Archive of Our Own

Mista is warm. That's the first thing Giorno notices. Mista has pulled him aside on the way to meet the heads of the other Famiglie for the third time this week, dragged him into an empty side-room in the headquarters they still haven't fully adjusted to, and mashed their mouths together. It's a clumsy, rushed kiss, and Mista's hands are a little too tight around Giorno's shoulders, but his lips are warm and soft and Giorno's hands curl into the fabric of Mista's sweater, keeping him close when he pulls away.

He's red-faced and Giorno can feel him shaking, but he doesn't break eye contact.

And he's warm.

Maybe it's a strange thing to notice, but the last person - the only other human - Giorno had kissed had been too cold for a human. His lips had been dry and chapped and undoubtedly more numb than he had ever admitted.

"Sorry, b-- Giogio," Mista mumbles, letting go of Giorno. Giorno doesn't let go of him. "You can just ignore that, it's no big deal. Just been bothering me a while."

He missed a patch of his jaw shaving this morning. This close, it's easy to notice. Giorno wants to touch it, but doesn't. He's not sure what to say. What Mista means when he says that is that he's been attracted to Giorno for a while, at least to the point of wanting to kiss him, and that he'll respect Giorno's boundaries if he needs to. And still calling him 'Giogio' meant there won't be any sacrifice to their current level of familiarity, if Giorno tells him to step off and forget it.

Giorno's grip on his sotto capo tightens.

Mista is warm, and solid, and here, and Giorno has wanted this, or something like it, since he dragged him across a belt of sea to Capri island. Now, there are feelings and attachment, and the want has only intensified over time. He understands why Mista grabbed him so suddenly - like a dam bursting, perhaps.

Giorno's dam is sturdier, but Mista has shot some holes in it now.

He scolds himself internally for mixing metaphors.

He's been stood here for a good minute now, thinking hard about Mista's words and Mista's lips and Mista's solid, reliable warmth. If he let go, would Mista run?

Right now, he can't tell, so he holds on, tugging down until their faces are level.

"Guido," he begins, and he can feel the tension ripple. Is it because he doesn't usually use his first name, or is it the proximity of their mouths? Mista's breath is hot and close and tempting. Giorno licks his own lips, watches dark eyes flick down to watch, returning to meet his gaze wide and nervous. "I can't be late for this meeting," Giorno tells him. Maybe it's a little cruel, but that doesn't make it less true. The spectrum of emotion that passes across Mista's face helps, too, though. Does it make him an awful friend for enjoying that startled confusion?

"Right, yeah, sorry, uh-" his voice is wobbly and his breaths are shallow, and Giorno realises exactly how much of an effect he's had on Mista, just by being close and not pushing him away. That knowledge makes him blush to match.

He presses his lips against Mista's, slow and sweet. This kiss is far less hurried than the last. Warm, heavy hands settle on Giorno's hips and he finds himself relaxing into the touch. Giorno knows how to prioritise, though, and he really needs to be on time for this meeting.

He nips at Mista's lower lip, but instead of being let go, he's rewarded with a pleased groan, and a hand moving to cup his jaw, and lips parting for him.

The temptation is strong, but Giorno is nothing if not strong-willed.

This time he bites harder, and gets a yelp, and pulls away. Mista's hands are still on him, but he has the decency to look at least a little guilty. Somewhere, under the bitten-red wet lips and the dark, hungry eyes.

"I can't be late for this meeting," Giorno repeats, and that gets through, and Mista lets go. Giorno won't give him time to feel ashamed - he steps forward, pressing flush against him to continue speaking. "But you don't actually have to attend."

There's confusion written all over Mista's expression, so he puts it plainly.

"Take care of yourself now, and after I'm done with the other dons, we can talk more about this, Guido."

Feeling Mista shake like this is gratifying, to say the least. His fingers twitch like he's about to reach for his gun, or for Giorno, and part of Giorno wants to let him. The part of him governed by his ambition and rational thought is still very decidedly in charge, however, and as much as his own hands want to explore exactly how much of Mista is shaking, it's not that hard to step away.

“I'll see you in about an hour, in my bedroom,” he informs Mista, who half-collapses against the wall with a low grunt, eyes fixed on Giorno as he leaves.

 ---

The meeting with the other dons is more a formality than anything. Unfortunately, while Giorno would take that as something that could be over with quickly, these older men apparently take it as an opportunity to socialise. Which is to say: they drink too much wine (Giorno has one glass and retains his good sense throughout. Wine is good, but level-headedness is better.), smoke cigars (Giorno politely refrains and reminds them of his age, and how clean he intends to keep his young lungs. This reminds them of how dangerous he is. Two birds.), and eat from the widest range of cheeses and meats and fruits available (Giorno takes advantage of this and enjoys a small meal made of what are essentially snacks.).

The old men have an excellent time, laughing and sharing boasts. Giorno contributes to the conversation where he can, but mostly pays attention and picks up secrets as they drop from wine-loosened tongues.

Anticipated to be short, the meeting takes three hours, during which very little work was done. If there had been less information spilled, Giorno might have been very disappointed. As it is, he is only a little frustrated, and that feeling is not so much due to the other dons.

It's far more to do with his heightened awareness of his own body. He's more distracted than he thought he could be, especially by something like this. It’s impossible for him to get quite comfortable in this chair. There's heat between his legs, and every time he thinks about soft, bitten lips, or hot hands on his face and hip, it gets worse. He catches his thighs squeezing together too many times while feigning interest in an old mans long story.

Not that Giorno is new to being wound up like this. He's a teenage boy, and being ambitious doesn't mean he doesn't have desires besides his dream. He's always assumed that his stand would suffice when it came to his baser urges for the foreseeable future, but it's different with a human, alive and unpredictable, and he knows that now he's felt a heartbeat quicken under his touch. Usually it is enough to satisfy himself with Gold Experience’s hands and occasionally its mouth, and he's never in any rush to do so. But he can't stop thinking about the hair on Mista's forearms, or the heat of his skin, or what was definitely an erection that Giorno had felt pressing against him not so long ago.

He’d done that. With a few words and one kiss, he, Giorno Giovanna, had gotten Mista hard, and thinking about that has him distractingly aroused throughout these three hours.

Not just that - worse is the way Mista had watched him leave, like there was nothing else in the world he’d rather look at.

He's able to concentrate and keep up with conversation, but the moment the others are gone, Giorno ignores all else in favour of heading straight for his suite of rooms. For Mista, who he has no doubt is waiting for him there, if he hasn’t given up after such a long time.

He hasn’t - he’s there.

The rooms are locked whenever he's not in them, of course, and sometimes while he is, so Mista is sat cross-legged on the floor of the corridor leading to Giorno's rooms, polishing his gun.

Either he doesn't notice Giorno's approach, or he does an excellent job pretending not to.

No, he has noticed - it's clear by the slow, steady strokes of his hand along the barrel of the already immaculate gun. It's intentionally reminiscent of what Giorno realises he'd ordered Mista to do while he worked, and the thrill of that knowledge makes his heart thud and his thighs twitch. Just a little. Not enough to be noticed, he hopes, though the heat he can feel spreading high across his cheekbones might be fairly obvious.

If Mista isn't going to greet him as he approaches, he'll return the favour. He steps past him to unlock the door, and as he passes him, Mista unfolds upwards. Closer than he'd thought, and right now it feels like he's towering over Giorno.

That's new: while Giorno has always been aware of the difference in height between himself and any other person, right now, like this, he feels small. His hand doesn't shake as he lets himself in, but he’s more conscious of its size now that he's had such large hands hold on to him like that.

Does Mista think about that difference? Giorno wants to tell himself he doesn't know when Mista would have become quite this aware of something like that, but even as he thinks it, he remembers steadying his aim, a small, cold hand clasped over a large, warm one, clasped over a gun. Maybe he's wrong. But he rarely is.

He's still half a metre away and Giorno is already overthinking everything as he steps into his office.

A part of him almost expects Mista to grab him again as soon as the door is closed behind them, but he too has remembered the turtle resting in a sunbeam on the windowledge, and follows Giorno across the room to his bedroom instead, silent.

He hasn't said a word since Giorno got out of the meeting, actually. Giorno's mind provides several different reasons and solutions to this, but settles on the simplest: he’s nervous.

That's ok. Giorno is nervous, too.

This time, when he closes the bedroom door behind him, Mista does something other than follow quietly.

“So,” he begins, letting the sound trail like a question. His nerves are evident now that Giorno takes a second to look at him. His gun’s down the front of his jeans, and his thumb is running over and over one of his beltloops.

More importantly - he’s stood stock still, and it's suddenly obvious that he thinks Giorno had actually meant they should talk.

They do need to, but it can wait a minute or so.

Giorno wastes no time. He grabs Mistas sweater - if he keeps doing this he’ll wind up stretching it out - and shoves his mouth against those warm lips.

Oh. That’s why the first one had been so quick and clumsy. Giorno hadn’t fully understood until now, but it’s so obvious that he feels slow for not seeing it. He needs this, right at this moment; it doesn’t matter if he’s no good at it, only that it’s him. That Mista is the one he’s crushing his lips against, the one whose arms wrap around his middle and hold Giorno up so his toes barely brush the floor. Who practically whimpers and lets his mouth open, an invitation for Giorno to do whatever he wants.

He’d expected to have a million thoughts all at once, but even if they’re there, they’re overridden by one: Giorno wants to kiss Mista as much as he can, right now, and to touch every inch of skin he can reach. He starts by letting go of the sweater and dropping his hands to the bare waist. His fingers trail down Mista's sides; his thumbs run along the dips of his stomach muscles. He delights in the unexpectedly soft sensation of body hair under the pads of his thumbs, and the way Mista's body twitches under his touch.

Now that Mista's lips have parted in apparent submission, however, Giorno's lack of experience with kissing real people is reminding him that he doesn't really know what he's doing. His Stand is only as capable as himself in that area, after all, and he usually skips kissing it beyond appreciative presses of mouth against mouth, anyway. The other - now really isn't the time to think about kissing anyone other than Mista.

That's not hard. One of those warm hands has made its way to the nape of Giorno's neck, fingers winding into steadily loosening golden hair: he shivers happily, feels his own mouth curve into a smile. Hopes Mista can feel it too. The other hand is at the small of his back, touch light and hesitant, ever-so-slowly moving downwards.

Giorno comes up with three different ways to encourage that hand to venture lower, and promptly forgets all of them because his head is tilted up and a tongue pushes against his lower lip and he forgets everything else in favour of opening his mouth and letting his own tongue meet Mista's.

During films, and while people-watching, he's always thought this kind of kiss looked relatively unpleasant, but their tongues rub against each other and slip and Giorno finds he wants to wrap his legs around Mista's waist and clutch at him and kiss him like this forever. His heart is pounding harder than he thought it could, and his thighs press together instinctively.

Before, he'd drawn a noise out of Mista. Remembering this makes it Giorno's highest priority to make it happen again, so he can appreciate it properly.

His teeth catch on Mista's tongue. Fingers tighten in his hair and press into his back, and the moan he's rewarded with vibrates through Mista's chest, pressed up against his own. Giorno feels lightheaded. Getting reactions like this to simple actions is proving far more pleasurable than he’d ever anticipated.

Mista stops restraining himself, both hands moving to grope at Giorno's ass, pushing their bodies closer together. This, finally, breaks the kiss, but only for an instant - Giorno gasps a noise he's not sure he's ever made before, arching into the touch. Then their lips are at each others again, and his name is being pressed into his own mouth.

He wants more of this, he thinks, dizzily, greedily.

Letting his own hands push up under Mista's sweater, not minding the sweat that's already forming under his fingers, Giorno moans wordlessly as deft hands grab and squeeze and rub, rough and wanting. His fingers keep brushing the very top of Giorno's thighs. It makes him shake. It makes them both shake.

He's not sure this much biting is standard for a third kiss, but Mista isn't bleeding, and each time Giorno nips at his tongue or lip he chokes out another “Giorno--”, each more desperate than the last. If that's not enough encouragement to keep going indefinitely, the hardness pressing against him through Mista's jeans certainly is.

Wait, no.

That's not- oh.

He should probably pull away to do this, but even as he thinks it, Mista falls against the wall with a soft thump, pulling Giorno with him. One of his hands slides under Giorno's shirt. It stops at the bottom of his ribcage but the warmth of his callused fingers still makes him shiver in need.

So he kisses Mista and is kissed, and they stay pressed together as Giorno worms his fingers between them and shimmies Mista's gun out from the waistband of his jeans.

The metal is hot from the skin contact, and thinking about that gives Giorno some obscene ideas he really shouldn't follow through on.

Taking Mista's weapon is enough for him to break the kiss, shoulders visibly tensing. It's a good instinct, even if Giorno is disappointed to be let go of.

Parting clears both of their heads a little, at least. Giorno doesn't want to step away yet, but he knows, even as he stares at the flush staining Mista's face and the lips he’s bitten to swollen redness,that they should probably talk at least a little.

A hand reaches out, and a broad thumb wipes away something wet from Giorno's chin.

Had he been so enthusiastic he had begun drooling? Taking a break to discuss the situation might be a good idea, then. He steps away, and Mista follows him to the bed, setting his gun on a chair on the way.

Only a moment of hesitation before Giorno sits on the edge of the bed, rather than climbing right to the middle and spreading his legs for Mista to do whatever he wants to him, what so much of him is desperate for. But even with his head full of neediness and desire pooling in the pit of his stomach, he's not so uncivilised as to do something like that with his shoes on.

Before Giorno can begin to reach down, Mista is on his knees in front of him. It's something he's seen before, but like this, it feels new. Maybe just because Giorno's mind is running wild with possible reasons for him to kneel right there. He doesn't have a chance to even consider making a joke of holding out his ringed finger for Mista to kiss; he's gently lifting Giorno's leg to take off his shoe before he can open his mouth.

One, then the other, and Giorno's hand has raised instead, to hide his blush. It's intimate in such an unexpected way - the steady support of one hand beneath his calf; how carefully Mista unlaces the patent leather brogues and slides them off.

It makes him feel - something he can't quite name. Precious certainly isn't right, and he knows Mista wouldn't be so foolish as to think of Giorno as delicate.

Whatever it is, it makes Giorno's stomach flip as much as the look in Mista's eyes. Before, he'd described them as hungry, but now, as he kicks off his own boots, shooting Giorno glances every other moment as if to reassure himself that he's still there, there's something intense and soft and sharp and focused all at once. He's looked at Giorno like this before, but this is the first time Giorno has recognised it as anything. His eyes are dark and all-encompassing and looking at Giorno like he's the most important person in the world right now.

Giorno's chest is tight.

He's rarely intimidated, but usually the things trying to intimidate him are doing it in a threatening way. Mista is - clearly, as he sits beside Giorno, leaving two inches of space between them - actively trying not to intimidate him. But there's so much just in the way he's looking at Giorno, and the way Giorno is finding himself responding to him is new and frightening.

He's not sure that frightening is the right word for it, but he doesn't have time to think about it. Mista nudges his hand against Giorno's, and then winds their fingers together, and that knocks all semblance of thought out for a few seconds.

Giorno just stares at their hands until Mista clears his throat.

"If I start talking are you gonna jump me again?" he asks, and Giorno flushes red at his blunt words. "Not that I minded-" He can go redder, apparently. "-but I know you're gonna feel more okay about anything if you're clear on what's going on, and this is the last thing that should be an exception to that rule."

He's right. Communication is just as important as the changing shape of Mista's mouth as he speaks, or the sweatshine under his stomach hair, or the way the fabric of his sweater stretches around his shoulders. More important than those things, Giorno corrects himself. Hormones are a thing to be contested with, and it feels like they've all chosen today to hit him at once. He's felt attraction plenty before - towards Mista, even - but this level of intimacy is new, and Mista's right: getting carried away now will make things more difficult in the long run.

He nods, and Mista squeezes his hand and smiles, and that's enough to set Giorno's almost-calm heart pounding again.

"So, it's obvious by now, I guess, but: I like you, Giorno." It is obvious, but hearing it said aloud still makes his chest tighten. "Like, you're... probably the most important person in my life right now, and--"

He clears his throat again, suddenly unable to look Giorno in the eye. Mista isn't one to give up on something he's started, including a sentence, but it's reassuring to see him falter with that nervous expression. He can see Mista gather his resolve as he swallows and then leans across until his mouth is barely an inch from Giorno's ear.

"I mean," Mista's voice is low and quiet and his hot breath sends a shiver down Giorno's spine. "You know you're really beautiful, right?"

Giorno wants to curl up in a ball and wrap his arms around himself. Giorno wants to grab Mista and kiss him. Giorno wants to fall back and lie prone and process this. Giorno wants to fall back and wrap eager legs around Mista and let his clothes fall into flowers. Giorno wants to cry, maybe.

He doesn't do any of those things.

Instead, he just bites his lip and squeezes Mista's hand.

“You think that?”

Mista doesn't pull away. Giorno can almost feel him smile. It's warm.

“Yeah, that's how I feel,” he murmurs, every word clear this close. “There's a lot of stuff I've thought about doing to you over the past months - longer than that, merda , years, cazzo - and I keep telling myself it's inappropriate to think about you that way, but I can't stop it.”

This admission heats Giorno up even more than the physical closeness.

“And if you- if you feel like doing this sort of thing, I've been telling myself I want to take it slow. But it's hard,” Mista admits, and then, pulling away: “And I'm hard, which doesn't help with that.”

Giorno hits him in the arm, and they both laugh. That frightening nervous tension dissipates all at once, and Giorno can smile at Mista like normal.

“I've never been in anything like a relationship before,” he starts. Mista looks like he wants to interrupt, so Giorno presses on. “And calling whatever we decide to do a relationship is an intimidating prospect. Your friendship is important to me and I refuse to let that go. I'm sure it's a lie of the media that such things can happen, but knowing that isn't going to lessen that instinctive fear.”

Mista is smiling as Giorno finds his way along, thought by voiced thought. This, Giorno thinks, is the kind of conversation he expected when they entered the room. He seems relieved that Giorno is thinking things through again instead of throwing himself at Mista.

It would probably be the right and moral decision to stop this now, before it goes any further, but Giorno is the head of the most powerful gang in Napoli. He's made plenty of interesting moral decisions. Getting what he wants on a personal level isn't always priority, but right now it can be.

“I'd like - if you want - to let things progress naturally, but to prioritise talking about what we want and how we feel,” he suggests, and even though Mista is already smiling, his face manages to light up.

“Sounds good,” he agrees, leaning in and shifting both of their hands out of the way so he can shuffle a little closer. “Can we discuss any other stuff as it comes up? I want to pay attention to anything you have to say, but I also really want to kiss you some more right now, Giorno.”

Giorno can't argue with that. Certainly he can't think of anything else he wanted to bring up, although he is quite distracted by a bead of sweat trailing down Mista's temple from under his hat. He knows it wouldn't taste good, but that doesn't stop his instincts from urging him to lick it up. He settles for licking his own lips and reaching up to pull the hat off. A mass of dark curls that shouldn't fit so easily under such light fabric spring forth, falling every which way.

Does Mista know how attractive that is? Giorno isn't sure if Mista knows he's attractive in general. No, surely plenty of people have told him as much.

A hand cups his face, fingertips resting along the curve of his jaw. His eyes are so dark. Giorno's breath catches in his throat.

This kiss is deliberate, and slow, and intense. Mista guides him through it with subtle motions, angling their heads just right and pulling Giorno just a little closer with the other arm. His lips are firm and yielding and hot. And Giorno is hot all the way through. He’s sure Mista must be able to feel how hard his blood is pumping through him. His hands shake, but make their way to rest on Mista’s hips, and he’s shaking too. It’s barely perceptible, but Giorno is well-trained at sensing life and its movements, and Mista shakes under his touch.

It’s a rush of power, realising this. Learning that he has the capability to do this to a person. To this person in particular.

More than that: he likes it. Being able to make Mista want him the way he now understands he wants Mista.

Hot fingertips trace the curve of his neck, stopping where throat meets shoulder. Where his birthmark rests heavy. His spine curves towards Mista, and teeth press gently into his lower lip. He barely notices as he lets out the smallest of sounds, a hum against a hot mouth, but it makes Mista fall away, eyes half-lidded and fixed on Giorno’s still-parted lips.

“Giorno.”

Mista says his name like he’s the only thing that matters in the world, rapturous and hungry. Giorno’s chest feels tight, and he can’t move. He wants to grab Mista and press every inch of himself against that solid heat and he’s not sure where to start. Not being sure of himself happens so rarely that this time it’s left Giorno stranded in a Limbo of decision-making.

Dark eyes make their way back up to meet frozen blue, and his breath catches.

“Guido,” he exhales, and he’s so close again, their noses brush. “Tell me what you want.”

He gets to watch Mista’s face redden. The crooked, awkward grin that spreads across his lips is infectious, and Giorno smiles back as Mista bumps their foreheads together, clasping Giorno’s face in both hands.

“This,” he replies simply. “That smile right there, and knowing that I made it.”

He kisses him, short and sweet, and there’s light and life and happiness in there, and Giorno forgets everything but the way this smile is filling his chest with a safe, familiar warmth.

“Is that too soppy this early on?” Mista asks, running a thumb over Giorno’s cheekbone.

“No,” he shakes his head. “But it might be a bit of an understatement about the effect you’ve had on me.”

It takes a few seconds for his meaning to get across, and then Mista’s eyebrows raise and he can’t meet Giorno’s eyes anymore. He’s not moving, either, so Giorno takes this chance to curl his fingers around wrists and place Mista’s hands on his waist, sliding them slowly down to his hips. He can see Mista biting the inside of his cheek.

“You don't have to hold back with me,” Giorno says, and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Staying there, so close that as he speaks their lips brush, he smiles. “I want you to show me what you want, Guido.”

He’s not sure if it’s his words, his actions, or his use of Mista’s first name as their breaths mingle, but something flips a switch inside of Mista, and he surges forward, pulling Giorno close. Their mouths crush together hotly and Giorno’s arms are trapped between them. He barely notices, focusing instead on the messy, needy kiss and the tightening grip of Mista’s fingers at his hips. The roughness makes his head spin and he hears his gasp turn to a whimper before he realises that sound is coming from himself.

“Giorno,” Mista groans into the kiss, one hand making its way to the small of Giorno’s back to pull him closer, the other venturing lower to grope earnestly at his ass. Giorno has no reason to hold back, but the lewd noise that escapes him at the touch paints his cheeks pink. Mista seems encouraged, though, lifting Giorno and pulling him onto his lap. “Fuck, Giorno.”

His voice is as rough as the calluses on his hands, and it does things to Giorno he hadn’t understood voices could do.

Sat straddling Mista’s lap, he’s a little higher up: instead of letting him lean down to keep kissing him, Mista trails his lips along Giorno’s jaw down to his throat. His mouth is hot and wet against the carotid, and Giorno’s sure Mista must be able to feel the blood pounding through it.

His chest is tight. His chest is tight and his breaths are shallow and his heart is slamming against his ribcage.

His chest has been tight for a while, and it's taken this long to figure out why, and now he's grateful for his arms being caught between the two of them. Makes it easier to push himself away, as reluctant as the movement is.

“You okay?” Mista asks immediately, clearly assuming that it's his fault, somehow, but his eyes widen as Giorno begins to unbutton his shirt. The flush spreading across his cheekbones all the way to the tips of his ears is encouraging, so, while it hadn’t been his intention, Giorno is happy to make a little bit of a show of it. He sits up straighter, pushing the tiny gold ladybirds through white buttonholes with what he’s sure must be an aggravating languor. He’s sure, because of the way Mista’s fingers - frozen in place the moment Giorno pushed away - twitch against him. The way his thighs tremble just slightly beneath Giorno. It’s delicious, having this much power over a person in a way that is undoubtedly positive.

He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground or the bed or wherever it lands, and yanks the velcro of his binder apart.

It’s a blessed relief, and the happy sigh accompanied by a full-body slump reflects that. His chest is still tight, but it’s around his heart and his throat and in a far more metaphorical way than before. Breathing properly, finally, letting his ribs expand, Giorno smiles at Mista.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I needed to breathe.” He’s never been shy about this, but especially not since he’d been treated to the sight of Buccellati’s scars through lace. Narancia had yelled defensively at Giorno’s shocked expression, and when he’d explained, had cried in apology and promised to fight for him just as fierce and proud as he would for Bruno.

This isn’t really the time to think about them.

Instead he tugs the restrictive item off over his head and lets himself enjoy the shaky little noise Mista makes as he wriggles just a little on top of him.

He’s nude from the waist up now, hair beginning to fall out of its carefully-pinned shape, and yet Giorno feels totally comfortable like this. It’s his own room, after all, and it’s not like it’s the first time he’s been shirtless around Mista.

But Mista’s looking at him in that way that makes his stomach flip and his face heat up: like he’s the most beautiful thing Mista’s ever seen. Giorno kisses him, but that feeling of being worshipped doesn’t leave when he can’t see Mista’s eyes. It’s in the way his warm hands meander up his sides, calluses catching on soft, exposed skin. There’s something about it that feels almost reverential, and it makes Giorno shiver.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, mouth still half-pressed to Giorno’s. It sounds like he’s begging for water in a desert, and Giorno wants it too, but the yes catches in his throat so he just nods enthusiastically, not caring that it smears a mix of their spit across both of their faces. He feels Mista’s shoulders relax, his smile curving against Giorno’s. That strange reverence is still there, but this is the Mista he knows, and he feels comfortable leaning into his touch.

It’s not a completely foreign sensation, but even with Gold Experience Giorno tends to skip over and ignore his chest, so the way Mista cups and massages and squeezes makes his spine arch and he bites back a gasp.

Mista hums - Giorno thinks that means he’s pleased - and carefully places kisses down Giorno’s chin and throat, pausing at his collarbone to go up and along to his shoulder.

“You feel good against me like this,” he tells him, and the words sink, hot, to the pit of Giorno’s stomach. He’s not sure he’s ever been this turned on in his life; his thighs tremble with the effort to keep still and let Mista do as he wishes for the time being. A rough, broad thumb circles one of his nipples and he whines wordlessly, sounding needier than he’d ever thought he could. Mista grins against his throat. “Shit, Giorno. You sound good.”

Compliments shouldn’t affect him, but this close, and in this voice - he flushes red and bites his lip. Mista lets his teeth press against the flesh of his throat, and Giorno moans, quiet and breathy but audible enough that the hands palming his small breasts get rougher, pinching and tugging more sounds out of Giorno. He wants more than this, but he’s not sure how to vocalise his needs. He’s not sure if he can catch up with his mouth enough to put real words together.

Stubble scrapes gently across his chest, and then Mista’s tongue flicks against Giorno’s nipple, and his teeth catch on it, and Giorno can’t keep still. His hips rock forward, searching for friction; his hands clutch desperately at Mista’s shoulders.

He needs more than this, and the way Mista grins up at him with his tongue tracing wet patterns on Giorno’s chest isn’t helping.

“Guido,” he groans. “Guido, I--”

He can’t find the words. It’s frustrating. The loss of control isn’t frightening - he knows he can stop this; he trusts Mista; he’s the one with the power, here - but it’s frustrating.

Mista kisses his way back up Giorno’s neck, nipping gently at his earlobe. It makes Giorno shake all over, but the warm hands drop to flatten against his lower back, and his mind clears of that foggy want just a little.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, but his voice is shaking, too. It’s reassuring to know that Giorno isn’t the only one feeling perhaps a bit swept away by all of this.

He lets himself breathe for a few seconds, uncurling his fingers from Mista’s sweater. He winds them into the dark curls of his hair instead, slowly, not minding the damp sweat. Mista tips his head, pushing into Giorno’s touch. It’s sweet, and it exposes his neck, which gives Giorno a chance to turn the tables at least a little.

Ducking his head and tucking two fingers into the collar of Mista’s sweater, he’s able to get at Mista’s neck with ease. So he does, kissing at it gently, enjoying the quiet, happy sighs he causes.

And then bites down.

Not too hard; he’s not going to do anything foolish. But the pressure is enough to make Mista yelp, and Giorno can feel his pulse speed up under his tongue.

All his instincts scream for him to bite harder, to - to - to do something, he can’t tell what. He doesn’t; he runs his tongue over the shallow dents his teeth have left in Mista’s neck and revels in the way it makes him moan.

“I want,” he begins, kissing along Mista’s jaw. The stubble is rough and unfamiliar against his lips. “You to touch me.”

Mista groans out a ‘fuuck’, hips jerking forward below Giorno, but can’t seem to do much else, hands trembling against Giorno’s back. Is it because of Giorno’s words, or the proximity of his mouth? Either way, knowing he’s reduced Mista to this is intoxicating; he runs the very tip of his tongue up the curve of an ear and then back to catch the lobe between his teeth for a brief instant.

“Guido,” he says, and this close a whisper is all it takes for Mista to visibly shiver. He takes one of Mista's hands and guides it to his crotch, pressing broad fingers against himself through layers of fabric. “Touch me.”

He'd meant it to sound like an order, but the words fall from his mouth like a plea. Mista swallows audibly, and as Giorno lets go, curves his fingers to press against Giorno just right. It's through his clothes, but Giorno's hips still twitch forward into Mista's hand, and the sharp intake of air beside him tells him that was a good response to being touched like that. He wonders, somewhere in the part of his mind that can still think in full sentences and worry about things, whether he's going to be able to handle Mista's hands on him directly. This already has him breathing heavily and rocking forward with every slow, deliberate curl of Mista's fingers. More than this might be too much.

He wants it anyway.

His head drops down to rest on Mista’s shoulder, and a low whine escapes him as the rhythmic pressure lets up for a moment.

And only for a moment, before Mista is fumbling with the buttons of Giorno's slacks, and he can forgive the lapse. He has to help with the buttons, but perhaps only because he's impatient to give Mista all the access he needs so he can get back to touching Giorno as soon as possible. Mista’s hands shake as his fingertips brush the waistband of Giorno’s underwear. It’s not because of the angle his hand is going to have to twist at, but that, and the thought of the wrinkles already forming in these pants, is enough reason for Giorno to stop him. He shuffles off Mista’s lap and stands on solid ground he’d forgotten was even there to slip out of them and tug his socks off, leaving him in nothing but his underwear. The ones with the roses, today. He’d forgotten; they’re not particularly revealing, just standard boxer briefs with a nice pattern, but Mista is staring. He seems frozen in place, eyes fixed between Giorno’s stomach and thighs. Encouraging.

Instead of returning to Mista's lap, then, he crawls across his bed to recline on top of the cushions, legs curled pale and - he hopes - inviting.

Moving away clears his head a little. Enough to stop himself from begging Mista to continue touching him, and instead to meet his eyes and lick his lips.

Mista’s eyes fix onto his mouth, and he can’t help but smile as he visibly swallows, frozen in place. His shoulders look tense, and his fingers have curled tight into Giorno’s bedsheets. As nice as it is to see what an effect he’s had - and he can’t help but look, and he has had a very clear effect on certain parts of Mista’s body - he’d rather make sure he’s comfortable and relaxed.

“Come here and kiss me.”

He meant to ask, but it comes out as a command, and Mista snaps into action from his locked position, practically leaping halfway across the bed to be beside Giorno. Mista’s mouth is hot and hungry and perfect against his, and as warm fingers push through his hair, Giorno sighs and relaxes into the larger man.

Mista’s other hand makes its way to rest on Giorno’s hip, thumb running back and forth where fabric meets flesh, and Giorno can’t help but shift forwards. He lets his own hands explore the lines of Mista’s stomach, up under his sweater. The differences between their bodies make him shiver, but with want rather than envy, he realises, and pushes Mista away enough to wrestle the sweater off him.

Giorno wants to bury his face in the hair that curls across Mista’s torso. He doesn’t; he bites his lip and looks and runs his hands over the well-defined chest, and Mista turns deep red.

There’s a mark already purpling where Giorno bit him. Seeing it makes Giorno a little dizzy; makes the whole situation more real, somehow. He leans down and kisses it, careful with the tender flesh. Instincts spark, and some part of him wants to bite some more, but that’s not what he wants right now. Right now, one hand moves down Mista’s chest, and down his belly, and doesn’t stop when his fingers meet the leather of his belt, skimming over fabric to rest at the fold where hip meets thigh.

Mista’s breath catches; Giorno can feel it where his nose touches his bruised throat. He can feel Mista shake under his touch and it’s perfect.

“Is there something you want, Guido?” he asks, letting his lips brush against his neck, and smiles as Mista shivers. Hot fingers squeeze at his hip and shoulder; the rise and fall of Mista’s chest quickens.

“Fuck, Giorno,” he groans, and Giorno realises he’s breathing hard, too. “I knew you’d tease.”

He knew. The words are simple, but their meaning hits hard: Mista has thought about what Giorno would do in a situation like this. Of course he has, he said as much - and even if he hadn’t before today, Giorno practically ordered him to only hours ago. He can’t fight back the smile as he kisses up Mista’s neck.

“What else did you think I’d do?” he asks, voice low in an attempt to keep himself from sounding as smug as he feels. One of his fingers catches in Mista’s beltloop.

“Are you seriously asking me to - to get eloquent and shit?” Mista asks, and Giorno laughs, and the chest he’s half-pressed against shakes to match. He’s laughing, but the breathlessness in Mista’s voice goes right to Giorno’s core, heating him right up again. “Like, right now, Giogio? I can’t think enough to, uh--” he fumbles for words, and that makes his point more than anything, but he seems to feel the need to push on with his sentence anyway. His voice drops to a half-whisper. “I thought you might order me about - or not let me touch you, or -- I don’t know, I, uh. I’ve thought about you a lot.”

Giorno can’t tell if Mista had intended to admit to that or not. He can feel the pulse under his lips beat harder and faster.

He kisses Mista, shifting to push as much of their bodies together as possible. The hardness at Mista’s crotch presses against him, and the kiss breaks naturally with even, matching moans. Giorno wonders, suddenly, if he could make Mista come just like this, just rocking their hips together.

He wants to.

He really wants to: and he can try, right now, he realises. He kisses Mista again, open-mouthed, and shifts to straddle him, and Mista groans and grabs at Giorno’s bare thighs. And then seems to realise just how bare Giorno’s thighs are: his thumbs slip round to just barely brush the edge of his underwear, and he moans again. His touch is hot, and sends warmth through Giorno. Every place where they meet is hot.

Giorno licks his lips as he meets Mista’s eyes, and he’s pretty sure Mista realises what he’s planning right before he does it: his expression shifts and then Giorno shifts, rolling his hips down and forward.

Mista’s head throws back, and he bites his lip hard, but it doesn’t hold in the shaky moan, and he doesn’t break the eye contact. The grip on Giorno’s thighs tightens. He hopes it’ll bruise, and moves again, and this time Mista rocks upward to meet him, and knocks a moan out of him, too.

The friction is too good, and Giorno can’t stop the movement now that they’ve started. He can barely hold himself up; little pants and moans force their way past his lips, every slight movement sends violent shivers through him. He realises, too late, that he’s soaked through his underwear - that it’s getting on Mista’s jeans. But then, Mista might be getting his own mess on the other side of his clothes. The thought is almost too much for Giorno to bear, but he can’t collapse on top of this broad chest spread out in front of him just yet; Mista’s eyes have fallen closed and his head has fallen to the side, and his motions are jerky and erratic.

More importantly, he’s gasping out one word, over and over, and it’s ‘Giogio’.

“Guido,” he manages, and it comes out quiet and hesitant between needy shudders, but it’s enough for Mista’s eyes to snap open. He surges upwards, hands locked on Giorno’s thighs, and kisses him, hard. It’s artless but that doesn’t matter. They’re both too far gone to worry about noses bumping against cheekbones, only about bodies pressed against bodies. “Guido,” Giorno says again, and he barely recognises his own voice when all the vowels are dragged out so long.

“Giogio, I--” Mista’s voice cracks a little, and he’s shaking, and Giorno knows what he means.

He leans forward, revels in the feel of Mista’s chest pressed up against his own, and slides his fingers into sweat-laced dark curls.

“Are you gonna come in your pants for me, Guido?” he murmurs, lips half-pressed to stubble, motion unceasing. The gasp he elicits from Mista matches his own as hot hands move to grip Giorno’s ass, letting Mista lead his movements.

“Fuck, Giogio--” Mista presses kisses to his cheek, to his jaw, to his neck. “Giogio, can I, really, I--” His words come out staccato against Giorno’s skin, and Giorno is so hot, right through to his core, and he can feel the blood pounding through him and through Mista, and he can’t think through the sensations to figure out if that’s lifesense or imagined or something else, and he doesn’t care.

And he says, “Yes,” and Mista comes undone below him, clutching at Giorno’s back and shoulders and hair, holding him close and kissing every inch of skin he can reach and shaking. And now his quiet gasps and moans are louder, but still the same word - still Giorno’s name.

And Giorno can feel the heat spread between his legs as Mista comes just for him, and it makes him throb with want, but he’s too sensible to keep moving now. The last thing he wants is to hurt Mista through overstimulation.

Also, he can’t move very much anyway, with Mista’s arms trapping him to his chest. Not that he minds that at all. He doesn’t mind the way Mista’s head has dropped to rest on his shoulder, either, or the half-inaudible muttering - Giorno catches ‘fortunato’ and ‘coccinella’, and smiles, carding fingers through sweat-damp hair, and presses a kiss to Mista’s crown.

A long, satisfied sigh breezes warm across Giorno’s neck, and Mista lets himself fall backward, pulling Giorno with him. Lying on top of Mista is delicious, and Giorno is happy to let him rest a little, but he knows his stamina is better than this. And while Mista may be done, Giorno most certainly isn’t.

He shuffles up Mista’s body, fingers splaying across his chest, thumbs not-so-accidentally brushing over nipples, and kisses him short and sweet. As he opens his mouth to tell Mista exactly how much he wants him, the silence is instead broken by a loud growl from the stomach he’s half-sat on, and Mista flushes.

Giorno sits up, expression carefully devoid of any of the amusement he’s really feeling, and any of the arousal that he’s sure must be obvious anyway. Surely Mista can feel it, how damp his underwear is, especially now that Giorno is straddling his bare stomach - it’s taking far too much effort to keep himself from rutting helplessly against the body below him.

“I can call for some food, if you like,” he says, and can’t keep his words as cold or as steady as he ought to. They have the desired effect, though. He feels the sudden tension between his thighs, and Mista’s expression is openly dismayed and wanting. He licks his lips, pauses, lets Mista teeter on the edge of uncertainty. “But then you’d have a time limit.”

Dark eyes go wide, and Giorno lets his own smile match the one spreading across Mista’s face.

“Is that a challenge?” Mista murmurs, and despite the grin, it’s clear he’s trying to sound sultry. It’s working. Giorno’s blood is thrumming through his veins. He wants to slam Mista into the mattress: to jerk him to full hardness again and ride his cock till he weeps; to kiss and to bite and to run hands over every inch of him; to tear him apart as he splits Giorno in two; to drive all thoughts from his mind and all words from his tongue but Guido, Guido, Guido.

He’s a little dizzy.

Part of him remembers that’s due to there being less blood in his head right now. He wonders if sex always makes it this hard to think, or if he’ll get used to this. Part of him hopes not, as inconvenient as it would be.

“How long,” he asks, gathering himself enough to speak, at least, and steadily making his way up his bed, towards the phone on his nightstand. He’s still astride Mista’s chest, but to reach even just the cord, Giorno has to rest a knee either side of Mista’s head. “Do you think it will take you to finish me?”

Leaning across to reach for the telephone, his cunt is barely inches away from Mista’s face. There’s no way he can miss how much Giorno needs this, now.

It’s meant to tease, but even internally Giorno can’t deny he’s a little nervous, no matter how comfortable he’s long since decided to be with the disparity his body provides. Maybe it’s because he can feel hot breath on his sweat-sticky thighs. He can’t look at Mista, isn’t sure where he wants him to be looking. His fingers shake a little as he picks up the handset.

He manages to press one button before Mista lifts his head to mouth at the soaked-through fabric of Giorno’s underwear.

The phone clatters to the floor, and the noise he catches as he slaps his hand to his mouth is high and needy and a little embarrassing. Moving his hand means he has no support, though, and he falls sideways off Mista’s chest onto the bed, ungainly and awkward and already flushing red. Mista props himself up on his elbows, brow furrowed.

“Sorry, should’ve asked,” he mumbles, and he looks so ashamed and worried - Giorno smiles, and makes his way back to press a reassuring kiss to that frown. Shoulders untense under his hands, and when he pulls away, Mista is smiling too.

“You surprised me,” Giorno confesses, moving to lay on his back beside Mista. He doesn’t say ‘I didn’t know it would feel that good; your mouth felt so hot against me and overwhelmed me so quickly.’. He just thinks it, and shivers a little, and can’t take his eyes off Mista’s lips, red and bitten and tempting. “Would you like to try again?”

God, but he wants Mista to say yes. The effort it’s taking him not to just touch himself has his fingers curled stubbornly in the sheets even as he tries to keep his body language relaxed and open.

Mista’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and Giorno has to hold his breath a little.

“Can I?” Mista asks, voice a little hoarse, that strange reverence back in his eyes as he looks Giorno up and down and pushes himself to a halfway-sitting position.

“Please,” Giorno manages, and their eyes meet, and Mista kisses him again, fingers brushing Giorno’s cheek, skimming his shoulder and barely pausing at his chest on the way to slip just barely under the waistband of his boxers. His tongue catches - intentionally perhaps - on Giorno’s teeth, and they sigh in unison. It’s nice, but Giorno is running out of patience; he bucks his hips just a little, and whines into Mista’s mouth. It seems to get the idea across, but Mista moves slowly, planting kisses down Giorno’s neck, and he gives up on trying to be subtle.

“I don’t need to be worked up, Guido,” Mista freezes at the blunt words, and Giorno’s thumbs meet the fingers hooked under his waistband, and push down. His thighs shake a little. “I might seem calm, but please believe me when I say I am not. Touch me, or eat me out, or I will do it myself.”

It’s supposed to be incentive, but Mista hesitates, and Giorno realises he’d like to see that. The revelation flushes through his face and across his shoulders, but he won’t go back on his word.

Fixing his eyes firmly on Mista’s, Giorno deliberately and with utmost resolve, moves his hand between his legs.

He’s quite sure he’s never been this wet before in his life; his fingers slip against himself, and he can see Mista’s expression change so he knows his own must have slipped from composed to something looser and wanting. He doesn’t mind it; forgets to care about that in favour of pushing up and against his own fingers, movements artless, not wanting to go too far too fast. Lets his mouth slack and his head tip back. His eyes fall partway closed, but he refuses to look away from Mista. Mista, whose cheeks are reddening, whose eyes are dark and a little unfocused and fixed on Giorno’s face, not his body. Not the way his chest moves as his breathing gets heavier and heavier, or the movements of his hips and hand, or his spread legs.

And he’s not making any effort to move.

“Guido.”

He drags the name out into a moan, only partially voluntarily.

“Yeah?” Mista’s voice is a held breath, and he bites his lip as he speaks. Giorno has been having an effect on him, after all. He gathers up all the words he can and puts them into order as his finger circles his clit, sending little jerky motions from his hips right through his body.

“I want you to be doing this,” he tells Mista, between shaky little breaths. “Why aren’t you?”

The question seems to tug Mista out of his reverie; he gapes a little, eyes flicking down Giorno.

“Because I’m a fuckin’ idiot, I guess,” and he’s pulling Giorno’s legs apart, between them. His hands are hot on Giorno’s thighs, and hotter on his wrist as he pulls Giorno’s hand away from himself. He takes a second just to stare, and then drags his tongue across Giorno’s messy palm. He wraps his lips around his fingers and Giorno whimpers. The smile is back, playing around Mista’s mouth as it slides off Giorno’s fingers with a wet noise that makes Giorno blush. He grins. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, Giogio.”

The words are a promise, and he makes good on it immediately.

No time wasted; he’s not delicate about it. His head drops and then there’s hot, wet pressure and that’s a tongue, that’s Mista’s tongue. Giorno knows it’s a myth that it’s the strongest muscle in the body, but it’s hard to believe when it’s dragging flat along him, flicking over his clit and making him yelp and twitch.

“Fuck, Giorno,” Mista groans, voice laced with arousal. “Your pussy tastes so fuckin’ good.”

He doesn’t wait for a response - this is good, because Giorno isn’t sure he knows how to make words with his mouth right now - just gets right back to it, lapping hungrily at Giorno’s cunt. Giorno had thought he’d be able to watch, but already his head is thrown back onto the pillow, back arching further every time Mista’s tongue even just brushes against his clit. His stubble is rough on Giorno’s delicate inner thighs and the way it catches on his flesh makes him want to snap his legs together and rut hard and unrelenting against Mista’s face without any concern for the necessities of air.

He has enough sense left in him not to do that, but his heels dig into Mista’s back, and he buries his hands in Mista’s hair, urging him on physically and vocally. He’s not sure any of the noises cascading from his lips are actual words, but they seem to encourage Mista enough. He grabs Giorno’s thighs, hard, tilting his hips up just enough, and pushes his tongue inside. The angle means his nose is pressed against Giorno just right, and his tongue seems so much more than he’s ever thought it could be, licking inside, rubbing wetly against all the right spots.

Giorno pants out a series of rapid, high moans, fingers curling into fists in dark hair, whole body shaking. It’s been building up in him for hours now, and he can’t speak with Mista fucking him with his mouth like this.

His thighs tense, and hopefully that’s enough of a warning to Mista - Giorno comes, and it shudders violently through him in waves, knocking the sound out of him and turning the moans into rapid, harsh gasps. It takes almost a full minute to ride it out, tugging at hair and grinding his hips down and forward and finally managing to make his own mouth form words. Guido’s name, over and over, and he moans into Giorno’s cunt in response, licking up everything he can.

“You came so much,” Mista tells him, voice awed and adoring, and doesn’t stop.

Giorno is overstimulated and shaking and whimpering, and Mista cleans him thoroughly with his filthy, perfect mouth.

Coming down, Giorno can feel the smile curving Mista’s lips. He’s smiling too, he realises, and this time when he pulls at Mista’s hair, it’s gentle, coaxing him upwards.

Mista obliges, crawling up the bed to hold himself above Giorno’s smaller body, but hesitates when Giorno slides his arms around his shoulders, pulling him down.

“My mouth’s still all--” he begins, and Giorno rolls his eyes.

“Didn’t you just tell me how good I taste?” he points out, and kisses him. It is a little strange to kiss Mista and taste himself, but he’s still a little fuzzy from coming on another man’s face - from everything that’s happened since Mista first kissed him - and he doesn’t care. Mista collapses sideways, lying beside Giorno instead of on top of him, and pulls him into a willing embrace.

Giorno’s warm, too, now.

He kisses Mista again, just a press of lips, and smiles softly, and curls into his arms. Careful fingers push through his hair, gently unwinding what’s left of his elaborate style, and he almost finds himself dozing, fully relaxed for the first time in what he thinks might be years..

“Let’s do this a lot,” he suggests, and allows himself a sly little grin as he feels Mista’s face heat up.