Work Text:
Bruno sits at the table, ankle-deep in assignments and paperwork. His head is already aching. It’s barely even three in the afternoon, and yet, he can tell he’ll be sat right in the same spot in ten more hours. He feels something bubbling in his stomach (frustration, probably) and his hands catch his face, sinking into the tips of his fingers as he rubs the sides of his temple. Fuck. Well.
He sighs. Picks a pen up. There’s no time like the present, and he’s wasting his own trying to push back what needs to be done. He begins reading, his eyes slow across the words on the page, his lashes heavy. He checks the clock. Fifteen minutes have passed. Reads again. Clock. Fifteen minutes more. He isn’t even done with the first three pages. God. Why’s he so slow at this? Tick, tock. His watch is teasing him. Taunting him. He slams the files down, groaning.
Just then, someone knocks on his door. It must be Mista. He’s the only one with the balls to ignore the bright red ‘do not disturb’ sign at his knob. He’d gotten it- well. They’d had a little heist at a hotel room, and Mista figured, well, Bruno might need something for when he’s busy, right? Doesn’t wanna be bothered? Boom- handy dandy little sign for you.
Ironically, he also doesn’t respect that. After some light jangling, he’s in, a smirk on his face.
He’s hard, and showing through his pants. Of course.
“Hiii,” he sidles up to the desk, placing his hands on some of the papers that currently litter its surface. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”
Buccellati frowns. “I’m quite occupied right now, Mista. Do you think you could come back later?”
Mista clicks his tongue. “Damn, babe, work’s never stopped you before. Must be the real deal, if you’re so upset. What are these about?” He picks up a stray piece of paper, oohing and ahhing at its contents.
Bruno jolts up from his seat, snatching it back. “Confidential, Mista! They’re confidential. Christ. Will you let me finish my work?”
Mista raises his hands up, as if admitting defeat. “Okay, bro, okay. No need to get riled up. It is tough shit, then. I think you just gotta unwind a little before continuing, though. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like the higher-ups telling me my paperwork is late,” Bruno leans back on his chair again, sighing. “Listen, if you want to stay in the office, you can, but just stay quiet-?”
“Oh, shit! Scooore! Sex time.”
“That is literally the opposite of what I said-” but Bruno can’t finish his sentence. Mista disappears under his desk, cramming himself into the spot between Bruno’s legs. “What! Are you doing!”
“Shh, just work. Ain’t a big deal, right? You finish your work a little more relaxed, n’ I get a taste. Win-win. Less you really want me outta here, in which case, I can lea-”
Bruno tightens his legs around Mista’s waist. “Don’t.” Might as well, right?
“Oh. Well, well, well! I knew you’d come around, baby,” Mista shoots a grin up at him, and soon, Bruno hears his own zipper coming down.
He rolls himself back, sliding the chair closer to the edge of the desk, and picks up the pen again. Whatever. He’ll just ignore Mista until he’s satisfied, maybe get a good quickie in, and his boyfriend will be out of his hair. He feels guilty, deep down, for being unable to give him more time than what he deserves. Mista deserves the world. He’s so lucky to have him in his te-
Oh, fuck, he’s pulling his lingerie away. God. His hands are so warm. Why’s he taking so long to do everything? Every little action, every pull of cloth and silk, it’s all measured out so that it’ll cause every bit of friction that it can. Bruno takes a deep breath. Okay. He’s already been distracted. He can’t let himself focus on what’s happening under the table. He has to finish.
He’s halfway through the next page when Mista licks a stripe up his slit. He drops the papers in hand, slapping the other one over his mouth and exhaling. Fuck this. Mista’s tongue flicks at his throbbing dick, one of his hands still holding onto Bruno’s inner thigh. The other one’s found its way to his abdomen, and he’s holding the capo in place, pressing down with such gentle heat that Bruno thinks he’ll go insane.
He picks the paper up again. It shakes in his grasp. He pays it no mind. Lets his eyes follow words that get all jumbled up in his head, too mixed with thoughts of Mista’s lips wrapping around his clit, pulling it, his tongue inside of Bruno, now, tasting every drop of natural lube that pours down his folds.
He’s doing it slowly, just like before. His tongue is twirling in him, the warmth of his breathing making everything around Bruno melt. It’s like the shelves across his office begin to tremble just as he does, the dizzying effect of Mista’s mouth on him is just that intense. Mista bites down, sudden and brief, and Bruno jumps.
His pen rolls down onto his lap. Mista giggles. Picks it up. Even the way his jaw moves, vibrates with laughter- even that manages to somehow make Bruno thrust into his mouth. Guido complies.
His hand’s now trailing towards Bruno’s cunt, and he knows Mista will finger him until he’s writhing (he’s so fucking good at it) but he can’t afford himself the luxury of crumpling any papers. So, he sets the work down. He’ll read it on the desk. It’s okay. He just needs to lean forward a little more.
As he does, Mista lets out a quiet coo, thanking him for… something. Perhaps this position will allow for better reach- but Bruno is NOT thinking about that. He isn’t thinking about how Mista’s hot hot hot fingers are now rubbing circles down his dick, and how he’s allowed two fingers to curl up inside, hooking up, digging into his walls and making him jitter. He is not thinking about how Mista's using the pen to trail around him, too, pushing it past his ring of muscle, and pulling it away again, the cold body of the pen a delightful contrast to his fingers. He’s definitely not thinking about Mista rutting up against his leg, his cock hardening against his calf, the muscle thick and perfect and all that Bruno wants-
Oh, goddammit. No, he doesn’t want that. He wants to finish! Wants to sign these papers, hand them over, and never think of them again. He isn’t going to whimper, he isn’t going to let his face fall onto the desk, hands curling into fists as Mista mercilessly drives his digits right up against his G-spot, and he isn’t going to tremble because he’s got Guido’s tongue lapping up at his cock.
“Come on, baby,” he hears Mista’s husky-sweet voice drawl out, a smirk clearly dancing on his full lips. “Let yourself go.”
Bruno has no idea what else he can currently let go of, seeing how he’s doubled over atop the table, gripping the edges as his knuckles turn white. He’s given up on the filing, and he’s sure that he’ll have to reorganize everything when he’s done. He’ll also have to iron some of the papers back into shape, since he’s been pushing up against the desk, his suit now feeling too tight, too restricting.
Mista’s hand (the one not halfway up his pussy) reaches up to pull down on his zipper- as if he’s read his mind, somehow. The rest of the suit comes off, and fuck it- Bruno isn’t going to get shit done today. He leans back on the chair, finally releasing the desk, his hands feeling odd and loose when he’s not using them to clench the wooden board. He peers down into Mista’s loving gaze, and as he buries himself into Bruno’s sex again, he knows he’s won.
Buccellati presses his back to the chair now, his voice hiking up as he runs his hand down Mista’s hair, pushing the hat away. He rests the back of his free arm against his eyes, hoping that it’ll save him some of the shame, were anyone to step into the office.
Guido’s groaning, still thrusting up against his leg as he nudges Buccellati into his climax. He’s got a thumb pressing into Bruno’s ribs, and the capo hopes that if he maybe sinks down a little more, he’ll cup his chest and press the soft skin there, too. There’s no muffling going on anymore, his throaty sighs long replaced by undeniable mewls.
And oh, when he cums, he knows half of Naples must have heard him, because he’s holding onto Mista and pushing the chair back, far enough for it to knock into the window behind them, his thighs closing as Mista’s hand is caught between them and he ruts into it, seeking more, more, more, because he’s not going to ruin his own orgasm but he just can’t help it- and when Guido gives, moving his leg up so that he can keep hitting that same spot over and over-
The chair falls back, taking the two of them along with it. Bruno squawks- it’s not an attractive sound, he’s sure, but it’s all he can manage at the moment. Mista’s toppled over on him, laughing, a wet spot that Bruno hadn’t seen now on his pants. He’s panting, too, hands slicked with Buccellati’s cum.
“S-sorry, I,” he wheezes, Mista’s face on Bruno’s exposed chest, his cheek resting atop the scars and beating ribs above it, “didn’t mean for that to happen. Are- are you hurt?”
“Nah. I’m glad we didn’t break the- the window, yeah?” Mista’s out of breath, but he’s obviously more coherent than Bruno. He nuzzles up to the capo’s chin, depositing a quick kiss onto his lips. “How’s a round two sound?”
Bruno whines. His paperwork flew everywhere after their fall, but on his mama does he want Mista in him. “You’re killing me, Mista.”