Burning lines trace Diavolo’s body in the same patterns as the rope that binds him. Every shift drags the rough texture over his bare skin, and after the time he’s spent like this, the chafing has marked him like a brand. He thinks that’s why he likes it. Giorno Giovanna. The only person who’s ever defeated him. The same man who’s standing above him, expression unreadably calm as he stares down at Diavolo’s prone form. The gaze of his green eyes makes Diavolo want to squirm with discomfort, feeling like meat on display. The fact that he's naked while Giorno remains fully clothed only makes it worse. In less than a minute of eye contact, he already has to look away, and the soft laugh of Giorno above him makes a twist of emotion curl in his stomach. Something like disgust. Something like need. They’ve been doing this to long for Diavolo to not know what that laugh means.
“You look gorgeous. The pink really does suit you best,” Giorno’s voice croons, and he gets silence in return.
With a soft sigh, Giorno reaches up to cup his hand over Diavolo’s cheek. The touch is gentle, his palm a blessed cool against the heat settled under Diavolo’s skin. “You said you would cooperate today. Did you mean it?”
Seconds pass, ticking by with the thrumming of his heartbeat. To long, and he’ll be punished. With a muted edge to his voice, Diavolo replies a quiet “Yes.” His eyes flick up to look at Giorno, and he could swear he sees the flicker of a smile on his face.
“Good.” He shouldn't shudder at the sound of his praise. He shouldn't care. He shouldn't, he shouldn't, but he does. Even now under the attention, his cock takes interest, and for all the times he tells himself it’s conditioning, it doesn't make a difference.
Giorno moves slowly, like he’s handling a feral animal, as he kneels next to Diavolo and drops his hand from cheek to shoulder. His palm rests over the rope that ensnares his neck as he pushes Diavolo forward. “I want you face down, still on your knees.”
With nowhere else to go and his hands behind his back, he has nothing to do but obey and drop face-first into the carpet. Cold fingers trace the diamond patterns of rope along his arms and back, and another shiver wracks though Diavolo’s body. The teasing is unnecessary, his least favorite part of their exchanges. Maybe that’s why Giorno likes it so much.
In the silence between them, the click of a cap rings through the room. A hand comes to rest in his bare ass, spreading him apart, and through gritted teeth he waits for what's next. Seconds pass. A minute. Then more. Eventually, he twists enough to look up at Giorno through his cascade of pink hair, and speaks. “What are you-”
Giorno interrupts before he can complete the question. “You’re tense.”
It’s a simple statement, but not one he knows how to react to. No words come to mind, and his stomach twists again. Whatever emotion rises up, he’s not sure how to name it. It’s something like confusion. Something like anger. He shouldn’t let the snarl creep into his voice, but the sound comes out all the same. “Just fuck me.”
Nails dig into his ass as Giorno’s fingers curl, and the tone of his voice takes a sharp turn. “Not until you relax.” Any hints of mercy that might have tinged his voice before are gone, replaced with the unyielding force that Diavolo knows means danger. He shudders at the sound, and closes his eyes.
By his nature, relaxing is not something he often finds himself doing. Giorno’s scrutiny certainly doesn't make it any easier, but he swallows his pride and starts to breathe as deep and as slow as his lungs will allow. As the minutes pass by under the darkness of his closed eyes, Diavolo can feel some of the tension drain from his body, and as it does, the grip on his ass starts to lessen.
He doesn’t need to hear Giorno’s voice to know there’d be something akin to pride in it. His toes curl as he waits to be touched, impatient despite the lax weight of his body. What he doesn't expect his hot breath ghosting over his asshole as Giorno’s hand spreads him apart once again. Teeth bite gently into the skin of his left cheek before Giorno moves to the right, and licks a stripe up from his taint and over his hole. Diavolo’s tongue aches from the force of his bite as he withholds a moan, but he can't hide the way his legs spread just a little wider. The chuckle that comes from Giorno vibrates through their connected skin. A promise made in mirth.
Finally, two fingers press against him, slick with lube. It doesn't take much pressure for the cool digits to slip inside, the temperature enough to make Diavolo’s spine stiffen. Soft lips press a kiss against his ass as Giorno starts to finger him, wasting no time as he pushes in deep, and curls his fingers over his prostate. Another moan threatens to rise to the surface, and Diavolo bites it back just as viciously as before. He’s not willing to give Giorno the satisfaction, even as he starts to rub against the sensitive spot. With every circle of his fingertips, a low, thrumming pleasure starts to build in his gut.
“Do you think I could make you come from just this?” Giorno asks, but there's no need. They both know he could. He has before. The only point to asking is the power trip, and Diavolo feeds him everything he wants with his returning silence. The pressure increases, making Diavolo’s thighs shake from the stimulation as he struggles to keep his breathing steady. It’s good. Every time they do this, Giorno studies him like an open book, and by now he’s memorized every way to make Diavolo tick. By now, he can take him apart in just a few minutes. It’s humiliating every time, especially when he’s left boneless and exhausted while Giorno remains unruffled. The image of perfection, right down to the ironed creases of his suit.
He’s pulled away from his thoughts as Giorno presses in a third finger, stretching him open, and this time a breathy whimper manages to escape. Even without looking over his shoulder, Diavolo knows that bastard is smiling. The fingers inside his scissor, spreading him wide before going straight back to his prostate. Pleasure spiders up his spine as he arches his back, trying hard to keep control of himself. It’s suffocating, trying to keep control of himself under Giorno’s expert attention. His cock fills out quickly between his legs, already full and aching to be touched when Giorno switches tactics, and pulls his hand back, only to press it forward again. He fucks Diavolo on his fingers agonisingly slowly, making him feel every moment of his fingertips brushing over and past his prostate. It’s not enough to make him come, but it is plenty to make him crave more. He feels filthy for the way he presses his hips back, hates the way Giorno can unravel him so easily.
The second he bodily asks for more, Giorno’s hand withdraws completely, and the emptiness inside him aches to be filled. He clenches down over nothing as Giorno’s speaks, voice cool as ever. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
“No,” is his first answer, despite the heaviness of his cock trapped between his thighs. He wants nothing to do with Giorno or his games. That’s what he tells himself every time.
“Don’t lie to me,” is Giorno’s responding threat, and fuck it makes him want to kill the little brat for sounding so self-assured.
Behind the veil of his hair haloed around his head, Diavolo can at least hide the shame burning across his face as he submits his pride, and answers “Yes.”
He’s sick of Giorno’s games. And yet every time, he plays along. “Yes, I want you to fuck me.”
Giorno’s voice croons a saccharine, “Good boy,” so sweet it makes Diavolo want to wretch. At least the sound of a belt unbuckling is easier to focus on. His skin burns to be touched, fingers curling and uncurling from their spot behind his back, and it’s only when cool hands, one still slick with lube, rest over his hips does he settle. Once the fidgeting stops, Giorno lines himself up and sinks in slowly. Fingernails dig into Diavolo’s hips as Giorno bottoms out, a muffled moan pulling past his lips.
It gives him some manner of pride, to hear the mask break. To see Giorno as a human, instead of the untouchable god he presents himself as. The chance to revel in his victory, however small, is snatched by Giorno immediately snapping his hips back and fucking Diavolo with intent. Manicured fingernails dig crescents into his hips as Giorno fucks him ruthlessly. It’s nothing like the slow pace he set earlier. If he didn’t know better, he’s almost say it was a punishment for daring to think that Giorno is any less than the perfect image he displays.
When Diavolo refuses to make a sound, his face buried in the carpet, Giorno removes a hand from his hip, reaches down to grab him by the hair, and pulls him up from the floor to kneel upright. The pain prickles across his scalp and draws a gasp from his lungs while Giorno keeps up the pace that he’s set. The new position has him angled so every thrust drags Giorno’s dick directly over his prostate, and his cock weeps in protest. White spots dance across his vision as he stares up towards the ceiling, unable to bite back the moan drawn from his throat. The need to come splinters his thoughts as his hands ball into fists behind his back. His cock aches for attention as it bobs in the air, but he can’t find the voice to beg for it.
Giorno asks for him, a breathy growl of “Do you want to come?”
The shudder that wracks through his body is answer enough, but Giorno's waits until Diavolo moans loud and unhindered. Only then does the blonde let go of his hip and reach forward, stroking his neglected cock in time with each thrust. It doesn’t take much before his body seizes, painting stripes of white across the carpet. Giorno groans again as Diavolo clenches around his cock, fucking into the tight heat even as the older man goes boneless while riding the aftershocks of his orgasm. Rhythm starting to stutter, Giorno releases his grip on long pink locks and lets Diavolo slump forward onto the cum-stained floor. Instead his hands grip the man's hips, pulling him back to meet each progressively sloppier thrust until he buries himself to the hilt and finishes inside.
Spent, Giorno leans forward and lays over Diavolo’s back, tracing fingertips over his hips. He stays inside him even as his cock goes soft, and pulls them to the side to lay down as they catch their breath. He hums a soft, content tune, and the sound, so close to his ear, stirs emotion inside him. Something like relief. Something like revulsion. Something he can think about later, when his eyes aren't heavy with the desire to sleep.