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The hum of fluorescent lights echoed dully in the sterile silence of the underground chamber. Stark white walls, scrubbed to a faultless gleam, reflected the single spotlight trained on the figure strapped to the reinforced metal chair. Yoshikage Kira sat upright despite the restraints around his chest and wrists, back straight, chin high. His lavender suit—creased ever so slightly from the struggle during capture—remained immaculate, though his tie had been loosened. His expression, as always, was a mask of cold, inscrutable detachment.
Across from him stood Diavolo, cloaked in shadow and opulence. His pink hair hung like a curtain over his intense gaze, which lingered too long on Kira’s gloved hands—fingers twitching just barely, as though irritated by invisible dust. The Boss had no interest in playing captor to ordinary men. But Kira wasn’t ordinary. There was something off about him, something brittle and pristine, like glass that could shatter with the right pressure. That made Diavolo curious. That made him want to press.
“You don’t seem concerned,” Diavolo said, voice low, deliberate. He circled the chair slowly, like a predator contemplating the right angle of attack. “Most men tremble when they realize I have no intention of letting them go. You? You look… annoyed.”
Kira’s eyes didn’t follow him. Instead, he cast them downward, to a barely perceptible scuff on the metal floor beneath his shoes. “This facility is disgustingly maintained. That smudge in the corner—top left tile—it’s been there since you brought me in. Do you make a habit of neglecting your environments?”
A pause. Diavolo’s lip curled, not quite in amusement.
“You’re in no position to complain, Yoshikage Kira.”
“On the contrary,” Kira replied calmly. “If I’m expected to be kept here, the least you could do is offer a space befitting someone of refinement. This place is… offensive.”
Diavolo came to a stop behind him. Silence hung thick between them.
“You’re an obsessive little thing, aren’t you?”
“You abducted me,” Kira said flatly. “Is it not expected I would be perturbed?”
“But not afraid,” Diavolo murmured. “Never afraid.”
He stepped forward into the light. His boots echoed across the tile, methodical and slow. Reaching out, he rested one leather-gloved hand on Kira’s shoulder. The pressure was faint, but commanding.
Kira tensed, not at the touch—but at the creases it might leave in his jacket.
“Remove your hand,” he said evenly.
Diavolo did not.
“You’re restrained. You’re mine. And you’re still issuing commands?”
Kira finally looked at him then, head turning with slow precision. Their eyes met—green against blue. Neither looked away.
“You misunderstand,” Kira said, voice barely louder than a breath. “That wasn’t a command. It was a request, for the sake of preserving fabric integrity.”
Diavolo leaned in.
“Do you think you’re the one in control here?”
“I think control is irrelevant,” Kira said. “You’ve already contaminated the shoulder seam. I’ll need to dispose of this jacket now.”
A breath escaped Diavolo’s nostrils—something between laughter and frustration. He moved in closer, one knee resting against the side of the chair. Forced proximity. A calculated invasion of space. Kira didn’t flinch, but his eyes flicked briefly to the side, to the edge of Diavolo’s coat brushing against his own sleeve.
“I’ve interrogated many men,” Diavolo said, voice dark and intimate. “All of them cracked eventually. With you, though…”
He reached forward, gloved fingers sliding beneath Kira’s chin, tilting it up. The restraint strap across his chest creaked softly as Kira’s shoulders pulled back against it, like a reflex.
“…I get the feeling you’ve never bent to anyone. Is that it?”
Kira’s lips were a thin line. “I find subservience… unsightly.”
Diavolo’s thumb brushed lightly across Kira’s jawline. “But cleanliness. Order. Ritual. Those things… excite you?”
Kira said nothing. He didn’t need to. His breathing remained slow, precise. But there was a tension coiled in his neck, a tic in his brow.
“I wonder what would happen,” Diavolo whispered, “if I disturbed that order. If I made things just… slightly… imperfect.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket—crisp, silk, ivory white—and dropped it slowly into the dust beside Kira’s foot.
Kira’s jaw clenched.
“Disgusting,” he said. “You’ll ruin it.”
“Will I?” Diavolo murmured. He leaned down, retrieved the handkerchief, and folded it deliberately—creasing it the wrong way, leaving wrinkles—before sliding it gently into Kira’s pocket.
“You’re sick,” Kira said.
Diavolo smiled.
“So are you.”
A long pause stretched between them, vibrating with unsaid tension. Then, without warning, Diavolo tugged a thin cord from his belt. Not a weapon—something subtler. A velvet tie.
He stepped behind the chair again, and slowly, deliberately, wound the cord around Kira’s gloved wrists. They were already restrained by steel, but this was different. Softer. Closer. Personal.
“You’re already bound,” Diavolo said, voice low against Kira’s ear, “but I like the aesthetic. Don’t you?”
“I hate redundancy,” Kira said stiffly. “And I despise theater.”
“But appearances matter,” Diavolo said. “You understand that better than most.”
Kira’s gloved fingers twitched again, but there was no struggle.
Silence settled, thick and hot. Diavolo took his time tracing a finger down Kira’s spine, stopping at the small of his back. A feather-light contact that didn’t break the fabric, but still pressed presence into skin.
“You think I can be broken,” Kira said, softly. “But I am not made of fragile things.”
“No,” Diavolo replied. “You’re made of obsession. And I know how to exploit that.”
He stepped back, just enough to break the closeness—but the scent of him, the heat of his breath, still lingered.
Kira looked down at the velvet tie on his wrists. Then back up.
“You’re wasting time,” he said. “And silk.”
Diavolo chuckled low in his throat.
“I’ve got plenty of both.”
The lights above flickered. Somewhere far off, machinery hummed.
In the silence that followed, the air crackled—not with threat, but with a charged and dangerous curiosity.
The silence was heavy as Diavolo straightened once more, the velvet tie taut but delicate around Kira’s wrists. The glint of the steel restraints still catching light from above seemed almost crude in contrast—cold, clinical, inelegant.
Diavolo’s eyes lingered on them.
“This doesn’t suit you,” he murmured.
Kira didn’t respond. He watched, silently, as Diavolo reached forward and pressed his thumb to the hidden latch on the first cuff. A metallic click echoed through the chamber as it sprang open, freeing Kira’s right arm. Then the second followed, just as smooth. The steel fell away with a hollow clang against the floor.
Now only the velvet tie remained.
Kira glanced down at it, scoffing softly.
“You replace steel with ribbon. Do you think this is an improvement?”
Diavolo circled him again, slower this time, savoring the shift in dynamic. His hands, still sheathed in their black leather gloves, moved lazily behind his back as he stepped into Kira’s field of view.
“No. Not an improvement,” he said. “A statement.”
Kira raised an eyebrow.
“And what exactly are you trying to say?”
Diavolo smiled faintly, tilting his head. “That I don’t need chains to keep you still.”
He stopped directly in front of Kira now, gaze dropping to the velvet binding. His gloved fingers reached out, brushing lightly along the edge of the tie as if inspecting the quality, as if reasserting that—yes—it still held.
Kira shifted slightly in the chair, his wrists moving just a fraction, testing the give. The velvet yielded, but not entirely.
“Symbolism is such a waste of time,” he muttered, looking away. “If you’re done playing dress-up, I’d appreciate being released properly.”
“Mm.” Diavolo ignored the request, eyes drifting to Kira’s gloves—still perfectly in place, still pristine. “You hide behind layers.”
“I value cleanliness.”
“You value control,” Diavolo said. “Clean lines. Quiet rooms. Predictable days.”
“And what of it?”
Diavolo’s gloved hand lifted again. This time, he took Kira’s chin between his fingers—firmer than before—and held it there.
“It’s fascinating,” he said, voice low. “Watching something so tightly wound try to maintain its form under pressure.”
Kira met his eyes—stiff, unmoving—but his jaw flexed slightly under the hold. Diavolo watched that motion, then smiled.
“I wonder,” he said, slowly withdrawing his hand, “if it unnerves you more when I use force… or when I don’t.”
He turned away just a little, only enough to reach for the buttons on his gloves. His movements were slow, deliberate. He didn’t look at Kira as he began to pull them off—one finger at a time, each motion exaggerated, dragging leather from skin with almost ceremonial care.
First the left.
Then the right.
The leather peeled back with a soft hiss, revealing pale hands—slender, elegant, the fingers long and narrow, like they belonged to a concert pianist instead of a crime lord. There was a quiet vulnerability in them, unguarded and strangely delicate, the kind of beauty that was accidental and therefore more dangerous.
Kira stared.
His breath hitched—too soft to be noticed by anyone not listening for it.
But Diavolo noticed.
He looked up, slowly, and tilted his head at the sudden shift in energy. Kira had turned his face away slightly—subtle, but deliberate. His jaw was set too tight, his gaze fixed too hard on the floor tiles near his shoe.
Diavolo raised an eyebrow.
“Something wrong?”
“No,” Kira said, a fraction too quickly.
Diavolo stepped closer, hand flexing slowly in the air, fingers stretching and relaxing. “You looked… distracted.”
“I’m merely surprised,” Kira said, voice quiet. “They don’t match the rest of you.”
Diavolo let the silence answer for him for a beat. Then:
“Do you mean that as an insult, or a compliment?”
Kira didn’t answer. His gaze remained averted, focused on the wall now.
“Hm,” Diavolo murmured, letting the gloves fall carelessly to the floor. “You’re very particular. But you don’t hide things as well as you think.”
“I hide nothing,” Kira replied stiffly.
“No. You bury it. There’s a difference.”
Diavolo stepped into his space again, hands now bare, resting gently—almost thoughtfully—on the arms of the chair, boxing Kira in without touching. His presence radiated control. But his fingers, loose and unthreatening on the metal frame, made the gesture feel… intimate.
“I wonder what else would make you look away,” he said, his voice dipping low, speculative.
Kira’s lips parted just slightly, but no words came out. He shifted again, a subtle turn of his shoulder, a flick of the eyes toward the discarded gloves on the floor.
“You touch too much,” he muttered.
“And you react too much when I do.”
Diavolo studied him. A slow smile curled on his lips, but it wasn’t mocking. It was thoughtful. Curious.
“So that’s it,” he said, more to himself than to Kira. “You can stomach violence. You can endure threats. But you don’t know what to do with attention.”
Kira’s jaw twitched again, and this time, Diavolo saw his gloved hands clench ever so slightly in the velvet tie.
He straightened.
“Fascinating,” he murmured.
Kira, still avoiding his gaze, spoke again—quiet, but sharp.
“Don’t pretend you understand me.”
Diavolo didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stepped away from the chair, circling behind Kira once more. His bare fingers skimmed the air above the man’s shoulders, not quite touching.
“I don’t pretend anything, Yoshikage Kira.”
His voice was calm. Cold. Then:
“You hide because you’re afraid of disorder. Of impulse. Of losing the script.”
He came close to Kira’s ear, his breath warm, his tone laced with heat.
“But deep down, I think you want it.”
Kira flinched—not visibly, not for anyone else—but Diavolo felt the tension in the silence that followed.
“I want peace,” Kira said after a long beat. “I want privacy. Quiet. Simplicity.”
“And you think I believe that?” Diavolo whispered. “When you’ve killed for the feel of a hand in yours? When you cut them from the world just to make them still?”
He moved back to the front again, slowly, the distance between them smaller than before. He crouched, eye-level now, watching Kira’s every breath.
“You want peace. But you crave control. Crave symmetry. Crave perfection.”
His eyes dropped to Kira’s hands—still clenched, still bound loosely by velvet.
“And right now,” he said softly, “you’re not in control.”
Kira met his gaze, finally, and for the first time, there was a flicker of color in his cheeks. Faint. Almost imperceptible.
Diavolo saw it.
And he smiled.
Diavolo let the silence stretch again, long and taut like a drawn wire between them. His eyes didn’t leave Kira’s—not even for a breath—as he slowly raised one hand. No gloves now. Just bare skin, smooth and pale, fingers dusted with the faintest web of blue veins beneath the surface. They were elegant. Clean. Beautiful in a way that was entirely unintentional.
Kira’s gaze flicked toward the hand for a fraction of a second before darting away.
Diavolo’s fingertips approached his face—slowly, deliberately—and finally made contact along the sharp line of Kira’s jaw. Just a brush, light as breath.
The response was immediate.
Kira inhaled sharply. Not loud. But enough.
His jaw tensed under the touch, and he leaned subtly back, just out of the contact—not a recoil, not quite. But the retreat was unmistakable.
Diavolo held his hand there for a moment longer, letting it hover just inches away, then let it fall with an unreadable expression. His head tilted slightly to the side, eyes narrowing.
“That bothers you,” he said.
Kira said nothing, chest rising with careful control.
Diavolo’s voice lowered, tone thoughtful but probing. “It’s my hands, isn’t it?”
Still, Kira didn’t speak.
“You flinch when I touch you like this,” he continued, more curious than accusing. “But only now. Only since the gloves came off.”
Kira’s eyes were fixed ahead, unmoving. His gloved fingers twitched faintly in the velvet restraint.
Diavolo stepped in again, this time slower, with a touch of wariness, like approaching a puzzle that had just shifted on its own. He looked down at his own hand, flexing it once in the dim light. The palm, unmarred. Nails trimmed. Spotless.
“You think I’m dirty?” he asked. “Is that it?”
Silence.
Diavolo tilted his head further. “You can’t even say it?”
Kira’s lips parted—then pressed together again. His gaze was hard, almost blank, but there was heat behind it. Not anger. Something more difficult to name.
“I see,” Diavolo said quietly.
He stepped back. One pace. Then another.
But as his eyes scanned Kira again, they caught—just for a second—on something new.
Something different.
His gaze dropped.
The smooth fabric of Kira’s pants, once perfectly pressed, now showed a disruption—tense, undeniable, unmistakable. It wasn’t subtle. Not anymore. The restrained posture, the stillness, the deflected eyes—it had all masked it before. But standing back now, Diavolo could see it clearly.
And just like that, realization dawned.
Not disgust.
Desire.
His lips parted slightly, and his gaze returned to Kira’s face—studying him, searching every detail now under a new lens. The sudden breath earlier. The rigid posture. The way Kira had turned away not in revulsion, but in shame.
“Ah,” Diavolo said softly.
Kira’s head turned just a fraction at the sound.
Diavolo smiled.
“So that’s what this is.”
Kira didn’t speak. His cheeks, still faintly flushed, colored deeper. Not dramatically. Not like someone unaccustomed to control. But just enough to betray him.
Diavolo’s voice was silk now—low, slow, and edging toward amused.
“You weren’t repelled by my hands,” he said, stepping forward again. “You were… fixated.”
Still no answer.
“You didn’t look away because you were uncomfortable.”
He crouched once more, at eye level.
“You looked away because you didn’t want me to see.”
Kira exhaled through his nose. Steady, but sharper now.
“You’ve misread the situation,” he said, voice low.
“Have I?” Diavolo murmured.
He reached out again, slower this time, and this time didn’t touch Kira’s face. His bare fingers hovered just above the knot of velvet around Kira’s wrists. His eyes flicked up briefly to catch the way Kira’s breath hitched again—subtle, but there.
“You’ve spent your life hiding,” Diavolo said. “Every piece of yourself carefully tucked away. Sanitized. Controlled. So what happens when someone touches something you didn’t mean to expose?”
Kira swallowed once.
“It means,” he said, voice a shade tighter, “that you should step away before you embarrass yourself with false assumptions.”
Diavolo chuckled.
“Oh, I don’t think I’m the one who’s embarrassed.”
He stood again, casually brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, gaze trailing once more down the front of Kira’s suit. The erection, though he made no move to call it out further, was now an anchor in the air between them.
“Interesting,” Diavolo mused, almost to himself. “You control everything about yourself. Even your desires.”
He walked slowly behind Kira again, steps echoing in the chamber.
“But now one slip. One bare hand. And the truth starts to show.”
Kira didn’t respond.
Diavolo leaned in again, his breath ghosting against Kira’s temple.
“Tell me—was it the shape of them? Or the fact that I took the gloves off… just for you?”
Silence. Then a soft click—the sound of Kira’s jaw tightening again.
But not a word of denial.
Diavolo smiled, unseen.
The air between them simmered.
Diavolo stood behind Kira for a moment longer, eyes half-lidded, watching the rise and fall of his chest—faster now, no longer as controlled. Kira’s posture remained deceptively stiff, but his breathing betrayed him. Every breath a shallow, measured attempt to regain composure that was already slipping through his fingers.
Then, Diavolo moved.
He stepped back around the chair, slow and smooth, the soles of his boots silent on the floor. His hands came to rest on Kira’s bound wrists—gently this time, fingers brushing the soft velvet.
Kira didn’t flinch.
Diavolo’s eyes flicked up to meet his, and in that stillness, he pulled the knot loose.
The ribbon fell away in a slow cascade.
Freed, Kira didn’t move. His hands remained in his lap, resting with exact placement, as though still bound by his own will.
The tension vibrated in the air between them.
Diavolo cocked his head slightly, watching Kira’s face—the flushed cheeks, the faint parting of his lips, the unblinking eyes.
“You’re free,” Diavolo said, voice low and laced with a purr of amusement. “If that’s really what you want.”
He took a step back, just enough space to make it feel like a challenge.
“Door’s right there,” he continued, glancing toward it before letting his gaze slide lazily back to Kira. “You could get up. Straighten yourself out. Pretend none of this ever happened.”
Kira’s breath caught again, imperceptible to anyone but the man who had been watching him this closely.
Diavolo’s voice dipped further, velvet and smoke.
“Or… you could stay.”
He lifted his bare hand and extended it toward Kira, palm up, fingers spread—offering it like a promise and a dare in one.
“You’ve been a good little ghost your whole life, haven’t you? Fading into crowds. Fixing your tie while fantasizing about severed hands.”
He leaned down just slightly, voice brushing Kira’s cheek like a touch.
“But I think you want something a little messier tonight.”
The words hung there, filth and flirtation polished with elegance.
“Take it,” Diavolo murmured, voice like sin. “And I’ll give you exactly what your pretty little gloves have been hiding from.”
Kira stared at him.
His fingers twitched in his lap.
His eyes flicked once toward the door. Then around the room. Calculating. Measuring. As if trying to will another path to appear. One that wouldn’t require choice. One that wouldn’t require him to admit anything.
None came.
Then, in a swift motion, Kira stood.
The chair scraped faintly beneath him as he rose to his feet—fast, rigid, his spine drawn like a bowstring. His hair fell slightly over his forehead, eyes sharp, darting once more to the exit. Still not moving.
He looked down at Diavolo’s hand.
Pale. Exposed. Waiting.
Seconds passed.
Then, without a word, Kira sat again. A sharp, calculated drop of his body back into the chair. His breath hitched audibly now, hands still held in his lap like a man holding a secret at gunpoint.
He looked up at Diavolo through his lashes—cool, composed, and trembling slightly under the surface.
And then he moved.
His hands rose, deliberate and quick. One gloved palm closed over Diavolo’s outstretched wrist.
The other followed.
And then, slowly, reverently, Kira brought Diavolo’s bare hand to his lips.
His breath was hot where it touched the skin.
And then his mouth opened.
He pressed a kiss to the palm first—slow, soft. Almost chaste. Almost.
Then his tongue flicked out—wet, sharp—drawing a line from the base of Diavolo’s thumb to the edge of his pinky.
A breathless sound escaped Kira, something between a sigh and a growl.
And then his mouth opened again, and he sucked two fingers inside.
Diavolo froze.
His breath caught in his throat as he watched—entranced, eyes darkening by the second. Kira’s mouth, hot and consuming, dragged along his fingers with slow precision, lips sealing perfectly, tongue pressing along every inch of exposed skin.
Kira’s eyes fluttered closed, as if savoring.
As if starving.
The sounds were quiet, but obscene in their intimacy—soft wetness, the hush of breath, the subtle shift of velvet against fabric as Kira moved.
Diavolo couldn’t look away.
His free hand hung at his side, twitching slightly, useless. His mouth parted—no words coming, only the faintest hitch of breath.
Kira pulled back only slightly, his tongue swirling around the pads of Diavolo’s fingers before sucking them back in, deeper this time.
He didn’t stop.
Not for breath.
Not for shame.
Only for hunger.
Diavolo’s breath hissed between his teeth as he finally pulled his fingers from Kira’s mouth—wet and glistening, a shining trail of saliva breaking between them before it snapped. He stared down at Kira, whose lips were still slightly parted, flushed and glossy. The man didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—he just looked up at Diavolo with something sharp and dark simmering under his otherwise glassy composure.
It made something coil hot and tight in Diavolo’s stomach.
Without a word, Diavolo reached down and grabbed Kira’s tie.
Fistful of silk.
He yanked.
Kira jerked forward with a sharp breath, his back arching slightly as Diavolo pulled him to the edge of the chair, their faces suddenly inches apart. Their noses nearly brushed, breath mingling—hot and shallow.
Diavolo smirked.
“Is that all it takes to make you come undone?” he murmured, voice rough with something between mockery and heat. “Just a few fingers in your mouth, and now you’re looking at me like you’ll break if I don’t touch you again.”
Kira didn’t respond. Not immediately.
He held still, gloved hands tightening in his lap, a faint flush creeping up his neck. But his glare cut through the space between them—cool steel beneath the blush, sharp and simmering.
Diavolo chuckled, low and slow.
“That attitude…” he said, tilting his head. “Mm. That won’t do at all.”
Then he moved his hand again—down.
He pressed his palm flat against the front of Kira’s trousers, cupping the hard length straining beneath the fabric.
Kira gasped—sharp and involuntary, his head tilting back an inch with the force of it.
His thighs tensed. His knees jerked together.
And he squirmed.
“You’re insufferable,” Kira hissed, barely more than a breath, eyes lidded.
“And you’re hard for me,” Diavolo replied easily.
He gave a slow, deliberate rub, fingers pressing just enough to make Kira’s hips twitch.
“Now shut up,” Diavolo added, voice going low and rich with warning, “before I find something better for that mouth to do.”
Kira’s lips parted—clearly to retort—but no sound came.
He hesitated.
Then his jaw snapped shut with a soft click, lips pressed tight, nostrils flaring.
Diavolo raised an eyebrow.
“Good boy,” he purred.
His hand continued to move, slow and confident. His thumb traced over the stiff outline of Kira’s length through the fabric, mapping the shape with deliberate care. Kira’s head tipped forward slightly, chest rising and falling in a rhythm no longer calm.
His eyes lowered—fixating.
He watched Diavolo’s hand move with something close to awe, breath catching every time the pressure shifted.
Finally, in a breathless murmur: “Your hand…”
Diavolo glanced up, waiting.
Kira’s voice was strained, cracking like the sheen of ice over a river.
“It’s… unfair,” he said. “Something that dainty shouldn’t… shouldn’t feel this obscene.”
Diavolo’s mouth curved.
“Dainty?” he echoed, amused.
Kira swallowed, eyes fixed on the motion between his legs.
“Beautiful,” he added, more desperate this time. “Your fingers… the way they move—”
He cut himself off, breath trembling now, lashes fluttering.
Diavolo made a pleased sound deep in his throat, and brought his other hand up to Kira’s face—cupping his jaw with deliberate care.
His thumb brushed along the curve of Kira’s bottom lip.
“So polite all of a sudden,” he teased. “Maybe you’ve figured it out now, hm?”
Kira shivered under the touch, lips parting slightly under the gentle pressure of Diavolo’s thumb.
“Figured out that you were never in control to begin with.”
Kira’s breath trembled again.
Diavolo leaned in.
“And I like you much better like this.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, he closed the space between them and kissed him.
Deep.
Thorough.
Claiming.
His hand still moved against Kira’s cock, slow and firm, while his lips pressed full and demanding against Kira’s mouth—tongue sliding in with unrelenting ease. Kira made a low, startled sound against him, but didn’t pull back. His mouth opened willingly, hungry now, lips moving in rhythm like he’d been waiting for it this entire time.
Diavolo swallowed every sound he made.
And still, his hand didn’t stop.
Diavolo pulled back just enough to break the kiss, breath warm against Kira’s lips. His palm still moved in slow, possessive strokes over the front of Kira’s pants, even as his gaze burned into him—sharp, unreadable, commanding.
“You can touch me,” he said softly, voice low and thick. “But don’t get any ideas about taking control.”
Kira’s breath caught again. His eyes flicked up, glassy and dark, but he nodded once—short and clipped.
Then he moved.
His hands came up quickly, almost eager, grabbing onto Diavolo’s biceps as if anchoring himself. His gloved fingers flexed there, holding tight for just a moment—before sliding down, slow and reverent, toward Diavolo’s bare hand.
Kira reached it like he was afraid it might vanish.
He cradled it carefully in both of his gloved hands, his thumbs brushing along Diavolo’s knuckles, the pads of his fingers smoothing down the back of his hand, memorizing every line and curve of skin he’d been eyeing with barely disguised obsession. His breathing picked up again, nostrils flaring as he stared at the hand in his grip.
Diavolo watched him with a crooked smile.
“Good,” he said, his voice dropping further. “You look perfect like this. Quiet. Obedient. Fascinated.”
He leaned in again and captured Kira’s mouth once more.
The kiss was deeper now—slower, but no less intense. Diavolo’s tongue slid against his, dragging out a low moan from Kira’s throat, muffled by the closeness of their mouths. Kira gripped Diavolo’s hand tighter, like it grounded him, even as his hips rolled up slightly into the rhythm of Diavolo’s palm pressing and dragging over him through his pants.
Then Diavolo pulled back again—this time with purpose.
He kept hold of Kira’s tie, which had been clutched in his fist since the last pull, and yanked it hard.
Kira gasped—caught off-guard—as the motion dragged him forward and down.
Onto his knees.
His balance tilted, and he landed with a soft thud on the cold tile, head lowered, breath coming in sharp little huffs as he stared forward at Diavolo’s belt.
His cheeks flushed immediately.
Bright and vivid.
He slowly looked up through his lashes, jaw tight, face red, but expression unreadable. Something flickered there—defiance, maybe. Shame. A strange, simmering need.
Diavolo met that gaze and let it linger before he reached down, fingers settling on the buckle of his belt.
Kira’s eyes dropped instantly.
He watched every motion.
The soft clink of the metal. The slide of leather. Diavolo’s hands—bare, graceful—unfastening each piece of his clothing with slow, practiced care.
When Diavolo unbuttoned his waistband and began to ease his pants down his hips, Kira’s breathing grew uneven again.
The fabric slid low—just enough to reveal the black waistband of his underwear, the firm cut of his hips, and the tension beneath the fabric.
Kira didn’t blink.
Diavolo noticed, smirking.
“Since you’re already on your knees like such a good little thing…” he drawled, voice sweet and sharp. “Take those gloves off. And do something useful with that mouth.”
Kira’s mouth parted immediately, already beginning to speak—
But he didn’t get the chance.
Diavolo’s hand snapped out and grabbed him by the chin, fingers digging in just enough to make Kira freeze.
“No,” he said, tone darker now. “I didn’t ask you to speak.”
Kira’s lips remained parted, the beginnings of a retort dying on his tongue. He stared up at Diavolo—still kneeling, still red-faced—but didn’t make another sound.
Diavolo’s thumb pressed against the edge of his mouth, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind him who was in charge.
“Don’t waste my time with excuses,” Diavolo murmured. “You know what I want.”
He tilted Kira’s head back just slightly, forcing him to hold his gaze.
“You’re already on your knees, pretty thing. Don’t pretend like you don’t know your place.”
Kira’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in defiance, but in focus—as Diavolo’s fingers remained firm against his chin. The pressure wasn’t cruel, but it was unmistakably dominant, grounding him in place, commanding his attention.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Instead, Kira’s hands moved slowly, deliberately—like a performance for an audience of one.
He reached up and gripped the edge of one glove between the fingers of the other, tugging with precision. The leather peeled back in a single, smooth motion, exposing his pale wrist, his elegant fingers. He repeated the motion with the other, each movement deliberate, slow, sensual.
The gloves fell to the tile with a quiet thud.
Kira exhaled, hands now bare.
He flexed his fingers once, adjusting to the sensation of open air before raising his gaze again. His mouth quirked into a small, almost smug smirk—barely there, but undeniable. A glint of pride. Or anticipation.
Then, wordlessly, his hands reached forward.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Diavolo’s black underwear, his touch light but confident. The fabric was smooth beneath his fingertips, warm from skin, stretched tight over muscle.
He paused for only a moment, his eyes flicking up to meet Diavolo’s again.
Diavolo’s expression didn’t shift much—still composed, still in control—but his gaze sparked with heat, a glimmer of approval burning behind his eyes.
“Good,” he murmured, voice like velvet laced with command. “Just like that. No rushing. No hesitation.”
Kira’s lips parted in acknowledgment, and slowly—inch by inch—he began to tug the waistband down.
The fabric resisted slightly, stretched over the firm lines of Diavolo’s hips, but Kira was patient. He eased it past the sharp cut of his waist, his thumbs dragging just slightly across skin as he worked. His breathing had grown shallow again, but steady. Focused.
Diavolo’s cock was revealed slowly, the fabric sliding down to his thighs.
Kira didn’t look away once.
His eyes traced the exposed skin with rapt attention, committing it to memory, his hands hovering for a moment before letting the underwear fall completely, pooling at Diavolo’s ankles.
The silence between them was electric.
Kira’s throat bobbed with a shallow swallow as he leaned in, no longer smirking—just watching, breathing, processing.
Then, without waiting for a command, he leaned forward and pressed a single, reverent kiss just above Diavolo’s navel.
A slow breath left Diavolo’s nose, and he reached down, his fingers threading into Kira’s hair with careful ease.
“That’s it,” he said softly, the praise barely above a whisper. “You know how to behave when you want to.”
Kira gasped softly—not from surprise, but at the sensation of those fingers at his scalp. It was grounding, intimate, in a way he hadn’t expected. His hands trembled faintly against Diavolo’s thighs, and he leaned in again.
Another kiss.
Lower this time.
Then another.
A trail—quiet, delicate—pressed down the length of Diavolo’s abdomen.
Each kiss was drawn out, intentional. Kira’s breath dragged warm over skin as he moved, pausing only to inhale again before laying down the next. A slow procession. Worshipful.
Diavolo’s fingers tightened slightly in his hair.
“You’re doing well,” he murmured. “Keep going. I want to see just how obedient you can be.”
Kira let out a quiet exhale and nodded once, barely perceptible, before letting his lips part against Diavolo’s skin.
He reached the tip—his gaze locking onto it—and paused.
Then, gently, carefully, he pressed a kiss there.
His lips lingered, soft and damp, and Diavolo’s hand twitched in his hair.
A low sound slipped from Diavolo’s throat—pleasure contained behind gritted teeth.
Kira kissed again.
Then again.
His breath shook just slightly now, the tension in his spine visible even as he pressed forward with deliberate slowness.
Diavolo’s hand cupped the back of his skull.
“Open your mouth more,” he said—still low, but firm now. A command, not a request.
Kira obeyed instantly.
His lips parted wider, the flush on his cheeks deepening. His eyes flicked upward again, catching Diavolo’s gaze.
It was a look that held both submission and hunger—an unspoken plea and a dare all at once.
Diavolo’s jaw tensed.
Then, without warning, he thrust forward.
Kira’s lips stretched wider with the motion, his breath catching sharply—but he didn’t pull back. He inhaled through his nose and relaxed his jaw, forcing himself to adjust to the sudden presence, the unexpected weight.
“Good,” Diavolo hissed, voice sharper now, dragged out from the edge of a groan. “Now suck.”
The sound Kira made in response was muffled—but it was a moan.
A soft, desperate sound that vibrated in his throat.
He obeyed.
Slowly, at first—tentative, careful, adjusting to the sensation—but growing bolder with every movement. His mouth worked with purpose, lips sealing around Diavolo, cheeks hollowing slightly as he began to suck in earnest.
Diavolo’s fingers tightened again, guiding the rhythm.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
Kira didn’t.
He moved his head with slow, controlled motions, his hands resting on Diavolo’s thighs for balance, for anchor. His tongue worked in tandem with the motions of his mouth, deliberate and measured.
Each motion earned him another soft groan, another faint twitch of fingers in his hair.
His eyes remained half-lidded, focused, obsessed.
He adjusted the angle of his head, took more.
Then again.
More.
Diavolo growled low, his hand gripping tighter.
“You really were made for this,” he said, breath ragged. “A control freak on your knees, desperate to please. Look at you.”
Kira moaned again, louder this time.
The sound echoed softly in the sterile room, mixed with the wet rhythm of his mouth moving, the breathy curse Diavolo let out next, the creak of tile beneath Kira’s knees.
Still, he didn’t stop.
Didn’t falter.
His hands flexed slightly on Diavolo’s thighs, his tongue moved with increasing rhythm, and his eyes—glassy now, fully undone—flicked up again to meet Diavolo’s.
Kira worked him with precision and reverence, mouth warm and wet, his motions steady and devoted. The obscene sounds of suction and slick movement filled the sterile air, echoing against the tiled walls. Every pass of his tongue, every soft gasp he exhaled around Diavolo’s cock, added to the intensity between them.
Diavolo’s fingers remained threaded in his hair, a constant point of pressure—guiding, encouraging, claiming. He moaned softly, breath hitching with pleasure as Kira’s mouth continued its eager work. Occasionally, his grip tightened, knuckles whitening as he tugged Kira’s head forward with rougher intent.
He thrust into Kira’s mouth sharply—once, twice—drawing a muffled choke, a startled moan that reverberated around him.
Kira gasped, lashes fluttering as his body jerked slightly with the motion, but he didn’t pull away. His hands tightened against Diavolo’s thighs as if to ground himself, the sensation too much and not enough all at once. A soft, needy noise escaped him, vibrating around Diavolo’s length in a way that made the older man growl low in his throat.
“Fuck, yes,” Diavolo hissed, the sound dragging out through clenched teeth.
Then, just as quickly, his grip eased again, fingers relaxing as he let Kira set the pace once more.
Kira didn’t slow.
He moaned again, breathless, almost greedy, pushing forward, taking him deep again with shaking, determined control. His eyes fluttered closed as he focused on the sensation, the fullness of Diavolo in his mouth, the praise still ringing in his ears, the warmth of those fingers still threaded through his hair.
Time slowed.
The only sound was breath and rhythm, the occasional low moan from above, the drag of Kira’s lips along sensitive skin, and the tremble in his throat when Diavolo groaned again.
But then—without warning—Diavolo’s hand tightened at the nape of his neck and pulled him back.
Kira gasped as he was wrenched off with a soft, wet sound, panting as his lips slipped free.
Diavolo kept hold of his chin, tilting his head up with firm fingers until Kira’s flushed, glassy-eyed gaze met his own.
Kira blinked once—dazed, panting softly, lips slick and pink, his chest rising and falling in quick little bursts.
He didn’t resist.
He just stared up at him, trembling faintly, mouth still parted in anticipation, eyes hazy with lust and breathless need.
Diavolo smirked.
“Up,” he ordered, voice like silk dragged across heat. “Now.”
Kira didn’t even hesitate.
He surged up to his feet with a breathless eagerness, boots scraping faintly against the tile. His legs were unsteady, but his resolve wasn’t. He stood tall, eyes locked to Diavolo’s, flushed with exertion and unspoken hunger.
The moment he was upright, Diavolo’s hand slid behind his neck and yanked him forward.
Their mouths collided—rough, open, immediate.
Kira groaned into it, caught off guard by the force. Diavolo’s tongue thrust into his mouth without warning, claiming him all over again. There was nothing gentle in it—just need and dominance and breath shared between them.
Kira melted into it with a soft moan, eyes fluttering shut as he brought his hands up slowly—hesitant at first—grasping Diavolo’s sides, then his back, pulling himself closer with shaking fingers.
Diavolo growled low into the kiss, his hands now moving with purpose.
One slid down—past Kira’s ribs, his stomach, the sharp line of his waist—and landed firmly at the front of his pants.
Without breaking the kiss, Diavolo made quick work of the button and fly, fingers nimble and practiced.
Kira gasped against his mouth as he felt the pressure of his clothing give way, his breath catching again as Diavolo pushed both pants and boxers down in a swift, practiced motion. The cool air kissed his now-exposed skin, sending a visible shiver through him.
And then—
Diavolo’s hand wrapped around his cock.
Kira cried out.
His entire body jerked forward, lips torn from Diavolo’s as his head dropped to Diavolo’s shoulder, breath shuddering out of him in a soft, needy whine. His hands clutched at Diavolo’s back, desperate for something to hold on to.
Diavolo chuckled low in his throat.
“Sensitive already?” he murmured, voice laced with amusement. “You’re so easy to read.”
He gave a slow, deliberate stroke, and Kira whimpered.
Then Diavolo leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“You want to watch, don’t you?” he whispered, words thick with lust. “You want to see my pretty little hand wrapped around your cock. Stroking you. Working you. Making you fall apart.”
Kira shuddered violently, his knees nearly giving out. He nodded frantically, too breathless to speak.
“Then look,” Diavolo purred, leaning back just enough to tilt Kira’s face downward. “Eyes on me. Don’t miss a single moment.”
Kira obeyed instantly.
His gaze dropped—dragging low—until it landed on Diavolo’s hand.
Long, elegant fingers curled tightly around his shaft, moving with slow, calculated precision. The contrast between Diavolo’s pale hand and Kira’s flushed skin was maddening, and Kira stared, mesmerized.
His lips parted with a quiet gasp, hands trembling at his sides.
Each motion of Diavolo’s hand was purposeful—designed not just for sensation, but for spectacle.
He stroked with deliberate rhythm, twisting slightly on the upstroke, his thumb dragging slowly across the sensitive tip before sliding back down. Every flick of his wrist, every shift in pressure, was intentional.
And Kira watched it all.
Completely entranced.
His breath hitched with every stroke, moans growing softer but more frequent, each one timed with the rhythm of that perfect, dainty hand working him.
Diavolo glanced up through his lashes, a satisfied smirk playing across his lips.
“I could do this all day,” he whispered, low and hot. “Just watch you tremble while I stroke you. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”
Kira gasped—then nodded again, breathless, frantic.
“Yes,” he whispered, the word barely audible. “Yes…”
Diavolo chuckled again, stroking him slower now, almost teasingly.
“I know you would,” he murmured, eyes glittering. “You’d beg for it. Worship me for it.”
And Kira—still flushed, panting, wide-eyed—couldn’t deny it.
Kira’s breath hitched, body trembling as his gaze remained locked on Diavolo’s hand. He watched the slow, elegant motion of those fingers as they stroked his cock with maddening control, each movement precise—designed to both tease and unravel.
His thighs tensed. His hips twitched forward, the urge to thrust into that perfect grip almost overpowering—but he held himself back.
Barely.
A low, broken breath slipped past his lips.
Diavolo saw the tension immediately. He smirked.
“You’re holding back,” he murmured, voice a purr. “I can feel it… every little shake in your legs. Don’t you want to fuck my hand?”
Kira swallowed hard, lips parting but no sound coming out—just a shaky, strangled moan.
Diavolo leaned in closer, his breath warm against Kira’s throat.
Then he kissed him there—slow, deliberate. A soft brush of lips against his neck, right beneath his jaw.
Kira whimpered.
It wasn’t loud, but it was helpless—high and desperate, like the smallest sound had pulled something loose inside him.
Diavolo chuckled against his skin, and his grip tightened.
Without warning, his strokes sped up—smoother, faster, firmer.
Kira’s reaction was immediate.
He moaned loudly, his hips jolting despite himself, one of his hands shooting up to grasp at Diavolo’s shoulder, squeezing for balance—or for sanity.
“Nnh—D… Diavolo…”
“Good,” Diavolo growled, lips brushing his ear now, hand never faltering. “That’s more like it.”
Kira’s breaths came faster now, sharp little gasps and open-mouthed moans that spilled freely. He was losing rhythm—his legs were shaking, and his other hand clutched at Diavolo’s arm like he was drowning.
His body jerked slightly with each stroke, drawn tighter and tighter, his voice rising with it.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Diavolo murmured, eyes never leaving Kira’s flushed, unraveling expression. “So needy… You want it so badly. You want my hand. My praise. My control.”
Kira couldn’t speak anymore—just nodded, face twisted with pleasure, hips twitching helplessly into Diavolo’s palm.
He moaned again, louder now.
“I—” He gasped, voice breaking. “I’m close.”
Diavolo’s grin turned sharp.
“Of course you are,” he whispered, biting down gently on the soft skin of Kira’s neck, just enough to leave a mark.
Kira cried out, his body shuddering at the contact.
“Cum for me,” Diavolo commanded, his tone thick and possessive. “Let go. Now.”
With a sharp cry, Kira obeyed.
His whole body jerked forward as pleasure overtook him, his moans rising to a desperate, breathless crescendo. His hips snapped forward into Diavolo’s hand once, twice, then a third time—each thrust more frantic than the last as he rode out his climax.
He trembled violently, clutching Diavolo like an anchor as he spilled into his palm, his mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.
His chest heaved.
His legs buckled slightly.
And then—slowly, shakily—he began to still, his moans fading to soft, uneven breaths as the wave of release ebbed from him.
Diavolo hummed low in approval, watching every twitch, every tremor.
“Good boy,” he murmured, voice warm, almost gentle. “You did well.”
He lifted his hand carefully, fingers coated in the aftermath, and glanced at the mess with idle curiosity.
Then, with no hurry, he stepped back just slightly and reached for a cloth from the small cart in the corner of the room. He wiped his hand clean—slowly, precisely—before letting the cloth fall.
Kira, meanwhile, was breathing hard, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling with each pant. His hands drifted to his pants, fingers curling around the waistband as he began to tug them up, the automatic instinct to cover himself taking over.
He barely got them past his knees before a firm hand caught his wrist.
“Ah ah,” Diavolo said darkly, voice low with warning.
Kira froze.
Then Diavolo twisted his arm behind his back with one hand and pressed his other palm flat against Kira’s chest, guiding him backward until his spine hit the nearest column.
He pinned him there, smirking as he leaned in close again.
“You didn’t think we were finished, did you?” Diavolo asked, voice low, almost amused. “You came… but I haven’t.”
Kira’s eyes widened slightly, and his breath caught in his throat.
“I…” he started—then stopped.
His lips pressed together, a faint blush rising again to his cheeks.
Then he nodded. Slowly.
Good.
Diavolo released him only to step back and gesture downward, his voice calm but laced with authority.
“On the floor. Now.”
Kira obeyed immediately.
He eased himself down, still breathless, until he was lying flat on the cold tile, arms at his sides, flushed and exposed beneath Diavolo’s looming figure.
He didn’t speak.
He just looked up at him—quiet, waiting.
Diavolo stood over him for a moment, silent, taking in the view.
Kira—splayed out, shirt rumpled and open, pants on the floor next to him, chest rising and falling with anticipation. The flush of release still lingered across his skin, sweat glistening faintly on his collarbone.
Diavolo’s gaze swept down slowly—neck, chest, stomach, thighs—appraising every inch of him with a hunger that made Kira’s breath stutter again.
He crouched beside him, brushing a hand over Kira’s stomach.
“You really are beautiful like this,” he murmured, fingers ghosting over skin. “Humbled. Open. Still trembling from the way I made you fall apart.”
He leaned down, his voice a breath against Kira’s lips.
“I wonder how many more times I can make you do it.”
Diavolo shifted easily, lowering himself to the floor beside Kira so that he could look down at him from close range. His presence was overwhelming this near—warmth radiating from his body, his scent faint but unmistakable.
He rested one hand flat against Kira’s abdomen, his palm hot on cool skin. Then, with deliberate slowness, his fingers began to trail upward—skimming over the tense lines of Kira’s stomach, brushing over his ribs, gliding up the smooth plane of his torso.
Kira’s breathing hitched, his eyes locked to Diavolo’s face, as if he was trying to anticipate the next move.
Diavolo’s fingers reached his chest, then his collarbone, then tilted upward toward his mouth. He pressed two fingertips lightly against Kira’s lips.
“Open,” Diavolo said, his voice low and rich. “Suck.”
Kira’s lips parted instantly.
He took the fingers in without hesitation, closing his mouth around them and drawing them in deeper, his tongue curling around them. His hands came up almost instinctively, grasping Diavolo’s wrist to hold it steady as he began to suck eagerly—slow pulls of pressure that sent subtle vibrations through the air between them.
Diavolo watched him with an unreadable expression for a moment, then smirked, giving a small nod of approval.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Greedy little thing.”
Kira’s eyes flicked up briefly, the heat in them undeniable. He sucked harder, his tongue dragging with deliberate care between Diavolo’s fingers. His grip on Diavolo’s wrist tightened, almost possessive.
For a long moment, Diavolo let him continue—let him devote himself to the act, the sound of his sucking filling the room alongside his heavy breathing.
Then, with a slow pull, Diavolo slid his fingers from Kira’s mouth.
“Spread your legs,” he instructed, his voice like velvet over steel.
Kira obeyed immediately.
His knees shifted farther apart on the cold tile, exposing himself fully without a hint of hesitation. His chest rose and fell quickly, the flush on his cheeks deepening as he watched Diavolo’s every movement.
Diavolo’s gaze dipped lower, settling between Kira’s legs, before he brought his now-wet fingers down and let his touch linger. His thumb brushed idly over the inside of Kira’s thigh before his fingertip traced slow, deliberate circles at his entrance.
Kira gasped, his whole body twitching slightly at the intimate contact. The blush across his face darkened, and his eyes stayed fixed on Diavolo—wide, focused, unblinking.
Diavolo’s smirk deepened.
Without another word, he pressed forward—his finger breaching slowly, easing inside with a steady push.
Kira’s lips parted on a sharp inhale, his hips shifting involuntarily. A soft, shaky moan slipped from his throat, the sound more surprised than planned.
“So sensitive,” Diavolo murmured, his tone almost amused. “Even after coming once… you’re still so easy to play with.”
His free hand lifted, fingers brushing over Kira’s cheek with surprising gentleness, the contrast to his other hand’s motion making Kira shiver. His thumb stroked along Kira’s flushed skin while his finger inside him began to move—pulling back, then pushing in again, starting a steady rhythm.
Kira’s moans grew slowly louder, each sound spilling freely into the air as Diavolo worked him. When the angle shifted and Diavolo’s fingertip grazed that exact spot inside him, Kira’s back arched sharply.
A louder moan tore from his throat.
Diavolo chuckled low.
“There it is,” he said. “I knew you’d react beautifully.”
He pressed his finger there again—then again—stroking directly over the sensitive bundle of nerves until Kira was gasping openly, his chest heaving. His cock, already flushed, was now leaning hard against his stomach again, the tip wet despite his recent release.
Diavolo’s eyes caught on it, his smirk widening.
“Already hard again?” he teased. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”
Kira whimpered softly in answer, unable to form words, his hips starting to rock gently up against the air in time with the movement of Diavolo’s hand.
The pace of Diavolo’s finger quickened—sharper thrusts, still precise, still pressing right where Kira needed it most.
Then another finger joined the first.
Kira’s moan broke high and raw at the stretch, his hands clutching at the tile for balance. His back arched further, hips shifting to meet each thrust as Diavolo’s pace intensified.
“You feel perfect around my fingers,” Diavolo said, his tone rich with praise. “Taking me so well. You want to cum again, don’t you?”
Kira’s head tilted back, a breathless, desperate sound escaping him. “Yes—”
His words cut off in another loud moan as Diavolo curled his fingers against his prostate again, stroking relentlessly.
“I can feel you tightening,” Diavolo murmured. “You’re so close. I want you to let go for me. Right now. Cum for me, Kira.”
The command tore through him.
Kira’s body tensed, his moan breaking loud and unrestrained as his climax hit him hard. Hot release spilled across his stomach in uneven spurts, his hips jerking upward helplessly into the air while Diavolo continued to work his fingers inside him, milking every last pulse.
“That’s it,” Diavolo praised, voice warm and certain. “Good boy. Every drop for me.”
Kira shuddered through the aftershocks, his breathing ragged, his body limp against the tile as the pleasure slowly ebbed away.
Diavolo’s fingers slid out carefully, his smirk still present as he glanced at the mess across Kira’s stomach. He wiped his hand on the discarded cloth from earlier, deliberate and slow.
Kira’s shaky hands drifted toward his pants again, instinctively moving to pull them up.
Diavolo’s grip on his wrists was instant.
He wrenched them behind Kira’s back with practiced ease, holding them there firmly.
“Not so fast,” he said, his voice sharp with authority. “I still haven’t had my turn.”
Kira’s eyes widened again, his breath quickening as he looked up at him, the blush returning to his face in full force.
Slowly, he nodded.
“Good,” Diavolo said, his tone smoothing into satisfaction. He released Kira’s wrists just enough to gesture toward the floor. “Lay back. Flat.”
Kira complied without hesitation, easing himself down until he was stretched out fully on the cold tile once more. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but his expression was open—expectant.
Diavolo took a moment to look at him.
His gaze roamed slowly from head to toe—lingering on the flushed skin, the faint tremors still in his thighs, the way his stomach was streaked from both releases. The way his shirt hung open to expose the sharp lines of his chest.
He crouched lower, his hand brushing over Kira’s thigh with idle possessiveness.
“Look at you,” Diavolo said, his voice low but reverent. “Flushed, ruined… twice. And still lying here for me. Still letting me look at you like this.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, his smirk turning darker.
“I think I might keep you like this for a while.”
Diavolo shifted fluidly, lowering himself until he was positioned directly between Kira’s legs. The movement was slow, deliberate—predatory in its pacing.
Kira’s breath caught the moment their eyes met. His body tensed, a faint whimper slipping out before he could stop it. Every muscle in him was taut with anticipation, his gaze darting between Diavolo’s face and the space between them, as if trying to prepare himself for whatever came next.
Diavolo’s hand moved to his own length, curling around it with deliberate control. He stroked himself slowly, firmly, his eyes never leaving Kira’s flushed face as he worked his hand along his cock. The wet sound of skin meeting skin filled the sterile air, and Kira’s blush deepened.
After a few long, deliberate strokes, Diavolo let go and gripped Kira’s hips, strong fingers digging in just enough to make him gasp. He pushed Kira’s legs wider, spreading him open in an unmistakable display of control.
Then he shifted forward, guiding himself into position.
The head of his cock pressed against Kira’s entrance, and for a moment he lingered there, savoring the way Kira’s breath grew uneven, his body already trembling.
And then Diavolo thrust in—rough and unyielding.
Kira’s cry echoed in the room, high and raw, his back arching sharply off the tile as Diavolo held his hips firmly in place. His hands gripped at the floor for balance, nails dragging against the cold surface.
Diavolo’s hand moved from Kira’s hip to his face, cupping his cheek in a surprisingly tender touch that contrasted sharply with the force of his thrusts. His thumb brushed along Kira’s cheekbone, his eyes locked onto the pleasure-shocked expression before him.
Kira’s hand lifted shakily, fingers curling around Diavolo’s wrist. He guided it lower, bringing those perfect fingers toward his mouth. Without hesitation, he parted his lips and took them in, his tongue curling around them as he began to suck eagerly.
Diavolo groaned at the sight, his thrusts immediately gaining force and speed. The slap of skin against skin grew louder, sharper, his hips driving into Kira with a rhythm that sent shocks of sensation through both of them.
Kira moaned around the fingers in his mouth, the sound muffled but needy. His eyes fluttered shut, his entire body shaking under the intensity of the moment.
“Fuck, look at you,” Diavolo growled, his voice thick with lust. “On your back, sucking my fingers like you can’t get enough while I fuck you open. You love it, don’t you? My cock, my hands—every inch of me using you.”
Kira whimpered around his fingers, the wet sound of his mouth working them only spurring Diavolo further.
“You’re such a perfect little mess,” Diavolo continued, his tone dripping with sin. “Taking me so deep and still begging for more with those desperate little sounds. You were made for this—for me.”
The praise hit Kira hard, his moans growing higher, more frantic, his hips shifting to meet each thrust despite the grip on him. His cock twitched against his stomach, already thickening again.
Diavolo’s eyes caught on it, his smirk returning. “Already hard again? You’re insatiable.”
His pace increased, his free hand gripping Kira’s hip with bruising force to keep him steady as he pounded into him. Both of them moaned—Diavolo’s low and guttural, Kira’s high and breathless—filling the room with the sounds of their bodies colliding.
Kira took his fingers deeper into his mouth, sucking harder as though the act itself kept him anchored. His cheeks hollowed around them, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet Diavolo’s gaze.
The sight dragged another groan from Diavolo’s throat.
“God, you look fucking perfect,” he growled, hips slamming forward harder still. “Suck them. Show me how much you love it.”
Kira obeyed instantly, his mouth working fervently around the digits even as his back arched under the relentless pace. His muffled moans grew more desperate with each thrust.
Diavolo’s own breathing grew harsher, his rhythm faltering slightly as his climax began to build. He pulled his hand from Kira’s hip and reached between them, curling it around Kira’s cock.
The timing was perfect—each stroke of his hand matched the thrusts of his hips, both motions building a merciless rhythm that had Kira crying out around his fingers.
The sound was nearly incoherent, his body trembling violently as sensation overloaded him.
Diavolo gritted his teeth, his hips snapping forward in a series of rough, deep thrusts. “Take it,” he ordered, his voice dark and sharp. “Take all of me.”
A few more punishing thrusts and his release tore through him—hot and thick, spilling deep inside as he groaned low in satisfaction. The feeling, the heat, made Kira’s eyes roll back, his third climax hitting almost instantly. He cried out around Diavolo’s fingers, his body tensing and jerking as he came hard across his own stomach again, the milking strokes of Diavolo’s hand pulling every last drop from him.
Diavolo slowed only when the aftershocks began to take over, but his fingers stayed in Kira’s mouth until the last tremor faded.
Finally, he withdrew them, smirking down at him.
“Look at you,” he said, voice low and soaked in filth. “Three times in one night and you’re still shaking. All because I decided you’d be mine to ruin.”
He traced a thumb over Kira’s swollen lower lip, watching his dazed expression. “You’re such a good little toy, Yoshikage Kira. So obedient. So fucking perfect for me to break.”
Kira’s only response was a soft, broken whimper—his eyes glazed, his breath shaky, but the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.