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Mista has always known, in the shifting of breath and the chills that run along his spine, that things can change at the drop of a hat.
But not like this.
Their meeting turned over to idle chatter, and somehow, by the devil's will, the topic became casual sex talk. Usually conversations like this featured a very spirited and jovial Guido Mista, but today, hovering anxiety and an aggravating self-consciousness raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The surface of Mista's tea suddenly became fascinating to look at.
Fugo leaned back in his chair. "I mean, there's some shit I would never do. But there are some things everyone has done, right?"
Giorno looked very lax about the whole subject. He directed a finger at Fugo. "So your stance is; murder is fine, but not rimming?"
Mista audibly choked into his teacup. Narancia smacked him on the back, mocking aid to his sputtering cough. Mista whacked him in return before Narancia could retract his arm all the way. He made a motion to feign throwing his teacup at Narancia, and snorted when Narancia legitimately flinched out of the way.
"Did I say that?" Fugo challenged.
Giorno put up his hands in defense. "Seemed like it."
Fugo let the front legs of his chair hit the floor. "As long as they wash their ass, it's probably fine."
Narancia's brow was a deep furrow. "So that's touching around someone's asshole, right?"
"Isn't it, like-" Mista started.
"It's eating ass." Buccellati corrected, eyebrows raised in amusement, casually blowing on his freshly poured cup of tea.
Fugo and Narancia burst into laughter, banging on the table, acting like it was so funny that their sides would split. Abbacchio snorted, and Giorno smothered a snicker with his hand. Mista wished he could find it is funny as it was, but instead, he schooled a wide-eyed stare at his lap while his ears burned hot. His mind was struggling to tread water, let alone swim.
"Why does Giorno know that, and not you?" Abbacchio questioned. "Actually, don't answer that. I would rather die than hear the answer to that." He shut his eyes and took a very long, shallow sip of tea, as if to make his exit from the conversation.
Fugo elbowed Mista in the ribs. "What? What's your deal?"
Mista jolted, feeling like he was busted. He wrung his hands together. "Nothing! Nothing."
"What's got you prudish all of a sudden?" Narancia laughed.
"No, maybe he's super into it, and now he wants to go excuse himself to the bathroom." Fugo suggested, grin smug.
"Ugh, shut it. I haven't done that kind of stuff." Mista defended himself.
"What, buttstuff?" Fugo pressed.
"Jacking off in the bathroom?" Narancia suggested when Mista made no move to speak.
"Or- are we talking fucking in general?" Fugo ventured, leaning in for effect.
Mista's brain screeched to a halt. He really shouldn't have said anything at all. "Uhhhhh..."
"Wait- No- You haven't-?" Fugo tried, dropping his voice a little.
"You haven't fucked!?" Narancia exclaimed with very poor volume control, springing to his feet.
Abbacchio yanked Narancia back into his seat, his brow knitted in annoyance. "This is a public restaurant."
Narancia went again, this time in an exasperated whisper, "You haven't fucked?"
Mista's shoulders rose, and his face boiled hot. "I swear to god, I will fucking kill you. Both of you. I will kill you both with one bullet."
Fugo laughed heartily. "Unbelievable! You usually can't turn down a good sex joke, but those are the words of a man who has never fucked."
Mista was so embarrassed that it sickened him, churned his stomach. He balled his hands into fists in his lap so he wouldn't sock Fugo in the face. He chanced a look at Giorno for support, but he, too, looked very entertained by the matter at hand.
"But how, though? There's plenty of people in Passione for that..." Narancia reasoned, still grinning like he had a leg up on Mista. "A capo might find you cute, then, problem solved!"
"What capo does he really know, besides Buccellati?" Fugo pointed out.
"That's what I'm saying." Narancia's grin spread to a shit-eating intensity.
He HAD to fucking say it, didn't he?! Mista's heart jumped into his throat. He felt like he had just gotten over thinking Buccellati was so hot that he could die from staring at him too long, and he didn't need this conversation to reignite that fire.
"Quit it." Buccellati's voice cut through, causing their faces to freeze. "Mista can ask me if he needs experience with anything, and I can teach him."
The whole table fell silent for a few breathless moments, until Giorno pierced the air with a wolf-whistle. Fugo and Narancia fell into fits of howling laughter. Mista almost entirely forgot how to breathe. He knew without looking that his chest was flushed red.
Mista tried to search Buccellati's face for confirmation that he was serious, but the man just continued to look unfazed and sip his tea. He caught Abbacchio's eye, and Abbacchio raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Mista looked up at the ceiling, pulled his hat over his face, and let out an exasperated groan into the fabric.
Since that very unfortunate day plagued him, Mista's mind was rife for weeks with inappropriate thoughts about his boss. Until that conversation, he hadn't actually let himself think about Buccellati that way. His filthy thought patterns became notably distracting, unproductive, and frustratingly flustered.
Now that the floodgates are open, Mista's thoughts for the day overflow with avid questions regarding whether Buccellati is a top or a bottom. It's really not a helpful topic to be stuck on in the slightest.
That day, their meeting goes as normal, albeit with Mista lost in thought. His mind swims with aimless daydreams, and he tries to suppress the ones that make his vision blur and fog. He doesn't absorb nearly any plans or happenstance through the course of the meeting. He ends up being the last one sitting around as Buccellati finishes cleaning up.
A firm hand on his shoulder plummets him from up in the clouds back to solid earth. His reflexes activate, and he finds Buccellati's gaze above him. He can smell his boss from here, a neutral scent between sweet and heavy. His breath catches.
"Mista, would you mind coming to my place, the day after tomorrow? Early afternoon?" He asks with a little tilt of his head, and Mista forces himself not to think about burying his face in his boss' hair.
Mista straightens up, bristling. "Yeah, sure, but what's up?"
Buccellati's eyes smile. "I just need to fill you in on a few things, is all."
Mista pauses, and his mind is void of all visual feedback, in place of a million questions crashing into each other at once.
"You remember where my apartment is, right?" Buccellati confirms, filling the silence that sits heavy in Mista's chest.
Mista finds himself nodding. "Uh-huh. I'll be there." He has no fucking idea what to do with this proposition, except to see where it goes.
"Good." Buccellati acknowledges, and a breeze of a light laugh leaves him.
Mista swears his boss' hand leaves his shoulder achingly slow; just lingering.
The day arrives, and Buccellati ushers Mista into his modest apartment. Mista's lips are dry, and no matter how many times his tongue tries to wet them, they just keep drying out again.
"Please, have a seat." Buccellati offers, gesturing to his kitchen chairs.
Mista moves mechanically to sit a chair, and attempts to slouch in nonchalance, but he can't stop fidgeting and changing positions.
"So... tell me why I'm here?" Mista offers cautiously, folding sideways in the chair, then forgoing the position in order to sit straight-on. He feels the smolder of Buccellati's gaze.
Buccellati crosses his arms, authoritative, and presses his weight into one leg. "Your head has been somewhere else, say, across the street having a cappuccino, every time we have meetings."
"That's not true," Mista retorts defensively. "I'm paying attention."
Buccellati raises an eyebrow. "What was the reason for our last meeting, then?"
Mista scratches the back of his neck, and darts his eyes to the wall. "Uhh... gun....... extortion?" He tries helplessly.
Buccellati presses one hand on the table, right in front of Mista. It isn't sudden, but the proximity of Buccellati is just close enough to make Mista's stomach jump. Mista's body is hot, and he hates that he can pinpoint exactly why.
"You're sweating, but I don't need to taste it to know that you're lying." Buccellati accuses, leaning over him.
Mista cannot meet Buccellati's eyes like this, so he stares ahead, focusing instead on a water damage stain on the wall. His heart is hammering. The room shrinks around him.
"I need to know if you have a problem I should know about, and if the problem is with me, then we can-" His boss starts.
Mista's posture breaks, and he looks at Buccellati in alarm. "You? I have no problem with you!" Mista explains hurriedly, and Buccellati's stern expression softens for a split second. "The problem is... It's something I..." His words die on his tongue. "You wouldn't want to hear it."
Buccellati straightens up, and Mista remembers to exhale. "What could you possibly tell me that would surprise me? I've heard all kinds of shit, in sordid detail. Try me."
Mista makes an abrupt noise in his throat like a car screeching to a halt. He considers that, and feels a surge of dark relief, a kind of nihilistic freedom. He figures he isn't going to get out of this without telling his boss the truth, so he shoves the pressure in his chest all the way down to his feet, and kicks it away.
His whole mouth is too dry to swallow. "Did you mean it when you said... you could... teach me things?"
Buccellati freezes in thought, but quickly bubbles up with a chuckle. "Is that what this is about?"
Mista feels extremely tempted to retreat into his sweater; a turtle to its shell. He settles for leaning back in his chair instead.
"Basically..." He responds, then panics a little. "But, it's just something in my head, so you don't have to do anything, I can deal with it."
Buccellati swiftly circles behind Mista and yanks his chair back, bringing Mista with it, the wooden legs scraping beneath him. His boss moves square before him, leans forward, pressing his hands into Mista's thighs. He is close enough that Mista feels his breath on his face. Mista can't stop blinking rapidly.
"Do you want that? For me to teach you?" Buccellati demands, his tone serious but his forehead relaxed. There's an inviting welcome in that soft skin.
Mista feels he has come too far to hesitate now. "Yes." He breathes.
Buccellati's lips stretch into a grin, and for several long moments, his eyes search Mista's face. Mista is frozen in place, anticipation about to boil over inside him. His breath is starting to make a little too much noise, and he feels his ears burn in the heavy moments where Buccellati makes no moves.
"...What?" Mista finally asks. His boss smells so fucking sweet up close, and it's intoxicating.
"Oh, nothing, I was just waiting for you to do something." Buccellati answers nonchalantly, eyes flickering to Mista's lips. His lashes are so long and pretty up close.
Mista nearly kicks himself from a little burst of emotion in his chest. Shaking, he reaches his hands to cup Buccellati's face, and Buccellati's lips part just a peek. In an unsure, slow way, Mista leans in to close the breadth of the gap between them.
The first kiss is light and gentle, and Mista feels, with that, they have crossed over a point where there's no going back. This change, though, excites him in a way that sets his blood on fire.
After he pulls away, Buccellati is still looking at Mista's lips, and he licks his own, slow. Mista's breath hitches, his groin twitches, and he closes the gap once more.
Since Mista has at least gone as far as making out in the past, it's not like he's clueless. Even still, it's clearly Buccellati leading the kiss. His lips are a guiding force, not demanding, but gentle and patient. Mista sighs loudly, unconsciously, and Buccellati laughs through his nose, and keeps on kissing him. Mista's palms and fingertips against his boss' skin begin to bead with sweat, but he can't find it in himself to move them away. His shoulders drop, and he struggles to remember how breathing through his nose works.
Buccellati pulls back after a little parting peck, and his lidded eyes are smiling again. "You have the residual taste of a liar, Mista."
Mista balks. "I want this! Really, I do!"
Buccellati places his hands on Mista's shoulders, and presses him against the back of the chair with little force. Mista's breath staggers.
"Remind me again, what do you want?" Buccellati interrogates, his tone falling between commanding and amused.
Mista squeezes his eyes shut, gulps, and shoots off a quick prayer to the heavens. "...I want you to teach me... things." He manages.
"Hmm? And what 'things' would those be?" Buccellati continues, raising his chin.
Mista's clammy hands slip from Buccellati's face down his neck, and rest limply. His eyes cast aside. "I mean, whatever you want to teach me." His own heartbeat is so fucking loud.
In his peripheral, Buccellati raises both eyebrows. "I'm not going to teach you something you're not prepared to learn. What did I teach you in all the daydreams you had?"
Mista chokes, and stamps it out with a little sputter. "Uhhh...ha?! It- I didn't-"
Buccellati's gaze bores holes into him, and he crumbles quickly beneath the intensity of it. He has no more saliva to swallow.
"Fuck- I mean- Nothing specific! Just... the concept was in my head. I don't know!" He tries, and it makes even less sense aloud than it did rattling around in his head.
Buccellati leans in, expression skeptical. "You've been distracted for weeks, apparently, but you can't tell me one thing you thought of?"
Mista has to admit, that's a pretty good point. He wants to be honest, honest with people he cares about, but these things are uncharted, nerve-wracking territory. He sighs in defeat.
He meets his boss' eyes intently, and allows honest words to fall from his mouth. "Look, this stuff is new to me, so... I don't know where to start."
Buccellati's expression melts, and it's achingly genuine. It makes Mista's heart jump into his throat.
"We can take it as slow as you need it, Mista. Or never do anything more than just kissing, if that's what you want. There's no need to rush." Buccellati explains carefully. He looks down, and a half-smile crosses his lips. "You know, I'm humbled that this is an experience you want to have with me."
Mista's face is absolutely on fire, and he is rendered speechless in the wake of those words. Never in his life, never in his wildest dreams, has he felt so wanted and accepted in a way like this. The sensation of knowing that washes joy across his body, from his head to his feet. His nose burns; a threat of tears about to break loose.
Instead, he leans his weight forward to squeeze Buccellati into a hug, and he feels his boss relax into it and pat his back after a few moments. It's warm, and it feels like, with that contact, a seal has been made across this whole exchange. Mista's heart hammers.
"Thank y-" Mista starts to say, but Buccellati moves abruptly out of the hug to eye him carefully.
"Please don't thank me. I'm, quite literally, just being a decent fucking human being. It's basic respect. You deserve that. Everyone does, unless they've wronged you," Buccellati explains. "Respect is inherent, but trust is not."
Mista is mostly out of words to grasp at, so he nods intently in reply. His mouth isn't so dry anymore.
"Regardless, if you still want this, I am more than happy to lend a guiding hand. You're under no obligation to do anything you don't want, and me being your capo doesn't change that."
Mista shakily finds one of Buccellati's hands, and his boss squeezes his hand in comfort.
"I still want this. A lot." Mista tells him with as much confidence as he can scrape together.
Buccellati swings a leg up, and seamlessly sits himself in Mista's lap. His boss is incredibly warm, and weighted in a comforting way, like sleeping under plenty of blankets. Mista has absolutely no idea what to do with his hands, though meanwhile, the straightforward capo on his lap puts his arms over his shoulders without deliberation. Buccellati catches Mista's mouth in a quick flurry of kisses, and it gets Mista's head spinning.
He pulls back with an expression Mista cannot place. It's inviting.
"Then, we can get started, on one condition," He proclaims, and Mista is able to swallow again. "It's very important that you and I communicate this whole time. That being said, I want to know at least one thing you thought I might do with you. You understand?"
Again, Mista can't argue with that, so he resigns himself to conjuring a clear answer to that request. His hands settle, albeit stiff, on Buccellati's waist. He clears his throat, unconsciously stalling for time.
"Well, so," Mista tries, pointedly looking at the floor. "I thought about you... touching me?"
"There you go," Buccellati praises, and Mista glances back at him to see his expression is fond. "But you'll need to be a little more specific than that. Where do you want me to touch you?'
Mista swings his legs back and forth, releasing the pent up buzz of energy in his body as he goes. "Uh, I guess all over?"
"That can be arranged."
Buccellati leaves his lap to stand before him, extending a hand. "Here, my room will be more comfortable, I'm sure."
Mista takes his hand, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. Buccellati heads deeper into the apartment, and Mista follows behind with the disposition of a lost puppy.
His boss sits on his bed with little fanfare, and pats the spot beside him for Mista to sit. He does so automatically, and looks to Buccellati for direction. Buccellati looks slightly above Mista's line of sight, and Mista crosses his eyes trying to follow his gaze. His hands come up to Mista's hat, thumbs peeking inside.
"Is it okay for me to take this off?" He asks.
"Oh, yeah, you can." Mista answers.
His curly hair comes free from his hat, and Buccellati sets it aside on his nightstand. He breaks into a grin when he takes in the sight of Mista's hair, and Mista can't help but fluster beneath his gaze.
"Cute." He comments, and ruffles Mista's hair a little. Mista crinkles his nose, but the praise feels like a warm sunbeam on his skin.
His stomach boils, and that heat is creeping ever lower. "Can we kiss again?"
A ghost of a smile crosses Buccellati's lips, and he makes a small "mm" in agreement. His hand rises to cup one of Mista's cheeks, and his gaze trails his lips.
Mista shoots forward this time, closing the gap between them. He kisses his upper lip, and his cheeks burn so warm that he is sure the resting hand against him can feel it.
He liked kissing before, but he didn't remember it feeling this good. He's losing himself in the sensation, only being pulled back into his coherent thoughts by the sliver of tongue that crosses his lips. Mista makes a noise of surprise that melts into a pleased sigh as he opens his mouth for Buccellati. He feels little fireworks bursting in his chest as the kiss grows messier, wetter, and more exciting.
Buccellati leads him, with gentle direction, to lie beside him on his bed. On their sides, they fall back into the rhythm of kissing, and Mista isn't trying to suppress the sighs and heavy breaths that drip from him. Buccellati, to Mista's slight bewilderment, seems to be really into it, as he is stirring up plenty of noise as well.
A warm hand finds the curve of Mista's waist, and it reminds him that he also has perfectly capable hands to use. He rests the heels of his hands on Buccellati's collarbones, fingertips gripping over his shoulders.
Buccellati's hands begin to move in soothing motions on Mista's bare skin, and his breath hitches between their mouths. The movement raises goosebumps on Mista's skin, and an excited mm! buzzes from his throat.
All the kissing has relaxed his gut, although his shoulders are stiff with a pent-up anticipation. His eyes flutter open for a moment, and his glance moves from Buccellati's thorough, closed-eye expression, to the cutout in his suit. Mista could honestly just stare at that sliver of chest forever, but his hands decide to finally, finally reach out and touch it.
Buccellati emits a pleased little noise at the contact of skin, and Mista's confidence blasts skywards. He gingerly sinks his finger pads into soft skin, and getting to touch that mesmerizing tease gets his heart hammering. He presses in further and squeezes experimentally, and Buccellati's hands begin covering more of his body.
He's being felt up by his boss while messily making out with him, and he couldn't be any further over the moon about it.
Their kisses fall wet, messy, and dizzying. Their tongues keep brushing together, so Buccellati's tongue running a gentle pressure over Mista's sends sparks through his veins. Mista's teeth scrape Buccellati's bottom lip, and when that earns him a hushed gasp, he sinks a light, tentative bite into that swollen lip. The grip on his skin tightens.
Buccellati pulls back, and Mista's eyes flutter open in wonder. "Stick out your tongue for me." He commands.
Mista doesn't hesitate, doesn't even think about it, before complying. He feels like, this, now this is dirty. There's something to him that feels impure about just this action. With this, his teaching has begun.
Buccellati's lips press around Mista's tongue, and he sucks, just lightly. An excited noise dashes its way out of Mista's throat. Seemingly pleased with his response, Buccellati sucks harder, and Mista's moans amp up.
Buccellati releases him, and begins to knead at Mista's exposed hips and tummy. His eyes hold a gentle amusement. "Did you like that?"
Mista relaxes muscles he didn't know were tense. "I never-" He lapses, astonished. "Where did you learn that?"
Buccellati laughs through his nose. "Oh, you know, around." He winks. Honest to God, winks. "I learned a lot from sleeping with men."
Mista is so fucking turned on. It's hard to breathe.
To make matters worse, his boss begins to rub circles into the hair a narrow margin beneath his belly button. Mista arches into his touch, and Buccellati's lips draw out a satisfied little smile, dark eyelashes cast down, his sight line on Mista's body.
"Do you touch yourself?" Buccellati asks in a tone that feigns disinterest, not even glancing at Mista's face.
Mista chokes, audibly, especially at the casualty of the delivery. "Well, yeah, I-"
"-thinking about me?" Buccellati adds, pitch fluctuating with his teasing. His gaze trails up to Mista's tomato-red face, sharp look in his eyes.
One of Mista's hands claps over his mouth, as if scandalized. He curls the hand into a fist, pressing it to his lips as he loudly clears his throat. "Uh, not directly, but..." He can't think of a way to defend himself any further.
"Hmm? How do you mean?" He presses on, pressing his fingers into Mista's soft tummy.
Touch me, touch me, touch me! Mista's brain is screaming. He sinks his hands back into Buccellati's chest, though this time, it's more of a scramble for purchase. Go lower! Touch me! Please touch me! Lower!
He does his honest best to wrangle in his thoughts. "It's more like, I would think of things, then jerk off, but not to those things?"
"Mmm." Buccellati hums in acknowledgement. "Then what did you think of while you were getting off?"
This conversation is ruining Mista's life, in a way that makes him rebuild from the ground up. It's new, embarrassing, nervewracking, but all the same; pumping hot adrenaline throughout his body.
"Just about how good it feels, things like that... It... It feels wrong to jerk off to someone who doesn't know you're doing it, you know? I could never.... without someone's permission..."
Buccellati leans in beside Mista's ear and whispers, "You have my permission."
If that didn't send enough of a tingle down his spine, his boss dragging his earlobe down with his teeth surely did the trick. Mista makes a whiny noise that's completely alien to him, and his body melts entirely into the mattress.
Once he can breathe again, Mista actually gives two seconds of thought to that. "I, uh, I don't want to jerk off in front of you. At least, not right now!"
Buccellati tilts his head in understanding. "Of course. I meant that you can try it on your own time, if you want."
"Oh," Mista's shoulders relax. "Sure, I'll try it some time by myself."
Buccellati's eyes crinkle with a smile, and he's kissing Mista again in an instant. His pecks trail down his lips, to his chin and jaw, and Mista tilts his head back on instinct to allow for more and more kisses.
He shivers when a chaste neck kiss is replaced by a gentle swipe of tongue. Mista registers the sturdiness of teeth, then a gentle suck on his skin. His eyes shoot open, and his mouth falls into a silent gasp.
That feels good! That's so fucking good! Why does that feel so good?! Mista's mind screams. Externally, he only manages a weak, "holy shit".
One of his hands flies to Buccellati's hair, encouraging him to continue. Vaguely, he registers Buccellati's hum of delight on his skin, though his ears are full of the unrecognizable sounds he is making. A long lick makes him clench up, pent-up energy building ever steady inside him.
Buccellati's warm hand crawls dangerously close to his waistband. At this rate, he's going to fucking explode.
Gently, he is bitten into, and he genuinely had no idea he would like it this much. Buccellati's fingers are practically dancing between his waistband and his skin. His hand tightens in his boss' hair.
Then, just like that, Buccellati draws away from his neck. His hand is still teasing him. Mista blinks, with a deer-in-headlights sort of disposition. A whine peels out of him, inexplicably.
Buccellati looks smug as all hell. "If you want something, you can ask for it."
Something in the way his skin is littered with goosebumps, following the warmth shared between their bodies, has dropped some of Mista's inhibitions away.
"Touch me. Please."
"Mmm, where? I'm already touching you."
Mista violently resists the urge to make the sign of the cross.
"My-" He struggles a little. Actually, he struggles a lot. "Touch me, please, I want you to touch..." He knows he has to say it. "Just, touch..."
Buccellati's voice drops into the middle phase between a hush and a whisper. "Tell me what you want me to say."
Mista is going to die if he doesn't get touched in the next five seconds. It feels more comfortable to reveal his words in a hush. "My dick."
He doesn't catch Buccellati's expression, because in a split second, his hand is down his pants. His spine arches, and with it, a pitiful noise leaks from his mouth.
One finger dips down, and quickly rises to coat his dick, then starts up a slow rub. "Oh, you're soaked."
"Fuck!" Mista groans, pressing his fist to his lips.
"Mmm, see what happens when you ask for what you want? You just might get it." Buccellati purrs, fingertip rolling over his hood and onto his dick.
The only divide between their bodies is Buccellati's arm working a vertical motion onto Mista. Mista, noticeably trembling, drifts into a headspace as dark and warm as a summer night. It's plenty different than touching himself, especially potent with the added novel sensation of welcome unpredictability. He didn't realize that it would be such a full-body affair.
"How is that?" Buccellati asks, and Mista comes to the surface.
His eyelids flutter apart, and he finds himself gripping one smug Buccellati for support. "I... Fuck, that feels good."
His boss' eyes light up, and he begins to use a second finger. This time, he takes Mista's cock between the two, and strokes up and down with a light pressure. Mista's lips press a moan into a strung-out hum.
"Is that how you touch yourself?" He asks like its nothing.
Mista swallows hard. He has way too much saliva, all of a sudden. "Sometimes..."
"Mmhm. You adjusted well to it growing, then."
The thought hits him like a crash landing; Buccellati also has growth, and probably plenty more than he does. Presumably, his boss is fucking huge.
It turns him on so much that he feels himself sweat.
"You... do the same?" Mista asks cautiously, turning his blushing cheeks away.
"That, and more."
To him, the mystery of not knowing is more enticing than the sordid details.
A warm hand cups his jaw, and he abides easily when the touch urges him to turn his head back. He is kissed again before he can catch a blink of an expression, and this wet kissing has his stomach squirming like he has done something dirty. Buccellati's fingers quicken.
Mista's voice begins to slip and break, and his lips tremble in the absence of being able to keep up the kiss. Buccellati sucks on his bottom lip, makes a quick dip downwards to slick his fingers, and continues with vigor.
He breaks away to breathe, his chest quickly expanding and deflating. He feels the sheen of saliva across his lips when his breath huffs out of him, hips jerking unconsciously for greater friction.
His boss hums a note in his throat, pondering. "Would you let me see more of you?"
Mista's eyes are wet from stimulation as they flicker over to the glittering eyes of his capo. "Oh, you want my pants off? Yeah, yeah I- I can do that."
Buccellati retracts his hand from Mista, and a whine dies in his throat before its fully formed. Mista shifts to sit up, and with a little fumbling, his belt and pants come away. His underwear is a pair of tight, black boxers, nothing special. He knows they'll be stained to all hell, if not already. Buccellati has his face propped up in his hands, watching him with a glimmering line of sight.
His boss shifts to sit as well, his lidded gaze running across Mista's legs. Mista draws his thighs together abashedly.
Buccellati cocks his head to the side, tearing his eyes away from Mista's calves. "Sorry, I'm admiring."
"Wh- They're just my legs! Just hairy legs!" Mista blanches.
Buccellati puts a hand on his knee, and gives a comforting squeeze. "Sure, but I don't usually see them." His hand trails down his shin, and he turns his wrist over to hold the back of his calf with a testing squeeze. "It makes me proud of the both of us that you've gotten so muscular. You're doing really well."
Mista makes a noise between a stutter and a laugh, and a giddy smile splits his lips apart. "Well...! I have a pretty good teacher, is all."
Buccellati laughs through his nose, and he half-circles to face Mista, his face beaming with delight. His hands rest on both kneecaps, and Mista parts his legs without thinking. A casual scratch behind his ear reminds him that the tips of his ears are scorching hot.
"I'd like to see you underneath me while I touch you. That sound okay?" Buccellati requests.
Mista's breath catches, so he's mostly out of air when he answers, "Wow, yeah- That sounds good."
Mista kisses the responsive laughter from Buccellati's mouth, and his hands loop behind his neck as Buccellati presses him into the bed. One of Buccellati's hands folds his left leg back, and a gasp jumps out of him when the pressure of Buccellati's hips on his groin zaps sweetness through his synapses. He grinds down on the junction of Mista's crotch and thigh, and Mista's body instantly catches fire.
"Mm, have you ever had someone grind on you like that?"
"No, but... You should do it again." Mista breathes.
Buccellati sits up with a knowing grin, and he shucks his pants away in no time. His underwear is styled black with white polka dots, trimmed with flowery, black lace. Fitting.
When he leans in again, Mista stops him short with a firm hand to his chest. Buccellati's brows arch into concern.
"Could you..." Mista turns his flushed cheeks away for a moment, collecting himself. "You can take off your suit jacket, too."
Buccellati sits back on his haunches with a pleased little breath, his hands adeptly working his suit open. "Have you wanted to see me like this?"
Mista leans back on his elbows to watch, fascinated by each new inch of skin. "Yeah, well... Yes."
Once open, his jacket slides off his shoulders, and he whisks it away. His eyes are aglow with a warm light, and the soft rise and fall of his chest makes it all the more tantalizing to touch.
Mista sits up, and his hands come to gently rest below his pecs. He hadn't noticed until now, but a good portion of his capo's tattoo is raised with scar tissue. He never considered tattooing as a method to diminish the intensity of surgery scarring, but the cleverness of that concept clicks in his head. He marvels at the beautiful linework splayed across Buccellati's chest, tracing his fingertips over the curves.
He's overwhelmed with the urge to taste his skin, and he looks up at Buccellati, eyes begging a myriad of questions. Buccellati smiles down like a sunbeam, his hands resting behind Mista's neck to lightly scratch the curls at his nape.
Mista gulps down his nerves. "Could I maybe... Use my mouth here?" He tries, praying he got the point across.
"Yes," Buccellati allows. "But I'll warn you in advance; I'm not nearly as sensitive since my surgery. Actually, if you bite me, I'll probably feel it more."
"You like being bitten?"
"Mmhmm, it's nice. Not to brag, but I wouldn't worry about biting too hard. I can handle a lot."
Mista channels his spike of arousal into pressing his lips into an open-mouthed kiss on Buccellati's chest. His eyes flutter up for approval as his tongue drags a slow line between his pecs. Buccellati is watching him with quiet interest, lips parted.
Even just his tongue and lips are making Buccellati's breath come faster, and his hand cupping his boss's chest feels a quickening heartbeat. His mouth on his warm, welcoming skin spurs his stomach to squirm from the intimacy. A light test of his teeth draws out a gasp from Buccellati, and that intake of breath causes Mista to realize that making other people feel good is really fucking cool.
Drunk on full-body satisfaction, Mista sinks his teeth deep into Buccellati's chest, and the man swells up with a moan. It's one of the most unholy sounds he's ever heard in his life, and he freezes upon knowing he made it happen. His eyes blink up to assess the damage, but he only sees his capo's head thrown back. The grip on Mista's hair is pleading, and it excites him deeply. He runs over the imprint in his flesh with his tongue, and sinks his teeth in again.
All of a sudden, Buccellati's posture buckles. He worms one arm between Mista's embrace, and pushes into his chest, authoritative. "Hold on- Are you still binding right now?"
A strand of saliva hangs between Mista's mouth and Buccellati's chest. "...Yes? Oh, right, I am."
Lines form between his brows. "Mista, you don't have to show me anything you don't want to, but your binder has to come off. You can put your shirt on if you want after, but you-"
"No no, I want you to see!" Mista blurts out. He curses himself, him and his big gay mouth. He can't even physically cover his mouth with his arms wrapped around his boss's smooth, warm waist. "Er- you can see," He corrects fruitlessly. "I'll take it off."
Buccellati sits back, his posture weighted with satisfaction.
Mista's head is inside his sweater when he hears Buccellati coo, "Good boy," at him. He takes extra time pulling out of his sleeves to catch his goddamn breath.
With his sweater and binder pulled over his head and tossed aside, Mista sheepishly tilts his chin, observing Buccellati's reaction. It reads as content, gentle.
His capo presses a firm hand to his collarbone, and without missing a beat, Mista is on his back below Buccellati's eager gaze. "Now, weren't you supposed to be underneath me?"
Mista blinks himself into the feeling of the sheets on his back, and Buccellati's weight easily pressing him into the bed. He swallows hard. "Yeah..."
Buccellati catches Mista's lips, pressure hungry, and his hand makes haste in sliding back into Mista's boxers. The contact is far more intense after the time they spent time apart. The thought of stifling his moans doesn't even cross Mista's mind.
Buccellati's gaze above him is intense when smug, parted lips act as an accomplice. His free hand comes to cup Mista's cheek, and Mista's hazy eyes flutter open. A million words pour between their locked line of sight.
Mista remembers his hands, so he uses his closest to turn the hand on his face onto his lips, pressing a gentle kiss into the crook of Buccellati's palm. An addition of pressure and speed on his cock, though, drags his mouth open. His tongue and teeth graze Buccellati's hand, serving to put a spark into Buccellati's eyes.
Pressing two fingers to Mista's bottom lip, Buccellati's grin flickers devilishly. "You want to do something for me?"
Mista manages a nod, all of his tension poised between his eyebrows. He can't tear his stare away from Buccellati's, and his hips won't stop bucking.
"Suck on my fingers." Buccellati requests, and weights his index finger on Mista's tongue after his mouth obediently opens.
Mista's moans and gasps sound absolutely depraved with his tongue out. He's not sure if it's normal, and he really doesn't have room to entertain that worry, but hearing himself like that makes his body writhe in a wave of alien pleasure. He feels like the intense heat of the room has a thick, sea-salt aura.
"I told you to suck on them." Buccellati reminds him, holding his tongue down with two fingers.
Mista's lips wrap around those first digits, and his eyes screw shut to lose himself in the sensation of eagerly sucking his capo's fingers.
Buccellati rocks his whole body into the breakneck movement of his hand on Mista's cock, dipping his fingers deeper into his mouth in a motion that forces his head to tilt back. He is nearly as loud as Mista, paralleling with drawn-out moans and pleased laughter.
Mista's sense of sight fades out. The remaining stimuli implodes deep within him, somewhere he can feel, but cannot see.
An electric current and subsequent lightning strike zaps his entire body back into existence.
His eyes fly open, and he cums when a convulsion erupts from the arch of his back. The pressure and release make him bite hard into the fingers in his mouth. Buccellati doesn't retract his hand nor flinch.
Mista's vision is full of blinking stars, and he can't stop fucking shaking.
Buccellati's fingers carefully inch out of his underwear and his mouth, in favor of pressing his palm to Mista's flushed cheek. Mista blearily makes eye contact with Buccellati, who wears an expression of soft attentiveness. As soon as their gazes cross, Mista locks his arms around Buccellati to drag him into a slow, languid kiss.
Dimly, he registers surprise in his boss that melts easily into an intimate reciprocity.
Mista's arms go limp, finally, and the kiss breaks away for the sake of his pounding heart. Buccellati is warm at his side, gently running his thumb underneath his ear.
Time ceases to exist. He catches his breath.
Mista's lashes draw apart. He blinks slow and heavy.
"How's my sweet boy?" Buccellati asks breezily, brushing the curls away from his sticky forehead.
"Mmmmmm." Mista rumbles in reply, his lips glued shut. He's grinning.
"Mmhm." Buccellati mimics in agreement with a roll of amusement.
Buccellati leans over Mista, his hair brushing his cheeks while he laces feather-light kisses down his hairline. Major butterflies flutter to life in his stomach.
Mista sits up abruptly when Buccellati has drawn back, pupils blown. Buccellati's eyes search him with wonder, suspending him in the animation of his desire.
All of a sudden, Mista is all too conscious of his own labored breathing. He snuffs his rising pang of anxiety by wrapping Buccellati into a warm, tender kiss.
The kiss dissolves into tongue and saliva and plump lips in no time at all, and though the edges of his senses cloud in bliss, Mista is hyper-aware of just how shamelessly Buccellati is moaning into his mouth. He wants to drink it all down and down and down. His body is a live wire.
Buccellati climbs over his lap and beams down kisses and warmth and spit upon him. His hands cup his head and drag his hair down, and Mista can hardly believe how instantaneously his body arches into the screaming sensation of having his hair pulled. Mista's hands initially claim a resting place on Buccellati's waist while they kiss, until his touch lazes down his hips. Good God, Buccellati's ass is right there. I've always wanted to- Should I- I think- God, I love being alive.
"You're really this turned on?" Mista questions, punctuating as he grabs Buccellati's ass with both hands. He's grinning widely, less from confidence, but more from unbridled, gleeful satisfaction.
Buccellati shrieks in laughter, and a layer of anxiety melts off Mista's body. "Yes, obviously! What, do you need more proof?" He laughs lightly.
Mista feels how bad his ears are burning. "I mean..."
Buccellati's eyes glitter. "You can touch me and see for yourself."
He takes Mista's wrist, and with that permission, Mista's hand beats Buccellati to his intention. He cups his hand over his crotch, and his fingers meet Buccellati's damp underwear before his thumb trails gentle pressure over Buccellati's swollen dick.
With a desperate moan, Buccellati's body crumbles forward into the junction of Mista's neck and shoulder.
Mista is redder than a tomato, and he finds his mouth watering. "Buccellati, you're fucking huge."
His boss laughs beside his ear in a big huff of breath. "So you believe me?"
He nods against his body, speech failing him. Mista presses his fingertips into the wettest part of his underwear, and both of them gasp at the contact like a storm crashing in.
"Fuck, uh, I might not be any good at it, but do you want me to finger you?" Mista asks, attributing his slight coherency to the two of them looking in different directions.
"Mista," Buccellati starts, turning to press a kiss to his neck. "Fuck yes."
Mista gingerly tugs the crotch of Buccellati's underwear aside and loses his fingers in just how soaking wet Buccellati is, making a shaky noise between impressed and shocked.
"Buccellati, your... your-"
"My pussy?"
"What the fuck, I can't say that! You think I can just- About my capo's-!"
"Well, now you have to say it." Buccellati laughs.
"You-"
"You have a better idea?"
"I can barely manage 'dick' for that part, I-"
"That's fine, it is my dick. Or you can say cock, clit, whatever. But lower than that, what are you gonna call it?"
"Nothing, I guess! God, how did I forget you're such a sadist?"
"Sado-masochist, thank you very much. It's fun in this line of work, I recommend it. But regardless, I won't really make you say it, unless you want me to make you."
"...What do you get out of that?"
"A lot! You're very easily provoked, Mista, did you know that? It's fun for me, it turns me on."
"...Your pussy is this wet because I'm easy to provoke?!"
Buccellati squeals in delight as Mista wriggles two fingers inside him and thrusts them with a vigor. "Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck yes!"
Buccellati is slick and throbbing inside, and it ignites a fire all the way down Mista's spine. He's trembling slightly in Mista's arms as his fingers clumsily explore him. They're both breathing so hard and heavy.
"Mista," Buccellati is panting something fierce. "If you curl your fingers for me, I'll- I'll-"
Mista obeys unfailingly, crooking his fingers inside Buccellati. A mighty shiver rolls through Buccellati's body like a tempest, and he's shoving his hips down on Mista's fingers with guttural noises falling away from him. Mista finds Buccellati's cock with his thumb and strokes it with a vigor.
He's full of watchful amazement. "Buccellati, no offense, but you turned into such a slut just now!"
Buccellati pushes off of Mista's chest, bracing one hand against him as he uses the other to drag Mista down by his hair and press their foreheads together. Mista moans straight to the heavens, Bruno's grip making tears well up in his eyes. He grinds his fingers harder against his boss' swollen G-spot. He seals their gazes together, and Mista doesn't dream of blinking or otherwise breaking that palpable stare.
"Make. Me. Cum." Buccellati pants, and Mista doesn't need to be told twice.
He crooks all of his hand, save for his thumb swiping unevenly across Buccellati's impossibly hard dick, inside his pulsating pussy. It's clumsy and sloppy as hell, but he's giving him everything he has and it's paying off.
Buccellati only breaks eye contact when his eyes go wide and cross severely. He makes this tremendous, unholy croon as he cums and every part of him tightens, and his criminally strong grip on the nape of his neck forces Mista's gaze to the ceiling. Mista doesn't register anything about the room; static fills his vision.
His body falls forward on Mista like a ton of bricks, and Mista lets the both of them collapse onto the bed in a pile of labored breathing and boiling body heat.
As Mista catches his breath, it occurs to him how utterly blissful he feels. He hadn't been the one to just cum, but he feels a satisfaction like that was the case. Oh, fuck, I think I get it. He thinks, petting Buccellati's hair absentmindedly. He's the reason Buccellati is lightly whining and shaking in his aftershocks. Getting someone else off, you get a different sense of satisfaction... It's not your junk, it's your brain... your heart? Is that it? Your... your heart is satiated?
Mista raises his sore hand, pruney from Buccellati's cum. He turns it over and examines it a few times, spreading his fingers to see the strands stretch between them, dimly awed at how much Buccellati produced. This is why spraining your wrist- not literally, but jeez- is worth it, huh?
As unconsciously as lifting a finger, he brings his hand to his mouth and tastes it. That's fucking cool. He decides, halfway processing his revelations on topping, and halfway considering the taste and texture of his capo's cum. He's having a good time, wholesale.
Buccellati stirs on his chest, and Mista freezes as Buccellati's eyes catch his, caught in the act.
He props himself up and grips Mista's wrist, pulling his hand away and substituting it for his own mouth. He kisses him deeply, his tongue intruding, lapping up his own taste. He moves them into shallower, lighter kisses, evening out their breaths.
Buccellati draws back contentedly. He rests his head on Mista's chest, peering at him warmly.
"Buccellati, you-"
"You wanna call me Bruno?" There's so much affection in his eyes.
Mista flusters. "That's gonna ruin what I was gonna say!"
Buccellati's- Bruno's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Doesn't matter, say it."
Mista swallows. God, he really likes him. "Bruno... You're kind of a freak, aren't you?"
Bruno breaks into laughter in an instant, and Mista laughs along despite himself. "You hadn't noticed?"
Mista makes a movement close enough to a shrug to convey the message. Bruno grins and scratches the hair at the nape of Mista's neck affectionately.
"Mista?"
"Hmm?"
"Will you stay the night?"
Mista thought breathing correctly wasn't going to be an issue anymore. Apparently not. "I- Yeah. Yeah, I'll stay." He manages in earnest.
"Good," Bruno grins. "We should get cleaned up, I can lend you a change of clothes."
The idea of wearing Bruno's clothes makes his heart hammer, somehow.
He's starting to get how deep he's in here, and all he can do is nod with a ridiculous, uncontrollable grin on his face.