#ncncuranza

Eyes roamed over the lounging figure, a certain focus on curve and lines of Formaggio’s hips as the assassin adjusted himself languidly over the communal couch. Emphasis on the communal. Prosciutto, with a certain air of self-righteousness, sat on top of Formaggio’s stomach, arms crossed indignantly as the blond did his best to remain, for the most part, expressionless. Yes, there was space available elsewhere, but the blond didn’t feel like sitting on the armchairs, and he preferred the right couch over the left one since it had better support on the springs.

But, Formaggio had been resting here the entire day, taking up his and his team’s space, and that alone was reason enough for the blond to kick him off.

Send “❤️+” for my muse to kiss any body part you specify.

The safehouse was surprisingly quiet that day, despite the fact that most of Risotto’s assassins weren’t on a job and therefore hanging around the area. He would’ve expected there to be some form of activity, whether it was in the form of yelling or raucous laughter–but then again, the source of most of these shenanigans was sitting just about on top of him in that moment.

The warm puff of Formaggio’s breath against his neck was something that was easily ignored, and the weight of his body against his side was easily borne. However, the touch of Formaggio’s lips to his chest finally had Risotto paying the other more attention than he’d previously given.

“–Is there really nothing else that could entertain you?” Risotto asked, words full of fond humour.

The shuffling of stiff printer paper cut through the silence that filled the small office space. Flitting fingers found the essay in question before bringing it to the forefront of the stack. The turning of pages punctuated with an unimpressed hum was all Fiorello let on to show that he had nothing good to say considering the proposition that had been put forward by the student currently sitting in front of his desk.

Professor Fiorello Morandi normally taught seminar classes to upperclassmen and graduate students. He was a man who engaged with topics of philosophy, sex and gender, consciousness, and his favorite topic, death and dying, as it was exemplified in Italian and general Western European literature. This semester, however, the professor involuntary found himself (more specifically, was forced due to budget cut slashes and low enrollment) teaching a general Adult Literacy course for students seeking a non-degree certificate from the college.

That is why he was here, in his office, looking over a horribly written essay, correction marks littering the page in irascible red ink. It wasn’t to discuss the topic of the essay or review the corrections of the assignment. No, it wasn’t for any truly noble pursuit of knowledge.

“I’m sorry, Damiano, but I don’t date students who do not know how to write.”

[ kiss me, kiss me, kiss me! / still accepting ] @ncncuranza​

Formaggio was a tempestuous thunderstorm whose winds and currents would spirit Prosciutto away into the endless riptide. Head swirling, body exhausted, the monsoon had the mercy to displace his lover back onto the rocky beach, dazed and confused in the early morn hours, questioning the existence of there being a storm at all. It wasn’t exactly love in any sense of the word, but it consumed Prosciutto so wholly that whatever it was that they shared, it couldn’t be the simple pleasure of joining their bodies. At least, that is what his heart had told his head whenever he came to rationalize why he was sent back to his room with a mournful sense of lust still written across his face.

It’d been several nights when the storm had struck that Prosciutto decided to hold on a little longer to the current, deciding to weather it out for the night. A hand found itself back onto Formaggio’s chest, his eyes far more resilient than they had been before. 

Formaggio had a habit of filling the room with empty talk. Words were thrown at the wall to see what would stick, and it absolutely aggravated Prosciutto. The topic of conversation was recounting in graphic detail his last sexual conquest, nothing about it of which Prosciutto had any interest in. But Formaggio continued, loudly, gestures of his hands crudely drawing on the imagination to fill in the rest, Prosciutto’s own was beginning to understand that Formaggio was full of shit, and the blond had enough of it. 

A “ shut the fuck up ” was immediately volleyed with a defiant “ make me, ” and perhaps that is why, when he pulled Formaggio into his private quarters, it was easy for his lips to crash against the other’s lips in a violent whirlwind of frustration.

『ＢＡＢＹ ＦＡＣＥ』

Formaggio really just proved his point, it seems.

The Stand user wanted to smirk in victory, but the response he got from the other only made him stare for a good moment. Sometimes he thinks Ghiaccio is over-exaggerating when he says he works with a bunch of IDIOTS, but even Melone sometimes recognizes how true that statement is. 

Finally, he gave a careless shrug with a soft chuckle. The lavender-haired assassin now took a seat across from the other squad member, crossing his legs promptly. He intertwined his fingers and rested his hands onto his knees as blue hues rested on Formaggio.

❝Oh please. If I wanted to talk about THAT, I would get cop a feel for myself. I’m sure you know this.❞