*Bubblegum K.K playing muffled in the background*

@agcntbubbles ++ meme blah blah meme

🚄🍊═══════ Tangerine slams his fist against the small, square window separating him from the banking clerk at his pathetic, little cubicle. The glass shatters into a million pieces, cutting the assassin's knuckles and littering the precious accounting papers and unsigned checks spread all over the desk. The clerk gasps, falling backward in his chair as Tangerine, in an orderly fashion, threatens to climb through the makeshift door and tackle the banker further. Just in time, Bubbles, an unfortunate duo, grabs the hitman from behind, shoving the man away from a possibility of ruining his expensive suit and the clerk's life. Thrusts his heel back, Tangerine tries to kick the gunman's ankle while jolting his arms in an ill attempt to free himself. His head snaps to the side, glaring poison daggers at Bubbles as his elbow connects to the agent's gut.

"Let me GO, you bloody bastard!" Tangerine snarls, gritting his teeth while thrashing about. He glares back at the clerk who reaches for the panic button underneath his desk. "You press that, you little maggot, and I am goin' to blow your fuckin' head off! Get me Lemon's documents NOW!" The hitman demands, jerking his shoulders in a continuous test of Bubbles's endurance

Clayton had known things were going to go sour before they'd even kicked off. It was just how Tangerine was, was just how the circumstances seemed. It was a touchy topic and he knew the assassin would likely go ballistic over something or another.

The glass was shattered before Bubbles could launch forward to grapple at Tangerine to hold him back from climbing through it. The assassin was all thrashing and brutal energy and Clayton knew he'd be bruised and battered from standing there weathering it.

He grit his teeth and only tightened his grip.

❝ Tangerine, I'll get them. But you need to calm down and... fuck off. You need to go the fuck outside. ❞

🍋🍊━━━ to Onofrio, there are no such things as vampires. There are just stories told by mothers and their mothers to keep their children at bay. In every culture, there is something that dwells in the night, something so terrifying and bloodthirsty. The more horrifying, the better children will behave. Onofrio recalls his mother whispering to him about shifting shadows and the bending sunlight. She told him about the creatures in the night peering into windows, looking for little boys to stuff into a bag and kidnap the unruly ones into the deep, dark ocean. He was always so sensitive to these stories until he became the victim of his father's long phone calls, fascinated with the legal language that single-handedly destroyed his imagination.

And then the stories became reality. The first few months were hard. Clayton came to him with stories and the consigliere barely believed him until everything manifested right before his eyes. He was averse to the idea of being bitten, or supplying Bubbles with blood. Onofrio is superstitious on his mother's side. That is not something he can outgrow. It is part of his DNA, his entire childhood. But his tormented beloved is entirely alone, and Onofrio's understands the fear he must feel, even if he cannot sympathize with his nature. The consigliere is terrified of the unknown, but Clayton hasn't fulfilled the nightmares Onofrio imagined. No. The reality of this affliction has been an exploration for both of them. Slowly, Onofrio opened up. If not him, then whom?

Tosto suppresses a jolt when Clay's teeth touch his skin. His eyes screw shut and he dents the agent's cold, firm muscle. This isn't a time to pray to Agatha, what's her blessing going to do? Onofrio doesn't want it to take away the agent. There is no cure to something so supernatural. No doctor can help him; they are servants to the rules which they had been seeking in human fiction.

"I want to." Onofrio's throat bobs as he swallows his terror. His eyebrows furrow over the bridge of his nose and he glides his hands over Clayton's shoulders. He touches his love's broad back and embraces him. Then, his palm rests on the agent's head, slowly stroking through his hair. "I am only nervous, I've never been bitten like this before." Onofrio chuckles, he can't believe that this is something he is saying. He tucks his chin to press a kiss against Clayton's cool cheek. This is something he's getting used to as well. "It's you. I am more than okay when it is you and for you, amor. I only ask to go slow, if you can." He whispers back. "Eu confio em ti."

The touch, the kiss. Clayton could almost believe it'd be enough to jumpstart his stilled heart again. He shuddered subtly and pressed an almost timid and apologetic kiss to skin as if he felt the need to apologize for... all of this, for existing like this.

Strange how the grave had seemed to refuse to take him so many times and now that he had finally fallen into it, the grave had refused to hold him.

❝ Anything for you. ❞ It was a promise without saying the actual words. He'd be slow, he'd be careful. It'd be easy if it was for his Tosto. Another kiss and then he sighed, swept a broad tongue over the patch of skin with the intent to distract. ❝ Tell me about the latest Frio Scheme. ❞ Clayton insisted on Onofrio talking through it to distract himself. Once the man had begun the attempt, he bared his sharpened canines and sunk them into skin.

It was a strange process. Strange because he seemed to just KNOW how to do it. The first bite or two had been sloppy and clumsy... especially since it'd been on freshly dead individuals whom he'd had no love for. That was to say, there'd been no gentleness. But this? It was like he knew where to bite, how to bite.

Clayton was quickly with it. He didn't take much, perhaps not enough to be considered more than a snack. This hadn't meant to be anything like that regardless; the gunman had wanted to ease Onofrio into this.

He withdrew and lapped away any escaped blood, placed a kiss over the spot and then transitioned to resting his forehead against the consigliere's shoulder where he allowed himself to feel the sustenance to flow through him. That was also something he was still getting used to. The relief after feeding, the jolt of energy and alertness. It still sort of made him sick to think about, all of this did. But he knew that was probably a normal reaction to have and he'd get over it just as much as he'd gotten over being the sort of human he'd been.

SUPERNATURAL HUNTER ! AU

🍬 About the same backstory as main. Was the nepo secret kid of some politician (prob a pro-vamp one with verses where creatures are 'out') and big name hunter. Tossed into the system and with a foster family 'cuz can't have THAT getting out, starts getting into trouble, gets plucked out by other politician parent and dropped into the hands of a hunter family (probably in the hopes he'd die super young like they usually do).

🍬 Excelled instead, lol. Not W*nchester level boogeyman, but still a reputation that can precede him. Was pretty aggressive and feet to the ground in his youth. Now he's a lot more smart about things.

🍬 His 'Bubbles' alias in this verse comes from the fact he's always chewing gum and it's just sort of funny. like a mean dog named Fluffy. Creatures that have crossed paths with him have described him as 'Death with a penchant for Dubble Bubble'

🍬 A bit more chatty in this verse if only because he's even heavier into that 'I could die any day' mentality.

🍬 Despite his big, bad reputation...he is a very reasonable hunter. He doesn't like getting into messes he doesn't have to and doesn't like making enemies he doesn't have to. If he shows up on your doorstep looking for blood, you probably deserve it. Likewise, if he walks away or whatever then he probably thinks you're chill. He's a pretty good judge of character, even among his own kind.

🍬 No real prejudices against any creature in particular. will be distasteful with stereotypes still though. end of the day though, he's just there for the little guy who can't defend himself and against whoever is picking on him.

🍬 No prejudices but also no interest. Not a fanghater but also not a fangbanger. Same with any creature he hunts. Dude is just out there chilling

🍋🍊━━━when Onofrio returns Clayton into the center of his focus, he sinks into him with rocking hips and chasing lips. He is unable to pry his eyes away through his ruined curls. He watches every breath that Bubbles takes, using the rise of his chest to the consigliere's benefit. A kiss here, a bit lower, and their skin caressing in a fusion with each chasing ripple. He exhales sharply as his craving pools into the pit of his stomach and he feels his hips jolt a little, overstimulated with wait. His laughter is strained against Clayton's lips as he nods, rewarding the agent with passionate kisses. His lover is a staple he cannot get out of his head. Onofrio refuses to forget the way Clayton's mouth tastes like, and each time he needs a reminder amid their dry thrusts, he tilts his chin up and captures the gunman into another kiss. It's deep and explorative, with a tip of the tongue reaching for molars, and pearly teeth nibbling on a bottom lip. The man chases a high in another; there is no other way to enjoy Clayton.

"Mmm, there is no competition, amore." Onofrio takes the compliment with an audible glee as he peppers the man's chest with descending kisses. The occasional uneven surface, be it roughened skin, or a dip of taut skin, is thoroughly devoured by the looming consigliere. He has to take a break from bucking his hard cock against his counterpart's strained bulge, or otherwise he might lose all sense and logic of his patience and forget the necessary steps in enjoying the long haul. He pauses to catch himself while leaving a bite just above Clayton's left nipple. Then, just around it, a mark to be remembered by morning. Onofrio toys with a balance of gentle praise and passionate worship. He doesn't want to bruise his counterpart, but wet trails from his tongue are simply not enough. Love bites and hickeys will do, which he litters at random spots on Clayton's torso, avoiding scarred and discolored flesh.

When Clayton's hand captures the consigliere's, Onofrio abruptly stops his greedy meal and looks up through the forest of his dark curls. Their faces align again and he silently counts each pump he feels underneath Clayton's skin. His eyes track the man's lips as he speaks and his cheeks light up with a warmth that coaxes a wide smile from him. "Oh, my sweet, bubbly taffy." Onofrio coos, bobbing his head from side to side as if uncertain how to best handle such a compliment. It warms him. He feels like his own heart is about to burst out of his chest. Onofrio pauses, glancing down to trace the dark ink that is immediately available to him. From the left shoulder with the owl and the flower, to the Hercules on his chest. He has noticed the two others on Bubbles's legs and hasn't inquired about the airplane on the thumb he has kissed before. A meaningful staple for a man who works alone. Onofrio smiles as he traces Clayton's collarbone with his thumb. They haven't really talked about those kind of details. They are so used to eluding to names and places, always on the go, much more involved in the present to catch up with the past.

"Then maybe it's best not to have me here," he traces Clayton's chest again and captures the agent's left hand. The consigliere bring it up to his lips, kissing the bent digits one by one, starting at the thumb and pausing at the gunman's ring finger. There, Onofrio curls his digits underneath Clayton's, raising his vacant finger up to demonstrate the obvious vacancy. He smiles, kissing the knuckle while maintaining eye contact. "Maybe, we can do something that signifies life. Something permanent too." The advisor grins, pulling on the agent's hand to raise it higher and drape his arm around Onofrio's neck. The consigliere tilts down again, cradling Clayton's head between his forearms while pressing them down on the mattress.

"Will you do something crazy?" The man whispers against his lover's lips and plunges his fingers through the agent's thick hair. "I want you to marry me. Tradition aside," Onofrio laughs. "No one's going to honor tradition here. But I hear in America, you've got Las Vegas miracles. Churches. Young people. I always wanted to do something so," Onofrio pauses, kissing Clayton's chin. "Deviant? Devious? What's the word?" The consigliere snickers and pries his lips to concentrate on speaking before losing his train of thought. "A ring is alive. No tattoo, no early grave, no problem." The consigliere's humor pours from his lips as he rubs the tip of his nose against the agent's. He pauses briefly, allowing the joke to both intoxicate and sober him. His eyes, although narrowed with amusement, carry a depth. He means this.

"Marry me." The consigliere requests. He knows the repercussions, the odd connotations, the prejudices, the secrecy, the peripheral glances, the whispers, the meaning, the symbolism. He gets it all. Already, he has thought of seven excuses and logical explanations if the Giovino try to corner the consigliere about something so- He definitely does not think it silly. Tosto is a mafioso. He orders others to kill people, he figures out trafficking routes for weapon paraphernalia, he participates in conversations of war where innocents will get involves, he threatens families. He is a son of a mistress whose entire existence was a decoy and his purpose was to be groomed into a monster.

Surely, in this absurdist existence of his, he can do something like propose to an American agent in a private bedroom in Portofino. This is the least crazy thing he has done. He pecks Clayton's lips.

"I am sorry, meu querido, did I say too much? I struggle to have a filter on my mouth around you." Onofrio purrs apologetically, dipping his head in favor of painting Clayton's neck with warm, hungry kisses.

Thinking is HARD around Onofrio in general, never mind when the bastard was intentionally attempting to have Clayton lose his every-loving mind. Lost in his mouth, their dancing tongues. Lost in the steady and intoxicating friction, by the mouth the wandered around sucking and biting as it pleased.

Here was a man renowned for his ability to not break and yet here he was in the early stages of a sweet torture, already ready to cry mercy. 'BUBBLY TAFFY' has him choking out a laugh, one that smooth into a quiet groan as the wet marks left behind cool in the evening air with the man's absence from them.

Heavy into the bed he's settled. So much of his being already felt like that very thing: taffy. Malleable and ready to be stretched and shaped as Onofrio pleased. Royally fucked is what he was and he was sure both men knew it.

Through the haze of it all, it takes him a moment register what is being asked of him-- what was truly being asked. A skipped heart, a sinking of his stomach. It was not dread that filled him and made his stomach churn, but something else. Was it love? It had to be. He wasn't familiar enough with it to know, but surely it must be. It was the reaction of being asked what he'd had no hope of ever being asked. It was a reaction of joy and excitement and shock all in one sudden moment.

For a time, it felt like he was drifting. Floating. Frio had become briefly distant despite being so close; it felt a bit like he'd been stood right beside an explosion and was fighting to get his senses back. They came eventually and he withdrew his arm from around his lover to grasp his chin, to direct his focus and stare up at him with those unwavering and willful eyes of his. They were searching, looking for any sign of deceit or blatant humor. Bubbles looked for any indication that Onofrio was not deathly serious in the request, in asking Clay to fucking marry him.

Finding none, his gaze softened into something much more warm and fragile. He dropped his grasp and instead smoothed it to cup the man's cheek as he settled back comfortably into the pillows.

❝ Fuckin' christ. You're serious. Fuck. You're actually asking me to-—❞ He dropped his hand and used both to cover his own face, to exhale low. Clayton laughed, hoarse and warm. What reason was there to say no? ❝ Yeah-— fuck, of course. I'll absolutely marry you. Wherever you want. We can find the fastest most gaudy fucking Vegas chapel and we can get shitfaced on horrible booze and do the whole shitty Vegas experience. ❞

A hand rested on his own chest between them, the other he lay above his head as he looked up with some indescribable emotion.

❝ Y'don't even know my last name. ❞ He offered quietly, nearly whispered it. ❝ I don't really think it'd suit you anyway. It doesn't have... I dunno. Your pizazz. ❞

He licked his lips. Clay buzzed with a sort of manic energy now. The realization he'd been asked to be wed, the fact all of this was happening now, the fact he was pretty sure Onofrio had every intention of following it up by fucking him senseless in front of a goddamn mirror. If not for how ridiculous his life had already been up until this point, he'd have laughed at how ridiculous it all was.

🍋🍊━━━ Onofrio's hands roam the undressed torso, greedily tugging the last undershirt fabric to unveil Clayton before it is the advisor's turn. He does not rush to get on equal footing. There is nothing personal, he is just too eager to get the gunman nude. The man smiles through the kisses, grinding his hips against the countering weight. They can easily just be at it here in the bathing section of their joined rooms, but Onofrio likes to set the scene more than selfishly rush into a passion. Even if a lot of his actions are driven by a need for Bubbles, the consigliere consciously pauses when he knows they've got all night to themselves now.

His suit jacket slips and joins the rest of Clayton's upper garments. Now, with a pair of loosened pants hugging his hips, Bubbles no longer reminds Onofrio of the strict bodyguard meandering about, wearing a stoic expression. Each step to make Bubbles disheveled riles up the consigliere. The mere sight of someone he likes completely undone. It does something to him. It's visible in the way his eyes flicker and how his hands stopped Bubbles from unbuttoning Tosto's shirt. "I know, amore." He whispers, cupping Clay's wrists to bring his hands to Onofrio's lips. "But I don't want to stop sucking your face." The advisor grins against his lover's knuckles as he pecks them a couple times. Then, he takes a step forward, then another, inviting Bubbles to walk backwards into his new bedroom while maintaining balance by holding onto him. The mafioso crosses the threshold and guides Bubbles to the bed. He is careful during their dance. He does not rush it even when he softly pushes Clayton backwards to collapse him onto the bed. The man lets go of the other's wrists in favor of capturing his waist and tugging him further up the mattress.

Onofrio lifts Clayton's legs to quickly dispose of his shoes, the socks underneath, and finally, the very cherry: his trousers. Onofrio doesn't hurry as he slides each pantleg down, exposing taut limbs that are used to running around all day. He hasn't had a ritual like this with Clayton just yet, and so the advisor relishes it. Every inch, he stares at, complimenting the skin and muscle with a squeeze of his hand. "I miss you when you are out of my sight." Onofrio confesses as his lips find Clayton's knee when he lifts it. "It's torture." The mafioso's tongue draws a wet line from the curve of the gunman's knee to his midthigh just by the edge of his underwear. His eyes crawl up and he smiles.

"Give me a moment, amor. Just a moment." Onofrio mutters, daringly placing a kiss on his lover's stomach before leaving the bed. He is energetic as he crosses the room and vanishes in their combined bridge. He spends a couple moments in his own bedroom before returning with a translucent, glass bottle pinched under his armpit and a glistening, black pack of condoms. He greets Bubbles with a smile as he softly kicks the door leading to the bathroom closed. Now, in a dimly-lit abode, Onofrio approaches the bed to drop the items on the other side of the mattress. He grabs a hold of the blanket, unveiling the clean sheets underneath. "Come here," he nods, welcoming Clayton to roll over from the dark, indigo blanket. "I can see you better here." He murmurs, parting away to reach a tall vanity mirror sitting by the window. At first, the mirror faces outward, until Onofrio grabs onto the edge of its intricately carved frame. The reflecting surface jolts and gently scrapes against the floor as the consigliere pulls it toward the bed. The mirror is around seven feet tall, and it stands on a slanted frame which Onofrio adjusts as he completes the journey by placing it directly in front of Clayton. Slowly, he pushes the mirror forward to capture the sight of the bed. Peering around it, he checks out the angle and briefly glances at Bubbles with a beaming grin.

"Here we go," he rounds the bed from the other side while shedding the last of his layers. "Good." His button up and tie are discarded on a bedside chair. His body isn't as seasoned by battle, although Onofrio sports a couple scars of his own. The professional fabric reveals a bouquet of tattoos blooming over his left shoulder. It is a half-sleeve that stops just above his elbow, bearing the following design: a densely-populated architectural landscape tells a story of a combined city with pops of color in the classical azulejo work. The piece uses negative space to bring about a feeling of immersion through the use of intense blue patterns. In the cradle of the mosaic, the architectural depiction of towers and buildings, rounds the consigliere's bicep in a vertical descent. The buildings are familiar to a landscape any well-traveled eye may notice. Italy and Portugal are spliced.

The Santa Maria church in Lisbon blends into an outline of the Chiesa di San Giorgio, a church in Portofino where Onofrio confessed his sins for the first and last time. Similarly, similar combinations are seen in regular outlines of Portugese and Italian residential buildings. From afar, there is really no difference. A trained eye will pick up on the difference between Manueline style of Portugal and evidence Italian Renaissance. The composition spreads onto the left side of Onofrio's chest, mostly the famous tile work that is celebrated in Portugal's history. Finally, a rendered andorinha, a swallow, sits over Onofrio's ribs on the right side, facing the landscape across from it, like a bird suspended in flight on its way home. As Onofrio loosens his belt and abandons his pants on the same chair, the edge of his boxers sits low on his hips, revealing a similar tile tattoo, albeit smaller, on his left hipbone, line a lost piece of the puzzle above.

The mafioso approaches the bed, digging his knee into the mattress to reach for Clayton. He tangles their limbs in favor of pulling the gunman's hips against the other's. They are facing each other while the mirror rests at the edge, overlooking them. Onofrio rolls his hips, suppressing a grunt from a jolt of pleasant lighting. Slowly, he grinds into his lover while resting both of his hands on the bedding below. He dips his head to seek Clayton's lips, exhaling heavily with each ripple of heat that claws at his navel.

Clayton would usually shrink under such scrutiny, under such undivided attention. He wasn't someone that thrived under the spotlight, he was not someone that felt comfortable beneath the magnifying glass of someone else. But this was different. With Onofrio, he craved it. He yearned for those eyes to find him wherever they found themselves. Clayton ached for the greedy hands, the very ones that roamed him now.

There was no protest as his own were stopped from ridding the consigliere of his shirt. He met those sharp eyes and met the dangerous glint in them. If Frio delighted in the undoing of Clay, then the gunmen in turn delighted in being undone. It was an almost sacred gift that the two offered up to each other. These were luxuries both men afforded few others, if any at all. Onofrio had been a mistake, a beautiful one. There hadn't been anyone like him before and there would likely not be another.

He allows his greed to lead him and just as easily allows Onofrio's own to pull him back and pull that string of tension even more taut. Each meeting of hips was met with a barely constrained fervor; Clay wanted more and he made no show of trying to hide that.

The slow walk back towards the bed afforded no break in eye contact. Clayton's gaze remained unwavering and steady. It was a nod both to how enamored he was with the man and just how deep that trust ran as he allowed himself to be led back, back until they were in his room again and he was falling back onto the bed. He bit a grin again and helped Onofrio ease him further up the mattress where he settled.

The agent was a force to be reckoned with in many areas, but especially in the area of will and patience. He wasn't an easy nut to crack and he was sure that would make it all the more sweeter for Onofrio when he inevitably had him dazed and desperate. Even now, the anticipation churned in him uncomfortably. It was a mix between a delightful tension and an electric restlessness.

His shoes came first, his socks, and then oh-so-slowly his pants. Clayton's desire and need were wholly evident and he managed a shaky sigh as a wet tongue traced its way from knee to thigh. ❝ You say as you leave me. ❞ A playful and melodramatic hum left him even as he tended to the pillows to arrange them as Onofrio dipped away to fetch supplies.

Clayton himself was incredibly seasoned. Scars marred his form, some minor discolorations and some evidence of such trauma that they'd left the skin physically marred and textured. His story was convoluted and messy, but it was all there on his form. Evidence of knives and bullets and events he very well shouldn't have limped away from.

He watched with interest as a mirror was scooted closer after he'd rolled to where he was directed. Curiosity filled him as well as that burning excitement for whatever it was the consigliere had up his sleeves. ❝ I figured you were the type that liked to watch. ❞ No judgement laced his tone, only thinly-constrained excitement. It wasn't something he himself would have thought of, but he was more than on board now that Onofrio had.

Clayton had no real dislike for himself, but he had no real love either. His physical body was just that: a physical body. It was used for things, a tool; he didn't see himself as anything much to actively look at. He turned his gaze away from his reflection, due in part to the slight discomfort of laying eyes so intimately upon himself and because there were now more exciting things to focus on.

He accepts Onofrio into open and waiting arms. Their limbs tangle and they join and he breathes a gentle hum of pleasure as their hips collide and they set a slow and languid rhythm.

❝ You're so fucking pretty, you know that? Surprised I'm the first chump to fall over myself 'cuz of it. ❞ It was unlikely. Bubbles refused to believe Onofrio hadn't had people constantly falling over themselves to try and court the man. There was a certain sense of pride in knowing he'd been the one to get this far without even really intending to.

He kissed greedily but languidly, licked into Onofrio's mouth as though he needed it like air. His hand drew the man's own to settle over the gunman's heart. ❝ I don't wanna jinx it but-— I want somethin' here for you. For us. ❞ He wasn't sure yet. How to decide? How to quantify how he felt about Onofrio, what Onofrio himself represented as an individual all as a simple patch of ink? The location would be the most fitting and would be closest to the tattoo that represented himself-— or at least the one he'd been told represented himself.

❝ Torn between needing somethin' permanent of you and not wanting to put you in an early grave by accident. I'm not... very superstitious but-— these are all dead people. You know? ❞ A graveyard of ink, lives boiled down to simple patches of color and shapes.

🍋🍊━━━as Bubbles draws near, Onofrio worries his bottom lip, appearing a man with innocent intentions. Their closeness is cherished with every passing second. The consigliere sways a little against the door, tasting the approaching gunman's breath even from where he stands. Bubblegum, a gentle reminder of their first meeting when the pale-pink bubble introduced itself to the mafioso for the first time. He smiles, welcoming the gunman with a pair of narrowed eyes. It is quiet where they are standing. No one will bother them here, even if the entire villa decides to go on alert about something that never happens in Portofino. He cannot deny himself the pleasure of simply watching the gunman dip closer to him. This anticipation has been building up all night, with or without Onofrio's cunning involvement.

Their lips collide feverishly, and the man erupts into a passionate reaction, leaning into Clayton immediately. His eyes flutter shut as he covers the hands on his face, tugging the other man closer. The curse of Onofrio is that he cannot keep his hands to himself when he is close to Clayton. Any inch of skin peering from clothing, be it a suit or a simple shirt, the consigliere finds himself shaking from a craving. The warmth of another, an outsider with a mind that fascinates. A mind that is worth falling in love with. He sighs amid the kiss, sucking on Clay's bottom lip like his life depends on it. Their mouths are barely pried away from each other when Bubbles speaks, and Onofrio grunts, chasing wet kisses over his chin. "You," he answers hoarsely. "You, everything about you." Onofrio is baffled by the question. How could someone not like Bubbles? Skilled, clever, abominably funny, and charming in a way that only a beaming consigliere can understand.

"I fell for you the moment I saw your serious face." Onofrio continues as he nuzzles against his counterpart's cheek. "Amore, do you understand? I feel so, ah, timid around you." The consigliere's accent is thickened from his passion as he reaches for Clayton's shirt. Despite his fast kisses, his fingers slow down to avoid damaging the fancy shirt. He doesn't want to have the gunman appear unkempt in the morning, even if it were easier to rip the damn fabric off. "May I continue telling you all the ways I love you?" Onofrio mutters against Clayton's cheek, grinning at the next request. By this time, the gunman is undressed from his shirt and the consigliere doesn't shy away from roaming the edge of his suit pants. "Yes, you can sleep in mine. But you have to also promise that I get to hold you all night." Tosto mutters, nipping at Clayton's bottom lip while tugging their hips together.

❝ The moment you saw it? You had it bad before me then. ❞ Clayton laughs against those feverish lips. It's warm and bursting at the seams with affection for Onofrio. The curse of Clayton was that he was starved for touch long since denied by both himself and the cards he'd been dealt. They slotted together like perfect puzzles pieces.

❝ Timid? Around me? Jesus, baby. What for? Look at you...❞ It feels impossible to believe. Onofrio has his shit together, far more than Clay does. He is an engineer who can throw together a plan on the fly, can makes things work. It's never pretty or graceful, but he manages. Onofrio, though. He makes things look easy, beautiful. His plans are eloquent and sturdy but delicate in their moving parts. To Clay, it's as though the man speaks a language that he can only sit and enjoy the sound of but never fully grasp.

Clayton continued to chase after Frio's warm mouth, managing only a hum of agreement. His short is freed and tossed to the ground with little care. They'd spared the buttons and that was about as much patience as he'd had for it. His own hands roam clumsily in the pursuit of doing the same, always eager for more skin to press his roughened hands to.

❝ Obviously. The fuck would be the point otherwise? ❞ His rather gruff way of confirming that he was indeed both a cuddler and avid enjoyer or having Onofrio as physically close as possible.

❝ Too many clothes on. We'll never get out of them all if we can't stop suckin' face. ❞ He laughed, boyish and amused at their own passionate antics.

🍋🍊━━━is it a crime to flirt with a soiled handkerchief? Oh, yes! Highly illegal when it comes to keeping a secret. Onofrio holds back a cackle as he whisks Clayton away from the room full of the Giovino crowd. The moment he crosses the threshold between the smoke room and the private rooms, the famed Gallows melts into a snickering Tosto who nudges the gunman back immediately. The shadows of the night drench them with secrecy, and Onofrio grins against his hand as he drapes over his mouth, holding back high notes of the hilarity shared between them. Oh, this is ridiculous. He knows this.

The consigliere glances over his shoulder as he leads Bubbles away from the slumbering party. As they round the corner to follow the hallway further into the villa, the advisor loops his arm around Clayton's waist, tugging the man against him to land his lips against the crook of his neck with a feverish kiss. His lips stretch as he pauses to push Bubbles against the nearby wall, chuckling against the dampened skin. "What are you talking about?" Onofrio mutters against Clay's skin before fervently peppering it with attention. The advisor's hands move to capture the man's waist, nudging the underside of his jaw with the bridge of his nose to gain admittance to his throat, making his way across to the other side.

"I can't stop thinking about you. Is that so bad?" Onofrio whispers next to Clayton's earlobe, which he marks as his destination. His hands work through the familiar motions of tugging the gunman's shirt from underneath his belt, no longer interested in keeping up the looks for the rest of the night. The tender, indigo glow of the night cascades over them as Onofrio keeps Clayton pressed against the wall next to a door that, allegedly, leads to the gunman's bedroom with the promised ocean view.

Somewhat sated with the taste of Clayton's skin, Onofrio pries his lips away to look up. "Pardon, what was I supposed to be doing? Right, your room." The consigliere mutters against Clayton's mouth while their bodies align against one another. He doesn't lean into a kiss just yet; instead, he prefers to extend the moment while undoing the gunman's belt. When Tosto finally pulls away, he tugs Bubbles by his unbuckled accessory, and by the time he reaches the door, the belt abandons its loops, drooping at the consigliere's side. He grins at him and nods to the door, which he pushes open, beckoning Clayton inside with a nod.

The bedroom is a promise: a single king-sized bed faces a tall, arched window overlooking the cliff on which the villa stands. Portofino's city is in the distance to the right, while the Riviera's vast beauty stretches as a twinkling darkness. Onofrio tosses Clayton's belt on the bed, a silent promise that its use hasn't been explored fully, and in the interim gives the gunman a walking tour. Another door opens, revealing a classic countryside bathroom with a vintage look but modern amenities. "And here," Onofrio says, walking backwards across the bathroom until he reaches the opposite door that mirrors the former entryway. "Is where my bedroom is." The consigliere beams as he blindly reaches to curl his hand over the door handle, applying slight pressure, and showing off a hint of a lived-in bedroom with familiar suits hanging on a rack facing the window.

"What a coincidence, Singore," Onofrio mutters as he swings the door closed right after. "We are neighbors." He tilts his head coyly while leaning against his door.

What was more dangerous? The fools were knew they were doomed or those that did not? If Clayton had to throw in his wager, he'd bet on the prior. The two of them weren't stupid; they knew this would only end in tragedy. If there was a shot at happiness, it would be a long one and it would be drenched in blood, sweat, tears, and trials that would wear them down to the bone. Maybe this was what made things so good, so electric. They had both accepted the finite nature of their coupling, they had accepted that there was a guaranteed end and a tragic one at that.

The otherwise guarded gunman smiled freely, bit his tongue between his teeth to stifle any snorted laughter that threatened to bubble from his throat. They made it just to Clayton's door before falling into each other, if only briefly. It was a miracle his shirt remain on at all, tugged from its tucked position and the belt that had held it there loosened.

Clay delighted in the sensation of a warm body against his own through his clothing, of a wet and hot mouth lashing its affections against his bared throat. The man yearned to feel that mouth against his own but he knew better than to rush things.

It was a delightful dance they swung each other in. It was feverish and left him feeling giddy and electric. A bubbled laugh slipped startled from his lips when Tosto pulled away and in turned pulled him by his opened belt into the room until the accessory had slipped free and was left to dangle by the consigliere's side.

The room was beautiful. Hell, everything was. Bubbles had been everywhere, all across the world. But admittedly, he'd never been able to stop and smell the roses or bother with the more scenic lodgings. He was used to holes in the wall, decrepit and unassuming places where no one would think to look for anyone of note. The burning want was doused temporarily with that sense of wonder one felt when faced with such scenic and aesthetic beauty.

Bubbles followed after his lover for the short tour and came to cross his arms as the man coyly made note of how their rooms directly connected. ❝ Damn, what a wild coincidence indeed. Surely you had nothing at all to do with this. ❞ The small peek into something personal stokes the flames of him more than any physical contact could-— though it didn't hurt.

He approached the man with the intent of having him take a turn with being pressed against something. Impatience overtook him and he cupped the consigliere's face between two calloused hands and pressed a kiss to his lips firmly, heatedly. This was all such a delicious self-ruination. Clayton had been so careful to avoid this and yet now that he was here in the middle of it? He couldn't care less. The damage had been done and there was nothing left to do but enjoy the freefall before they hit the ground.

❝ What on earth about me could possibly have you so hooked? ❞ He wasn't very self-depreciating by any means but Onofrio was just so... well, on a whole other level. Sparkling eyes, a dazzling smile, dense curls. Everything about him was graceful and poised and put together. Clayton was intelligent, yes, but he was rough around the edges and gruff. Whatever Onofrio was, Clay surely had to be the opposite. Maybe that was the appeal, maybe that's what had gotten the man interested.

❝ If we make a mess of my bed, does that mean I get to sleep in yours? ❞

🍋🍊━━━Carmela is fascinated by a world that she gets to see through a different lens. She and her twin are artistically inclined to lead the world by the nose and wrap it around their fingers. Although now they are a bit distracted. Carmelo hides something in his perpetual melancholy, and Carmela refuses to leave her brother all alone. No one else pays attention to him like she does. She fears something terrible would happen, no matter how much Carmalo reassures her. The twin, older by merely thirty seconds, does not fight his sister because he knows, deep inside, she is an anchor that keeps him from losing his mind. The truth will come out one day, but for now, he owes her secrecy for the sake of everyone's safety. No one but Carmelo knows. Even Onofrio, a man who is worried for Carmelo's health, is far removed from the real drama that brews underneath the surface. And so, the brooding Giovino indulges in the distraction of a brief toast. He huffs something under his breath and offers dryly:

"No one here even listens to jazz." Carmelo doesn't either, but he appreciates the underlying beauty of the music he used to hear at film festivals. A distant memory. Carmela grins at Clayton as she swirls her glass.

"Don't be shy, you aren't a stranger anymore!" She avoids saying that Bubbles is part of the Family. It would be a lie, but such is a reality. Still, she holds a belief that friends of the Family, whether by a favor or otherwise, or persons who have been invited inside the Portofino residence, are more meaningful than strangers. "Onofrio likes you; that means you have my trust. Carmelo?" She looks to her brother, who prefers to watch the fire. Still, he lifts his chin to reply.

"He is a stranger I trust to be honest." Carmelo offers, and to that he drinks, despite everyone else waiting on the toast's completion. Carmela reaches over to pinch her brother's shoulder while Onofrio captures Clayton's gaze. He smiles at the unuttered plea and steps closer to throw his arm over the gunman's shoulders.

"Well! We all agree that you look good in a suit," he gestures with his champagne over to Carmela, who agrees immediately with laughter. "And you are strong in matters that I am so weak in," Onofrio raises his voice a pitch, humoring the crowd at the fireplace. Carmela waves at him dismissively, begging Tosto not to sell himself short. A consigliere historically rivals the title of the Boss, holding the kind of information and intimate knowledge that could dethrone a mafia and reinvent it. He, of course, would never dare to do such a thing, as he is entrusted to take care of any foundational issues. The Capo trusts him to keep the Family in its fortress. And yet, the man still admits to many faults. He knows he cannot hold himself like Clayton does, especially with weapons and hands-on tactics. He can plan and point, but to execute? Gallows is a place where executions are held. The underlings are instruments: the noose. And the Capo? An executioner.

"I think what Bubbles wants to say is that we all should go to bed and leave our poor guest alone." The consigliere chuckles, and Carmela joins him. Carmelo, sitting abnormally still, jerks his shoulders a little in amusement. Pietro is nowhere to be seen; he slinked away while the group collided for a conversation. "But, what a great point." Onofrio pauses, gesturing with his glass. "For good health." Tosto raises his glass, igniting a pause in bleeding jokes. Carmela lifts her glass, and Carmelo, still facing the fire, lifts his off to the side in parallel with the rest. The consigliere waits for Clayton to join them before taking the lead and inviting the glasses to join in a comfortable middle, using Carmelo's glass as the center of the apple. "And all that jazz." Onofrio adds with a grin, tipping his head to drink.

"And all that jazz!" Carmella laughs into her glass, cracking up at her twin brother's dry sigh. Once finished, Onofrio abandons his glass on a tray nearby and firmly pats Clayton's shoulder like an old friend would. "Bellissimo, Signore." The consigliere teases, quickly reaching for the pocket square tucked into his pocket. He plucks the soiled silk and tucks it into his hand, squeezing it to hide the damp blotches. A dry corner sticks out from his first, which he guides to his cheeks, overexaggerating his tone. "Oh, to tears, Bubbles. To tears!" He grins while Carmella cackles, falling back into her chair. She waves her hand at the pair, demanding they stop before her stomach bursts. Carmelo is quiet, but in the playful fire, the shadows outline a small smile on his lips.

"Alright, alright," the Italian dismissed himself, tucking the pocket square again. "I admit, I may have helped a little." He raises his hands in surrender, aiming his eyes at Clayton. "May I dismiss the life of the party to bed, signore e signori?" He peers at Carmela, who nods her head and sticks her hand for the consigliere to kiss. Onofrio obliges, pecking her knuckles with a gentle whisper of Buonasera. Then, he turns to Clayton, announcing to the gunman that it was time to depart.

"This way, I think you'd like the ocean view."

A barrage of several things at what felt like all at once were tossed his way. Onofrio liked him, he wasn't a stranger anymore, and-— was he being mocked? He couldn't tell and he wasn't sure if he cared much.

All that jazz would haunt him, he was sure. He made sure to file away an obituary for the fucking phrase as he never intended to use it again. He nursed his drink and continued to look awkward; it was better than looking confused or offended.

The handkerchief made another appearance and Clayton watched with a schooled expression as the bastard dabbed at his tears with it. There was some level of eroticism to it (obviously), but really it was just... amusing. He hid away in his glass because he didn't trust that he could properly bite back his smile. Onofrio was such a charming thing. All grace and suaveness. It complimented Clay's own brute-adjacent nature, the way he had little patience for the details unless he had to deal with them.

For lack of anything else to do, the agent nods when farewells are exchanged. He kisses no hands or says much of anything, but the respect is there in its own quiet and subdued way. He knocked back the rest of his drink in one toss and set the empty glass on a passing tray.

❝ Ocean view. Fuck you, what sort of clown-shit were you pulling with the tear gag? ❞ As soon as they were out of sight and earshot, the talkative man unseen by any other made his appearance once more. He nudged Onofrio with his shoulder and then settled into pace with him.

❝ Yeah, alright. Show me an ocean view and talk poetry to me. ❞ He made a shooing sort of gesture as if to beckon the man to get on with it.