Chapter Text
“God, you’re built like David.” Giorno murmured, the comment half lost the the thrumming of the music that pulsed like lifeblood through the club. Mista was toying with a handful of gold hair, and Giorno was letting him thumb at his lower lip as well, Mista having come to cup Giorno’s jaw. “I hate being with someone whose body isn’t as attractive as mine. I like when things are beautiful, otherwise it’s useless -” Giorno cut himself off, cutting his eyes up to Mista. They looked dark purple now in the light, and Mista wondered if Giorno had in contacts, before he watched the other’s eyes trail down, down, until his face slid out of Mista’s hand, and Mista felt a hand wrap around the base of his cock, and a hot, wet heat wrap tight around his cock.
There was a bit of teeth that made Mista grit his own and throw his head back as he tried not to instantly bust one from how long he’d been wanting this. Was it selfish that he looked at Giorno and wanted to have his cock sucked by him, and those pretty lips, and well-shaped hands? He wanted so many other things from Giorno, too; like the truth. But he would take a blowjob for now.
And Mista had always been a bit of masochist, so he didn’t mind the occasional scrape of teeth against his dick.
Giorno gave head like a fucking god, the Greek kinds that you read all the myths about, and it’s just a bunch of ancient people fuckin’-
Mista put a hand on Giorno’s head, stopping him for a moment. “Hold on, honey. I don’t wanna make a sextape. . .” He grinned and cocked his head to the side. “Not without your permission, of course.” Giorno did the best he could to laugh, his mouth otherwise engaged with Mista’s incredibly hard cock.
Mista did something on his laptop, and minimized a window. Giorno never stopped blowing him, not until he felt the other's balls pull tight in response to the way his mouth was coaxing it out of him.
“This is a nice video of you going down on me, though. Thank God I’m not screencasting. Don’t hit that red button.” Mista said and turned his attention back to the other. Giorno didn’t respond, but reached and grabbed the backs of Mista’s hips firmly, causing his pants to slide further down, and Mista’s body to curl as his weight dropped against the table. The head of his cock bumped once against the back of Giorno’s throat, before he relaxed enough to take the rest of Mista’s length down. It was so hot, hot, hot -
Mista’s internal thought process was short circuiting. And he was definitely cumming, his cock throbbing and a brief, apologetic look to Giorno as he was unable to resist shoving the blond head down further, Mista’s hand fisting in his hair.
Mista’s other hand moved back; his fingers brushed against the screencast button, and Giorno’s eyes went wide as he tried to breathe through his nose, and watched Mista fall back, elbow pressing down over the screencast button - the red one, that he’d warned Giorno not to touch. Giorno couldn’t really tell what happened next, because he was halfway to blacking out and was still groaning as he orgasmed deep inside Giorno’s throat.
“Jesus, fucking God -” Mista swore, watching his laptop crumple onto the floor of his sound booth, wires detaching and the music halting with a loud, audible rip. Mista’s curse of ecstasy echoed through the nightclub, and Mista watched in horror as the audio/video cable remained in place - of course it would. A few unintelligible sounds played over the silence, and Mista and Giorno’s faces both became stony with realization.
A few howls echoed throughout the club, along with the sound of Buccellati and Trish screaming Guido Mista's first name in unison. His first name. He was suddenly thirteen again, and his mom had a wooden spoon covered in olive oil and fresh basil. He’d left with a smear of oil on the seat of his pants that day, after she whacked him for smoking out the windows and stealing the neighbor’s revolver, again.
Suddenly, he was back in Passione, rubbing his eyes and groaning.
“Oh fuck.” Mista yelled loud enough to be heard in a cry of desolation, but not regret. “I’ve gotta quit my job.”
He was too in shock to think to rip out the cable, and for some reason, Giorno didn’t bother - he was intent to stare at Mista’s confusion as in dawned realization.
Giorno used Mista’s new beanie to wipe the cum from his chin, and his lips quirked up.
“You’re a freak.” Mista accused, highly amused at seeing what he suspected was Giorno’s real smile for the first time - and it was directly after they’d broadcasted the beginning of their non-consensual sextape to the entire club. “You really don’t mind?” Mista asked, brows going high in disbelief.
The video now captivating the Passione audience was shot over Mista’s shoulder, but it was incriminating enough, the screens of the nightclub drawing all eyes to the image of Mista settling down against the table, biting his lip and watching the top of a blond head bob up and down. His cock was on screen for just a split second, the same moment as Giorno lifted up and brought a string of saliva trailing from his lips to Mista’s leaking dickhead.
Mista turned white-hot with shame, and shielded his eyes from the sight that was probably offensive, but was now just getting him hard again as he shrugged his pants back up.
Giorno turned away from the sight, straightening his lapels and throwing Mista his cum-soaked beanie over his shoulder.
“Just take me out of here. I’ve got a business proposition for you.” Giorno stopped, pulling a cherry chapstick from somewhere on his person that Mista didn’t see, since the other remained with his back to him, only barely peeking over one shoulder. He was gorgeous, Mista thought as he watched the other apply his chapstick, making the mundane suddenly arousing. But everything Giorno did was sexy, like a model, like there was an invisible camera; but Giorno had a way of using his body language to make you feel like you were one peering through that invisible camera, through the lens, knowing full and well that he was the shining star and you were just a photographer, a side character.
Mista decided he was in love with him. Bad move. Don’t care, Mista thought earnestly, still watching Giorno virtually glow before him.
He threw his jacket around Giorno’s shoulders and his arm around his waist, left his busted set up behind and the booth unlocked.
“How would you like a new employer?” Giorno said, voice stern and business-like in a way that let Mista know he was serious. “I’d be your direct superior, but you’d remain in Naples with your beaches and sunsets and cramped buildings.” Giono’s gaze flashed with something dangerously unreadable, and Mista gulped, feeling compelled to accept his offer. “Unless you’d rather work in London, or Miami, or even Shibuya. Do you like Harajuku? I’m a fan.”
Mista was halfway to convinced already. He couldn’t show his face to the Passione crowd. He nervously sent fingerguns to Trish - who looked furious - and looked around for Buccellati; the bartender must have gone to quickly switch off the breakers. The club went black as the power shut down and Mista pulled open the entrance, hurriedly escorting Giorno into the cold night and towards the moonlit alley where he parked his car.
“Can I DJ for Gwen Stefani? Can you do that for me?” Mista asked as he shared with Giorno a cigarette for their walk, and ignored the sound of people pouring out of the club. Giorno said nothing, prompting Mista to ask a more serious question.
“Who am I working for?”
“Paradise.” Giorno responded in lilted English. Mista’s confused response amused him enough to bring that smirk back, as he took the cigarette and got into Mista’s car when the other opened the passenger side door for him.
Giorno thought it was over, when Mista suddenly got on top of him in a show of dominance that made something in Giorno pull tight, and his eyes go wide as his arousal spiked. That wasn’t an easy feat, but Mista was succeeding in making Giorno falter when he crawled atop him and pressed his half-hard, denim-encased cock into Giorno’s stomach as he leaned the seat back until Giorno was horizontal. Mista closed the car door when both of them were fully in, and he turned Giorno over, thanking God for his fully tinted windows, hiding the dirty things he was doing to Giorno.
“So, do you just want to hire me, or can I say no, and dick you down into my passenger seat anyway?” Mista said, sounding tough. Giorno bit his lip, Mista was cute, and sexy, and rough in the most pristine way he’s ever seen. He was a character, and Giorno laughed out loud.
Mista was stunned, limbs going slack as he somehow found himself under Giorno, the other’s eyes dark and his hand right over Mista’s quickly beating heart, and the other gripping his balls tightly through his jeans.
“Or, you could say yes, and come with me to Above Heaven, and maybe then I’ll be your catatonic slut.” Giorno countered, making Mista gulp as the other slowly unfastened his belt and zipper, shoving fabric down until he could freely handle the already leaking cock. Mista was so painfully hard, and was only getting more so at the sight of Giorno unzipping his white one-piece outfit, Mista sad to see that little gold chain over his chest go, but rapt when it was replaced by a perfectly-shaped chest that was tinted like a painted peach, pink over his nipples and blossoming dark red when Mista dared to reach up and pinch.
“Above Heaven?” Mista questioned and looked up at Giorno’s face before leaning to take an armful of the other, and mouth at his chest and neck. Giorno moaned and the sound was ridiculously sweet, and Mista couldn’t believe when suddenly the clothing on Giorno’s body was gone, and his ass was sinking down over the head of Mista’s cock like a glove. Giorno looked like he struggled with the tip, brows twisting in a flicker of frustration before he went calm again, successfully fitting half of Mista’s cock inside of him. “I don’t like repetition.” Giorno warned, as his hips started to rock on top of the other’s. A coating of sweat was forming where their skin touched, which was nearly everywhere. Mista liked watching Giorno ride him, but if he were honest, he wasn't lasting long when Giorno was this tight a fit. His chest swelled in pride.
“I’ll show you repetition.” Mista said with a voice that was almost a whisper, as one brow went up and he glanced around the interior of his car. God, the car was shaking. Mista was waiting for the police to come and arrest him for public indecency.
Were those sirens? I’m going to get arrested, Mista thought.
But while he waited for his inevitable fate, he chose to thrust his cock upwards harshly, a few times in succession, hard enough to bounce Giorno and push a few lewd, uncontrolled sounds out of him.
“Don’t stop.” Giorno ordered, and Mista complied. Giorno rode him down into the seat and Mista fucked up into Giorno’s tight, pillowy ass, Mista mesmerized as he took one handful of it and tried not to cum too fast, once again. He didn’t want that to be a trend, but -
Mista quickly found out how good it felt taking Giorno’s orders, feeling his body roll over his cock with a tight pull that had Mista’s eyes rolling back into his skull behind his eyelids. Gritting his teeth, Mista gave his last few dozen shoves, his cock pulsing inside of the other as he came haphazardly inside of Giorno.
“My God, I’m an asshole. I’m sorry -” Mista started but fumbled when Giorno put a hand over his mouth and continued bouncing his hips, making Mista twitch and shudder from the stimulation on his softening cock.
“I want you to come work for my company, and come with me to Shibuya so you can fuck the Harajuku Girls and eat hotpot and drop acid, or whatever it is you do. Your music kills with the demographics we need, so we need you. Because we can’t have you against us.” Giorno said with a grin.
“Who’s us? You’re not fucking the boss, are you? Please tell me if I’m not your main man because you’re kinda the only thing on my mind for the past four weeks -” Mista gasped, and Giorno slid off of the other, the cum dripping out of him and making a mess over Mista’s front.
“What?” Giorno was suddenly intrigued, which let Mista know he must definitely look like a freak, to get Giorno to look twice.
“I just - it’s nothing.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and Giorno started to redress, still glancing at Mista every now and then as he grew ambiguously panicked. “Don’t like the number four. It just ain’t right.” Mista finished. "Hey, you didn't do that with my laptop, did you? It's not like you can control other people, unless -" Mista's anxiety disorder was showing, and he wished Giorno's eyes were less piercing. "I mean you'd have to have some sort of supernatural power because I definitely hit that button myself, so -" Mista stumbled over a few more words, already regretting them, "Just, all of this really benefits you, so it could be like, a set-up."
"Like a set-up. You're a genius, just not that kind. I like you, Guido." Giorno cut him off with the simple arching of a perfectly arched brow. Mista's babbling stopped, and he went silent, like a hushed child, or a dog.
“Shi, four; the number of death.” Giorno muttered, and Mista’s cold sweating worsened with each slowly-formed syllable that tumbled past the blond's perfectly glossy lips. “Maybe it’s a sign you should accept my offer. You remember my birthday?” Giorno threatened half-jokingly.
Mista nodded slowly. “Yeah, I remember.” He slid off his beanie, rolling his pants up and and somehow maneuvering himself and Giorno’s bodies until he could slide behind the driver’s wheel. “If you’re my boss, who is your boss?”
Giorno closed his eyes and sighed, face falling into his splayed fingers as he peered at Mista with a heavy lashed-and-lidded stare that made the room seem frighteningly cold, and lonesome.
Mista cocked his head. “Sorry, if I shouldn’ta asked-” Mista recoiled before Giorno waved him away with his other hand.
“It’s okay.” Giorno looked out the window, his expression remote and unfathomable and reflected in the widow, but also reflecting the red of the glowing sign in the alley outside his window. “I want sfogliatella to get this taste out of my mouth.” Giorno said after a moment. Mista complied, thinking to himself if Giorno meant the taste of Mista's cum, or the bitterness of whatever his question had dredged up.
Mista started to drive, no questions asked. After a moment, Giorno broke the semi-silence of car tires on crunching city streets.
“We work for my father, DIO.”
Mista panicked, and responded like any sane person would, only pausing for four exact, measured seconds of sheer terror.
“Sounds like a deal, boss.” Mista punctuated his words with an easy smile, and held his hand out so they could shake and make things official.
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