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"Do you remember that one argument we had a week ago?"
The question from Bucciarati was sudden, prompting Abbacchio to lift his head for the first time in hours from his book. They’d been sitting in the bedroom in complete silence, hours ticking past, not a word spoken until then. "Not vividly, to be honest. Why?" he asked, confused as he looked to his partner on the couch.
"You told me to go shove the spaghetti up my ass before you walked out," Bucciarati said. The memory prompted a chuckle from Abbacchio, though the other's face didn't budge a muscle, not even a hum or quip escaping Bucciarati. The lack of reaction caused Abbacchio's chuckles to stop, a look of confusion washing over his face.
"Did I?" Abbacchio asked, his eyes glancing back down at what he was reading for a moment as he noted what page he was on. After setting the book aside, he spoke again: "Why—why is that important now?" He knew that Bucciarati was never the type to talk about past arguments, especially minor ones like the one they discussed, so this was certainly an oddity.
Bucciarati couldn’t help but pause, one full of hesitance and mild regret as he looked away. Should he say what stayed on his mind? He chewed on his bottom lip before letting the words he wanted to form slip past him.
“It made me wonder what it would feel like.”
The statement caught Abbacchio off guard, having his eyes widen as he froze in his seat. A question alluding to what was said formed on his tongue, one that questioned the gravitas of it all. But the longer he looked at Bucciarati, the less it felt like a joke. Not only that, but he seemed to have something planned all this time. He was concerned, but all he could do was watch with a look of dismay. God save him.
As all Bucciarati received was silence, he sighed and stood up, holding his hand out for Abbacchio to hold. “Stand.” He knew at this point that Abbacchio only moved when he barked out orders. With obvious uncertainty, Abbacchio pushed himself up from the chair and had a light grip on Bucciarati’s hand.
Before Abbacchio knew it, they were walking out of the bedroom. As he closed the door behind them, he gasped as he was suddenly pressed against the door, Bucciarati’s face mere inches away from his. Bucciarati may or may not have been standing on his toes.
“Are you trying to scare me?” Abbacchio asked, still strong and stern despite his hesitancy to move.
Bucciarati stayed silent before pressing his lips against Abbacchio, pulling him close for a kiss. Abbacchio responded quickly to this, holding the man’s waist to keep him up as he kissed back, the pair passionate in their actions even with the peculiarity of what was to come.
The kiss didn’t last as long as Abbacchio wanted to, though. After a few moments, Bucciarati had already pulled away and was dragging him along the halls of their home. He’d honestly forgotten what the other wanted at this point. Whatever would happen excited him. At least that was what he thought. As they stepped passed the living room and towards the kitchen, he swore he could smell freshly cooked pasta and an aromatic sauce.
Oh God.
As they walked into the kitchen, with its pristine marble counters that shone under bright lights, what greeted Abbacchio was a large plate of spaghetti. It seemed like the type they would set up during parties, wherein guests could pick up their portions, full to the brim, and nearly spilling down the sides. His eyes went wide, and he looked to Bucciarati.
“Something wrong?” Bucciarati asked, determined to test the feeling. If there was one thing Abbacchio would commend him for in these moments, it would be the absolute perseverance Bucciarati had with pursuing this plan. “Come on, just this once.”
Abbacchio had his eyes glued to the pile of food, but his gaze shifted to glance at Bucciarati. What greeted him was a look that rarely came out, but always had him doing as Bucciarati wanted: pleading eyes and a slight frown. It was a small expression, but it was one that Bucciarati used in times of desperation. Even then, those desperate times were often life or death situations, so usage of it now was odd. Despite this, Abbacchio fell for it. “Anything for you. You know I love you.” He pressed a kiss to Bucciarati’s forehead. He heard a hum of satisfaction.
Bucciarati walked a few steps ahead before sitting on the kitchen island, shivering as the marble was cold against the thin cloth of his pajamas, subsequently pressing against his skin. “Come on then,” he said, beckoning Abbacchio over with a finger. Watching the man take a few steps, he eventually pulled him in for another kiss.
To say it grew heated quickly was an understatement, their kisses sloppy as both craved the other. They could taste each other in these moments, with Abbacchio tasting of wine and Bucciarati of remnants of fresh fruit from earlier in the evening. Tight grips roamed each other’s bodies as both of their hands didn’t know where to stay. Bucciarati was thrown back against the marble as Abbacchio crawled up onto the island. A grunt left Bucciarati at the impact on the back of his head, but neither seemed to care.
Now entangled in each other’s arms, Bucciarati’s once excessive excitement had turned into submission as his rough kisses grew softer. He let Abbacchio take charge. Opening his mouth, he trembled as Abbacchio’s tongue entered it. The taste of wine grew more pronounced, and Bucciarati swore he grew drunk from that alone. As a hushed whimper left Bucciarati, Abbacchio pulled away. Both took a deep breath as they panted.
Bucciarati was ready to make demands but shut himself up as he felt his shirt pulled off over his head, laughing as he realized Abbacchio summoned Moody Blues to help strip him. They never used Stands in the bedroom; in fact, it was something they laughed about. Seeing the other’s Stand was the last thing he expected.
“Shut up,” Abbacchio demanded, and Bucciarati’s laughter ceased. Considering how much Abbacchio preferred to be the one bossed around, Bucciarati took seriously any demand in the bedroom. Kitchen? Bucciarati wasn’t sure. Watching his partner strip him down, he was soon left in nothing but his boxers. Bucciarati felt cold laying there, yet he didn’t let it show.
Despite the demand he followed, Bucciarati spoke again: “Aren’t you going to get right to it?” he asked as he glanced down, gasping as Abbacchio began to press light kisses down his chest.
Abbacchio paused to shake his head. “I know you enjoy the foreplay, even if it’s just a little.” His kisses lowered down to Bucciarati’s stomach, and he couldn’t help but smile as he heard giggles, Bucciarati beginning to squirm. Glancing up, he could see the man struggling to tell him to stop, and he couldn’t help but giggle as well. Promptly, he moved on.
Abbacchio ghosted over Bucciarati’s cock through the fabric of his boxers, feeling it grow with even the gentlest of touches. In turn, Abbacchio gained what he craved: pretty whines and whimpers that left pretty lips. Feeling his cock twitch, he shuddered as he slowly warmed up to the thought of the plate of spaghetti sitting mere inches away from them. Keeping his pressure light, he traced random shapes over the other’s bulge. “Tell me what you want.”
Bucciarati gulped. He hesitated to speak, but the gradually growing pressure on his cock forced the words out of his mouth. “I want the pasta in me, please. Stuff me full of spaghetti.” What would otherwise be hilarious statements were now ones that caused excitement to fall over the couple.
Abbacchio couldn’t take it anymore. His self-control had disappeared without a trace. Flipping Bucciarati over (and ignoring the grunt of pain he let out), he pulled his boxers down and felt his cock twitch again as he saw a buttplug spreading Bucciarati out. Abbacchio knew about every toy they owned in their collection, and he knew this was one of the larger ones.
“I only put it in because I know it would put you in the mood,” Bucciarati uttered as he struggled to speak, the side of his face squished against the island. He shook his rear and groaned at a sharp spank that met his sensitive skin. Swearing under his breath, he attempted to glance back at his partner but could only see the kitchen counters and cabinets. What he couldn’t see was this: Abbacchio’s intense look in his eyes, and frantic pulling down of his sweatpants and boxers. Bucciarati ended up hearing the latter and hummed to acknowledge it.
Unable to bring himself to be snarky, Abbacchio pulled the buttplug out and bit on his bottom lip at the sight of the other spread out in front of him. It had turned into a common sight, but it was one that he adored seeing over and over. To say he was painfully hard now was an understatement, but frustration ran through him as he knew he couldn’t fuck him right then and there.
“I’ll need to go get lube in the room. I need to spread you out a lot for this, you know,” Abbacchio said. As he stepped back to begin his walk back to their bedroom, his eyes went wide as a grip as suddenly on his arm, and he sighed when he saw it was Sticky Fingers. Were they really using their stands now?
Bucciarati huffed before he let Sticky Fingers retreat. “The spaghetti’s enough,” he said, voice much clearer as he raised his head. “Just use a lot of the sauce.”
Any reference to the pasta dish took Abbacchio out of it, but it was never enough to stop him from following the man’s wishes. Pulling the plate closer, he noted the fact that it looked delicious—Bucciarati’s typical recipe, probably—and how he might enjoy a plate the next day. As for now, he slid his hand into the pile of noodles, coating his hands in the meat sauce. It was an odd sensation, the sounds of squishing making him wince ever so slightly. Soon, pulling out a sauce-covered hand, he pulled Bucciarati closer to the island’s edge island with Moody Blues. This would be an experience.
With one hand staying on Bucciarati’s waist, he positioned a finger at the other’s hole. “Are you ready?” Seeing a small nod, Abbacchio slipped in a finger and took in the sound of a little moan that went straight to his cock.
Abbacchio didn’t wait before he moved his finger slowly, knowing all he’d get whines and complaints if he didn’t. Each thrust of his finger drew out breaths and sighs, though nothing more.
The room seemed to grow warmer in a matter of moments. Despite the movement, taking just one finger had Bucciarati needing more. Not wanting to voice out his wants in words, Bucciarati instead pushed his hips backward. It was enough to prompt another finger to slip in, and a moan finally slipped past his lips. “Go faster, please,” he begged, words beginning to slur.
A third finger slipped in and sent a shiver down Bucciarati’s spine, only for it to grow interrupted by a sudden fourth. A gasp left before a groan could, and he now shivered not out of pleasure but out of surprise.
“Are you okay?” Abbacchio suddenly asked, eyes growing wide as he stopped what he was doing. Admittedly, his slipping in the fourth finger was only the heat of the moment getting to him. “I can stop if you need me too.”
“I’ll be fine, it’s just been a while since you’ve done something like that,” Bucciarati clarified as he tried to push himself back against the fingers. As they entered him deeper, feeling himself stretch out, his breathing grew heavy as he adjusted to the girth. He was taking a little more than Abbacchio’s width at that point.
As Abbacchio sensed that Bucciarati felt discomfort, the hand he had resting on the other massaged circles on his hip. It was a tiny gesture, yet did the absolute most for Bucciarati each time, having him sink into wherever he stayed while they made love. Sensing the other’s body relaxing more, the thrust of his fingers continued soon after. The moans that rarely escaped Bucciarati now began to leave him in waves.
To say that Abbacchio hated not being inside Bucciarati was an understatement. He couldn’t hide a grimace at this moment. He murmured an apology as he removed a hand from Bucciarati’s hip and reached his other hand into the spaghetti. Soon, pulling a sauce-covered hand from out of the pasta, he began to stroke his cock at the same pace he thrust his fingers.
As time went on for much slower than both perceived, Bucciarati began to adjust, his movements seeming more excited as he pressed himself back against the other’s fingers with fervor. Each time he pushed himself back, what passed through his lips seemed to grow louder. It was only when the last finger finally slipped in that bliss fell over his body. With wide eyes and mouth agape, nothing but pleasure ran over him as the entire fist entered him. If he’d glanced back, he would see Abbacchio stroking himself as quickly as he could.
Abbacchio admittedly struggled to move his fist but did his best as he pulled out as much as he could before pushing it back up to his wrist. The loud cry it elicited had him shaken up. Repeating the action with more intensity than the last, it was clear Bucciarati was at his limit with the cries he let out that were near screams. “Do you want more?” he asked with a grunt, too turned on at this point to refuse his lover.
Bucciarati would have nodded if he could, but in this position, all he could do was squirm and beg. “Please, just put spaghetti in me already.” The humor in that statement had disappeared. Both of them wanted it now.
Abbacchio nodded and pulled his fist out, biting down on his bottom lip as he saw how Bucciarati’s hole spread. Murmuring appreciation for it under his breath, he pulled the plate of spaghetti closer, picking up the large spoon that sat at its edge. Scooping up a considerable amount of pasta and sauce, he lifted it to Bucciarati’s hole. He was still touching himself this entire time, though he had to stop as he spread the other out with his fingers to aid the entrance.
Not even asking if Bucciarati was ready, Abbacchio pressed the cold metal of the spoon against his hole and forced the pasta inside. Bucciarati was at a loss for words and instead let out cries once again. As Abbacchio tried to push the spaghetti in further with the spoon, the mushy sounds would be unnerving but were instead turning them on.
“More,” Bucciarati begged in a soft tone as he grew weak from the overwhelming pleasure. The feeling of each strand of pasta in him was odd, but feeling it mixed around every time Abbacchio moved made it feel better. As the spoon inside him left for a moment, it would soon return as more pasta entered his gaping hole. What was stimulating himself the most, however, were the small chunks of meat in the sauce. As they rubbed against his walls, he melted further against the marble.
A few spoonfuls more and Bucciarati was full to bursting. Beginning to tremble, Bucciarati tried not to cry while Abbacchio dropped the spoon onto the side and held the other’s hips to help him stay up.
“How does it feel?” Abbacchio asked, his curiosity getting the best of him.
“So good,” Bucciarati said, euphoria clear in his voice as he panted. He struggled to keep the pasta in, a few small clumps slipping out of him, but he kept most of it inside. As these moments fulfilled his desires, he tried his best to look back at his lover with his weak arms supporting him. “Fuck me, please.”
The request was sudden, but Abbacchio couldn’t say no now. Not with what he'd witnessed, nor his rock hard erection. Moving closer, he let go of Bucciarati on one side for a moment to position his cock right where it needed to be. What now sat in front of him was the other’s meat sauce stained skin with spaghetti peeking out of his hole. Was he complaining? God, no. In fact, the sight turned him on.
Abbacchio slowly pushed himself in. Instead of the tight walls he grew used to, it was overtaken by the unfamiliar sensation of tangled noodles and (an admittedly delicious smelling) sauce. He couldn’t help but groan as he slowly pushed himself in, that being enough to spill more spaghetti out of the other’s hole and onto the counter below. Both of them didn’t seem to mind as they were both close to coming. Neither had to speak to know this.
“Please, I want it, give me more—” Bucciarati’s merging incoherent mumbling and moans didn’t end as Abbacchio’s thrusts began, each one rough and pushing the pair closer to their limits. Any remnants of intimacy disappeared when they both neared their climax, and Abbacchio soon dug his nails into Bucciarati’s hips as he struggled to stay stable. Admittedly, the pleasure from the pasta was getting to him as well.
Only then did sweat form on both of them as the intensity of this ordeal was nearing its peak. Neither of them knew it would turn into something so extreme, but neither had time to think of it at this point. Abbacchio began to swear under his breath, and Bucciarati’s mumbling had dissipated into nothing but noises, signifying that they were both about to come.
With a few more thrusts, both let out cries full of ecstasy as they came, with one onto the counter and the other into a pile of spaghetti inside Bucciarati’s hole. Both shook and shuddered, trying to keep their balance with desperation on the cool of the countertop. This would soon end, leaving both of them in a daze.
The both of them were breathing heavily, the clarity in their mind not being there yet as they tried to catch their breath. Abbacchio was about to pull out until Bucciarati spoke up.
“Put the plate under—you know,” Bucciarati said, ambiguous in his words as he struggled to collect his thoughts, though Abbacchio knew what he wanted.
Abbacchio pulled the plate closer, keeping it underneath Bucciarati’s rear before he pulled out, ignoring the fact that this would take a while to bathe off as the ass spaghetti spilled into the plate, mixing in with the clean pasta.
Bucciarati then, despite his shakiness, sat himself up. Reaching under the island and into a drawer, he pulled out a fork. Swirling a generous bite of pasta from the plate, he took it into his mouth. One thing was for sure: the fact that it still tasted like the same spaghetti recipe he loved to cook.
Only then did Abbacchio come to his senses, though he oddly found himself not disgusted by what had just happened. Stepping closer, he opened his mouth and had a mouthful of pasta within seconds. Same old, same old. Both of them laughed and grinned.
They were an odd pair sometimes.
*
Abbacchio groaned as he made his way out of the bedroom the next day, more tired than usual. To put it lightly, what had happened the night prior was up there in his list of unforgettable escapades.
After going to their bathroom, that was right next to their bedroom, he swore he heard some chatter from familiar voices outside. Pulling his pajamas up and glancing in the mirror to see himself looking fine (as he usually did), he eventually walked out. After a while of domestic life, he found the need to look perfect all the time disappearing. Either that or Bucciarati was rubbing off of him more than he wanted to.
Scratching his stomach, he realized the voices came from the kitchen, and he grinned as he saw the familiar faces of Mista, Narancia, Fugo, and Trish sitting around the table. Giorno was also there, but Abbacchio liked to pretend he wasn’t. Apparently, they’d been eating, lost in conversation about how delectable their meal was. Bucciarati was a great chef, so Abbacchio wasn't surprised, and he grinned to himself as all he heard were compliments for his lover.
As he turned the corner and the decoration that blocked the dinner table was now in the corner of his eye, he paused as he realized what food sat served on the table. Fear overcame him as memories of the night before flooded in. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, his eyes snapped to the side, a mortified expression stuck on his face. The scent of a familiar pasta dish wafted up to his nose, and Abbacchio admittedly felt faint.
“Do you want a plate, too?” Bucciarati asked, holding a small plate with spaghetti piled on top of it.