Chapter Text
It starts with a glass of Grappa and a kiss on the cheek.
It starts bitter and sweet: acidic liquid sliding down his throat, soft lips and fruity breath ghosting over his closing eyes. He knows it was meant to be chaste, a brief goodbye rather than the start of something more, but Giorno Giovanna has never been good at following these unspoken rules.
He would rather overwrite them with his own meaning, new life springing forth from the inanimate, the warmth of the kiss already fading from his cheek by the time he decides that he wants to turn this late night even later.
“Mista,” he calls belatedly, hooking a finger on Mista’s waistband to stall his departure. “Won’t you keep me company?”
His finger crooks, a little tug to catch Mista off balance. If he wanted to, he could order Mista to stay, but he won’t do such a thing. He wants to see what Mista will do, caught in a situation where the responsible thing to do would be to walk away. He’s always teasing Giorno for being a workaholic, killjoy, stick in the mud – how will he react when faced with the opposite of those things?
As it turns out, quite well.
Mista barks out a laugh, far too loud in the dimmed atmosphere of Giorno’s office. His teeth glint in the flickering candlelight that Giorno uses when fluorescent lights are too much for his aching eyes, one of his canines hooking onto soft flesh of his lower lip. Unbidden, the image of those same lips wrapped around a certain other bodily appendage flashes briefly through Giorno’s mind, and from then on he is determined.
“Sure, why not,” Mista says, allowing himself to be pulled closer. His legs are bracketing Giorno’s by the time his knees knock into the arms of the leather-upholstered chair, blocking his advance.
Now would be the time for Giorno to rise, to lead them both to the much more comfortable couch after perhaps a kiss or two. This would be the responsible thing to do, but tonight is not a night for responsible decisions.
Giorno slides his hands up from Mista’s knees up to his thighs, feeling at the outlines of lean muscle and the slightest hint of softness. He’s always thought it a shame, covering such long and sculpted legs with hideous orange tiger print, but he’s not ready to voice that thought just yet – Mista is particular about himself, and Giorno would rather not spend their limited free time together arguing about his questionable fashion choices.
Idly, he rests one hand on Mista’s exposed waist and lets the other wander, stroking in some places and squeezing in others. It feels nice just to touch, taking pleasure in the leisureliness of it all, but Mista doesn’t seem to agree. He’s never been one to let himself be touched without reciprocating in turn, an active force wherever he goes.
When Mista reaches out to sweep Giorno’s hair behind his ear, he leans into it. Shivers, just a little, when Mista’s fingers go lower and brush the column of his neck. Lower still, until Mista is gripping his shoulder for balance while he clambers onto Giorno’s lap, the chair creaking with the addition of his weight.
Giorno pays it no mind; he paid good money for this chair among other furnishings in his office, and if it can’t hold up now then it deserves to be trashed. What’s the point of becoming the Don Passione if he can’t ruin a few chairs for the fun of it?
Mista seems to agree with this sentiment anyhow, smiling wide when he sees Giorno peeling the glove off his right hand. The belt soon follows, sliding to rest on the floor in a discarded loop, and then there is nothing stopping Giorno from tugging Mista’s pants down his hips just enough to expose the plain fabric of his briefs.
This is a part of Mista that’s always appealed to Giorno – the plainness of him underneath the expensive patterned fabric and loud personality. Giorno can never escape his flashiness, as Mista so often reminds him. His golden hair is a beacon even in the darkness, long and reflective, but this is not the case for Mista.
Mista bleeds into the shadows with nothing tying him to the mortal world, liquid ink pooling in his irises. Without his cap, his choppy black hair is nothing more than vague outlines; without his shirt, pulled over his head and discarded somewhere on the floor, his skin is bronzed in the dim light.
When the pants are finally gone as well through some careful maneuvering, Giorno can admire Mista unashamedly, resplendent in his simplicity. Black eyes, black hair, white teeth bared in predatory excitement.
“Hey. Isn’t this kind of dirty?” Mista says amusedly, squeezing his thighs around Giorno’s. “I’m practically naked and you’re – not.”
This is true: Giorno’s still covered head to toe in his fitted suit, jacket unfastened but shirt still securely buttoned up, feeling the warmth of Mista’s bare legs through his slacks. Mista is right – somehow, it feels more illicit to still be clothed in this situation, something both empowering and disarming about it.
“I can take my clothes off too, if that’s what you’d like,” Giorno says, shrugging his way out of the constrictive jacket. When he makes to unbutton his shirt past the second button, though, a hand on his wrist stops him.
“Nah.” Mista leads Giorno’s hand to his chest instead, his heart beating quick and strong against Giorno’s chilled fingers. “Stay like that. You look kinda like a businessman cheatin’ on his wife. Or maybe a low-level boss.”
Giorno raises an eyebrow. “Is that not what I am? No wife, but I am your boss.”
“Yeah, but you’re not low-level,” Mista argues. “You gotta look sleazy for that.”
“Alright,” Giorno acquiesces, a quiet sigh of mirth escaping his lips. “Then if I’m the sleazy gangster, what does that make you?”
“Uh. Your bodyguard?” Mista says belatedly, as if he hadn’t thought of his own imagined role.
Giorno squeezes Mista’s hip in response, pinching a bit at the muscle there. “I don’t know if that’s the right role,” he says, sliding his hand up to cup Mista’s cheek. “I don’t suppose most gangsters would touch their bodyguards like this. Or want them quite so much.”
Mista laughs then, higher and more breathless than his usual cackles, and Giorno knows he’s caught him there. Teasing turned to desire, idle want turned to need. Giorno finds that he sometimes prefers Mista like this, reduced to his barest appetites, careless with his passion.
“Yeah, sure,” Mista says enthusiastically, pressing just that bit closer to Giorno. “I can be – I’ll be some hooker you picked up. ‘Cuz you were feeling pent up and lonely, and I was cheap.”
The first part of that statement is true; the second is not. Giorno aims to make the clarification very clear. “I was feeling pent up. And lonely,” he says slowly, winding an arm around Mista’s neck to pull him closer. “I was looking for some company.”
Mista grins, entertained by the unfolding scenario Giorno is putting together. “Looking for somebody to keep your dick company, more like.”
Crude as always. Giorno likes that about him too, how he doesn’t filter his words even after Giorno ascended the seat to Don. But then again, Giorno likes most things about Mista. No need to pick out the specifics.
“I was looking for company,” he repeats, ignoring Mista laughing in his ear. “But I have expensive tastes. A refined palate, if you will. And you were very, very expensive.”
Priceless, if Giorno were to be upfront about it. But that’s not the game they’re playing right now, so Giorno keeps that thought to himself.
“I would never refuse a quick buck,” Mista agrees. “I followed you back ‘cuz you were pretty and looked like you had the cash.”
“I led you into my office,” Giorno continues, dropping a kiss on Mista’s shoulder. “I had you undress for me.”
“A striptease?” Mista snickers. “You can’t call that a striptease, I would have put more effort into it if you’d told me.”
Giorno shakes his head, the escaped curls of his hair brushing against Mista’s neck. “I liked it well enough,” he says. “I have a refined palate, remember? I prefer simple luxuries. I can’t stomach anything too rich.”
“Fancy way of saying you think I’m boring,” Mista says, but he still tilts his head to accommodate Giorno mouthing his way up his neck. He smells faintly of his usual cologne and something else fruity, the same scent that Giorno breathed in earlier.
His mouth waters at the memory, teeth scraping over the edge of Mista’s jaw. He wants to bite. He wants to devour, ripping the flesh out of Mista’s throat and bathing in the blood that sprays out.
He does none of those things. Instead, he tips Mista’s head down to meet his lips halfway, tasting the vaguest hint of sweetness on his tongue. It’s hot and wet and a little sloppy with how eager he’s being, but Giorno doesn’t mind. How could he, with Mista rocking forward on his thigh, scraping his tongue over Giorno’s teeth?
“Come on,” Mista urges, biting a little at Giorno’s lower lip. “Get on with it.”
“Shouldn’t a prostitute be a little more seductive?” Giorno says in response, but he obeys anyways, wondering who’s the boss and who’s the hooker now.
The first actual touch on Mista’s cock has him sighing against Giorno’s cheek, hips jerking forward to chase the sensation. Usually it’s Giorno who’s reacting to every touch, easier to rile up with his younger age and lesser experience, but it’s been a while since they’ve done anything together.
And unlike Mista, Giorno feels no difference between his own hand and somebody else’s. Release is release; the only thing that distinguishes something like this from his jerking off silently in the dorm bathrooms when he was fifteen is the intensity with which he feels the desire.
So Giorno can’t say he’s ever felt pent up. Wanting, sure. Yearning for something more. But he did not live his life like Mista’s, a girlfriend on his arm every week to keep him company when he tired of taking care of his base needs himself.
He’s glad for it, now. The pragmatic attitude that Mista so likes to call unromantic and just plain sad, man. It’s what allows him to keep his wits about him as Mista jerks and shakes apart in his hands as he keeps bringing him to the edge, again and again and again.
Giorno keeps a barely-there hold on Mista’s waist all the while, too light to be a grounding touch. He wants Mista to feel only the hand on his cock, working him slowly and firmly. He wants Mista desperate and stupid with it, beyond begging by the time Giorno finally gives it to him.
At times like these, Giorno wonders if he might have inherited something from his mother aside from her face, after all. His mother did so like to tease, always holding his toys and snacks just out of reach until he either gave up or jumped for it. He thinks that those were the only times she ever smiled at him, laughing at his pathetic attempts at snatching whatever was in her hand.
Yes, his mother liked to tease. Even when the game stopped being a game at all and he was left crying with the frustration of it, so wrapped up in her own amusement that she had failed to notice (or hadn’t cared at all) that the subject of her joke had stopped participating.
But unlike his mother, Giorno is impatient. He might play the same games, pantomiming the motions of a calmer, more collected man, but he knows under the coat and the suit and the gloves he is still the boy who can’t stand to wait for somebody else to give him what he wants.
He wants. He wants so badly that he can’t help but to move, and move he does, fumbling in his drawers with his free hand for the little bottle of oil he bought months ago but didn’t open until now. Mista is still too distracted by his touch to pay much attention to the rustling, but he cracks an eye open at the pop of the cap opening and smiles.
“Real hopeful – ah – there, aren’t you?” he says, leaning back against the desk. “How long has that been there?”
“Seven months,” Giorno says, because he’ll never lie about something like this to Mista. He wants him to know that he’s thought about this before, fucking in his office. He wants Mista to remember this moment every day after today, face flushing at the memory of everything they did.
If things all go to plan, they will be doing quite a lot. Giorno is counting on it.