Porco Maria, what a day. Giorno closed the door to his room behind him, closing his eyes, sagging back against it as if he needed to brace it with his body against the weight of all the bullshit on the other side.
After a moment, he flung himself upright again, tugging out the band that held his braid together and raking his fingers through his hair to pull it apart before doing the same to his victory-curl bangs. He prodded at his crunchy roots unhappily, looking around for his brush—he really ought to come up with something else to do with them, he was getting tired of having to lacquer his hair into place every day. Honestly, though, who even had a cowlick right on the front of their head? It either this or have a bit that stuck up like some kind of cute anime character. Maybe he ought to cut it all off or start wearing hats or something.
He sat down in the chair by his vanity table, spritzed his hair with conditioning spray, and set about getting the day’s knots out. Somehow it always managed to snarl at the back of his neck even though he braided it… He missed his old hair. It was so much more manageable. The feeling of releasing it from its careful coiffure to wave about in all directions was nice, though. Getting the tangles out was satisfying, and the bristles of the brush felt good against his scalp.
Once that task was done, he began to undress, finally discarding the suit he’d been wearing for the last… sixteen hours? No, only about twelve. He’d had to change after that unpleasantness this morning. At any rate, it was long past time to be out of it.
He only got to the jacket, tie, and halfway through the belt before there was a knock at the door. Giorno’s heart sank. Not again, he thought despairingly. Not when he thought he was finally, finally done for the day.
“Yes?” he called out, trying to keep the exhaustion out of his voice.
“It’s me, boss. Thought you might be hungry,” Mista answered.
Relief flooded through Giorno and he smiled tiredly at the closed door. “Come in.”
Mista entered, bearing a tray with two large bowls on it. “Cook’s already gone home for the night, so I made cacio e pepe.”
“You are an absolute treasure, Guido. I couldn’t do this without you,” Giorno said, feeling unexpectedly moved by the fact that he had a friend and lover who cooked pasta for him in the middle of the night. “I am starving, but I wouldn’t have ventured back out for fear someone would need me for something.”
“Well, eat it while it’s hot, then,” Mista said sensibly, his cheeks pinking at Giorno’s unusually effusive praise.
“Let me just finish changing,” Giorno said, turning away a little and whipping his belt out from its loops with a flourish. He felt like laughing, the combination of how delighted he was with both Mista’s presence and the fact that Mista had brought food combining with his exhaustion to leave him feeling punch-drunk and giddy.
Giorno stepped out of his pants and started in on his shirt buttons, making quick work of them, keen to follow Mista’s advice. He looked up, though, when he felt eyes on him—sure enough, Mista was watching, unabashedly ogling Giorno’s now-exposed legs. An unexpected rush of heat bloomed in Giorno’s belly, mingling with affection. Mista’s open appreciation of his body never failed to delight Giorno. It made him feel like something other than what he was to be leered at this way, something other than the man who had successfully executed a hostile takeover of Italy’s largest criminal organization, the respected and feared Don Giovanna. It made him feel like he was Mista’s… it sounded silly, but it made him feel like he was Mista’s girl, his moll, the hot little piece on his arm that all the other guys were jealous over.
Giorno imagined that it would get old rather quickly if that really was all people saw one as, but the idea of it… Never having to be the one that called the shots, his only job to sit there and look pretty and keep Mista happy? Maybe he’d act as a lure or a distraction from time to time, but mostly he’d just…. he didn’t know, really… do his makeup and suck Mista’s cock, he supposed. Love and appreciate him and be doted on in return. Be taken care of and shown off, the envy of every other gangster in town.
He turned back to face Mista fully and slowed his unbuttoning, cocking a hip and tilting his head to the side and down in a coqettish pose, looking up at Mista through his lashes. Mista’s eyes flicked up to his face and whatever he saw in Giorno’s expression made him grin, wide and wolfish.
“Uh-uh,” Mista said, waggling his finger in mock-sternness. “No dessert until you eat your dinner, sweetheart.”
Arousal flooded Giorno’s body in a warm, sweet rush at the sound of the pet name on Mista’s lips, affectionate and condescending. It was a conditioned response—Mista only ever called him that in bed, and even then, not always. It was a sign that he’d caught onto what Giorno wanted tonight. It was almost frightening, to be so known.
“Yes, daddy,” Giorno answered, keeping his voice light and teasing to disguise the breathlessness of it. It didn’t entirely work. He ran his tongue across his dry bottom lip, tugging at it with his teeth. He felt very aware of his lips and tongue—he hoped ‘dessert’ really did mean he was going to get something else in his mouth.
Mista’s lips parted, his dark eyes even darker than usual as he looked at Giorno, the cheerful leer gone and replaced by something with intent. He liked the daddy/sweetheart game just as much as Giorno.
Giorno stared back as he finished unbuttoning his shirt, shucking out of it and then stripping off his undershirt. He was left in nothing but a pair of blue boxer-briefs, and he ran a hand down his chest and stomach just to watch Mista’s eyes track it.
But he really was hungry, and he wasn’t going to eat like this, so he turned and walked over to his dresser, pulling out a very oversized t-shirt. It was ancient, soft and worn with the collar cut open, and it fell halfway to his knees. There. That was better. He didn’t need pants, he didn’t think. He didn’t want to make Mista’s life too easy after all. Actually… he reached up under the long shirt and tugged his underwear down, but was careful not to show anything to his audience. Mista had to wait, too.
He sat down at the small table by the window, and Mista followed suit. They ate fairly quickly, both of them too hungry—and too eager for what came next—to do otherwise. Mista’s cacio e pepe was delicious, as always. Giorno had eaten it (and his carbonara, and his aglio olio with extra chili flakes; Mista might know how to cook things that weren’t pasta but Giorno didn’t know) many times, but he never got tired of it. The sharp kick of the pepper and the salty, funky Pecorino Romano cheese emulsified into a creamy sauce with butter and the pasta water… Whether it was a late dinner post-work or a drunken midnight meal, nothing beat cacio e pepe when it was late and you were starving. It wasn’t as hot as it could be, but he didn’t care.
Giorno licked the last of the sauce off his lips and looked up to find Mista watching him again, his eyes heavy-lidded and soft, possessive and content like a dragon surveying his horde. Fuck, but Giorno loved him. Loved him and wanted him. He was tired, exhausted even, but he had enough energy left for this.
“Now, how about my dessert, daddy?” Giorno asked, heat pooling between his legs at the dirty feeling of the word on his tongue. He wasn’t entirely sure why it turned him on so much, but he had no plans to do any serious introspection on the matter.
“Mmm, okay, sweetheart. You’ve been a good boy, so you can have some dessert. I know just what you want,” Mista crooned. “But why don’t you come over here and sit in my lap for a few minutes, first?”
Mista pushed his chair out from the small table to allow just that, and Giorno stood and walked over to him. After a moment’s hesitation—he wasn’t sure exactly what Mista meant—moved to straddle him, arms on either side of his neck.
“Oh, you’re a naughty boy after all. So forward. You love spreadin’ your legs for me, don’t you, sweetheart?”
Mista’s strong, long-fingered hips settled on his hips and gripped him tightly, tugging him forward so that he could feel Mista’s cock through his pants, already more than a little hard, pressing up against his balls. He let out a soft, needy sound at the feel of it, at the thought of Mista half-hard all through their meal, watching him, wanting him. “Yeah, daddy, I do.”
Mista kissed him, open-mouthed and demanding, tasting of cheese and pepper, soft tongue sweeping into his mouth with no preamble, moving one hand to cup the back of Giorno’s head and hold him where he wanted him.
Giorno plastered himself all along Mista’s front, kissing back, licking at his tongue, opening for him, letting him take what he would. Maybe it was too soon, but his hips were rocking a little without his ever having told them to do so, too turned on by the feel of the rough denim of Mista’s pants against his bare legs.
Mista made a soft, hungry noise, his hands tightening on Giorno, crushing him even closer, kissing him deep and rough before abruptly pulling away. He was breathing hard.
“You’re such a sweet boy, Giorno. Such a needy, slutty boy. Is your pretty cock already all hard under that shirt?”
It was, and it throbbed, oozing pre-come at Mista’s words. He was so easy for Mista, who knew all of Giorno’s buttons and pushed them without hesitation. “Yeah…”
“Mmm, I thought so. Now, get on your knees for daddy. It’s time for your dessert.”
A wave of arousal so strong it was almost painful broke over Giorno, and he moaned softly as he rode it out. Then he slid off Mista’s lap, moving to stand, then kneel, between his open legs.
Mista reached out to pet Giorno’s hair with one hand while the other one deftly undid his belt. Giorno stared at the bulge in his ugly tiger-stripe pants, his mouth actually watering at the thought of getting his mouth on Mista’s fat cock. The hand in his hair withdrew, and he watched Mista unbutton his jeans with the intensity of a cat watching someone prepare a fish. Soon. Mista thumbed down his zipper slowly, teasing him, and then tugged his pants down a little so that his cotton-covered cock sprang up into the opening of his jeans. He pulled his boxers down, too, tugging at the waistband down under his balls.
There it was, Mista’s gorgeous cock rising up out of the dark tangle of hair at the base. It was so thick, olive-dark like his skin but flushed pink at the tip, decorated with several prominent veins. Unlike Giorno’s, the shaft was thicker than the head, giving it a rounded look and making it feel like it was splitting him open in the best possible way when Mista fucked him.
Mista took hold of it at the base, pointing it towards Giorno, and grabbed him gently by the hair with the other, pulling him in but stopping a little short, the hand in his hair restraining him from making it the rest of the way by himself.
“You want me to feed you my dick, sweetheart? You want daddy’s dick in your sweet little mouth?”
Giorno shuddered, looking up at Mista for a moment, unable to form words in the face of his overwhelming arousal. “Y-yeah… Let me suck it, daddy, please.”
Mista groaned and guided him the rest of the way down, pausing briefly to rub his cockhead over Giorno’s parted lips and then finally, finally, guiding him down onto it. Giorno opened his mouth as the head of Mista’s cock passed his lips, fat and round pre-come salty. It was so hot and heavy on his tongue as Giorno fed him more of it, and he opened his mouth wider, wider to wrap his lips around the thick shaft.
Mista kept on slowly guiding him down and down, stuffing Giorno’s mouth more and more full of his cock. All Giorno could do was moan around it with sheer overwhemling arousal until the sound cut off abruptly, the moan stoppered in his throat. He couldn’t help it, he gagged, and Mista let him pull off, sputtering. It didn’t take him long to get it together, though, and soon he was working his mouth down over it again, though not all the way. That was alright—he thought that it turned Mista on that his cook was too big for Giorno to take all of.
He gave himself over to his task, bobbing up and down slowly, concentrating on making it feel as good as he possibly could, on keeping his lips soft and pushed out, dragging his tongue along the underside and sucking every time he pulled off. Mista liked it messy, so Giorno didn’t even try to stop himself drooling all over it, didn’t even try to stop it making loud, nasty slurping noises as he worked.
He loved sucking cock, loved sucking Mista’s, in particular. He loved giving pleasure, the knowledge that he was making his partner feel good a warm weight in his belly. It was a different power than he was used to, and it was so good. He loved the taste of it, too, of blood-hot skin on his tongue, and every salty-slick blurt of pre-come made his own cock twitch and jump. And the smell, fuck, it drove him crazy, heady and musky and male, growing stronger as Mista became more and more aroused.
Mista threw his head back and groaned loudly as Giorno, driven by his own arousal, by his hunger for Mista’s come, picked up the pace, getting into a steady rhythm. After a moment, he looked back down, petting Giorno’s hair and tilting his head up a little, saying, “Look at me, sweetheart, let me see those pretty blue eyes.”
He opened his eyes and saw Mista looking down at him, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glazed with pleasure and something else, a certain smug self-satisfaction, like he was admiring a possession that particularly pleased him and congratulating himself on his choice. On anyone else, Giorno would hate that look, would hate being objectified that way, but from Mista, who he knew loved and respected him, it was different. It made him moan around Mista’s cock and suck harder, looking up at him adoringly.
Mista let out a strained chuckle. “You want it so bad, don’t you? You want—nngh… daddy’s come in your mouth?”
Giorno mmm-ed his agreement, high and desperate. God, he did want it. He wanted it so much, bitter and overflowing.
“Faster,” Mista demanded breathlessly, hips pulsing up to fuck Giorno’s mouth just a little.
Giorno moved faster, abandoning any pretense of technique and giving Mista as much hard, hot suction as he could.
“Shit, shit, Giorno,” Mista gasped, sounding incredulous, like nothing should feel this good.
Giorno whined around him, needing it, needing Mista to come.
“Get ready, sweetheart. I’m gonna… I’m gonna fuckin’—” Mista panted, babbling disjointed dirty-talk the way he usually did right before he came. “I’m gonna fuckin’ come so fuckin’ much in your pretty little mouth, Giorno, fill it up, oh fuck, oh fuck, Giorno, here it comes, Giorno, here it comes, sweetheart—“
Mista fell still and groaned through clenched teeth as his cock jerked hard on Giorno’s tongue and hot, bitter come flooded his mouth, and he couldn’t swallow until he pulled off so some of it spilled out, running from the corners of his mouth down his chin and neck. Yes.
He took Mista as deep as he could and pulled off slowly, giving him one last hard suck to milk every drop out of him. Mista shuddered and moaned under his ministrations, and Giorno pulled off and swallowed.
He sat there for a moment, dazed, looking up at Mista, watching his chest heave, paralyzed with arousal. The spell broke and he reached for his cock, intending to jerk himself off, suddenly as desperate for his own orgasm as he had been for Mista’s a moment ago. But Mista interrupted him, saying, “Hey, come up here, let me.”
As per usual post-orgasm, he sounded soft and dreamy like he was high, but Giorno wasn’t about to argue with him. He moved back into position astride Mista’s lap, being careful not to squash his dick in his haste.
“Lift your shirt up out of the way,” Mista told him, and Giorno did, staring down at his own cock, long and purply-red.
“What a mess,” Mista cooed, running a finger up the underside of Giorno’s dick and making him cry out. “You’re such a dirty boy, Giorno. Look how wet you are, just from sucking my dick. It’s all slippery…”
“Don’t tease me, Guido—daddy, please,” Giorno begged, and Mista hummed his pleasure and acquiescence as he wrapped one big hand around Giorno’s cock and started to stroke it.
Giorno cried out, rocking his hips, fucking into Mista’s grip, unable to help himself—all he could think was tight, slick, friction, good, and then after a moment he added, kissing, also good when Mista kissed him hard on the mouth, bitter and messy with the traces of Mista’s come.
It only took a couple minutes before he was spilling over Mista’s fingers with a loud, helpless moan. Afterwards, he sagged against him, mouthing aimlessly at his neck while he tried to catch his breath. God, he was tired now.
Mista told him, “Go, lay down. I’ll bring a washcloth.”
“Thanks.” Giorno rose on unsteady feet and lay down on his bed with every intention of not falling asleep until after Mista came back. But alas, it was not meant to be–he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.