeared along the inside of them— even a tiny bit on your underwear. Your face went red.
They could have their uses.
Would he take you up on your offer? Thinking about it now, popping open one of your bags, nobody else really talked about hanging out with Abbachio even just as friends. Not for lack of trying. Mista and Narancia especially bugged him to go to football games, or to try out a new cafe. When only a small group of you went out, he really only went if Bucciarati was there— or…
Wait, no. You frown, and sit up. There had been a few times Bucciarati wasn’t. But you were.
Were you the idiot here? Before you can even process the fluttering in your chest, there’s a knock on the door, that you hate how you jump to answer.
Through the peephole, pinching your thigh to distract yourself, the very subject of your head the whole damn night stands, clutching his own bag of snacks, already dressed in his own night wear and looking at your door irritably. You exhale.
Okay. It was probably nothing. No, there was no way he’d let anyone see him in his pajamas. Shut up, stupid heart pounding in your chest.
The door creaks open.
What he wears to sleep really isn’t that much different than what he wears regularly, you think, letting your gaze trail over him. A midnight hued wrap-top and matching pants, something that he likely could wear into action in a pinch. Bergamot and the bitter, earthy scent of his cologne rise from his still slightly damp hair. Your eyes catch on a single bead of water on a pale strand before he interrupts you drily.
“I’ll push you over if you don’t invite me in.”
“So forceful,” you murmur, and step to the side. He walks past you, letting his eyes linger on your legs for a second before you close the door. “Can’t sleep alone?”
He gives you such a dead eyed look you can’t help but snort. Shaking his head, Abbachio sits on your bed.
“Your room all good?” You ask, and sit next to him. He stiffens for a second, and you shoot him a look, as if to say: dude, it’s my bed. He grumbles to himself before he replies.
“It’s the exact same as yours.”
“May as well have gotten ready here,” you remark, popping a gummy in your mouth and chewing as you lay back on the soft comforter. “Would have saved us some steps.”
“Not really.”
You raise an eyebrow. “This is a full half kilometer closer than the other spot,” you point out.
He shakes his head again. “Your own fault for wanting to wear heels.”
“Ugh, and did it not pay off?” you counter. Dropping another gummy in your mouth, you stretch your arms up and your left leg out, pointing your toe. Cripes. You force yourself not to wince and give him any more satisfaction.
His eyes follow the bare skin of your thigh. They flicker up to you, and your ears heat up.
“Did it?” Abbachio asks quietly.
“I’unno. You seemed to like them,” you mumble. He lets out a harsh laugh.
“Was that your goal?”
“No. I was the one just trying to get into character, since you were type cast.”
“So you wouldn’t wear that outfit again.”
Did he sound… disappointed? Ignoring how your stomach flips, you shrug. “Not without reason. I’m still grateful that freak didn’t rip the lace when he grabbed my wrist.” Perking, remembering something, you sit up. “Are your hands okay?”
“Hm?” He frowns, but you take one of them before he can protest.
“Hey--” Abbachio snaps. You hold up a hand to shush him and examine the skin: bruised, or at least they would be, the knuckles deep red. Skin lifts up in some spots, where he must have brushed a zipper or a button. Surely he was sore. It looked like he’d swung more with his own hands than he had with his Stand. You frown.
“Why didn’t you use Moody B--”
But he turns the tables before you even realize.
A hand locks around your right wrist. Your eyes widen as Leone looms over you.
Similar to earlier, he looks larger than he is, eclipsing the overhead lamp, his hair illuminated in a halo; ittrails down his shoulders. His eyes glare down at you briefly, before guilt flashes in them. He releases you and almost scuttles back.
Your excitement dies down. Disappointment settles in your gut.
“Why didn’t you use Sisters?” he asks. Forcing his voice to be accusatory. But it’s barely controlled. Something lingers in it-- that insecurity… and in spite of it, the heaviness. Just like outside the club.
You swallow. The tension in the air is practically a fog, so blinded by each of your own anxiety, that you feel as though you barely see him as you scoot towards him on the bed.
His fist clenches.
“I was pissed off,” you reply, soft. “I didn’t like him underestimating me.”
Abbachio pauses. “I didn’t either.”
“So you don’t think I’m the worst?” teasing, you lean closer to him. Carefully, you lay a hand just next to his thigh, letting your pinkie brush against it. He inhales.
“Even if I distract you?”
“Don’t get full of yourself,” the man replies, quick. You let your arm brush his.
“Is there something else I could be full of?”
He sighs, loudly. For a moment, he doesn’t reply. His hair falls in front of his face, and you can’t see it-- but before you start to pull back, he starts laughing.
You stop dead. He laughs, that same cruel laugh he uttered before touching you earlier, and as his head turns to you, you shudder.
The same look. That same dark amusement, the haze… the desire. Your body heats up under your clothes.
“Christ. You are fucking shameless.”
“I’ll take some of yours, if it means you’ll kiss me again.”
His eyes flash. And finally, your wish is granted, as he cups the back of your head and pushes his lips against yours.
Immediately you wrap your arms around his neck, leaning into him and letting his other arm encircle your waist tightly. He sighs into your mouth; and you allow his tongue to breach it and tangle with yours. Your head swoons. He tastes of alcohol still-- maybe he’d bought something at the store, but you don’t want to think about that anymore as he maneuvers you back into the bed once more, leaning over you, until you feel his legs come up to straddle your hips.
“Too much…” he murmurs, bringing his lips to your neck, the hand on your waist slipping under your shirt and making you shiver as the fingertips brush over your skin delicately. “You give me far, far too much credit…”
“You deserve it,” you whisper, your breath hitching as he bites into the flesh of your shoulder. He sucks against the skin harshly. You squirm against him, even as he laughs and squeezes your hip, pulling your shirt up annoyedly before you assist him in awkwardly pulling off the piece of clothing. As soon as it’s gone, his lips return to your collarbone, nipping, letting his lips just barely brush the top of your breast.
“What I deserve, huh? And you’re willing to lower yourself to that level.”
“I don’t feel like I’m lowering myself at a-all,” you say, but you stammer at the end as he rolls your nipple around in his mouth, before releasing it with a scrape of his teeth, his hand pinching the one on the opposite side of your chest. You half choke as he pins your hip down with the other hand, sliding his fingers under the waistband of your shorts and underwear. His touch is hungry, but more measured, almost meanly precise compared to the desperation he had earlier. Your eyes roll back. “I like y-you,” you try to continue, but cut off.
“You like when I debase you?”
“N-not just--”
He bites into your collarbone again before he shoves his hand down your shorts, drawing a moan from you. His fingertips find the soft, sensitive bud of your clit, still a tiny bit tingly from earlier, the touch making you jump. His pointer slides down between your folds, slowly slickening with arousal, and you writhe.
“Not just this? But you do like it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you reply breathlessly. He pulls down your bottoms, and you raise your hips to aid him, shuddering when your pussy is exposed to the open air.
Leone exhales. His hand slides down your stomach, applying just enough pressure that you don’t dare to try to sit up. Methodically, he tugs you by your hips towards the edge of the bed, kneeling between your thighs with a kind of reverence. Finally, wrapping them around his head.
A choked moan leaves you as he suckles at your clit, letting go with a soft pop before pushing a single finger into your entrance. It curls up against your g-spot and makes your hips jolt.
He groans against your cunt, lapping harshly and noisily against your folds and bullying your overwrought clit, flicking with just the tip of his tongue before sealing his lips around it. Eyelids fluttering, you can’t help but squirm in his touch, attempting to pull your hips back just slightly for a bit of relief but he refuses, his grip on your thighs just as strong as it was before. He devours you as though you were his last meal, his fingertips bruising into your soft skin.
“L-Leone…”
“Tell me it feels good,” he rasps. There’s a tremor to his voice-- a need, a desire that you didn’t hear before, desperation even; it sends thrills down your spine.
“Tell me it doesn’t, and I’ll stop.”
You swallow, gasping, “Leone, s’good, s’so good, please--”
He moans again, pressing his face back between your thighs and nibbling at the inner pink flesh before pushing a second finger in, thrusting gently, your abdomen tightening and curling as he continues. Pleasure builds in your core. Your thighs shake.
“Leone, I’m c--”
And you cut yourself off with a soft whine, gripping into the comforter so tight you worry it’ll rip as your orgasm washes over you, warmth flooding every crevice of your body and shivering with the feeling as your clit pulses on his tongue. A thin sheen of sweat settles over your body. He exhales.
But just as before, he doesn’t stop.
Another quiet, strangled sound comes from you as a third finger begins to stretch you. And you swear you feel each and every wrinkle of the skin and curve of his fingerprint insistently rubbing against your inner walls, clenching around him and slapping your hands on the bed.
“Leone…” you protest in a broken voice. One hand weakly attempts to push his head down, only for him to latch harshly around your clit; the move makes you fall back with a cry.
“Mm not done… mm not…” you barely hear him, how quiet and gravelly his voice is, the fogginess of your head from pleasure, the wet, obscene sounds between your legs that he pauses speaking to continue, letting his teeth lightly graze your puffy clit. “Not done…”
“P-please…” you choke, and he licks even more fervently at you, quickly pulling your gut in tight in pleasure. Your second orgasm rolls your eyes back, body convulsing as Abbachio thrusts his fingers in one more time; your cunt tightens around them. He kisses your clit once more, sucking against it just a tiny bit, before he pulls back.
Without the support of his hold, your legs drop to the bed. Chest heaving, the sting of his marks that would definitely bruise tingling, your overstimulated form sprawls on the bed. He stands.
Blearily, you make out his expression, and surprise almost breaks your orgasmic bliss.
He looks as fucked out as you feel, damn near drunk-- cheeks red, eyelids heavy, that same desire in them as he trails a hand to the tie of his top. Below it, you catch sight of his erection straining against the dark fabric of his pants-- making you whimper, and bend one knee to spread your legs.
The motion makes him hiss. The shirt falls to the floor, exposing his nearly translucent torso, marred with white scars that you let a finger brush against as he climbs on top of you. He flinches.
“So… pretty,” you murmur. “You’re too handsome…”
“Don’t,” he says in a rough voice. One hand tugs down the waistband of his pants, letting his cock spring free. Your cheeks warm at the sight of it, curved just slightly, purplish towards his tip, long enough to make your heart trill in anticipation. Pretty as him.
“Don’t say that, when I’m doing this to you--”
“Like you… Leone.”
His eyes catch yours. They widen-- lashes nearly brushing his eyebrows. You swallow against your dry throat, and repeat yourself.
“I like you,” you whisper.
He looks at you for just a moment. Then, without warning, he lifts your hips and thrusts almost all of him inside you in one go.
Your eyes roll back. Fuck, he was big. Stirring your guts, even without his full length, pushing up against your abused insides and making him curse under his breath.
“So tight… such a pathetic cunt…”
He lets you get used to it for a second before gripping your hips firmly and beginning to pump into you, strong, harsh thrusts that take your breath away and have you scrabbling on the comforter again. The head scrapes and bumps against the delicate parts inside you; aggressive, each and every motion of his hips taking just a little bit more of your sanity every time. His hold is still possessive, tight, not letting you budge an inch from his assault on your pussy.
You groan. He sighs.
“I thought the taste was enough, the feel… can’t believe,” he pants, scooping a hand under your ass to get a different angle that makes your throat close around a scream. “Can’t believe you’d let me defile you, this fucking perfect pussy, you couldn’t have anyone else after I ruin you.”
His words make you whimper. So mean. So deliciously sharp, your body going limp as you tighten around him, drawing his palm directly above your womb and pressing down just slightly.
It throws your head back, and your gut contracts. His cock bullies you open, obscene slaps of skin against skin making you flush with blood.
“You hear that?” he murmurs. “How fucking wet you are for someone like me… want you to cum one more time.” Abbachio pleads it, quiet, only for you, hair concealing most of his face. “Please. Just cum for me.”
He brushes his thumb against your clit, rubbing small, insistent circles, his dick still scraping against the inside of your cunt with each press of his hips, and you open your mouth in a silent scream, biting into the comforter to muffle your scream as you cum around him for the fifth time of the night.
Ecstasy tears through you, a high spreading through your veins that makes you shiver and spasm around him. Your head completely empty, you slump.
Leone thrusts harsher; his pelvis meets yours with a wet smack, fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass and hip, before he lets out a low sound between a hiss and a groan.
He retracts from you, hand pumping his slick cock. Warm cum spurts from the tip onto your stomach, trailing down the skin towards your pulsing, overstimulated pussy.
You each take shuddering breaths, you’re sure his heart must be pounding as much as yours. He releases your backside, letting the hand slide to your hip, as he looks down at you.
Leone’s eyes are the softest you’d ever seen them. Yellow that scalded earlier was more akin to a candlelight glow, his cheeks pink with exertion, white hair tousled and waterfalling along his wiry form. He leans to the side, and picks up a small towel on the bedside table-- had you left that there, or had he brought that?-- and awkwardly wipes at your abdomen. You can’t help but giggle.
“T-thank you, Abbachio.”
“The bare minimum,” he murmurs, lifting your leg. He bends to meet it, kissing your thigh tenderly. “You really have no sense of survival.”
You swat at him lazily, and gently tug on his wrist to lay on the bed. It depresses next to you as he does, his face going a little redder and pointedly looking at one of the hickeys he gave you to avoid your eyes.
You smile. Chrissakes, he was so juvenile.
“I’m doing way better than surviving, I’ll have you know,” you say lightly, reaching up to cup his cheek. Though he nearly shrinks away, he stops himself. Slowly, his eyes meet yours.
“I’m really, really happy we got this mission, Leone. And I still want to listen to a record with you sometime.”
“Hmph.” He sighs. “Better you than Mista.”
You raise your eyebrow. “That’s all?”
The man pauses. “Yes.”
Asshole. You roll your eyes and stretch, only for Abbachio to wrap an arm around your chest.
“Mm?” you start. He looks in your eyes steadily.
“We should shower. And… I’ll think about the album.”
Your heart flutters. “Mmhmm,” you affirm, nodding tiredly-- if you were sleepy before, you were absolutely dead to the world now-- and try to push yourself up. Barely hiding a scoff, Leone takes your arm and pulls you, making you a little dizzy as he stands. You shake your head.
“Bucciarati could have saved some money and just booked us one room,” you mumble as he guides you towards the bathroom. “Would’ve been able to put that into getting a real fancy spot then.”
He says something under his breath-- not again. You sigh.
“Leone.”
“He almost did. I talked him out of it.”
Your jaw drops. He turns on the shower, avoiding your eyes again, and you swear he’s blushing.
“You idiot, dude.”
He snorts, saying, “Like forcing us into that situation would have resulted the same.”
“You don’t know! Look at what happened after two hours at the damn club?” you protest.
With no real anger, the two of you argue in the blue-tiled bathroom, your playful swats caught easily as he brings you into the shower. He soaps you down with a delicate touch as if you were carved of ice: as though the very warmth of his touch could melt you away, though the tremble of his hold betrayed how desperately he needed to feel you.
Do you have any headcannons for Jolyne x M!reader who is also an inmate? 👀
(starving for lyne content can't lie gang)
⋆˚꩜｡ Jolyne Kujo x Male Inmate Reader ⋆˚꩜｡
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) I hope you enjoy!! Tbh I feel like Jolyne probably treats you the same no matter your gender, but I tried to add some flavor haha
As a trans guy who loves Jolyne. Felt. She deserves way more content but she’s rarely requested
Let her be cute let her be mean let her kill Pucci with her bare hands
Notes: mentions of violence
⭑｡𖦹°‧ A chance meeting, really that’s the only way you could have gotten a glimpse at her: almost everyone her age cries and pleads their innocence, but her face is stony as she rebukes the suggestion that she did anything wrong. That’s what’s whispered, snickered among your bunkmates: a naive, cute little thing was just dropped into the shark tank. Somehow you doubt it.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ You catch sight from your side of the yard, crouched, talking with two other women— as you watch, another guy approaches the fence and pings her with a small pebble.
“Hey, pretty girl!”
⭑｡𖦹°‧ She ignores him. You hope he gets the hint because you don’t want to hear him bitching later. He doesn’t.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ After the third pebble, and catcall, Jolyne’s brow twitches and she whips around to verbally rip this guy a new one. But you’ve already socked the guy in the jaw as he falls to the ground.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ From where Jolyne sits, she watches you grapple with him, spitting blood in his face, until blue suited guards run up barking for you to let go.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ Jolyne thinks nothing of it. You decided to stand up for her, that’s your decision.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ But she decides to keep an eye on you— did you have a Stand? No, you didn’t. You were just unluckily locked up here after a robbery gone sour. Not totally unlike Hermes.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ Neither do you try to level your actions for a favor. You keep your distance after, refusing to acknowledge her even. If anything, though, the uppity attitude might annoy her further.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ She is wary. She’s already given out so much information to so many, and the nature of their mission doesn’t have a “power in numbers” flavor to it per se. Not that she isn’t grateful for who is helping her; but non Stand users can be more trouble than they’re worth.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ You might not be the most intimidating on the mens’ side. But you keep out of trouble enough, and you have enough money that she’s seen you casually eating a candy or playing with a knife that absolutely did not make it in here with you. You don’t tolerate the cruelty the way the others do, even if you take a beating for it.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ Jolyne in another life likes the flirts, the ones she can read easily (or thought she could… Romeo still haunts her). But the concerns of the prison, while they haven’t eradicated any romantic inclinations, they have matured her to a degree and definitely put love to the side in terms of priorities.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ Promises mean nothing. She wants results. She wants safety, security. Not someone to protect her, per se; but when her right hand is tied, yours reaches out.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ She’d given up on knights in shining armor. Maybe you could at least be her squire.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ The next time she sees you, loosely holding a book at the edge, she manages to catch your eye, and nod you over.
Your brow raises. Shit, really? Hopefully she wasn’t pissed off about the other day. One time you accidentally beat up a girl’s boyfriend and were laid up for four days in the infirmary.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you glance around the scrubby grass yard and meander towards the fence. Slow, careful. Not trying to let anyone else onto what you’re doing. Nobody pays you any mind.
She mirrors you, idly sitting about a foot and a half away from the fence, before you plop down as well.
Summer heat bakes you both, the sun glaring down like the punitive eye of the jusge. You squint.
“You box or something?”
Your gaze snaps to her when she asks. She’s not looking at you; calm gaze focused somewhere in the distance. You make a so-so noise.
“Not really.”
“No problems in a fight though. You tuck your elbows in tight. Lot of your weight in your pelvis.”
Maybe she boxed, she was just projecting. Shame you couldn’t have intramural sparring. You scratch your chin.
“Maybe. Do I look like I got off scot free though?” You ask, pointing to the bruises on your neck and cheek. The girl snorts.
“You don’t have to, in order to win, yeah? In fact, it kind of pissed me off when I watched a cartoon and it was too easy for the hero,” she remarks, wrapping one arm around her knee.
“Not interested in having total, world ending power?”
“In fiction, no, because there’s no story. In real life though, I guess…” she exhales lowly, and traces a nonsense pattern on her thigh. Then, her gaze fixes on you.
You blink. Green eyes glitter, catching the light better than the purest gem. Her hair too gleam, so black the emerald highlights practically glow in the daylight. Golden braids curl around her updo— a crown. Every bit of her, down to her hardened look, gave the impression of a royal knight.
“It would be stupid not to take it.”
You frown. Just as your lips part though, a guard yells in your direction.
“Oi, Y/N! Don’t be making more trouble, I can add another bruise to your collection if you’re really itching for it!”
Chrissakes. You give the girl a grim smile before rolling onto your knees. There’d be another day. That wasn’t a promise, but… it was the most likely certainty.
“Guess our chat is over, no?” You start, but she cuts you off.
“Wait.”
She stands in sync with you. Gives you a once over— long enough that if you were a lesser man you would probably try to flirt with her, but you see it: the determination. There’s something deeper behind her expression. Something that must have underlined what she just said. You frown.
“You—“
“Meet up with two prisoners named Anasui and Weather Report. Tell them Jolyne sent you.”
Blinking, you watch as she gives you a short nod and walks away, her blue prison jacket swaying in the breeze.
Just barely, you catch sight of a butterfly tattoo on her forearm before the guard’s nightstick cracks against your shoulder blades.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ The inmates she mentioned are easy to find, even in a prison filled with as many eccentrics as this one. The white haired Weather wordlessly guides you to the piano room one day, and you don’t quite understand what’s happened— until you see the green haired girl lounging on the couch.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ It feels more like she’s vetting you, seeing where you initiate— Jolyne only invites people into conversation as much as they invite themselves.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ Listen at first. Don’t make her sound like she’s crazy for how she feels, what she’s telling you. She feels crazy enough. And especially another guy implying she’s crazy, that might be the damn tipping point.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ You tell her she’s strong. Jolyne blinks at you, but your voice isn’t patronizing, like her father. She scoffs, insisting she already knows. But her ears go red and you decide to ignore it.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ Sneaking things from each side of the prison to the other, you tell horror stories about how gross the men’s side is, and she complains about how some women spend way too long in the bathroom, and she knows they’re having sex in there.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ If you have facial hair, she might play with it a little. Teasing your mustache, flicking at the hairs on your beard. Might offer to style it for you once it gets long.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ But absolutely hates it getting dirty. She WILL make you shave it if you don’t maintain it.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ She grabs your hand and tugs you along wherever you go together. I don’t care what gender roles you subscribe to, she’s the leader.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ Breathless laughter as you arm wrestle, spar, lay on the couch listening to a record. Your broad shoulders encircling her.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ You trade stories of your life before the prison. Hobbies you’ve only half resumed due to lack of supply and space. Your favorite foods you crave. How you believe her innocence, because she isn’t like you. Jolyne elbows you and tells you to quit self pitying, but that’s not really what you meant.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ We know she’ll fall asleep around those she feels safe with. Anasui and Weather have entered the music room to you, frozen, her head on your lap. Your hands hover above it because you don’t want to wake her, but also, she’s really cute like this and you’d love to stroke her hair.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ You probably crush on her first. Just because she needs time. Similar to her father, it’s a cat like affection.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ Both of you are careful enough to not get yelled at too much, hovering by the fence during rec time. Can’t let the other prisoners use you against each other either.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ But she wants to talk to you— she wants to trust you.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ The way you ground her. How even without knowing anything about Stands, you accept her and try to help however you can. The first time you see her fight, letting her take the lead, you stare at her in awe when she steps back, bloodied, with gritted teeth.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ Jolyne is wounded, but she’s not the type to lick them. She doesn’t want your sympathy. Especially again, from a man.
⭑｡𖦹°‧ When she finally decides to trust you with the arrow, she knows— when you both get out, she doesn’t want to lose you.
“When we get out, you’re taking me to that diner you told me about.”
Would I be able to request a Nsfw with DIO (my evil love😭) a full scene about DIO x fem reader and she's bugging him for attention and love all day when he's trying to work/ plan until he snaps on her. 😏😂
Sorry I just love this idea cause we know DIO don't f around 😭
Can I be ⚡anon?
⋆ ˖ ⏱︎.ᐟ Bite My Hip (DIO x Fem Reader NSFW) ⋆ ˖ ⏱︎.ᐟ
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) Yeah I have no excuses besides DIO is hot as hell and I have been Yearning to write mean shit aksjdkndkdf
I hope you enjoy! Thank you for asking to be an anon too <3 He did get. Pretty fucking mean here but 🧍
Just to give myself a mental reset I might do a HC post later :) also love how I invented a Stand for this even tho it doesn’t come up lmaoooooo
Notes: bratty reader, unsafe BDSM practices including impact play (remember your safe word kids), blood play, power imbalance, penetrative sex, degradation, cumming inside, DIO is scary but he can tap it anyway
Feat cover art by the lovely @prometeusz22 ! Please go support them, they made this out of the kindness of their heart and my lorddddd I appreciate it ;-;
Stand: Sweet Lady
Ability: Causes the target to see multiple illusions of the user, one of which is the Stand itself.
“And what about—“
“You are on your second strike.”
Abruptly, you shut your mouth mid sentence and glare at the book covering your master’s face. The hardcover tome’s threads are fraying at the sewn spine, the color somewhere between crimson and deep wine, and impossible to tell in the dim candlelight from the golden chandelier overhead. Black nails more akin to talons tap on the faded cover. A shock of golden hair blooms behind his head like sunflower petals— ironic, and you cross your arms, sticking out your hip with a pout.
“But my lord Dio, it’s true! We haven’t even considered adding any modern technology to the mansion. Telence refuses to share his TV, and it would certainly motivate meeeee to know there’s the potential of a little break,” you protest. “Even if all we get are local channels, I could rent a video or two.”
“Lacking in motivation?” He asks. His cold, amused voice trickles down your shoulders, stiffening you just slightly. “How bold.”
Okay, maybe not the best choice of words. You press your lips together, and shift on your feet. “Well, not quite what I meant, but almost-- I just think we’ve all been working preeeetty damn hard. I even incinerated the remains of those stupid Speedwagon goons so they wouldn’t get found without you asking. My lord,” you add sarcastically at the end. His fingers tense on the cover.
Mischief lightening your chest, you sway a little closer. The thin dress is really a slip more than anything, the lace trimmed neckline low enough to hint at the chest your lord adored beneath. It barely reaches your mid thigh either— sometimes it made chilly nights unbearable, but a robe could always be secured. Or, if you were lucky, as you hope for now… your lord could be persuaded to hold you in his marble-like arms.
As you kneel, propping your arms up on the chair arm, you catch a glimpse of his expression. Cool. Controlled. On such a beautiful face, god himself gave him the name, it seemed. The seam where his head ended and the body of Jonathan Joestar began is pinkish, but no longer raised.
Without realizing, your fingers are stretching towards it. You were curious— how did the skin feel?
“Y/N.”
“Yes, my lord?” You ask, letting your hand hover next to his neck. Dio’s nail drags on the exterior of the book.
“I believe I have tolerated enough of you. Vanilla?”
“W--Oi!” you yelp, much more surprised than you would have liked, the man your lord called for wrapping a single arm around you and scooping you up like you weigh nothing, swiftly turning around and escorting you out, despite how you kick at his shins and wiggle like a pissed off cat. As he steps outside of the cool, extra dark room, you’re set down and the massive doors close behind you.
Whirling around, you glare at the tall, violet clad man who stares down at you with an icy conviction. Dark brown hair curled just at the tips, a gentle wave in his hair-- he was quite pretty, especially when the purple highlighted his cooler skintones. But now, he’s not pretty, and he’s not at all who you want to see. And there’s a vein throbbing in his temple that you mayyyyy have a hunch as to the reason for.
“Vanilla, I was talking with our lord!”
“Oh? He seemed quite happy conversing with you.” His voice is flat. You sigh, rubbing your temple.
“Listen, I get it--”
“I don’t think you do. If I catch hide or hair of you near this door until he departs, I will not hesitate to swallow your ankle. You don’t need one foot to do what he desires of you.”
Asshole. Vanilla wasn’t formally part of the harem, but the way he sucked lord Dio’s dick you wouldn’t put it past your lord to be enjoying it when he wasn’t scooping up you or one of the other scantily dressed gals that milled about their posts in a blood-loss haze. Bloodlust and your overall mischievous nature had piqued the vampire’s interest, after you nearly bit his thumb when he tried too quickly to invite you into his chambers. Months later, healed from that virus latent in the arrow, and utterly spellbound by your god’s invitation to serve, you found yourself among the lucky… really maybe two, you hadn’t paid attention in a minute-- with a Stand and not drained dry after the second encounter. Less and less bloodbags got a second turn.
Admittedly, it made you smug. Mornings after relieving lord Dio spent lounging on silk cushions, stretching like a cat, shivering with the soreness of your muscles and the memories of how he manipulated your body to his own benefit-- maybe you were only a cute toy, but at least you were cute. Vanilla sure wasn’t. You stick your tongue out at him.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll bug off for now. But you have to admit as well, Vanilla, you’ve been putting in overtime around here-- not saying that it isn’t what we should be doing,” you snap, as his lips part and he looks at you with a scowl. Yeesh. “But that our lord has hardly entreated us to anything since we’ve amped up our efforts.”
“Are you working only to be rewarded? I don’t believe Lord Dio would find that satisfactory for a reasoning to stay.”
Your nails scratch into your palms; clenching your fists, you take a deep breath. “I’m teasing. It’s really not that serious.”
“And you think that he has the bandwidth for such distractions,” Vanilla replies, dry, and shakes his head. “Just stay away.”
Stay away, yeah? Chrissakes, were you a dog or something? You scratch your temple and sigh, checking your nails. Ugh, you needed to paint them again. They were chipping awful and you didn’t really care to beg Dio for another salon appointment. “Yeah, sure. I need to get rid of some Speedwagon Foundation fucks anyway before the sun sets, but I’ll be back in plenty of time, mmkay?” You say, and roll your shoulders as you pivot towards your lord’s room, where the shred of your former wardrobe existed to fool the masses. “If he doesn’t request me, I’ll be pissed.”
“As if you’re special.”
The sentence sends a shock of pain through your heart, down your limbs, twinging awfully. You’d sock him, if you could. But instead, you hmmph and toss your hair back, striding away.
“And you’re so much better. I’ll be back later.”
“Don’t bother. You’re merely infuriating him at the moment.”
You flip him off behind your shoulder. But you can’t help the sting of his words, biting the inside of your cheek and striding off. Fuck him. You just needed to remind Dio of how effective his favorite little treat was.
You were, right…? Anxiety nibbles at the insides of your stomach, but you shake your head.
One by one the others had shrivelled up, been cast aside to garbage, dried into husks that were little but fertilizer. The taste grew dull. They couldn’t satisfy him in bed. Or they let the Foundation, and that band of idiots led by Joseph Joestar, get too close.
Those ones though, they had failed over and over. You hadn’t. There were maybe two times that your target nearly made it to the hospital, but you met them there. Sloppy, but still done. Right?
Sighing, you throw open the doors to your chambers.
Maybe you had been acting a little spoiled lately, but you couldn’t help it. It had been a while since he needed you for anything besides killing, and while you didn’t mind it, you didn’t want to just touch yourself. It was boring.
Though, you muse, as you parse through the hanging dresses, suits, and shorts, that punishment had been rather fun… you shiver at the memory, on bruised knees, arms bound behind your back with rope as Dio fucked your mouth viciously. His thick cock stretching your jaw to its limit, the cruel timbre of his laugh when tears flowed freely down your cheeks and you struggled to breathe, especially when he pinched your nose shut— that was a fun kind of mean, not like now, you pout, and select a lilac linen dress and violet shawl.
These fucks should be pretty easy to dispose of. No one in the Foundation possessed a Stand, and with Sweet Lady, you could probably knock them out in one clean hour.
Hm. Maybe you should have bugged Dio for the salon trip anyway…. Or, you could just go and have him reimburse you. You tap a chipped nail to your chin in thought.
Shimmying out of your slip, you slide on the equally airy ensemble, reaching into the lacquered drawer of the vanity for the bra that matched your deep red underwear. Sandals then, and…. How did you want to do your makeup?
You look in the mirror. Something soft would probably suit this look, maybe a sharper eyeliner. But what about lipstick?
An idea pops into your head, and you grin. Well, wouldn’t the best person to ask be your master? He was the one who bought it for you, of course.
Humming, you scoop up three equally good choices and practically skip through your door— nearly colliding with someone and stumbling back before they take hold of your wrist.
“Hey, wat— ah, Y/N?”
You look up, and smile. “Hol Horse! It’s been a minute.”
The blond gunslinger lets go of your wrist, letting his fingers trail over your palm as he reflects your expression. “Too long, since I’ve seen yer face, cutie.”
“Don’t let Dio hear you say that. Or maybe. Doesn’t seem like he’d care,” you think aloud, groaning. Hol Horse chuckles, and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Aw come now, if anything I’m complimenting his taste,” he teases, and pinches your cheek. You shake your head, laughing and giving him a playful shove.
“Are you coming back with good news?”
His expression flickers for a second, but he puts the easy grin back on. “Who do ya think I am, baby? The Joestars are currently eating dust in Pakistan. Wouldn’t be surprised if they just gave up there.”
You roll your eyes. After enough times, you were pretty sure you had a read on when he was hamming it up for his own benefit, especially because if Dio wasn’t satisfied, you would hear about it later— or at least feel how pissed off he was.
He clucks his tongue. “Don’t you roll yer eyes at me.”
“Then don’t you lie to me,” you counter, rolling the lipstick tubes over each other in your palm. His eyes drop to them— and the sweetheart neckline of your dress.
“Still shredding Foundation folks?” He asks.
You nod, and perk. “I actually was just going to ask lord Dio about the shade of lipstick he thought would be best, but if Vanilla is still in front of the door….”
“Did Dio kick ya poor little self out again?”
“I was just asking for a TV!” You protest, and he laughs.
“Sure ya were.”
“Anyways, you can save me the steps. Which one of these looks like it’ll suit me more? And this outfit.” You do a little twirl for him, and he nods appreciatively.
“Do that again, didn’t see it too well.”
You stick out your tongue at him. “Pervert. You just want to see my ass.”
“Can ya blame me, cutie? Hell, if ya weren’t Dio’s property, I’d steal you up myself,” he says, voice tapering into a low whisper. Natural born flirt. Giggling, you shake your head.
“If you weren’t scared, you would try it now.”
“Strike three.”
Shit.
Both you and Hol Horse freeze at the quiet, barely contained tone that resonates from the spot about a yard away from you. Fingers tightening around the lipsticks, you turn your head just slightly, and immediately shrink in on yourself a little, heart pounding.
That expression… you forgot it existed, he wore it so rarely. Corners of his mouth tilted up just enough, only in his eyes, there wasn’t a hint of mirth— only cold, calculated fury.
“I like your confidence, Hol Horse. That you could even begin to satisfy this little whore.”
Your gaze snaps to the ground, clasping your palms together. Gods, what could you say? Nothing comes to mind, no good excuse, no explanation, and worst of all, no reason why he wouldn’t just kill you.
Dio’s hand settles firmly on the base of your spine. Two sharp nails scratch you slightly through the fabric. You flinch.
He speaks softly. “Stay here. If you think that you can handle all that which you hear from inside, be my guest, and try to take what is mine.”
Your stomach drops. No, he couldn’t mean—
But you only get a brief look at Hol Horse’s stunned, reddened face before you’re shoved into yours and your lord’s room, falling to your knees, and swallowed in an even more oppressive darkness than that of the hall.
You can’t even hear. His footsteps on the marble floor are muffled by the roaring of blood in your ears, your hands trembling on your lap. Lips part, but nothing falls out, not even a trembling apology. Gods, the anticipation was killing you.
“You have been in quite the state today,” he murmurs.
You swallow. In front of you, he steps, his silk slippered feet barely visible in the candlelight.
“Desiring my attention so much, you were willing to die for it?”
A tear slides down your cheek.
“Speak,” he commands.
“I-I…” you stammer, and he raises one foot.
Instinctively you flinch, but he only uses it to tilt your chin up.
His eyes glow, fiery coals. The impressive planes of his muscles highlighted in the low light, cut as precisely as David. Pale skin glimmers, almost giving the illusion of iridescence.
Swallowing again, you start, “I’m s-sorry.”
“Mm? What was that?”
“P-Please, forgive me Lord Dio!” You cry, as he sets his foot back down and your head drops, rushing, feverish with worry now— say something, idiot!
“I w-went too far, I would never offer myself to anyone else.”
“Is that so?”
Dio’s voice deepens, sending shivers all down your body. You nod fervently. He hums, barely audible, and circles back behind you.
“Perhaps I could entertain your apology. But it doesn’t come without punishment,” he whispers. “You have greatly insulted me.”
“Lord Dio, I will do anything to right my mistake,” you say softly. Your neck bends forward so shsrply, it’s sure to be stiff.
“And you will, indeed.”
He grabs you by an arm, pulling you up roughly so you almost fall. All but throwing you towards the large, luxurious canopy bed, where he stops you before you can fall onto it, feet nearly slipping. One claw pricks at the base of your neck.
“I bought this for you, didn’t I?”
Before you can answer, time stutters.
In shreds, the fabric falls around your feet, and you yelp. Without acknowledging it, a finger trails around the hip band of your underwear.
“And this. Yet you attempt to seduce others in it.”
You shake your head fervently, but he tuts.
“Do not misunderstand me. Your beautiful body…” Dio slides a hand up to your wrist, pressing it to the post of the bed. In a swift movement, he procures a satin strand from somewhere and wraps you to the wood, tightly, bringing your other wrist to it as well to secure you. The carvings push into your skin uncomfortably, and as you tug, they only seem to get tighter. “Is an asset to dispose of those meddling fools. But you need remember who it belongs to.
“The flesh right here,” he continues, and rips through the side of your underwear cleanly, making you squirm, “Would look quite beautiful with my name tattooed on it. Or even branded on it. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Your mouth goes dry. Imagining the searing, burning pain of the glowing iron, the same color as his eyes, makes you whimper, hands shakily locking around the post.
“At a later date, perhaps I’ll consider it. But for now, little one,” Dio purrs. “Arch your back.”
The world stutters again, and your bra joins your underwear on the floor. Exposed fully to the chill of the room, your hairs raise, nipples perking and you shift uncomfortably back and forth before doing as he says. Your spine curls. Like an invitation, your ass is presented to him, legs spread just slightly, exposing the slightest bit of that wet space between your thighs. You shiver.
He lets his nail scratch your hip. Your breath hitches as he digs in a little.
“This will suffice.”
In a sharp, swift movement, he tears down the skin, ripping it open as easily as a knife through butter.
You cry out. It skips, stutters, again and again; As his Stand activates, you feel your skin throb where he carves into you with his bare hands, some kind of pattern-- blood trickles down your side from thin, precise, painful scratches. Whimpering from the pain, in your foggy head you realize what he must have done.
“Mm… maybe this was the answer all along. I’ll keep these long,” he murmurs, satisfied, and one hand wraps around your thigh.
You shudder; his tongue flicks out and licks across the carving of his name-- Dio-- behind your right hip.
Tears burn your eyes. Both at the pain, and the absolute shame of how your clit throbs and your arousal slickens you. He’d never done this.
“Keep the arch,” he commands.
Against your thigh, something tickles. You freeze.
“How many, do you think you deserve?”
Swallowing, your mind rushes. Lust and pain fog your head, your palms growing sweaty against the post, but if you didn’t give an answer, it would be worse. Licking your lips, you half say, half squeak, “A-at least… thirty, my lord. F-Forty.”
The crop smacks against the inside of your legs sharply, and you almost jump.
“How humble. It’s a better look on you,” Dio coos, and pulls back his arm, before another crack leaves a stinging red mark on your behind, pulling a soft cry from you. “Accept it all.”
Your hands shake. If you had nails as sharp as your lord’s you’d be shredding the post. But you stand, helpless, on legs beginning to buckle as he strikes, over, and over, across the soft flesh of your upper thighs and backside: the skin warming, reddening, the sharp pop of at least two small bruises. Pacing himself erratically, before becoming achingly even. You moan, eyelids fluttering with ecstasy at the mingling pleasure and pain. All the while, sweet words echo dimly in your head.
Finally, it stops. The thing trails along your quivering thigh, but it doesn’t raise against you again. You exhale.
Instead you feel his large hand cup your behind, the thumb trailing down to your slick, sensitive pussy. A strangled sound escapes you.
“There it is… my little whore.” He sighs, brushing his thumb across your wet folds, and it takes everything in you not to buck back into his hand. In your daze, you barely notice as Dio kisses the tender, abused skin and deftly undoes the satin tie.
A hand on your hip, he lightly shoves you forward onto your hands and knees, trembling. But your hands— damn they’re too sweaty, the bedsheets slick and silky, and when your lord’s hand finds its way to your neck, you land face first onto the mattress. Sucking in a breath, it hitches when you feel the tip of his leaking cock against your hole.
“Stay still. And maybe I’ll let you cum,” he murmurs, and snaps his hips into yours.
Letting out a choked scream, you shake, gripping into the sheets.
Dio sighs, letting a hand slide down to your untouched clit, arching the finger perfectly to avoid hurting you to rub perfect little circles that drag out a moan. You twitch, clenching around his length stretching you so deliciously, every time he took you.
“What a pathetic little slut you are. Perhaps punishment doesn’t work on you, if you’re this wet,” he whispers.
Your eyes roll back. You can’t think.
He begins with only two soft, shallow thrusts, before setting a breakneck pace, the force of him pushing into your pussy jolting you forward, and you’re all but a toy in his arms.
Your breaths come shallow, punctuated by the squelch of his pelvis meeting your ass. Fuck, it was deep, it stretched you so good— the slight burn ebbing as he teased at your most sensitive spot, letting you feel every ridge of his finger. His cock made you feel damn near drunk by itself.
You’re teetering on the edge. That knot tightens in your stomach; you grip into the sheets tighter. But he slows again, laughing as you let out a loud whine.
“Oh? What is it? I told you only maybe, I’d let you cum.”
He speeds up and slows down his touch seemingly at random, getting you just at the peak before dragging you back down, all the while bullying your poor cunt, your arousal mingling with sweat on your thighs. You sob, gasping for breath, the stinging pain of your ass and the cut of his name sending prickles of pain-pleasure down your body. So much. It’s so mean, meaner than ever. His hipbones grind against the abused flesh of your ass.
Dio leans in, and nips your ear, not pausing his thrusts for one second. “Answer me loud and clear. Don’t let Hol Horse miss a moment,” he says, soft, commanding, lined with cruel amusement.
Your eyes widen.
You’d completely forgot. His words. Before you went into the room—
Stay here. If you think that you can handle all that which you hear from inside, be my guest, and try to take what is mine.
Tears distort your vision, letting your body fall limp as he begins that perfect rhythm around your clit. Your audience, you completely forgot.
Did it even matter? You were his. Dio’s. You didn’t need anything beyond this room. Nothing else.
“Who do you belong to, little morsel?” He thrusts into you, and you choke on your words.
“Y-you… my lord Dio…”
“I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Y…YOU!” The word is torn from you in a scream, the tip of his length scraping against your soft, sensitive inner walls, and your voice trembles when you say, “My l-lord Dio, I belong t-to you, p-please forgive meee…”
He chuckles, keeping steady on your clit. “Very good. What should you say?”
The words surface in your head, and blood rushes to your face, shamefully sobbing, “T…thank you… thank you for your grace…my… my Lord… please, can I cum?”
“You can do better,” he tuts, and begins to slow once more before you panic, and babble—
“Please, please, please,” you squeak, you couldn’t stand it, the drag of his thick cock splitting you open, the slickness between your thighs, the slippery sheets, the sting of his punishment on your back, all too much, you beg in his arms as Dio, your god, slides his hand into your neck.
“Very good.”
And he swipes his finger again just over your abused clit, your eyes rolling back when you finally cum, clenching around his dick bullying the deepest part of you. Lightheaded as he feeds, you writhe, weakening. Your clit pulses as he thrusts harder, again, again, hips beginning to stutter as he hisses.
You whimper at the feeling— the shaft twitching and pumping, thick ropes of his cum filling your insides and forming a white ring around the base of his dick. As he withdraws, dragging a nail along your spine, you feel his seed drip from your entrance when you clench around nothing.
His hand still sinks into the flesh of your neck, and you start to feel faint. Black spots dance in your vision. Eyelids flutter. This was… the furthest.
He wasn’t kidding. He was done.
You exhale.
But before self pity can breach the fucked-out haze he put you in, Dio retracts his hand, and lets you fall to the mattress.
A rattling breath leaves you. Taking another deep breath, slowly, steadily, you right your disoriented body. Still… the blood loss… you feel unbearably fatigued.
“Y/N.”
You tense. But there’s no impact, or swipe. Instead, his hand drifts across your back.
“In your dithering today, did you even notice?” He asks.
Notice? It takes a lot of concentration to, but you frown. What had been different? Or—
You blink. Oh.
“C… Cassandra…” you recall the name of the other remaining member of the harem weakly. Your heart pounds like a drum, thrumming throughout your whole body. “She… wasn’t around…”
“She bored me.” Dio speaks of her so casually, it sends shivers down your clammy spine. “Simply could not throw away her past convictions.”
Your gut curls as he spreads a cooling palm across your backside, stretching and arching a little into his touch, like a cat. Despite how sinister he sounds, you can’t help but relax in your post orgasm bliss. Not that his hand stroking your tender skin is helping you stay lucid.
“But you, my little one,” he murmurs, drawing nonsense patterns on the back of your hand. “You are relentless. Watch how it manifests. But stay so. I quite adore it about you.”
In spite of it all, your heart flutters. “Y-yes, my lord.”
Dimly, the reason for all this surfaces in your head. You protest, “My lord… my targets—“
“Mm?” He asks, sounding bored. “I reassigned the job.”
Oh. You nod slowly, and shift up to your elbows, wincing.
Then, you feel your face go warm with the other realization. “Erm… my lord, what about… Hol Horse?”
“Hm.” Dio muses as if he hadn’t even remembered that the man was there, even after forcing you to. Rude, you think dimly. Then, he points his head toward the door.
“Hol Horse.”
His commanding tone echoes in the stone room, in every crevice of elaborate stone sconces, curling under the wooden posted bed and settling on the woven rugs. Then, there’s a loud throat clearing.
“Yes, sir?” He calls. You swear you aren’t making up how heavy his voice sounds.
“I believe we have come to an understanding. Haven’t we?”
There’s a pause, where you wish you could shrink into the mattress and disappear. Cripes, you wanted to curl up and die.
“Yessir. I’ll be… around, if you need me,” he says in a strained voice, and then, the abrupt jingle of his spurs when he stomps off. You sigh, pushing out all your breath.
“Hmph.”
“He’s… such a faker,” you mutter. Dio chuckles.
“Is that so?”
“Thinks he’s way more tough than ‘e is,” you mumble. Sleep threatens to take you. Your whole body feels heavy. Your lord doesn’t seem to mind. His golden hair tickles your cheek as he kisses behind your ear.
“You have a more important job tomorrow. Rest for now.”
“Yes, my lord,” you whisper. Laying down on your tummy, you roll over on your side, and smile faintly as the blanket is pulled up over you. “Thank you.”
“Your god will always forgive you, my dear,” Dio says softly. His breath, cool, tickles your ear once more with words that stir your stomach with fear and arousal.
“Next time, you will be chained to the bed, without your vision.”
I’ll end up selecting who ends up as the subject of whatever I write :) largely because the last two times I polled fic topics, P5 swept. as much as i love P5, love writing for it, i feel it’s also the part w the lion’s share of content in general.
i standardized some of my formatting and put more long posts under read-mores to make the blog a little more accessible. i usually only have mobile access so I know it’s a lil jank ;-; aksbkdjdkf
tbh I had more ideas for the Kars NSFW than the Abbachio one so when he won the poll i was kinda like 🧍 haha FUCK but bc of that im optimistic i can get the fic done quick :) and bc of that my goal is requests open after the pegging fic is up, likely next Thursday. <3
Current Lineup (7/4):
1. Jolyne Kujo x Male Inmate Reader HCs (request)
2. Yandere Hermes Costello x Gen Reader (request)
3. “… And Everything In Between” Kars x Reader NSFW (polled) (fic)
4. Miu Miu x Gen Reader HCs (request)
5. DIO/Dio Brando X Reader with Time Based Stand (drabble) (request)
6. Forcing Buccigang to try Buldak Carbonara (HCs) (request)
7. “Your Understanding is Limited” Kars x Reader NSFW (fic) (pegging goal for 100 followers)
8. Gyro Zeppeli x Haitian Fem Reader HCs (request)
9. Diego Brando, Gyro Zeppeli, and Johnny Joestar: what types of Reader do they like? (yandere undertones) (HCs) (request)
10. Diego Brando & Gyro Zeppeli x Reader Proposal HCs (request)
11. Polled Fic (TBA)
Have lovely Saturdays <3 TIME TO WRITE SELF INDULGENTLY HEHEHE
. ♬ ݁˖ Nothing More Than You Can Feel Now (Leone Abbachio x Fem Reader NSFW) . ♬ ݁˖
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) This got reaaaaal long but honestly I’m pretty proud of both of these pieces. I like how they flow :) and also mmmmmmmmmmmAbbachio
This is a part two to this request requested by poll.
Notes: Abbachio is emotionally constipated what’s new, light violence, harrassment, degradation, cunnilingus, overstimulation, penetrative sex
“Well.”
It’s not your fault. And you know it’s not your fault. But as you watch the grainy footage, you can’t help the twinge of guilt as Piovene murmurs with someone on the edge of the dance floor, neither you, nor Abbachio, visible on the screen. Out the corner of your eye, you catch his lip twitching. Shit.
“I know that guy.”
Both of you whip around. The curvy, white painted and velvet-draped woman straightens clumsily in her chair and jolts her fascinator down her bangs in the process. An eyelid twitches as she says, “Loubert. He’s a French student living around here. Comes every Tuesday.”
“Does he pay by credit card?” You ask. She nods.
As if pricked by a pin, you exhale, feeling yourself deflate. Thank god. The universe really was on your side tonight. You set a hand on your hip.
“I’d like to see his record,” you request, polite, but assertive. She bobs her head quickly in a nod, and swivels to the door. “Daniel?”
A short, broad shouldered man with curly black hair down to his chest opened the door, leaning in. The woman exhales.
“Can you pull up Loubert in the credit card bills?”
Daniel nods, and, wordlessly, bows his head twice for both you and Abbachio before turning and disappearing again. The other employee does the same, slipping out of the door, leaving you and your partner alone.
He better not say it. Better not.
You exhale, rolling your shoulders. “Should be easy to—“
“You’re lucky we have a few days for this mission.”
You glare at him. Asshole doesn’t even look at you, his fists clenched at his sides as he looks at the footage irritably. His eyes are dark.
Your ears heat up and you pinch your leg.
“Yeah. We are lucky. Anyways…” you stare at him pointedly, and he continues to avoid your gaze. God, Bucciarati knew how to pick em. “Once we get the full name, wanna use that oh so lovely Stand of yours? It’s only been fifteen minutes since they left.”
Sisters of Mercy shivers in your soul. Both of you are thrumming with energy, at this point. As much as you’d like to just shake him by his lapels and drag him by his hair— god who knows, he acted a masochist, maybe he’d like it— civility was preferable. The slight flirtiness you’d drawn out of him earlier is gone, and with it, so is your own high. Sobering up, in a few different ways, you need to either get moving or get to sleeping.
It doesn’t help, either, that the tops of your thighs rub together where Abbachio ripped open your tights.
Chrissakes, you needed to focus. That’s what got you into this damn mess in the first place. Now you—
“Student housing for foreign nationals is less than a kilometer from here.” The pale haired man taps his foot and strides to the door without giving you so much as a second look, before you grab his wrist.
If you didn’t have the fact that he just went to his knees because he couldn’t resist you tucked into your back pocket, maybe you’d shrink at his look. Maybe. It stings, burns even. But you hold fast. Don’t think about what happened after he looked at you like that before. Even if your ears are heating up.
“By all means, just pause Moody Blues halfway down the block if you’re in such a rush,” you say patiently, and let go of his arm. Thankfully he doesn’t bolt.
“I still want the credit card record of this guy, if we can catch him buying drinks for anyone else besides Piovene, we could unravel anyone else involved.”
“Fine.” Did he have to grit his teeth, any time you were right? But he sighs, shaking his head as he continues. “Likely he’s just bringing them in without knowing. Student, young, cocky. Foreign.”
“I agree. So we just need to scare him and remind Piovene who pays for his peace, yeah?” You reiterate. His lips part— stop staring there, you command yourself— and he stops himself from whatever he was about to say and instead just nods curtly.
“I’ll meet you down the block.”
Suddenly, an idea flickers in your head. Your hand brushes his palm, and before he can go, you grab him and press your lips to his.
Stiff, stiffer than before, clearly he was hoping to just leave. But as you continue to kiss him, just as you’re about to pull back, he locks his hand around the back of your neck.
Your heart trills. His fingertips press insistently right behind your pulse point, the vein warming and your face completely flushing with blood as he nips at your lower lip.
Just when you reach your hands up to rest on his back, he releases you.
Blinking, cheeks warm, you look at him confusedly. That was it? Though—
Shivers run through you. His gaze is hazy, heavy, even. His face shifts for a half second before assuming his dour expression once more and sliding through the door.
“Meet up with me in a few minutes,” he calls, before his steps disappear into the distance, mingling with the muffled bass, the cries of the last call, and stomps of dozens of booted feet, dancing, completely unaware of anything else that’s happened.
Exhaling loudly, you curse him (and yourself), leaning against the spackled wall.
You were an idiot. But so was he.
-
There wasn’t any reason for either of you to rush. Really, you think, clutching the flimsy paper record and shoving it into your purse.
It was funny— you hadn’t touched it all night, hadn’t had to. Yet you looked in that damn mirror for so long with… him. You bite the inside of your cheek. Damn.
Outside once more, the cool air wraps around you in a soothing, sobering blanket. You suck in a deep breath, and peer down either side of the street. Crud, he hadn’t even been able to tell you which direction he was headed, had he?
The mission was important, and you needed to get it done, sure, but now you were about to run at least a kilometer in your heels and Bucciarati was probably fucking asleep. Both of you had been allotted three days to finish this mission, after all.
“We’ve confirmation that he has sold narcotics to at least two individuals, but not that he has a supply. Recently he went to the hospital for a minor injury, but he hasn’t a history which would require extended usage.” Bruno closed his laptop and looked up at each of you calmly. “I doubt it’s a much larger deal than five individuals.”
Most likely. The jobs sensitive to the boss’s interest were far and few between now, and those that invited his ire were given longer execution periods. From all you’d gathered, in the short transition between joining the gang and the movement to Giorno’s leadership, much of the drug trade in Passione’s domain was trampled; even Leone, who glanced to the side and didn’t argue when Mista offhandedly complimented the teen.
It was better than one would think. Life in the gang was only as stressful as anyone made it out to be. And right now, you think, gripping the satin of your skirt you so adored earlier that only bulged like a trash bag now, it was damn stressful. No thanks to your partner.
Abbachio…
Your eyes soften. Every word, you’d meant. The man was undeniably attractive, and apart from his self-flagellating nature, he was someone you wanted to spend more time with. And—
“I’d have dragged you off an hour ago.”
Fuck. You slap your cheeks. Focus, focus so you can sleep.
Back where you came you were certain there were no student dorms. You stride carefully in the opposite direction, head swivelling like a camera. Leone could have waited to tell you the direction at least. But you bite your tongue and squint. Lamplight tosses a golden blanket on your shoulders. You peer forward.
“Pretty girl… you looking for a good time?”
“Already had one,” you say flatly, and continue to walk forward, kicking out your heel to make the stride longer. Behind you, the sound of boots multiplies. One. Two. There were three men.
Great. After how much you managed to avoid, you would, of course, still encounter some asshats like this. How far had Moody Blues gotten?
“But what if the good times didn’t stop? They don’t have to, for something as pretty as you.” Boots stomp dully on cobble. Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you push past a corner store with neon lighting and a gaggle of cackling youths. The stars aren’t even visible with this much light. To your left are a cluster of boxy, dormlike apartments-- bingo. Now, where was Leone?
“I don’t need any more. Get lost.”
Then, annoyingly, your wrist swinging back and forth mindlessly, is caught in something. You attempt to step forward. Your stride is cut short.
Gods. You grit your teeth. Sisters slides down your leg, black eyes flashing, tiny claws starting to stretch.
“Listen—“
The guy suddenly curses and stumbles back, releasing your wrist. Unprepared to be free, you lurch forward in a half step, and pivot— blinking in surprise.
“Leone? How’d you loop back that quickly?”
The pale haired man doesn’t answer you. His fist lands, for the second time, into the chest of the guy who had his hand on you. Greasy fucker falls flat; there’s barely a thump against the cobble. One of the others you’d heard takes a step towards Leone. Without another thought Sisters slides across the ground and sinks its teeth into his leg. He yelps, and you lunge into a punch where you feel each crack of the bones under your knuckles and a warm gush of blood. His head shoots back.
“Hands off.” Leone spits on the man on the ground, landing a sharp kick into his ribs. The guy wheezes, curls up. Your target clutches his broken nose, making gurgling, gasping noises, the gleam of black-red on his hand clear enough that the last man, a tall, pimply brown haired boy, really, skitters back on the pavement with a wide eyed expression. You frown. Why did he look--
“Loubert.”
Ah. How convenient. Leone’s cold gaze pivots to him. Your eyes drift down to his hands-- one of them is dripping, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s his or the other’s blood. The thin man freezes at the sight of your partner. It’s hard to blame him. The man looks like he’s ready to kill.
“Heard you make a little money on the side. Mind sharing some of that with us?” Abbachio rasps. His voice trembles with barely contained anger.
Loubert trembles, pulling a small bag of white pills from the inside of his jacket pocket. Your stomach curls at the sight, but you snatch them from him, letting your nails scratch the back of his hand.
He winces. You roll your eyes…. Jeez. Babies, all of these guys were. Both laugh worthy and pathetic.
“I know that’s not all your store,” you say. Your look is ice. He continues to shake, Abbachio flanking him, hand still dripping. Where was Moody Blues? Had he even brought it out? “How about a house call?”
“No need.”
Your head snaps to your partner. He still doesn’t look at you when he says, “Already searched it. Barely any space, found it quickly. Your piss stain of a pal Piovene, at least he knows how to be hospitable.”
Damn, he was quick…. That club’s computer system was slow as hell. You nod appreciatively, and turn your gaze back to Loubert.
You’re sure his knees would be knocking together if he wasn’t wearing pants. You snort, and tug him to look you in the eyes by his lapels. Blue eyes nearly cross on your nose, he’s so focused, and you have to hide your laugh.
“Dunno what flies in France, but we don’t play with that shit here, yeah?” You cluck your tongue. “Next time it won’t be so easy. Go clean up your place.”
You shove him back, and he almost trips back over the body of his friend, still coughing on the ground and struggling to sit up.
Leone’s eyes flash, but as he starts to raise his foot, you grab his arm.
He spins to you. Pissed off was his default expression, sure, but… he looked angry. The furrow of his brow is so deep, you’re amazed he didn’t give himself a damn headache. You sigh.
“Hey. Let’s go.”
His face shifts, but you squeeze his arm once, letting your shoulders slump.
“Maybe you’re better at staying up this late than me, but both of us are still going to crash. You want to hit up that shop and go to our hotel or what?” you ask, tapping your heel on the ground insistently. It throbs. Oh god, that too… you silently pray for no blisters.
He shakes his head, mutters to himself. You sigh loudly.
“Run that by me again, Abbachio.”
“We’ll have to call Bucciarati in the morning,” he repeats, and straightens, cracking his neck. “Let’s go.”
Saying it like it was his idea. You roll your eyes and follow him, striding off into the night-- the men behind each of you still cowering, confused over what the hell just happened.
-
Steam rolls off your aching muscles and you sigh, face fresh and makeup-less, ready to slump over. Loose shorts and a big tee shirt on, you slip from the bathroom.
Shale blue wallpaper trimmed in gold and ivory, the modern boutique hotel wasn’t massive but set up the remainder of your night wonderfully with a small fridge filled with sparkling waters and a cozy mattress— plus these didn’t hurt, you think with a childish glee, tugging out the snacks you’d picked up from the crinkling plastic bag on the bed.
You flop back on the bed.
Christ, what a night.
It was like you’d lost fifteen pounds taking off your outfit, the corset, the skirt. Peeling your tights off before the shower, you peered at the ripped spot.
Frayed ends to the net didn’t look like they’d continue… but you should probably ditch this pair.
Then again. After taking down your tights, you looked at your thighs.
Purple lipstick was smeared along the inside of them— even a tiny bit on your underwear. Your face went red.
They could have their uses.
Would he take you up on your offer? Thinking about it now, popping open one of your bags, nobody else really talked about hanging out with Abbachio even just as friends. Not for lack of trying. Mista and Narancia especially bugged him to go to football games, or to try out a new cafe. When only a small group of you went out, he really only went if Bucciarati was there— or…
Wait, no. You frown, and sit up. There had been a few times Bucciarati wasn’t. But you were.
Were you the idiot here? Before you can even process the fluttering in your chest, there’s a knock on the door, that you hate how you jump to answer.
Through the peephole, pinching your thigh to distract yourself, the very subject of your head the whole damn night stands, clutching his own bag of snacks, already dressed in his own night wear and looking at your door irritably. You exhale.
Okay. It was probably nothing. No, there was no way he’d let anyone see him in his pajamas. Shut up, stupid heart pounding in your chest.
The door creaks open.
What he wears to sleep really isn’t that much different than what he wears regularly, you think, letting your gaze trail over him. A midnight hued wrap-top and matching pants, something that he likely could wear into action in a pinch. Bergamot and the bitter, earthy scent of his cologne rise from his still slightly damp hair. Your eyes catch on a single bead of water on a pale strand before he interrupts you drily.
“I’ll push you over if you don’t invite me in.”
“So forceful,” you murmur, and step to the side. He walks past you, letting his eyes linger on your legs for a second before you close the door. “Can’t sleep alone?”
He gives you such a dead eyed look you can’t help but snort. Shaking his head, Abbachio sits on your bed.
“Your room all good?” You ask, and sit next to him. He stiffens for a second, and you shoot him a look, as if to say: dude, it’s my bed. He grumbles to himself before he replies.
“It’s the exact same as yours.”
“May as well have gotten ready here,” you remark, popping a gummy in your mouth and chewing as you lay back on the soft comforter. “Would have saved us some steps.”
“Not really.”
You raise an eyebrow. “This is a full half kilometer closer than the other spot,” you point out.
He shakes his head again. “Your own fault for wanting to wear heels.”
“Ugh, and did it not pay off?” you counter. Dropping another gummy in your mouth, you stretch your arms up and your left leg out, pointing your toe. Cripes. You force yourself not to wince and give him any more satisfaction.
His eyes follow the bare skin of your thigh. They flicker up to you, and your ears heat up.
“Did it?” Abbachio asks quietly.
“I’unno. You seemed to like them,” you mumble. He lets out a harsh laugh.
“Was that your goal?”
“No. I was the one just trying to get into character, since you were type cast.”
“So you wouldn’t wear that outfit again.”
Did he sound… disappointed? Ignoring how your stomach flips, you shrug. “Not without reason. I’m still grateful that freak didn’t rip the lace when he grabbed my wrist.” Perking, remembering something, you sit up. “Are your hands okay?”
“Hm?” He frowns, but you take one of them before he can protest.
“Hey--” Abbachio snaps. You hold up a hand to shush him and examine the skin: bruised, or at least they would be, the knuckles deep red. Skin lifts up in some spots, where he must have brushed a zipper or a button. Surely he was sore. It looked like he’d swung more with his own hands than he had with his Stand. You frown.
“Why didn’t you use Moody B--”
But he turns the tables before you even realize.
A hand locks around your right wrist. Your eyes widen as Leone looms over you.
Similar to earlier, he looks larger than he is, eclipsing the overhead lamp, his hair illuminated in a halo; ittrails down his shoulders. His eyes glare down at you briefly, before guilt flashes in them. He releases you and almost scuttles back.
Your excitement dies down. Disappointment settles in your gut.
“Why didn’t you use Sisters?” he asks. Forcing his voice to be accusatory. But it’s barely controlled. Something lingers in it-- that insecurity… and in spite of it, the heaviness. Just like outside the club.
You swallow. The tension in the air is practically a fog, so blinded by each of your own anxiety, that you feel as though you barely see him as you scoot towards him on the bed.
His fist clenches.
“I was pissed off,” you reply, soft. “I didn’t like him underestimating me.”
Abbachio pauses. “I didn’t either.”
“So you don’t think I’m the worst?” teasing, you lean closer to him. Carefully, you lay a hand just next to his thigh, letting your pinkie brush against it. He inhales.
“Even if I distract you?”
“Don’t get full of yourself,” the man replies, quick. You let your arm brush his.
“Is there something else I could be full of?”
He sighs, loudly. For a moment, he doesn’t reply. His hair falls in front of his face, and you can’t see it-- but before you start to pull back, he starts laughing.
You stop dead. He laughs, that same cruel laugh he uttered before touching you earlier, and as his head turns to you, you shudder.
The same look. That same dark amusement, the haze… the desire. Your body heats up under your clothes.
“Christ. You are fucking shameless.”
“I’ll take some of yours, if it means you’ll kiss me again.”
His eyes flash. And finally, your wish is granted, as he cups the back of your head and pushes his lips against yours.
Immediately you wrap your arms around his neck, leaning into him and letting his other arm encircle your waist tightly. He sighs into your mouth; and you allow his tongue to breach it and tangle with yours. Your head swoons. He tastes of alcohol still-- maybe he’d bought something at the store, but you don’t want to think about that anymore as he maneuvers you back into the bed once more, leaning over you, until you feel his legs come up to straddle your hips.
“Too much…” he murmurs, bringing his lips to your neck, the hand on your waist slipping under your shirt and making you shiver as the fingertips brush over your skin delicately. “You give me far, far too much credit…”
“You deserve it,” you whisper, your breath hitching as he bites into the flesh of your shoulder. He sucks against the skin harshly. You squirm against him, even as he laughs and squeezes your hip, pulling your shirt up annoyedly before you assist him in awkwardly pulling off the piece of clothing. As soon as it’s gone, his lips return to your collarbone, nipping, letting his lips just barely brush the top of your breast.
“What I deserve, huh? And you’re willing to lower yourself to that level.”
“I don’t feel like I’m lowering myself at a-all,” you say, but you stammer at the end as he rolls your nipple around in his mouth, before releasing it with a scrape of his teeth, his hand pinching the one on the opposite side of your chest. You half choke as he pins your hip down with the other hand, sliding his fingers under the waistband of your shorts and underwear. His touch is hungry, but more measured, almost meanly precise compared to the desperation he had earlier. Your eyes roll back. “I like y-you,” you try to continue, but cut off.
“You like when I debase you?”
“N-not just--”
He bites into your collarbone again before he shoves his hand down your shorts, drawing a moan from you. His fingertips find the soft, sensitive bud of your clit, still a tiny bit tingly from earlier, the touch making you jump. His pointer slides down between your folds, slowly slickening with arousal, and you writhe.
“Not just this? But you do like it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you reply breathlessly. He pulls down your bottoms, and you raise your hips to aid him, shuddering when your pussy is exposed to the open air.
Leone exhales. His hand slides down your stomach, applying just enough pressure that you don’t dare to try to sit up. Methodically, he tugs you by your hips towards the edge of the bed, kneeling between your thighs with a kind of reverence. Finally, wrapping them around his head.
A choked moan leaves you as he suckles at your clit, letting go with a soft pop before pushing a single finger into your entrance. It curls up against your g-spot and makes your hips jolt.
He groans against your cunt, lapping harshly and noisily against your folds and bullying your overwrought clit, flicking with just the tip of his tongue before sealing his lips around it. Eyelids fluttering, you can’t help but squirm in his touch, attempting to pull your hips back just slightly for a bit of relief but he refuses, his grip on your thighs just as strong as it was before. He devours you as though you were his last meal, his fingertips bruising into your soft skin.
“L-Leone…”
“Tell me it feels good,” he rasps. There’s a tremor to his voice-- a need, a desire that you didn’t hear before, desperation even; it sends thrills down your spine.
“Tell me it doesn’t, and I’ll stop.”
You swallow, gasping, “Leone, s’good, s’so good, please--”
He moans again, pressing his face back between your thighs and nibbling at the inner pink flesh before pushing a second finger in, thrusting gently, your abdomen tightening and curling as he continues. Pleasure builds in your core. Your thighs shake.
“Leone, I’m c--”
And you cut yourself off with a soft whine, gripping into the comforter so tight you worry it’ll rip as your orgasm washes over you, warmth flooding every crevice of your body and shivering with the feeling as your clit pulses on his tongue. A thin sheen of sweat settles over your body. He exhales.
But just as before, he doesn’t stop.
Another quiet, strangled sound comes from you as a third finger begins to stretch you. And you swear you feel each and every wrinkle of the skin and curve of his fingerprint insistently rubbing against your inner walls, clenching around him and slapping your hands on the bed.
“Leone…” you protest in a broken voice. One hand weakly attempts to push his head down, only for him to latch harshly around your clit; the move makes you fall back with a cry.
“Mm not done… mm not…” you barely hear him, how quiet and gravelly his voice is, the fogginess of your head from pleasure, the wet, obscene sounds between your legs that he pauses speaking to continue, letting his teeth lightly graze your puffy clit. “Not done…”
“P-please…” you choke, and he licks even more fervently at you, quickly pulling your gut in tight in pleasure. Your second orgasm rolls your eyes back, body convulsing as Abbachio thrusts his fingers in one more time; your cunt tightens around them. He kisses your clit once more, sucking against it just a tiny bit, before he pulls back.
Without the support of his hold, your legs drop to the bed. Chest heaving, the sting of his marks that would definitely bruise tingling, your overstimulated form sprawls on the bed. He stands.
Blearily, you make out his expression, and surprise almost breaks your orgasmic bliss.
He looks as fucked out as you feel, damn near drunk-- cheeks red, eyelids heavy, that same desire in them as he trails a hand to the tie of his top. Below it, you catch sight of his erection straining against the dark fabric of his pants-- making you whimper, and bend one knee to spread your legs.
The motion makes him hiss. The shirt falls to the floor, exposing his nearly translucent torso, marred with white scars that you let a finger brush against as he climbs on top of you. He flinches.
“So… pretty,” you murmur. “You’re too handsome…”
“Don’t,” he says in a rough voice. One hand tugs down the waistband of his pants, letting his cock spring free. Your cheeks warm at the sight of it, curved just slightly, purplish towards his tip, long enough to make your heart trill in anticipation. Pretty as him.
“Don’t say that, when I’m doing this to you--”
“Like you… Leone.”
His eyes catch yours. They widen-- lashes nearly brushing his eyebrows. You swallow against your dry throat, and repeat yourself.
“I like you,” you whisper.
He looks at you for just a moment. Then, without warning, he lifts your hips and thrusts almost all of him inside you in one go.
Your eyes roll back. Fuck, he was big. Stirring your guts, even without his full length, pushing up against your abused insides and making him curse under his breath.
“So tight… such a pathetic cunt…”
He lets you get used to it for a second before gripping your hips firmly and beginning to pump into you, strong, harsh thrusts that take your breath away and have you scrabbling on the comforter again. The head scrapes and bumps against the delicate parts inside you; aggressive, each and every motion of his hips taking just a little bit more of your sanity every time. His hold is still possessive, tight, not letting you budge an inch from his assault on your pussy.
You groan. He sighs.
“I thought the taste was enough, the feel… can’t believe,” he pants, scooping a hand under your ass to get a different angle that makes your throat close around a scream. “Can’t believe you’d let me defile you, this fucking perfect pussy, you couldn’t have anyone else after I ruin you.”
His words make you whimper. So mean. So deliciously sharp, your body going limp as you tighten around him, drawing his palm directly above your womb and pressing down just slightly.
It throws your head back, and your gut contracts. His cock bullies you open, obscene slaps of skin against skin making you flush with blood.
“You hear that?” he murmurs. “How fucking wet you are for someone like me… want you to cum one more time.” Abbachio pleads it, quiet, only for you, hair concealing most of his face. “Please. Just cum for me.”
He brushes his thumb against your clit, rubbing small, insistent circles, his dick still scraping against the inside of your cunt with each press of his hips, and you open your mouth in a silent scream, biting into the comforter to muffle your scream as you cum around him for the fifth time of the night.
Ecstasy tears through you, a high spreading through your veins that makes you shiver and spasm around him. Your head completely empty, you slump.
Leone thrusts harsher; his pelvis meets yours with a wet smack, fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass and hip, before he lets out a low sound between a hiss and a groan.
He retracts from you, hand pumping his slick cock. Warm cum spurts from the tip onto your stomach, trailing down the skin towards your pulsing, overstimulated pussy.
You each take shuddering breaths, you’re sure his heart must be pounding as much as yours. He releases your backside, letting the hand slide to your hip, as he looks down at you.
Leone’s eyes are the softest you’d ever seen them. Yellow that scalded earlier was more akin to a candlelight glow, his cheeks pink with exertion, white hair tousled and waterfalling along his wiry form. He leans to the side, and picks up a small towel on the bedside table-- had you left that there, or had he brought that?-- and awkwardly wipes at your abdomen. You can’t help but giggle.
“T-thank you, Abbachio.”
“The bare minimum,” he murmurs, lifting your leg. He bends to meet it, kissing your thigh tenderly. “You really have no sense of survival.”
You swat at him lazily, and gently tug on his wrist to lay on the bed. It depresses next to you as he does, his face going a little redder and pointedly looking at one of the hickeys he gave you to avoid your eyes.
You smile. Chrissakes, he was so juvenile.
“I’m doing way better than surviving, I’ll have you know,” you say lightly, reaching up to cup his cheek. Though he nearly shrinks away, he stops himself. Slowly, his eyes meet yours.
“I’m really, really happy we got this mission, Leone. And I still want to listen to a record with you sometime.”
“Hmph.” He sighs. “Better you than Mista.”
You raise your eyebrow. “That’s all?”
The man pauses. “Yes.”
Asshole. You roll your eyes and stretch, only for Abbachio to wrap an arm around your chest.
“Mm?” you start. He looks in your eyes steadily.
“We should shower. And… I’ll think about the album.”
Your heart flutters. “Mmhmm,” you affirm, nodding tiredly-- if you were sleepy before, you were absolutely dead to the world now-- and try to push yourself up. Barely hiding a scoff, Leone takes your arm and pulls you, making you a little dizzy as he stands. You shake your head.
“Bucciarati could have saved some money and just booked us one room,” you mumble as he guides you towards the bathroom. “Would’ve been able to put that into getting a real fancy spot then.”
He says something under his breath-- not again. You sigh.
“Leone.”
“He almost did. I talked him out of it.”
Your jaw drops. He turns on the shower, avoiding your eyes again, and you swear he’s blushing.
“You idiot, dude.”
He snorts, saying, “Like forcing us into that situation would have resulted the same.”
“You don’t know! Look at what happened after two hours at the damn club?” you protest.
With no real anger, the two of you argue in the blue-tiled bathroom, your playful swats caught easily as he brings you into the shower. He soaps you down with a delicate touch as if you were carved of ice: as though the very warmth of his touch could melt you away, though the tremble of his hold betrayed how desperately he needed to feel you.
