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Buccellati had known there was something odd going on the moment Mista had caught him, asking where Buccellati was headed for as he walked down the halls of the villa they were borrowing for the time being. Mista had nodded his head to the files Buccellati held in his hands, old dossiers that he was making his way to the living room to use as kindling in the fireplace.
“Information on the assignment?” Mista came, with a keen interest that made Buccellati wonder. His eyes narrowed slightly and he looked down at his hands. Mista seldom cared enough to read files himself, always waiting for Buccellati or Abbacchio to give him the need-to-knows of every mission. The fact that Mista seemed to be sweating, too—whether or not Mista was being impersonated or controlled by an enemy stand was most certainly the first question on his mind.
Buccellati counted out four of the dossiers, fanning them out just enough to make the quantity apparent as he held them out to the boy. “Just old files. You can help me burn them.” Buccellati looked at the gunman hard, watching the way his eyes scanned them, and he shied back, rubbing the back of his neck in clear discomfort.
“One more or one less, boss. Sorry.” Mista said, tugging a bit at his collar. Buccellati’s shoulders relaxed, and he let his guard fall once more, shifting the folder on top back to his own stack.
“Sorry, Mista.” Buccellati watched as Mista took the stack, falling into step beside him. He chastised himself for a moment over his paranoia, even though it had been warranted—he didn’t like mistrusting people like Mista, not when his gang was closer to him than family had ever been.
They’d made their way to the living room, Mista kneeling down and forgoing the gas to make a proper wood fire. He crumpled up the first few pages and scattered them on top, watching them burn as Buccellati leafed idly through his own, eyes ever so often drifting down to watch Mista prod at the fire with the iron poker.
Walking over to the fireplace, Buccellati dumped one dossier on the top—the fourth one. Mista noticed that, the corner of his lips curling up in gratitude. Buccellati’s gesture was enough to ease to pang of anxiety at the front of his mind, but he still grabbed two, preparing to drop them on at the same time just to be sure.
“Thanks. People didn’t humor me until I met you guys.” Mista turned to Buccellati, who looked at him from the corner of his eye, before turning back to watch the edges of the papers curl upwards and crumble into ash. Mista placed the last two files on top, and putting his hands on his knees as he rose to his feet and brushed the black residue off his hands.
“What did they usually do?” Rising to his feet, Buccellati moved across the room to take a seat on one side the large ivory divan shoved into the corner. Mista’s eyes flitted over him, glancing around before he decided to plop down in the middle.
“One guy said ‘Wow, Mista. You’re a freak, did your mom drop you four times, or are you just a bitch?’.” Mista rested his chin in his palm, and continued. “I don’t think he liked the number four after he took the same number of my knuckles to his nose that many times.”
Buccellati wanted to laugh at that, but he didn’t. Mista hadn’t said it like he was showing off—only being genuinely honest.
“I dislocated two of my metacarpophalangeal joints though, but that’s what I get. Four is not a good number.” He finished, leaning back against the divan and tossing his arms over the back. “Everyone else just kind of said it was weird and ignored it.” Mista sounded like he was finished, but then narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Abbacchio still gives me shit for it, though.” He added like an afterthought.
The corners of Buccellati’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly in mirth. “That sounds like something Abbacchio would do.” Buccellati came admittedly, crossing one leg over the other and taking note of the way Mista’s arm was draped above his shoulders. The boy still seemed nervous, and Buccellati couldn’t help but be concerned as to why.
“He. . .means well.” The man continued, rubbing his finger against his lower lip before glancing over at Mista to scrutinize him. “By the way, is there something bothering you, Mista? You can tell me.”
Mista seemed caught off-guard by the sudden question, eyes widening as his hand moved against to rub at his shoulder in a way that was more an admission of guilt than anything.
“Look, boss, I. . .” Mista seemed to struggle with his words for a moment, before his expression hardened, noticeably growing serious. “—I got something I’ve gotta. . . ask you.” The way the word ‘ask’ fell out of his mouth was strange enough to make Buccellati curious, as if it’d only been used for lack of a better way of putting things.
It seemed his suspicions were right, when Mista scooted in and let his arm fall against Buccellati, Buccellati’s shoulders going slack beneath it as the boy leaned in. The breath Buccellati sucked in barely trembled, and his eyes stared at Mista hard and with no semblance of emotion. His first instinct was to stop Mista’s lips from pressing against his, but he didn’t—not out of shock or surprise, but simply because he wanted to observe.
A hand came up to Buccellati’s cheek as their lips met, and Buccellati remained perfectly still, swallowing the urge to stroke his fingers across Mista’s wrist. He’d always loved the gunman’s strong, rough-looking hands, even more so with the presence of the thin hairs across the back that Trish had seemed to find so unsightly. Buccellati hadn’t given the comment much thought, since the girl could be somewhat pretentious at times.
Buccellati gave a little involuntary sigh against Mista’s lips as the kiss continued, finding himself pleased, if not confused, by the suddenness of it. He’d been under the impression that there was something going on between Mista and the newest addition to their gang. Something of this particular nature, if the way Mista had seemed so taken with the blond was anything to go by.
However, he didn’t know for sure, and he knew Mista well enough that at the worst he was an inelegant flirt, and at most times willfully devoted to a singular pursuit.
“What’s this, Mista?” Buccellati asked, eyes fluttering open when Mista pulled back just so. “You and Giovanna are. . .” He added as his voice tapered off, his skewed brow and calm expression saying the rest as Mista nibbled a bit at his lower lip. Buccellati’s eyes briefly flicked over the faint sheen of sweat on the back of Mista’s neck—why was he so nervous?
“Giorno won’t mind.” Mista responded after a second, a flush rising to his cheekbones.
Ah, so he had been right about that. But. . .
“You’re no cheater, Guido.” Nimble fingers curled into the front of Mista’s sweater to tug him forward. Mista clenched his eyes shut, knowing full and well what was coming next—though that didn’t stop him from giving a slight grunt when he felt Buccellati’s lips softly graze beneath his jaw, followed by a gentle mouthing and the press of a tongue.
When Buccellati pulled back, he did so only slightly so as to capture Mista’s lips. He immediately slipped his tongue past the boy’s lips, letting the faintly sweet taste of Mista’s sweat mingle between them. Mista found his heart pounding a bit more than it probably should have been as Buccellati caressed the sides of his face in between thin, splayed fingers. He couldn’t help but marvel at his capo’s ability to remain so pristine, so collected, even in the act of shoving his tongue down another’s throat.
When Buccellati pulled back, breaking the string of saliva between them with the swipe of his tongue, eyes fixed intently on Mista, he looked nothing other than flawless.
“Do you taste that?” He came, cupping Mista’s chin. The gunman’s bittersweet taste had not been sweet enough to be that of a true lie, but rather one of omission. “—you’re not telling me something.”
“I-I didn’t quite catch it. Maybe we should try again?” Mista’s mouth supplied, still managing to sound smooth despite his nerves.
Buccellati couldn't resist a smirk at that, and relented when Mista leaned in again.
It was a real kiss this time, electrifying now with both parties consenting. Even Buccellati could feel himself responding to the rough warmth of Mista’s palms as one fit in the curve of his waist, and another smoothed beneath the lapels of the jacket and over his bare skin. Younger, more inexperienced as Mista may have been—much more in personality than in actual age—he was able to make Buccellati moan softly at the eager forwardness when a trigger-calloused finger brushed over his nipple.
The creaking open of a door found Mista and Buccellati frozen on the divan, Buccellati’s fingers threading through the ivory tasseling of the cushion he was grasping with Mista poised between his legs. The other hand that was sliding through Mista’s short, dark locks was perfectly still, though in the silence the patterned beanie slipped the rest of the way off and landed with an audible flop against the floor.
Buccellati’s head rolled back against the cushion as he watched Giorno close the door quietly, his eyes not missing when the wall sconce twisted into a tapering vine that curled down to turn the lock behind Giorno’s back, before retreating and settling against the wall. He lifted his gaze from the tiny white buds that began to blossom along the length of the vine, up to Giorno’s expression.
Unphased, but pleased in the way his eyebrows rested loose above his clear blue eyes, and in the delicate way his hands cradled the two bottles of wine. Giorno’s shoes clicked against the floor as he walked, stopping before the two and setting down the bottles. Buccellati couldn’t help but admire the selection—a sweet prosecco, more than likely for Giorno himself, and an unassuming dolcetto.
Giorno was fluid in the way he drifted away from the table, taking a step forward and swiping Mista’s beanie off the floor. It jingled with the bit of ammunition Mista had stashed away, Mista giving a slight chuckle as Giorno snorted at him and set it off to the side. It seemed to be an intimate moment, but the pieces were fitting together in Buccellati’s head.
Mista gave a glance down at Buccellati, then back up at Giorno just in time for the blond boy to press a kiss to the corner of Mista’s mouth, before moving in to deepen it with the slide of his hand. Buccellati felt the flush of warmth as Giorno’s fingers splayed over his own on Mista’s shoulder, the boy’s thumb brushing over his in a way that made his intentions clear. There were no end to the surprises when it came to Giorno, were there?
“So this was your plan, Giorno?” Buccellati came, his tone teasing but altogether too focused on the soft meshing of the two pairs of lips, and the way Mista’s hands gripped him tighter when he inhaled through his nose, to truly let the emotion reach his eyes.
Giorno pulled back, looking at Buccellati as his lashes dipped into a sensuous yet modest half-lidded stare. “Is this alright?” He said, seemingly asking two questions at once—both rhetorical, since he leaned in, cupping Buccellati’s cheek and letting his lips hover dangerously close to the other’s.
Rhetorical or not, Buccellati answered him in the form of his free hand sliding up the suit-clad back of the younger boy to toy with his short braid as their mouths met.
Buccellati wouldn’t admit to being floored, but Giorno kissed like an angel at first, chaste and intimate all at once, before betraying it with the sudden gripping of Buccellati’s collar, and the subsequent hungry press of lips. He kept it tame, never allowing it to tip over into unbridled greediness—though it was clear enough that Giorno was tasting him with the fervor of someone grasping something long-coveted. Giorno was young, but something in him was frighteningly ambitious. It wasn’t ego that left Buccellati with the impression that he himself was the object of one such ambition; if anything, he was humbled and charmed by it.
When they parted, Buccellati brushed away a strand of black hair that clung to his damp lip, his chest lightly heaving as he resituated himself on the divan. He looked up to Mista, who was blushing down to his midriff that stretched out from beneath his cashmere sweater as he watched Giorno step away. Buccellati couldn’t help the way that made the corners of his lips curl upwards. Mista was smitten.
Buccellati followed Mista’s gaze as Giorno turned and went away, to settle into the chair across from the divan and let his arms drape across the carved wood rests with all the languishing poise of a bishop at his cathedra. Buccellati didn't miss the subtle irony in his mind’s choice of comparison when the boy pulled a handful of something slithering and scaly from his pocket.
Several tiny, thin bodies, blue-black in the dim light of the room, curled over Giorno’s finger’s as he plucked one of the snakes up and brought it forward—when it transformed into a simple wine glass, Buccellati felt Mista shudder, feeling himself similarly unnerved but in subtle awe.
There was the sound of a bottle being uncorked, followed by Giorno pouring himself a glass of the prosecco. The boy brought it to his lips, the other snakes still slithering around freely as Giorno payed them no mind. It wasn’t as if he was showing off—the use of his stand was simply second nature at this point. He was watching, waiting, and Buccellati had already gotten the memo.
The capo didn’t know how exactly he felt about the odd reversal of power as Giorno looked on coolly, while he himself laid against the couch with his subordinate’s hands smoothing down his thighs, but as he began to unfasten his coat, his fingers trembled with something akin to excitement.
The material of his suit pulled back to reveal his chest, and Buccellati could feel the two pairs of eyes on him. Mista’s were the most intense at this moment, and he turned to gaze at them, reaching to tug at the bottom of the boy’s sweater. Mista pulled it off and over his head, and Buccellati looked on in satisfaction as he finished tugging his coat down his arms.
Both fittingly unclothed for the time being, Mista leaned down, fingers now spreading over the man’s bare skin as he touched like he was trying to convince himself everything was really happening. Buccellati considered the boy’s movements shy and reverent, before quickly changing his mind about the former when Mista skipped his lips and went right to his chest, mouthing against heated flesh.
It was so like Mista to go from tentative to facing things head-on in a situation like this, like he’d suddenly discovered sex was no different from gripping a gun and putting a bullet in someone’s knee, or a fist in someone’s jaw.
Buccellati’s head lolled to the side as he let out an unintended gasp, as Mista’s tongue moved to trace along the cut curves of his chest, before his lips clamped down around one of his nipples. When teeth grazed it Buccellati felt his arousal spike hard, and his hand tightened around a fistful of short, dark hair as Mista looked up briefly to gauge Buccellati’s reaction. He rewarded himself with a breathy snort of laugh, probably proud of himself for getting it right so quickly.
When Mista pulled back with a pop Buccellati was already pressing back firmly against the boy’s thighs, running his fingers over his own abused chest as purple and red blossomed against his skin—all in places where it wouldn’t be seen, Buccellati noticed, and was grateful to Mista for. He looked down at Mista with affection in the blue of his eyes, Mista catching it and looking away as he kissed his way down Buccellati’s stomach. The smile on the boy’s lips was evident as it pressed into the flesh beneath his navel, and trailed down to where Mista was unzipping Buccellati’s pants.
When the open air of the room—cool, in comparison to his heated skin—hit Buccellati’s bare length, he suppressed a shiver once, and then again when Mista’s breath puffed against it.
“I swear, you and him both.” Mista grunted, though he didn’t sound off-put when he reached in and pulled Buccellati’s cock free from his pants. “—I’ve gone commando a time or two, but shit .”
Buccellati spared a glance as Giorno shifted in his seat, re-crossing his legs the opposite way as he hid his smile, smooth and coy, behind the bubbling ivory of the prosecco. His own eyes traced Giorno’s movements—he didn’t seem to be overtly aroused yet, but the way his fingers gripped the wood of the chair and the stem of the wine glass, and the way his face flushed high on his cheekbones told a different story.
“Several days ago it was convenient and now it’s bizarre ?” Giorno questioned, leaning forward to grab the bottle and top off his glass. When he did so, one of the two remaining snakes curled its body around the stem of the bottle, its forked black tongue flicking out for only a second. Giorno left it there for a moment, as he set the prosecco down and turned to the dolcetto to begin uncorking it.
Buccellati didn’t know if Giorno remembered or simply had good taste, but he hummed appreciatively as the snake still curled around Giorno’s fingers morphed suddenly into a second glass, which the boy filled halfway with the deep red liquid. He slid it across the table to Buccellati, who took it in one hand and tilted his head in thanks as his eyes fixed back down on where Mista was situated between his legs.
Mista wasn’t hesitant to pull Buccellati’s cock free from his pants, which he tugged down further on the man’s thighs as his lips pressed against the head of it. Buccellati was already mostly hard, but when he felt the warm heat of Mista’s tongue slide down his shaft and back up as the boy came off with a pop, he could feel himself stiffen against the lips mouthing down his length.
Taking care not to spill the wine, Buccellati took a sip with steady hands, before holding it back and off to the side as he curled his nails against Mista’s scalp when the boy’s mouth wrapped around his cock once more. Mista bobbed his head, taking the length back as far as possible until it bumped against the back of his throat and slid deeper. The sound Buccellati made was low and drawn-out, moaning as his head fell back and with no free hands to stifle it.
Giorno’s chest rose and fell as he watched, his own pants seeming suddenly all too tight as he watched as Mista blew their capo. Bruno Buccellati was a powerful man, not just with his stand but in his rank in Passione, as well. There was something deeply satisfying to Giorno to see the man who embodied such stark righteousness and ruthlessness arching up from the cushion, black hair falling across his brow as he shamelessly groaned out his pleasure.
Without thinking, Giorno stood from the chair, wresting his fingers free from the last snake and setting it down against the table in its original form of a wine glass. He closed the distance, kneeling down beside Buccellati and skating his palm against the man’s chest as he sucked back his lip.
Buccellati’s eyes flicked across Giorno’s face, his cock twitching in response as he surveyed the boy’s lustful expression and the way his plump lower lip glistened when he released it. He could read it well enough, and responded in his own by cupping Giorno’s shoulder and bringing him forward. Buccellati mouthed against the boy’s Adam’s apple, feeling it bob beneath his teeth as he scraped them there lightly, before stifling a moan in the curve of Giorno’s neck when Mista teased beneath the head of his cock.
The sound of Giorno’s soft moan had both of the other’s hearts racing, as Mista pulled off of Buccellati’s cock to watch the man lave his affections across the blond’s neck. Giorno could barely help when he tilted his chin up and draw his nails against Buccellati’s chest, as the man nudged the collar of his suit aside to nip at the boy’s shoulder.
“You two are gorgeous.” Mista said, swallowing sharply and watching transfixed as he languidly stroked along the length of Buccellati’s cock. Buccellati gave a pleased sigh at this, eyes going half-lidded as he pulled away from Giorno to look down at Mista. Giorno followed his gaze.
“I could say the same about you and that hand around my cock—you have such nice hands, Mista.” Buccellati breathed out, quietly as if it had been a secret kept—which it had been. Until now, Buccellati wouldn’t have dared to let his attraction show, and still he couldn’t quite put his fingers on why he was letting this happen. Mista, he perhaps could have turned down, though in no way due to a lack of physical attraction. Giorno. . .well, there was something about the boy’s charisma that made it difficult to say no.
Buccellati could tell that this had been a result of Giorno’s orchestrating. He could tell by the look in the boy’s clear blue eyes, just the way he could tell that Mista was just along for the ride but enjoying it just as much. The gunman’s own patterned jeans were tight, the front of them bulging in testament to his enjoyment. Buccellati lifted one of his legs, pressing his foot to the Mista’s clothed cock and applying enough pressure to make the boy grip Buccellati’s thighs as he shuddered.
“You can do it harder. He likes that.” Giorno whispered into Buccellati’s ear, making the man’s eyes go wide as his mind concocted the most shameful imagery in his head. He shouldn’t have been thinking about Giorno’s low-heeled shoes pressing down over Mista’s clothed cock—but he was, and the wave of heat it brought was doubled when Giorno’s head rested in the crook of his neck, both of them watching as Buccellati ground his heel in.
It was Mista’s turn to throw his head back as Buccellati’s sock-clad foot worked over him, stroking him to full hardness until the boy was kneeling and trembling and gripping Buccellati’s thighs harder than ever. The boy pulled one of his hands back to stifle a moan against the meat of his palm when Giorno laughed softly. The whole ordeal seemed like quite a lot for Mista, whose face was the reddest Buccellati had ever seen it.
“G-Giorno’s a screamer. Real loud.” Mista bit out in an attempt to salvage a bit of his pride, making Buccellati arch a brow in surprise, having to pause as he drained his wine. Giorno flashed a glare at the other boy, but didn’t argue as he stood to his feet, taking Buccellati’s glass and setting it aside on the table.
“Maybe we can show him, later.” Giorno teased, watching for Buccellati’s response. “. . .but not now. Him first.”
A swallow and a shudder were Buccellati’s concise reaction to the implication of Giorno’s words.
Buccellati let his limbs go slack as Mista came forward, sliding his hands up the man’s sides as his did so and capturing his lips. The way the boy moved up his body and between his legs was oddly enrapturing, Buccellati melting back against the divan as Mista claimed his lips. Giorno’s hand slid through his hair, massaging his scalp gently and in a way that was mind-numbing—his mind was already growing hazy from the kissing, like between the meshing of mouths and tongues and teeth, not enough oxygen was slipping through to his lungs.
He kissed Mista until he was breathless, before tugging the boy’s head back and letting his own loll off to the side as he took in the much-needed air.
“That okay, boss?” The gunman whispered into the capo’s ear, hands smoothing over his hips and back around to grab his ass. Buccellati braced himself against Mista’s chest as he pressed back into the boy’s kneading fingers, levelling him with a hard look.
“Make it good, Mista.” Buccellati ordered, hooking his finger in Mista’s belt loop and tugging it down his hip.
Mista quickly took the hint, swallowing his anticipation as he dragged his pants and briefs down all at once, his hard cock springing free. Buccellati felt his mouth grow wet at the site of it, as his body tensed in the same excitement as before. It’d been awhile since he’d done it like this—under a man. It had also been quite some time since he’d been like this with more than one person. He liked it, the feeling of multiple pairs of hands smoothing over his bare skin.
As if sensing this, Giorno took Buccellati’s chin, tilting his face in and kissing him properly, a pleasant distraction as Mista slid Buccellati’s slacks down his thighs. He chased the fleeting material with his tongue, leaving marks down Buccellati’s inner thighs and all the way down to his ankle, which he cupped to his mouth as he stared down.
Seeing his capo’s legs spread for him like this made his cock throb. There weren’t many people he was interested in seeing like this, not since the first time he’d fallen into bed with Giorno and had the boy thrashing against his mattress, blond curls framing his head as he cried Mista, Mista, Mista over and over again like a prayer.
Buccellati was one of the few, and hell, he might have to go to confession for the first time in forever in return for what it would do to his ego to make Buccellati come undone. His chest puffed out as he forced his confidence forward. He liked to think he was good , like by divine grace this was the one thing God had blessed him with aside from Sex Pistols, killer aim, and a simple heart.
Buccellati’s mouth faltered against Giorno’s plush lips when he felt cool, slick fingers slide against the cleft of his ass. Giorno grasped him tighter, swallowing the man’s moans and sliding his tongue along Buccellati’s lower lip. The mix of sensations was overwhelming when Mista’s fingers pressed inside him, eased along by the way his body relaxed as Giorno dominated the kiss.
It was strange how much this submission of power excited Buccellati; even more so, it was strange how exciting it was to see these sides of his subordinates. He was a year Mista’s elder, and although the boy was anything but stupid, he was still carefree and prone to silliness—now he held Buccellati’s hips in one large hand like a lover as he fucked him with his fingers just the same.
Buccellati had watched those hands wipe sweat from Mista’s handsome brow, or residue from a gun with a linen cloth. He’d seen empty bullet casings slide between the boy’s fingers and clatter to the ground as he emptied his gun, digits moving expertly to reload in the blink of an eye before flicking the cylinder back into place in a single fluid movement. In Mista’s fits of tetraphobic paranoia, clammy hands would clench around the expensive material of his sweater whenever he encountered that particular number, and though the act mystified Buccellati, he watched with interest all the same.
Pining was too infantile a term for Buccellati’s appreciation of the gunman, and lust too strong. However, when Mista’s fingers bumped against his prostate, he let out a choked sound and wondered if he had been lying to himself.
Giorno—well, he’d lost track of his own moaning as the boy swallowed the sounds down with confidence and ease. The boy was enchanting and untouchable as the angels of the Ponte Sant’Angelo, but with a terrifying vivacity that shone none too innocuously beneath the surface. He couldn’t put his fingers on what that he felt for Giorno beyond simple admiration, and so instead he used them to reach for what he could grasp.
Buccellati loosened the tie at the end of Giorno’s braid, feeling the golden waves come loose from where they had been tight-fitted together. Giorno’s soft gasp was heavenly, and Buccellati gently gripped a handful of his hair and made to pull Giorno in for a kiss. He was stopped however when his body jerked back against a particularly well-aimed press of Mista’s fingers inside of him. He had only time to let Giorno’s lip slide from between his teeth as Buccellati sucked back his own, letting his forehead roll against the younger boy’s as they exchanged balmy breaths. On hitched breaths he took in the fragrant smell of Giorno’s cologne while his body writhed around the feeling of calloused fingers, languidly digging in and stretching him to submission.
Giorno couldn’t drag his eyes away from Buccellati’s expression, as the man gripped onto him and rocked back against Mista’s fingers. He glanced down to where Buccellati’s long, slender cock was leaking precum over his stomach, and upon a second thought decided to take it in his palm, stroking the man in a firm grip. His length was still slick from when Mista had blown him, and part of Giorno’s mind was screaming at him to drop completely to his knees and do the same. Thoughts barraged him, of the capo’s thighs clenching tightly around Giorno’s head as his lips descended the length of his cock and drew back up to kiss the blushing tip, or of Buccellati coming over his cheeks and painting Giorno’s face with his seed.
Giorno had to swallow hard, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth as he ached to taste Buccellati; but that wasn’t what he wanted—not yet. He gave Buccellati a few more unhurried strokes, and looked back to Mista. The other boy was glowing, grin wide at the sounds Buccellati made every time his scissored his fingers or thrust them knuckle deep and ground in deep. Mista looked up, eyes catching on Giorno’s as his proud smile faltered to make way for one that made Giorno’s heartbeat pick up.
Really, Giorno could’ve grabbed Mista’s face and kissed him senseless in his gratitude, for indulging him the way he was. It wasn’t as if Giorno’s request had been completely unfounded—he didn’t doubt Mista’s devotion to him, but he’d always sensed there was something between the gunman and his capo that, although unspoken and unacted upon, went beyond simple admiration. He felt the same way, and for all of Buccellati’s grace and poise, Giorno couldn’t help but want to see him crumbling under ecstatic pressure.
The pair showering Buccellati in their attentions seemed to come to some sort of psychic agreement, as Giorno looked back to the man and swept a strand of black hair from his lips, before stroking over his chest as Mista pulled his fingers free. Giorno stepped back and relished in the way Buccellati’s hands reluctantly dropped away, only to grasp Mista’s forearms as the boy braced himself against the divan and lined himself up.
Buccellati’s head fell back, lips open in a silent gasp as Mista’s cock slowly filled him. Mista let out a grunt, the muscles on his arms flexing as his nails dug into the cushions in an attempt to stave off the desire the push in faster. He was considerate, eyes scanning Buccellati’s face for the signs of his discomfort, and only thrusting further when he found none.
A gentle touch turned Mista’s chin upwards, as Giorno’s lips found his and they kissed messily. Mista felt his cock twitch when a swipe of his tongue against the younger boy’s had him tasting the bitter sweet of the dolcetto Buccellati had been drinking, along with the familiar taste of Giorno. He yearned for more, licking up into Giorno’s mouth and chasing his lips as they guided him down, down, until Giorno turned away to share a sloppy kiss with Buccellati. When he pulled away, Mista felt obliged to pick up where he’d left off, cupping Buccellati’s chin and plunging his tongue into an eager, open mouth.
Giorno’s hands rested on them both, one between Mista’s shoulder blades and the other on the nape of Buccellati’s neck, massaging softly as he felt their bodies shake with pleasured moans when Mista finally started to move. Buccellati was moving eagerly back over Mista’s cock, sliding up its length when the boy pulled back, then meeting him hard in the middle and seeing the insides of his lids when his eyes rolled back.
“That—ha—“ Mista began, voice broken off between huffs of air as he started pounding himself into Buccellati’s pliant body, taking him hard and slow. “—good enough for you, boss?” Sliding out and them slamming back in to the hilt, Mista punctuated his words with a grunt.
The pair of long legs that wrapped around Mista’s waist was answer enough, and he smirked as Buccellati’s hand pressed to his front, combing through the curls of his chest hair as it scrambled for purchase. Mista was happy to place his hand over it, fingers twining with the thinner, longer ones and holding it there against his chest as his other hand gripped Buccellati’s hip and dragged him back over his cock.
Buccellati bounced against the divan, his cock smearing precum messily across his own abdomen like Mista’s every thrust was forcing it out of him alongside every cry and hitched breath. “Mista. . .G-Giorno—” Buccellati started, hair fanning out half across his face as he turned to look at Giorno.
His eyes fell over the boy, seated in the chair with his hand moving slowly between his legs. There was a growing tent in his slacks which he palmed as he tilted back a glass of wine. Buccellati could feel those piercing, oddly serene eyes travelling down his body, glossing over to the profile of Mista’s thick shaft disappearing over and over again inside of him, and back up to his face, to watch Mista delicately push the hair back from Buccellati’s cheek.
He’d hardly even registered the touch high on his cheekbone, before Buccellati turned to press a kiss against one of Mista’s knuckles. The press of lips gave the boy an idea, suddenly bending Buccellati’s legs back and turning the man until he was on his side, Mista’s firm grip holding his knees as he pounded away.
“Mista, Mista . . .” Silence followed Buccellati’s breathless whimper when he was cut off. Mista’s fingers found their way to Buccellati’s mouth, and between the obscene smacking of flesh on flesh and the man’s heightened moans, Mista slipped his index and middle fingers easily past Buccellati’s lips.
The warm wet of a pillowy tongue and of Buccellati’s walls tightening around him like a vice had Mista nearing the edge. He felt his nails breaking skin on Buccellati’s legs, but the man didn’t seem deterred as he sucked on Mista’s fingers while being stretched to what felt like his breaking point.
The sensation of being watched had Buccellati’s face burning like a fire had been lit just behind his eyes, raging and making his mind a haze and he shamelessly rolled his hips back to meet Mista’s. Every time his body jolted against the onslaught of the boy’s cock as it sank further and further inside, pace steadily increasing until Buccellati was gripping the cushions just to keep from inching across it each time Mista slammed home.
With each drag of Mista’s cock inside him, Buccellati could feel the pressure building white-hot and stifling below his stomach. He could tell the boy felt the same, his thrusts falling out of rhythm and slowing down until he was pulling out almost entirely. The sudden emptiness left Buccellati wanting, only to get it a moment later with a sob tearing its way from his throat as he was shoved ever closer to the edge.
Frantically in the midst of his impending orgasm, Buccellati sought out Giorno, brows furrowing above his eyes as he felt ecstasy crashing into him like a relentless bout of waves. Giorno watched him, his expression never changing but his body leaning ever so slightly forward in the seat, and his fingers clutching around the stem of his empty glass.
“I’m—” Buccellati’s eyes shut tight as he cried out, the head of Mista’s cock striking his prostate and sliding in deep as the boy ground his way to his own orgasm. Faintly, he heard the sound of glass cracking beneath pressure, and when he opened his eyes Giorno was leaning back, shielding his expression behind a flower as several petals floated down around the boy’s feet in lieu of the bits of shattered wine glass.
It was one of the few times Buccellati had witnessed Giorno’s control slip—or rather, seen something incite such a response or the normally calm boy. Still, even now he was as cool as ever, blond locks smoothed over one shoulder elegantly as he sucked back a lip and watched Mista pull his fingers free from Buccellati’s mouth and wrap around the base of his cock as he pulled out.
By the time Buccellati’s senses came back to him fully in the wake of his orgasm, he could already feel the thick ropes of fluid painting his thighs and ass, and the slide of his own hand down his front found it decorated with the same. He rolled over partially, his back against the divan as he stretched out lazily, chest heaving from the intensity of orgasm.
For a moment, Buccellati’s eyes fluttered closed, and he swore he could’ve fallen asleep right then, despite the mess that still clung to his skin. At the loud, heavy sigh and the feeling of weight crashing on the opposite side of the divan, Buccellati cracked an eye at the sight of Mista, legs unashamedly spread and spent cock lying against his stomach as he lounged against the pile of plush cushions.
Eyes still closed, the boy felt around lazily for his hat, not giving a second thought to the bullets that clattered to the floor when he pulled it up and held it against his damp brow. He looked cute like that, charming in the way his limbs flopped out uselessly.
“Giorno.” Mista’s voice broke the silence, eyes flicking across the room to the other boy, stopping briefly to watch Buccellati reach for the bottle of wine.
Giorno was already rising from his seat, letting the flower roll from his palm and onto the table in front of him. He glanced at Mista, fingers already working on the buttons of his suit. The deep navy fabric fell away to show his chest, which was already flushed red in his state of arousal. He let it fall to the floor, forgotten as he stepped out of his shoes and slid into Mista’s lap all at once.
One of Mista’s arms curled around the boy’s waist, holding him close as the other went between his legs to palm at Giorno’s cock. Humming appreciatively, Giorno let his head fall onto Mista’s shoulder, as the older boy pressed kisses along his jaw.
“You gonna let me and the boss take care of you, now?” Mista paused to whisper against Giorno’s neck, only to follow it with a soft nip. He was rewarded with Giorno’s gasp and the press of the boy’s hips against his hand.
Buccellati felt something tug in his chest at the words, faltering slightly as a stream of dark red wine filled up his glass. He moved to set the bottle aside, only to have it plucked from his hands by Mista, who tilted it back and downed a sizeable gulp. Brushing off the exasperated look Buccellati flashed him, he held Giorno tightly against him as he leaned to place the half-empty bottle on the floor.
“Of course, Mista.” Giorno responded, taking Mista’s wrists in his hands and pinning them back as he kissed along the older boy’s jawline and back, back, until he was tugging him against his chest. Mista happily melted into Giorno’s arms, mouthing down the center of the boy’s chest and relishing in the warmth of the flesh against his lips. Giorno turned to give Buccellati a look, something the man couldn’t quite interpret until Giorno was pressing Mista against the couch.
“How do you want m—Giorno, no, no— ooh. . .” Mista’s initial question faded into a half-hearted protest as the boy slid down his front until his feet were hitting the floor. Giorno sank to his knees, taking Mista’s flaccid cock into his mouth. Head thrown back, Mista’s hands went immediately to tangle in Giorno’s loose hair, careful not to mess up the meticulous curls that still remained pinned like a crown adorning his brow. “Baby, I’m dying to do things to you—you don’t have to— oh, God. ” Mista was pleading with Giorno now, letting out a low whine as the younger boy paid him no mind.
Buccellati almost felt bad for Mista, with the way he was moaning. He was certainly still sensitive from his previous orgasm, though Giorno paid it no mind as he pulled back, stroking the base of Mista’s cock as it began to stiffen in renewed interest. Giorno caught Buccellati’s gaze once more, eyes beckoning the man to join in.
More than convinced, Buccellati finished cleaning the mess Mista had left on his thighs with the towel he’d swiped off the table. He tossed it aside, and crawled to over to Mista. The boy looked at him desperately, and Buccellati merely leaned in, making as if to kiss Mista’s lips before ducking down and pressing it to his neck instead. He trailed down, nipping along Mista’s shoulders teasingly.
Buccellati’s lips on Mista’s collar made the boy groan aloud, and then bring a hand up to stifle it when a Buccellati reached down to cup his balls. The hand around him massaged torturously slow, Giorno’s mouth moving far faster as the boy worked around the tip with his tongue just the way he knew Mista liked. His thumb paid extra attention to the thick vein along the underside, rubbing it with added pressure. After a moment, Buccellati leaned down, settling his weight against Mista’s thigh. The older boy’s half-hard cock slid free from Giorno’s mouth with a soft ‘pop’, Giorno quickly making room for Buccellati.
Buccellati was quick to oblige, doing what he’d seen Giorno doing with his tongue to tease just beneath the head. Giorno took to rubbing the boy down with his fingers, as he mouthed down past the base. Mista was squirming now, and even more when Giorno replaced his fingers with his tongue, sliding up the length of it and then back down.
“You—you guys, ha—Really, I’m gonna. . .”Mista’s whines were increasing in volume as the pair toyed with him, his hips canting up from the cushion in little jerks, forcing his cock to slide between the two’s pursed lips. “’M gonna cum before I even got it up. Don’t know if I can, but shit —”
Buccellati came up to grip Mista’s jaw gently, but with enough force to make the boy shiver.
“You’re so noisy.” He said, brows furrowed and a fond smile on his lips before he moved in to kiss him. Giorno snorted lightly from his place between Mista’s legs, but didn’t stop moving as he heard Buccellati swallowing down Mista’s moans. He let Buccellati take Mista’s length in his hand, once against turning his attention to sucking and lightly nipping at his sack as Buccellati gave him long, firm strokes.
It didn’t take long, getting Mista painfully hard again with the two working his cock in tandem—and he certainly didn’t get any quieter, once or twice breaking away from Buccellati to toss his head back and moan when the man thumbed beneath the sensitive head.
Separating his mouth from Mista’s, Buccellati swiped his fingers through the mess of precum dripping from the boy’s cock, bringing it up and looking at the boy with a faintly amused expression.
“He’s really going to come soon.” Buccellati warned.
Giorno finished with a long lick from base to tip before gripping Mista’s spread thighs and pushing himself up. Immediately he moved to unbutton his pants, eyes still lidded as he shed his clothes gracefully.
“That’s fine. We should give him a break.” Giorno response was simple and without cruelty, but Mista still furrowed his brows and watched the boy slide the dark navy fabric down his shapely legs. He couldn’t wait to be inside of Giorno, but when the boy stepped past him and took Buccellati’s wrist, bringing the fingers glistening with Mista’s precum to his mouth and licking them clean, his cock twitched against his stomach.
“Gio, I’m so close,” His pleading was almost automatic, Mista finding it difficult not to be selfish when he’d been left so achingly hard after such mind-numbing pleasure. One glance between Giorno’s legs, however, reminded him of how long the boy’s arousal had gone neglected, and he swallowed his complaints. “Let me—” His outstretched hand recoiled when he saw Giorno grab the lube and slide into Buccellati’s lap.
“You’ve come in your pants before, just from fingering me.” Giorno deadpanned, pressing the bottle of lube into Buccellati’s hand before snaking his arms around the man’s neck.
Mista’s short-lived jealousy morphed into flustered embarrassment, his face flushing deep red.
“It was one time. Do you know how long it’d been since I’d got laid…?” He argued, knowing it was useless. Really, the only way he’d make it through this without embarrassing himself via a shamefully premature end was if he took a breather. Then he’d press Giorno into the divan—or maybe take him over draped over Buccellati while the man trapped Giorno’s arms between their bodies, or slipped his cock past Giorno’s lips. Mista brought his hand to his own stiff cock, stroking himself languidly as he thought about Giorno taking them both at once, moaning around a mouthful. . .
The Giorno in Mista’s mind was clawing at Buccellati’s thighs as the cock slipped from his lips, and he rocked back against Mista, screaming something cheesy and pornographic along the lines of ‘Oh, Mista, fuck me harder, oooh— ”. The fantasy was quickly, however, brought to shame by the real thing, when one of Giorno’s unmistakable soft moans left the gunman with whiplash as his eyes snapped open and he turned to his side.
Buccellati had Giorno seated over his lap, two fingers already knuckle deep inside of the boy as he ground down over them with slow rolls of his hips. Giorno’s face was half buried in the crook of Buccellati’s neck, lips parted as a number of breathy sighs passed over them.
Mista’s mouth went dry as he gaped. No, the Giorno in his mind was a cheap rip-off of the real thing. Giorno was much classier, much quieter up until the moment where he wasn’t. Sure, he’d moan Mista’s ears off when he was fucked well enough—which Mista always made sure of, he told himself—but it was times like this that made him extra determined to make Giorno lose his cool.
Buccellati seemed to have embraced the same enthralled determination, sliding another finger in and pressing in deep to feel for the boy’s prostate. It didn’t take him long to have Giorno’s toes curling as he dug his nails into Buccellati’s shoulders and pressed himself further down. Against the curve of Buccellati’s throat Giorno stifled a much louder gasp that trembled and broke when the man pressed the pads of his fingers in harder against such a sensitive spot. Giorno reeled back, hips squirming and unintentionally sliding the cleft of his ass over Buccellati’s own hardening cock.
“Ah, Giorno. . .” Buccellati’s voice was soft, as he used his unoccupied hand to tilt Giorno’s chin in towards his. His eyes scanned Giorno’s face, still so placid but radiating heat from the pleasure running through him like static. Giorno’s breath hitched, and Mista’s did too when Buccellati’s lips met the younger boy’s. He watched the two kiss, blond waves cascading over Giorno’s shoulders as the boy combed through Buccellati’s short black locks. His delicate fingers swept them away from Buccellati’s cheek, and Mista watched with a tight chest as their tongues slid against one another.
It was a messy, careless sort of kissing, and it had Mista slumping over, watching overwhelmed and with an indescribable feeling in his chest as he braced his elbow against his thigh, and let his brow fall against his fist. He looked for all the world like a contemporary revisiting of Rodin’s Le penseur, perplexing himself over the thought of how he’d managed to get naked with two of the most beautiful people he’d ever know, and if he’d ever look as good kissing either of them as they managed to locking lips with one another.
Buccellati’s eyes fluttered open, falling over Mista and making him pull back.
“Mista, are you alright. . .?” He asked, looking downright ethereal with Giorno pressed against his chest, and his slender fingers pausing in their meandering ascent up the small of the boy’s back.
“Just wondering how I got two angels to asking me to bang them, is all.” Mista came frankly, sounding a little breathless as he stared at them in rapture. He ignored the innate blasphemy in the statement, and was wholly immune to how well he played the role of a sentimental schmuck. He couldn’t help it; Mista wasn’t bloody knuckles and gunshots every hour of the day—he had a heart that beat, and right now it was about to beat its way right out of him.
Buccellati couldn’t stop the surprised blush from coloring his cheeks. Mista’s charm was a new thing, but it didn’t seem like a thing that the boy could turn off and on—more like something that oozed out of him every once in a while, and never on purpose.
Giorno was far different, a killer look shimmering in his eyes as he pushed himself to his knees, bracing himself with one arm against Buccellati’s chest and flashing a coy expression over his shoulder at Mista. His other arm curled back, spreading himself for Mista without a hint of reservation.
“What’s your answer, then?” Giorno’s voice was velvet, and Mista’s mouth was drier than cotton as he rose to his knees. His hands smoothed over the swell of Giorno’s ass, giving a light squeeze before moving further to grip his hips.
“I’d tell ‘em ‘God, yes’.” Mista muttered quietly, thinking and then immediately forgetting about going to confession for the second time that evening. His erection had hardly softened, and so he gripped it in his hand, swiping the dripping head up against that tight, puckered ring and letting it catch before sinking himself in slowly.
Buccellati’s eyes moved between the sight of inch after inch of Mista’s cock disappearing inside of Giorno, to the look on both of their faces as they twisted in pleasure. Mista’s was far more obvious, the intense expression of how he looked when making love just as attractive secondhand as it had been when Buccellati was experiencing it firsthand.
When he looked back down to Giorno, he found the boy already shifting against his lap, one arm around his waist as the other draped over his thigh. Giorno’s hand wrapped around his cock, bringing his head down to the half-hard member and pressing an open-mouthed kiss that was warm and wet to the head of it. Buccellati shuddered and relaxed back against the sloped arm of the divan, legs spreading to allow Giorno more access. Giorno accepted it readily, lips surrounding Buccellati’s cock and descending the length of it.
Mista grunted as he gently slid past the initial tightness of Giorno’s body, feeling the boy’s legs trembling faintly under his touch. With the way Giorno moaned around Buccellati’s cock, it was obvious that he was the opposite of bothered, thrusting his hips back until he could feel the rough curls of Mista’s pubic hair pressed against him.
Taking it as good a signal as any, Mista pulled back about halfway and then pushed in all at once, making Giorno’s jolt on Buccellati’s lap and give another throaty, muffled moan. The sound this pulled from Buccellati was low hum of appreciation, as he felt the vibrations around him and the feeling of being shoved further into Giorno’s mouth.
It was difficult not to admire the slope of Giorno’s lithe, athletic frame, back arching down as he kept his hips level with Mista’s as they came together, and his head down between Buccellati’s spread legs. The boy looked gorgeous and vaguely feline, stretched out between the two of them and rocking gently. Giorno’s lips were already glistening with saliva when they slid from around Buccellati’s length before descending down one side as his hand stroked the other.
Keeping steady and patient, Buccellati resisted the urge to buck up against the boy’s touch, instead brushing Giorno’s hair back to keep it out of the way as he mouthed wetly against him. When Buccellati’s eyes rose, he looked at Mista once again, finding the boy with his eyes trained on the sight of Giorno’s mouth once again swallowing Buccellati down. Mista sucked back a lip, one eyebrow arching as he let his hands fit into the curve of Giorno’s waist and tugged him back sharply.
Buccellati’s cock slid quickly from Giorno’s mouth, in time enough for the boy to take it in his hand as he gasped, and pressed his hips back eagerly. “Just like that.” Giorno ordered breathlessly, his fingers wrapped around and jerking Buccellati’s slick length.
Mista repeated the action, feeling Giorno press his ass back in time with his thrusts and grind down around him. If anything, Mista could take a hint. He started to fuck Giorno with short, shallow thrusts, steadily sliding deeper each time. Light grunts rumbled their way out of the older boy’s throat, past his gritted teeth as he focused on the feeling of Giorno’s body around him—he was always so damn tight, and hotter than hell in more ways than one whenever Mista got inside him.
Giorno was handling the increased pace well, his mouth hanging open as he made a genuine effort continue sucking Buccellati off. It was difficult, when one of Mista’s favorite ways to give it was just the way Giorno liked it, bodies smacking audibly together until sweat was beading along their spines.
Buccellati didn’t seem to mind much, enjoying the boy’s lack of composure and the sloppy attention he was pouring over the length of his cock. It was just as satisfying to see Giorno mouthing his way down as his fingers squeezed and stroked over the head, all while being railed into Buccellati’s lap.
“You know, Buccellati,” Mista began as he pulled an arm back briefly to wipe his damp brow against his bicep, before moving back to hold Giorno’s hips and drag the boy back over his cock. “You can fuck his mouth, he definitely won’t mind.” Mista said, ignoring the way Giorno furrowed his brows, but nonetheless flicked his eyes up at Buccellati. He didn’t say anything, too busy biting back the groans that every slam was pushing out of him when Mista’s cock slid against Giorno’s prostate.
Buccellati’s sucked in a shaky breath when Giorno took one of his hands and led it back to seize a handful of blond hair. Giorno lifted his hand, moving it to wrap around the base as he took Buccellati as deeply as he could. It didn’t take any more coaxing than that for Buccellati to press Giorno’s head down until his cock was bumping the back of the boy’s throat and slipping deeper. Giorno didn’t gag, and but his throat clamped down over Buccellati in a way that made him groan out, head lolling to the side as the sound tapered off into a sigh as he began to thrust gently.
Giorno ignored the wetness welling up at the corners of his eyes as the rough treatment he was receiving on both sides, his own body trying hard just to keep from going limp from the pleasure that wracked it. It wasn’t all just the raw, physical sensation of being taken like this, but the psychological appeal of it as well—there was something viscerally exciting about the whole scenario.
The slow path of Mista’s hand along his stomach, sliding back past his leaking erection and down to his thighs would’ve had Giorno crying aloud in frustration, unashamed of demanding Mista’s compliance. Instead, he could only make an array of muffled sounds that had Buccellati’s cock throbbing as it slid back down his throat, the man throwing a hand over his mouth to stifle a sound of his own.
Mista’s touch was like hot coals, searing in his hand’s wake before it settled on Giorno’s inner thigh, feeling it tremble as his orgasm neared. His hand wrapped around Giorno’s cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts until Giorno’s legs were squeezing together.
“Giorno, I’m coming.” Buccellati warned, ever-considerate and with a tone deceptively composed as he released Giorno’s head to let the boy respond however he pleased. Giorno didn’t move, both overwhelmed by how close he was to being pushed over the edge, as well as urged on by his own desire to bring Buccellati there with him. He managed to do just that, feeling Buccellati coming hard down his throat and watching with bated breath as the boy took it all.
Giorno’s fingers squeezed the last of his orgasm from Buccellati, before his mouth pulled free and he buried his face in Buccellati’s abdomen to stifle the shout of their names as he came. Mista felt Giorno spill over his hand, and paid it no mind as he stroked him through it, burying himself deep and kissing the boy’s spine reverently. He left a trail of hickeys up the length of it and across Giorno’s shoulders back and shoulders, wherever he could reach until the boy’s writhing faded into the rise and fall of his labored breathing.
Buccellati looked similarly affected, and winded from his second orgasm. Strands of his black hair clung to his flushed, damp skin, and his thigh and stomach were marked with red trails where Giorno had dragged his nails as he’d come. It was hardly a surprise when his hand reached down, almost as if involuntarily, to grab his previously forgotten wine glass and pull it to his lips in testament to his enduring self-possession. He tilted it back and drained the contents entirely, before resting his forehead against the cool glass and looking down at the two.
“You haven’t come yet, Mista.” Buccellati said, watching as Mista wrapped his hands around Giorno’s waist and pulled him back, their lips meeting over Giorno’s shoulder in a lazy attempt at a kiss. He used the opportunity to push himself to his feet, his legs feeling a bit weak as they carried him to where Mista had stashed the bottle of dolcetto earlier.
“Yeah, I’ll get to that.” Mista replied against Giorno’s lips with a shrug, as Buccellati was left wondering with a smirk where the Mista who begged Giorno to let him come had gone as he topped off his glass once more.
Buccellati was wrapped up in the reeling of his own mind and the spread of the wine’s flavor over his tongue, when Giorno’s voice cut through the haze.
“Mista—” The sound was strained, and Buccellati glanced over to see Mista pressing Giorno back against the cushions, legs draped over Mista’s shoulders as the older boy settled between them once more. Buccellati was about to question Giorno’s ability to recover so quickly, but the pleased smile that curved at Giorno’s lips was unmistakable as he sank into the cushions with Mista pressing into him once more.
Buccellati was content to watch as Mista fucked him slowly, his own body already too spent to worry about getting excited enough for a third round. He slowly came to their sides, kneeling down beside Giorno and smoothing a hand over the boy’s chest. He was caught off guard when Giorno tugged him in for a kiss, and then again when he tasted himself on Giorno’s tongue. He kissed back with a fervor though, until the mingling of flavors gave Buccellati an idea.
Mista moved between Giorno’s legs, hips moving slowly but grinding in deep when he came down, enough to make Giorno squirm below him from the oversensitivity. Despite that Giorno took it well, stifling himself on the back of his hand. It wasn’t until he felt the chilling splash of liquid against his collarbone that Giorno threw his head back and gave a cry. The sound morphed into a drawn-out moan when Buccellati’s mouth came down over his skin, lapping up the wine and sucking a spot on Giorno’s chest where it had just been.
“Keep going, Buccellati.” Giorno managed, eyes locking on the other’s in a heated stare that almost managed to rouse Buccellati once more. The man shuddered, but complied, draining a bit more of the wine and letting it cascade down Giorno’s chest. His tongue swiped instantly up the cleft between the boy’s pectorals, which lifted upon the boy’s shaky inhale, and fell back down beneath Buccellati’s splayed fingers.
“I agree with Giorno,” Mista’s voice seemed distracted, his eyes trained on the sight of Buccellati’s fingers brushing over the blossoming red and purple spot he’d left on Giorno’s collar. The boy took Giorno’s ankles in his hands, leaning back and giving Buccellati more access as he angled his hips to slide in deeper. Giorno’s breath hitched at the new angle, his cock already taking interest at Buccellati’s attention and Mista’s particularly well-aimed thrusts.
Giorno knew it wouldn’t take long for him to come again, not when he felt Mista’s cock burning and deep as it stretched him wide, or the slow trickle of wine down to his navel and Buccellati’s lips soon after. Everything about it was perfect, the way Buccellati sucked a dark spot right on his stomach and then chased a stray drop with his tongue, and the shortened puffs of breath ghosting from Mista’s open mouth as he drew closer and closer to his end.
Buccellati finished the last of his wine, tipping the glass back and taking Giorno’s cheeks in his hand. When they met for a kiss it was intoxicating in more ways than one—Giorno’s face was already warm from more than just the sex, the light alcohol he’d had having taken its toll on him a while back. He knew it wouldn’t be long before this did too, and he swallowed it down as best he could, tangling his tongue against Buccellati’s as a bit of it escaped in a rivulet down his cheek. Giorno couldn’t be bothered to care, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and kissing him hard.
“You two are something.” Mista murmured to himself, the sight of it making his stomach tight in a lust that he used as the impetus behind his sharp downward thrusts that had Giorno’s damp thighs knocking against Mista’s equally sweat-drenched stomach. He could feel his orgasm pooling in his stomach like something molten, and it spurred him on as he pounded into the tight body beneath him harder and deeper than before.
Giorno rocked against the cushions, moaning into Buccellati’s mouth as the kiss devolved into more teeth and tongue than anything else, tasting a bit like wine and sweat and mostly like each other. When Buccellati’s hand at the base of his throat lowered him down gently, Giorno couldn’t help the light whimper at the loss of it, gritting his teeth as he stared up at the man, bouncing with every thrust into him.
Buccellati was satisfied watching and massaging vague circles over Giorno’s chest with the tips of his fingers. Giorno didn’t know if it was Buccellati’s piercing gaze or the sudden string of curses and his name as Mista forced him back against the divan, rolling his hips and working his cock deep inside, but in that moment he was gripping Buccellati’s shoulders and letting his head roll back. His orgasm took him by surprise, hitting him hard and leaving him shaking once more and he came mostly dry, cock throbbing and dripping a bit of come against his heaving stomach.
Giorno looked beautiful when he came, face twisted up and his eyes blown wide as he cried out. Buccellati held him through it, sliding a hand beneath him to the small of his back as he leaned in once more for a kiss. Buccellati shifted to the side, cheek resting against the cushions and making room for Mista to bury his face in Giorno’s chest as he orgasmed. Giorno chased Buccellati’s lips, arms falling limply against the cushions as they kissed closed-mouth and in a way that was far too chaste to have followed the night’s events.
Mista bit down over Giorno’s shoulder, feeling himself spill deep inside the boy as his body went tense, gave a few more half-hearted shoves, and then relaxed. He released his grip on Giorno’s legs, letting them slide down to wrap loosely around his waist as he flopped down on top of the boy.
Giorno broke away from Buccellati and turned to give Mista a soft kiss against his lips, one so tender that Mista hated to ruin—he did so anyway, craving to kiss Giorno deeply while he still felt himself buried deep inside of him. They kissed for what felt like an eternity, or at least long enough for Mista to wish he could kiss more than one person at a time. Lamenting the fact that he couldn’t, he pulled back from Giorno and wrapped an arm around Buccellati’s neck instead, dragging him close and kissing him just as passionately.
After a while, the kiss ended, leaving the three of them panting and sated. It might’ve been something akin to the post-sex discomfort, if not for the way Mista pushed up, untangling himself from Giorno’s legs and wiping the saliva from the corners of his mouth and fumbling to get his feet on the ground. When he’d managed that, his first concern was swiping his hat off the floor and fitting it back on his head. His second was grabbing the other bottle of wine and squinting at the label.
Mista shrugged. He liked prosecco well enough, enough to toss it back and take a long drink. When he looked to his side and met Giorno’s flat gaze, he shrugged.
“What? You guys got a head start.” Mista defended himself, before bringing the bottle to his lips again and continuing. “I’m planning on having sweet dreams tonight.” He spoke against the brim, before tilting it up and polishing off a quarter of the bottle in one go.
“That’s expensive.” Buccellati said, sounding unconcerned as he took a seat on the divan, sinking into one side and letting his tired limbs curl out. He was taken by surprise when Giorno came to him, draping himself across Buccellati and letting his head fall against the crook of his neck. Buccellati paused at first, before his fingers came down to swirl a strand of the boy’s hair around his finger mindlessly.
“I didn’t pay for it.” The boy admitted, though Giorno’s confession came as a surprise to no one. He wasn’t going to say it aloud, but ever since he’d seen the vintner on Pignasecca Street sneaking women’s undergarments from the laundromat, Giorno hadn’t minded pilfering a bottle or three of the old man’s finest every other week.
Mista set the now mostly-empty bottle back down against the table, before grabbing the discarded towel off the floor wiping his front off lazily, and tossing it to Giorno. Giorno caught it, happy to clean away the mess drying against his front. When he finished he let the towel drop back to the floor, just in time for the cushions to sink under Mista’s weight as the boy crawled over to them.
“So. . .” Mista trailed off, crossing his arms over Giorno’s stomach and propping his chin up atop them. “. . .this happening again?” He asked honestly, blinking up at the duo. Buccellati knit his brow, but looked mostly unopposed before letting his eyes slip shut and his cheek rest against the crown of Giorno’s head.
Giorno gave Mista a look that was unreadable save for a vague note of exasperation, making the older boy shake his head, and curl further against him.
“We’ll talk in the morning, then.” He murmured through a yawn.