Five hours later…
He makes the decision… the impossible, actually painful, decision… to not trail after Reborn today.
It's not as easy as it looks; every time he stands up – whether to get a glass of milk, a snack, go to the restroom, or any other little thing – he's always turning towards the door, about to open it when he realizes what he's doing and has to physically stop himself. He had been stalking Reborn for so long… it doesn't feel right be away from the hitman.
What is he hiding from anyway? Reborn is always cruel to him, so what makes this any different? The man is and always will be stingy.
So why does he hurt so much? He had never felt so… betrayed, before. It makes him feel even stupider to have that feeling because all Reborn has been doing is playing with him. A grope here, a molestation there, his first kiss – but he can't think of it that way because that might actually destroy him for the first time.
He shouldn't be so upset about this! After all… wait a moment…
Oh no. No! "THAT STINGY BASTARD!" He had already stolen his everything from him! His time, his attention, his soul, his every dream and nightmare, they all belong to that, that… DUMB PERSON! His first goal, his first sacrifice, his first obsession, his first - … Nope, not going there. He wants to kill Reborn… not love him… The jealousy, the fear, the happiness… all of those emotions he has always felt for Reborn, they do not equal love.
'Yare, yare, denial is the first stage.' "DAMN IT!" Even his subconscious was against him!
But he didn't love Reborn, couldn't. Loving Reborn would be… suicide; homicide if Reborn doesn't like you enough.
He groans as he falls back onto the couch; he'll stalk Reborn tomorrow – this sitting around gives him too much time to think.
The sharp knock at his door startles him out of his thoughts. "Coming!" He stands to his feet and drags himself tiredly to the door.
When he opens it, there's a small, blonde man with his head hanging low and a cup of hot chocolate held high. "Mi dispiace, ma credo che si potrebbe avere il numero sbagliato stanza. ( - I'm sorry, but I think you might have the wrong room number.)"
The small man shakes his head and shoves the hot chocolate into Lambo's arms. "Nessun errore! Avere una buona giornata, signore. ( - No mistake! Have a good day, sir.)" He all but runs away.
Lambo watches him leave curiously… Yare, yare, what caused that? He looks from the disappeared bell boy to the enticing cup of hot chocolate and then back.
… Well… there is no reason to let a good cup of hot chocolate go to waste.
He shuts the door. On its eggshell white surface, the golden room number plate reads A29.
He's half finished with the cup when he first realizes that there is something… funny about it. He begins to feel hot and uncomfortable, there's a strange taste on his lips and tongue.
By the time he finishes it, he's a whimpering mass of quivering flesh on the couch. His hands tear at his cow print vest and slip beneath his slacks just to retreat and rub over his nipples (with complementary moans and groans).
A cold shower… that's what he needs, a cold shower… Really cold.
He stumbles to his feet, resting his forehead against the wall for its coolness against his burning skin and to guide him to the restroom. He doesn't bother to turn on the lights or strip – he turns the water on as cold as he can get it and slips underneath it.
"GAH!" The cold wars with the heat and his body goes tense with shivers. "Ooooohhh…" No good, his hands are wondering again.
He needs, he needs… Goodness, what does he need? He needs to be in something, he needs something to be in him. He needs something rough, something that can snap the tension in his lower belly. He needs something… something, something, something…
He's half in and half out of the shower, his legs cast over the ledge of it and his shoulders flexing against the cool tiles. He gasps and contorts before grabbing roughly the length growing between his legs. It hurts! Touching it hurts, but it hurts so good…
"AH! Aaa- aaaahhh…" It becomes difficult to see through the haze of his eye and difficult to breathe through the fire in his lungs. He begins pumping but it doesn't feel like enough – it could never be enough. He needs more! Goodness, he needs all he can get…
What does he need to get this heat to go away? He knows he could – technically – wait it out, but how long with that take? Too long, that's how long!
His hips buck his length into and out of his hand; it's wet from the shoulder and slippery from the pre-cum. It's hot and heavy in his hands – what does he have to do to make it go away!
He slips one hand behind himself into the slack of his pants, shoving without preparation one finger into his anus. He arches sharply off of the floor. "AAAH!" He thrusts it fast and hard, his breath breaking each time he shoves the digit into himself. It doesn't take long before he adds a second, and then he tries to add a third, but – damn it – the angle is too awkward and it more hinders than helps his cause.
He shoves his slacks down to his knees and grabs a small bottle from the shower, a cylinder shaped container only as thick as two of his fingers together. It's nearly seven inches long.
He turns onto his knees and rests his chin against the carpet. His mouth falls open and his eye widens with every inch that sinks into his body. "Ooooooo – ha ha! - … Nnnnnuuuuhhhh…" He begins pushing it in and out at an increasing rate. He's so hot, something needs to douse the flames ; he has to be on fire, how else could he be so hot?
He's pounding it against his prostate, screaming every other forceful plunge. "Ah- ah – AAAAAAAHH!" He tosses his head back and pinches one nipple hard. He twists it until he feels pain and then he swivels the container, slamming harder against his pleasure spot. "AAAH! AAH! Aaah! Aaaaa – ooooohhh…"
There are tears of shame mingling with the drops of shower water. It feels so good, but it feels so impersonal and dirty. He wants to cum, but he can't bring himself to do it.
He throws the container into the sink, swearing to himself that he'll clean it off later. Shaking and trembling – his cow print dress shirt is holding onto his quivering form by only one button, already slipping off of one shoulder, but naked otherwise – he stumbles towards the bedroom.
In his mind, he can see the muzzle of the Beretta being rubbed against his thigh, causing the most delicious sensation of his life.
And, wouldn't you know it, there's hand lotion on the side table and a spare Beretta in the drawer. He's just barely sane enough to make sure that the safety is on before he's rubbing it slippery with the vanilla scented lotion.
He's going to burn in hell for this… even with the safety on, he's pretty sure he's still going to end up shooting himself up the ass. Regardless, he pushes the Beretta into the trigger guard before pauses, choking on a yelp. His back arches into the invasion; he feels like he's about to burst open.
He violates his own body with the gun until his body sucks greedily at the weapon, taking it in pass the trigger and even to the magazine release.
"OH! Oh, Goodness…" He grabs his cock in one hand and begins pumping in time with each thrust. "AH! Aaah! Oh, GOODNESS!" His body sways onto its knees and then he's riding the gun, feeling the thickness and length of it like a sweet, painful, burn.
He grabs the headboard and holds on for dear life. He's almost there; he is going to make it! He just needs a little more, something to set it all off like a spark to a barrel of ammunition. He just needs – he just needs - …
Dark obsidian eyes glinting cruelly, lips curled into a fiendish smirk. "OOH! Oh, yessssss" The gun comes up, pointing right between Lambo's eyes, there's killer intent in those obsidian orbs, the hitman looks almost sadistically happy with what he is about to do. "YES! OH, GOODNESS!" His tongue swipes over his bottom lip and his smirk widens into a viciously heartless grin, his eyes promising to eat him up like the big bad wolf did with little red riding hood. "YES! Please, please, please! M- mmmm- MORE!"
His body is being shoved forward for every thrust of the gun – his free hand is clenched into the bed covers to keep himself in place as he screws himself. He doesn't need to stimulate his erection, he already feels like he is going to shatter into a million pieces. He grunts between every scream and plea.
He's thick and hard and fuckingLambo into the wall, the ground, the table, the counter, into air. He's branding him inside and out, that sinful dark voice whispering dirty and unthinkable things into his ears and those hands grabbing here and pinching there and then pumping where his body needs pumping. "R-R-REE- B-B"
Reborn is growling into his ear, biting the back of his neck and pulling sharply at Lambo's hair. "Say it, you dumb cow." He demands. "Say it for me." He purrs, licking Lambo from shoulder to jaw like a lollipop.
"REBORN!" He cums all over the bed covers, whimpering as he does so. His hand falls away from the Beretta to hold his body up as he cums so hard, he nearly collapses against the bed surface. "Ah… ah…" He panted noisily, feeling some of the heat slacken, but not enough. Never enough.
There's a faint pulsing in his butt – the gun is still nearly completely sheathed inside of him except for the handle (he's embarrassed to realize he would have shoved that in too had he been able to).
He moans and slumps onto the bed… He grabs Reborn's pillow and nuzzles his face into it. He's as hard as a rock without second thought.
Curling around the pillow, he reaches behind himself again and grabs a hold of the gun. With all of the strength left in his boneless body, he begins all over again.
"Reborn – ! … Oooohhhh, Reborn…"
Author's Note: OOooooh, he's a kinky bitch. This might sound a little wrong to some of you, but I've wanted to do that!