now i truly am a spectre..

“piss off!”

“the hell do you want from me?”

he doesn’t trust anyone. he doesn’t want to, nor does he know how. but what was your game? your angle? he doesn’t know how to respond to your kindness; if anything, he considers it a fatal weakness.

that thinking almost flips entirely when you save his life. almost. 

“you don’t help your rival, you idiot!”

“you’ve only given me a chance to beat you!”

“you won’t be getting any thanks from me.”

you’re sitting by your lonesome at the next checkpoint, munching on a sandwich before a looming presence decides to block your sun.

it’s diego of course, pressing you about your actions, how he didn’t need your “worthless” help, and that he’s going to win the race no matter what. it’s your laugh that catches him off guard.

diego? being laughed at? didn’t you know who he was??

he’s about to tell you off before you offer him a place to sit. he’s about to refuse, but decides to stop himself, taking this as an opportunity to study you, to snuff out any potential weaknesses he could exploit.

instead, what he finds is a steady, unobtrusive presence that didn’t feel the need to prove or demand itself. it didn’t take up unnecessary space or sully the air with inferiority. it just was.

it irritates him further. what was wrong with you?

he sits beside you for a long while, though. when the race commences, it’s back to business as usual, though the animosity he held you thinned ever so slightly. 

love is a foreign concept to diego brando; he doesn’t even truly like anyone. but there was something about you he just couldn't figure out, and you occupied more space in his mind than he’d like to admit. he’s a bit less irritated when you’re close and isn’t as quick to deny your help or berate you. it causes conflict within himself, thinking he’s grown soft. he tries to distance himself, but you always seem to hover in the margins.

things don’t really turn until he stumbles into your small camp one night, dead-tired and looking worse for wear, horse on the brink of collapse. he turns to leave as he notices that it’s you, because of course it is. you convince him to stay and rest. just for the night. he sneers, but doesn’t bother to argue back, making himself quite at home while giving his unsolicited opinions on your “homely” setup. 

neither of you speaks, really. there isn’t much to say. it won’t be the first time he ends up at your encampment, either. 

diego thinks this is ridiculous. here he was, taking refuge with someone of your lowly status. he was better than this–he deserved better than this. 

and yet, he remained. 

eventually, you two begin to converse–converse being generous. it’s primarily you just listening to him retell his laundry list of achievements he is so insufferable. you open up, too, bit by bit, and he listens only to get an advantage over you. at least that’s what he tells himself. 

he doesn’t grow to like you necessarily, but more so dislikes you a little less than everyone else. 

your genuineness sits oddly within him. he doesn’t know what to do with it, but he concludes that you aren’t a threat, but not someone to be messed with, either. you both entered the race for your own reasons with the intention to win. that doesn’t change, but the dynamic of your “relationship” does.

for the first time, diego sees someone else as an equal. you’re still a rival, of course; he does a poor job of masking his respect for you. truly decent people were hard to come by–you did save his life, after all.

he begins to take notice of you during the race. he isn’t coming to your aid or offering up any of his supplies, exactly, more so out of respect. he knows you’re tough, won’t admit it, thooo, and refuses to disrespect you by “babying you,” as he once put it. but he notices when you lag behind, or how your shoulders hold stiffness after a long ride. he doesn’t know what to do with these feelings–he doesn’t even have the vocabulary for what he’s them. 

it hits him as he “accidentally” stumbles into your camp for the umpteenth time. it’s late, the sky freckled with stars, as he quietly watches you sleep. he could steal your shit and have you waking up in a frenzy if he wanted. he could silently take you out, even though it was against the rules. you were his competitor, after all. but he doesn’t, instead choosing to watch you sleep for a long while. diego brando didn’t like to believe he had weaknesses, but one of them, he finds, is you.

so he leaves.

he doesn’t have the time for…whatever you two have going on. not now, anyway. he has a race to win. a name to uphold. he won’t let anything get in the way of that. not even you. 

as your campfire shrinks into a small glowing dot on the horizon, a tiny part of his mind decides that maybe, just maybe, he’ll return to you after his big win and find solace in your presence again.

--

~☆~

The distant Tokyo cityscape thrummed with life. 

It’s picture-esque, you think, how the world presses into the four sides of your little window. You wonder how many stories slide in and out past the panes, carried in by droplets of rain pooling in glistening rivulets.

You listen to it now, life in its familiar monotony. 

The weeks had been long, leaving you pulling at strands of hair and limping on broken dreams. 

Okay, maybe that was dramatic.

But who were you, otherwise?

Expectation after expectation, responsibility after responsibility, only to be met with insincere apologies and an acrid taste on your tongue. 

Very dramatic.

He wasn't, though.

His encouragement was quiet, as if your success was already written into the pages of his mind. Your ethic was never called into question, but existed as a truth, packed into the space between his ribs. He carried hope for you when you couldn't. 

In Jotaro's mind, you could do anything.

That steady encouragement hadn't seeped into your skin quite yet, deciding to let scalding water and scented bath soap do that for you. 

You press your back into the tub's porcelain wall, the salt of the day settling into your thoughts. It pulls at your tendons and stretches your nerves thin–the weight of hope–how it refuses to settle in your hands, leaving them prickly and aching.

Being an adult felt so out of reach sometimes.

Things were simpler back then, you think.

He walked you home after school until you worked up the nerve to let him step inside. Sometimes you skipped, dragging him to the arcade or a video store because: “We’re only young once!” Even under the jagged exterior of delinquency, he indulged you every time. 

You would cross many more thresholds together–early mornings and late nights blossoming into something beautiful and alive. 

And life, as it always does, slotted itself between your happiness. 

He disappeared, came back, you were upset, you reconciled, and life carried on.

You packed what little you carried from your lives and stuffed it into a cramped apartment right outside the city. Responsibility and the crushing weight of reality settled on top of everything else. You hopped from job to job, class to class, responsibility to expectation as if someone had lit a match under your feet. You danced to a tune you couldn’t hear, trying to avoid scorching what you hadn’t already burned.

You wanted to quit, whatever that meant. A break–some sort of respite from what sat heavy on your chest, threatening to pierce your ribs.

And he noticed. 

He always did.

He made life easier for you where he could, filling in the gaps you left behind. The apartment remained clean, your clothes always washed, dinner already made or brought in. He stayed close when you couldn’t be alone, and never strayed far when you needed your space. There was never a conversation, just unburdened care and observation. He listened. Held you. Saw you.

You couldn’t place his devotion for you into words. There wasn’t a sentence you could string together to describe what sat behind his eyes. Maybe you didn’t need to.

The night stretches on, moonlight streaming in as if it had every right to. Your body loosens, ever so slightly.

And then you feel it.

A low, heady pressure in your center. 

When was the last time you two made love?

A whispered breath slips past your lips, your trembling hand slipping under bubbles and foam to find the soft folds of skin you left neglected for so long. 

Sex was one of the gaps you left open, one that Jotaro never pressured you to fill. 

But now, under the honeyed glow of scented candles and pale moonlight, that familiar roiling in your gut sets your nerves on fire. You part your folds, running the pad of your finger along your entrance, circling the ring of muscle you knew so well. Your other hand slides across your soaked breast, and you palm the weight of yourself, thumb and forefinger tweaking your nipple.

You liked the way Jotaro did it, though–the roughness of his fingers, the way they tugged at your skin, sending you somewhere hot and blissful.

Shouldn’t he be home by now? 

You file that thought away for later, a low moan buzzing in your chest as you sink a finger between your walls. 

“Oh fuck-!”

You slowly pump your finger in and out, sliding in a second as your head fills with cotton and heat. Your mind slips into dangerous territory, somewhere explosive and erotic as you recall passionate nights: the press of his body against yours, the way his fingers filled you just right, how your name curled around your ears.

You continue to fondle your breast as you gush around your fingers, water sloshing around your flushed form and body winds up tight–your release prodding at the tip of your spine. You press your thumb into your clit, moans thickening as you barrel towards your release.

Your skin burns with need, head clinging to thoughts of his cock dragging against your plush walls, that thick vein you loved so much rubbing up against you just right. 

You briskly stroke your clit with your thumb, the dual sensation pushing you over into ecstasy. 

Your vision goes white-hot, muscles spasming as you buck your hips, riding out your release. The water jostles, slipping from the sides of the tub while your body constricts, cries muting the jingling of keys and the creaking of a door. 

You think you hear your name. 

Fuck.

Footsteps cross the threshold, heavy and familiar, before his knuckles settle against the bathroom door. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah!” you splutter, “M’fine.”

A pause.

“...can I come in?”

Oh.

You slip in a breath, trying to ground yourself in bubbly water and cool porcelain before you manage to squeak out a small: “Okay.” 

He carefully turns the knob and pushes the door open, keen eyes sharpening around the little pocket of heaven you’d curated. 

Another pause.

“These candles are a fire hazard.”

You blow, something between exasperation and tired mirth. 

“You know just what to say,” you snark.

He says nothing, his large frame crossing the small space to slide the window ajar. 

“You’ll let the smell out!”

The dulled sounds of the city sharpen as if coming up for air. The steady pattering of rain is crisp as it echoes against the walls. 

His eyes fall onto your form now, soaked and dangerously tempting. He doesn’t miss that familiar flush of skin–the same flush he could coax from you with just his touch alone. Or the way your lids sat heavy over your eyes, pupils wide and pooling with a fading euphoria. 

Embarrassment bleeds into the tips of his ears. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt–”

“Just–” you start, settling your neck over the tub’s thick edge, “Just don’t…mention it.”

“...I’ll be in the other–”

“No!” you say, a bit too quickly for your liking. “Stay. Please.”

He looks at you–into you–and feels the quiet pull of his heart, the way it constricts around your vulnerability. 

Slowly, he begins to strip. 

It’s unhurried and methodical, the clinking of metal and whisper of fabric filling the small space. 

You look away for some reason. Normally, you indulged it, eyes roving hungrily over taught muscle and hard lines, but tonight you couldn’t. There was a rawness in the air, sliding alongside lavender and eucalyptus, alongside unspoken anxieties and repressed desire. It sat odd and unfamiliar in your gut, leaving you cracked open in a way you didn’t have words for. 

His form closes in on you, and you shift forward, making space behind you where you could. 

The water shifts as he sinks into the tub, a low breath slipping past his lips as his muscles loosen. He carefully pulls you into his front, strong thighs pressed against the sides of the tub. You sigh dramatically, pressing your back into his hard torso. He says nothing, silently leaving space for you in your closed embrace. He leans back slightly, and your body follows his own–two minds sharing one soul.

It’s in this silence he’s left for you that you spill, telling him anything and everything that threaded through your mind–a thick foliage of thorns and broken glass. 

And he listens.

You tell how it hurts, and why you think it hurts–how the exhaustion settled into your bones, slowly pulling you under like quicksand. How you couldn’t find strength to move. How things didn’t quite turn out like you thought they would. You begin to spiral, words morphing into something bitter and poisonous. 

He stops you.

He was never good with his words. But hearing you, just how deeply you were hurting–from your own mouth no less…

He couldn’t stay quiet at that. 

“You’ve done what you can. That’s enough,” he says simply. 

You hesitate, breath caught on his words.

“It never feels like enough,” you tell him quietly. 

“Feelings aren’t always logical.”

You huff at that, the corners of your mouth quirking.

“You’re nothing if not consistent.”

He almost smiles at that. 

You sit in comfortable silence for what feels like hours, the sounds of the city thinning into the stretch of the night. It’s domestic intimacy in its purest form–beautiful and alive. 

His lips find the curve of your shoulder first. 

It’s soft and tentative, gently pressing against the emotional space between you. You arch your back into him with a groan, desire simmering under your skin as if held over an open flame. His plush lips tenderly caress the soft skin of your shoulder, moving back towards your collarbone before planting themselves at your neck. He can read your body better than any textbook or migration pattern; the way you arch against him, how your whimpers spoke to him when you couldn’t, how and where you grew warm under his touch. 

The now cold bathwater felt so, so hot. 

His teeth tug at the soft skin of your neck before smattering it with heavy open-mouthed kisses, claiming you utterly and fully. He gently bites down, sucking hickeys into you like unspoken promises. Warmth bleeds across your body like watercolor on canvas, cast in lustful shades of rose and crimson. He continues his assault on your neck and shoulders as his other hand comes to caress your breast. The dull ache at your core sharpens into something wanton and needy as his fingers roll your nipple just right. 

Then he squeezes, the soft flesh spilling in between his fingers.

“Mmmm, Jotaro…”

“Is this what you wanted?” He husks, hot breath tickling your neck. 

Goosebumps erupt across your skin, your nipples beautifully hard and aching. He shifts his attention to your other breast, mesmerized at how the skin prunes and puckers under his touch. You turn your head, catching his lips in a searing kiss as he touches you, his other hand slipping under the water to cup your sex.

He lets out a low moan when you whimper. 

Even underwater, he can feel how slick you are, thick fingers lazily stroking your entrance as his tongue slides into your mouth. You suck on it while he swallows your moans, his middle finger nudging at your entrance. 

You hum into his mouth, legs parting to grant him entry. 

Your lips briefly separate with a wet pop! when you cry out, gripping his heavy arm as he deftly sinks a second finger into your heat. He skillfully thrusts his digits into you, curling them in a way that has you gripping the sides of the tub like a lifeline. 

Your breaths are thick and heavy, pupils blown wide, and eyes glazing over in pure bliss. He continues to fondle your breasts as you keen and whimper, spine crackling with electricity as you near your release. 

“Right there, oh fuck–right there!”

It’s the pad of his thumb against your clit that does you in.

Water slips from the tub, a choked sob tumbling through your teeth while he keeps his pace, your release slickening his fingers as he rides out your high with you. He pants into your neck, the sharp planes of his face burning with desire. Your gummy walls spasm around his fingers, cries ripping from your throat in tandem. 

He holds you through it, slowing his fingers when your pleasure finally settles. 

You go limp against his torso, breath smoothing out as your muscles loosen.

And you feel it.

Long and thick and rock-hard against your back.

Wordlessly, you shift, fragrant water rippling just under your bosom. Your body moves on instinct, spine tethered to the strings of your desire. His eyes gleam under the low light, cerulean pools deepening with carefully restrained yearning. 

He parts his muscular thighs, silently begging for your touch. 

His cock sits smooth and painfully hard in your hands, and you meet his darkening gaze as you begin to stroke him. The broad expanse of his chest heaves under your touch, length shuttering while you work his cock, your other hand moving to grope his heavy balls. 

The sounds of shifting water and his low groans fill the stifling space, the friction of your shared desire thickening the air around you. The desire to please him sits sinfully on your chest; you want–need to show him just how much you burned for him, how the acidity of reality could never corrode your love for him. 

You pump his shaft in a practiced motion, the skin warm and slick under the water’s surface. His grunts and groans clatter around in your ears, sending electricity straight to your wet cunt. The flushed tip of his cock drools, thick length twitching and impossibly stiff in your hands. You slow your movements, circling the pad of your thumb around the bloodshot head.

“Goddamn, woman–” he rasps, trying to keep his head upright.

He keeps his eyes glued to your form: your flushed face, the focused furrow of your brow, the way the light glimmered around your bare curves…

He couldn’t take it.

In an almost desperate motion, his hands find the curve of your waist, hoisting you upwards to straddle his dick. 

You waste no time.

You take him inch by burning inch, cunt squelching as you sink down onto his impressive length. Water laps at the edge of the tub, spilling onto cool tile, but neither of you care. Your arms close in around his neck–his head falling into the gentle curve of your shoulder. His large hands steady themselves at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. 

The heat joining your bodies has your blood jumping. 

Your ass meets the base of his shaft, and you curse, pressing your breasts into his chest as you take the time to adjust. 

It burns, but in the way that leaves nerves frayed and your mind numb, in the way that leaves you nearly sobbing into his neck.

You didn’t realize how badly you needed him–how the feeling of him wrapped you in a reverent tenderness, dispelling all anxiety and doubt. His closeness, the heat of it, remained a balm to your soul, something you allowed to slip away into the current of life. 

Carefully, you rock your hips.

The wet drag of his cock pulling at your aching walls has you reciting prayers. His hips find an intoxicating rhythm: not too fast, but just enough to keep you both suspended right over white-hot bliss. That thick vein slides against you deliciously, and you try to stifle your screams. 

“Fuck, Jotaro…ah-!”

His low moans follow yours like some erotic call and response.

You both pick up speed, his hips bucking up into you feverishly as you ride him into oblivion. 

Grunts and groans and the sloshing of water reverberate between the walls, the air perfumed with sweat and sex. 

He pants into your neck like a dog, grip on your waist almost bruising as he bullies your cunt.

“Good fucking grief,” he breathes. 

The pressure in your center rears its head, threatening to pull you over the edge. You feel the way his muscles tighten around you–the way his cock swells between your velvety walls, and it nearly brings you to tears. 

“Oh god!”

The floor is drenched, slick with the evidence of your passion as you both find solace in each other’s warmth. 

He knows you’re close, angling his hips to piston into the spot that had you seeing stars. 

You fall over the edge with a scream. 

Your body convulses in his hold, jaw going slack while your cunt pulses violently around his cock, coaxing his release. 

His eyes lock on to yours, the way they always do when he’s about to spill over the edge. 

A growl rips from his throat, thrusts erratic and length spasming. He chases his orgasm, hips knocking against your puffy hole leaving you numbed and boneless. 

Then he keens, eyes squeezing shut as thick, hot ropes of cum splatter against your walls. His back slumps against the tub’s edge, and you collapse against his chest, limbs heavy, but heart lighter than before. 

And you stay like this for a while: two lovers coming down from their combined high, white rays of moonlight settling over your bodies with celestial authority. His arm rests against your back, holding you in the way he’s wanted to for weeks now. In the way that you needed to be held. 

And for tonight, it was enough. 

---

---

if you’re someone who enjoys silence, be prepared to put up with his near-constant yapping. this man can and will talk about everything and nothing all at once. he’s very opinionated too, and you will always be the first one to know how he’s feeling.

constantly vying for your attention. he craves it. sometimes this leads to him doing weird shit just to get your attention. he’ll call your name like he’s at death’s door only to show you the two leaves he stuck to his upper lip. you and johnny share a look.

“you called me over here for this?”

“funny, right!?”

it’s endearing in a way. you can never stay irritated at him for too long. for gyro, your attention validates him; it tells him that you’re choosing to let him be a part of your world, choosing to see him and only him. stinky man is needy.

if you’re ever upset, he will try and cheer you up before hearing you out. sometimes you have to tell him if you want him to just listen, since trying to get you to smile is often his default. making you laugh is genuinely one of his favorite pastimes. he’ll make stupid ass faces or gently run one of his steel balls across your skin to make you squeal. 

loves trying to “serenade” you with a song. it’s usually a variation of the same pizza pizza, mozzarella bullshit. 

“pizza~ pizza~…mozzarella!…for my bella~!”

“oh my god…”

“now for the second verse!”

and there is always a second verse. he will make you listen to all of it and eagerly await your reaction. if you tell him you loved it, he’ll sing it again. if you tell him you hated it (don’t do this pls), he’s gonna just redo it. you will not win here. embrace the cheese song.

drama queen. always clutching his theoretical pearls. likes making a fuss of random shit too, and it’s really funny. 

if you’re also a goofball, you two will be the epitome of chaos poor johnny. your personalities bounce off one another’s so easily, like some chaotic game of ping-pong.

he always has an eye out for you during the race. if you’re a man, he gives you a bit more leeway, but if you’re a woman, or clearly presenting as one, he never strays far. he knows that the race attracts all kinds and will ensure your safety as best as he can. he has no reservations about being confrontational; he is more than happy to fuck someone up and tell them to eat shit afterwards. 

a biter. do with this info what you will.

a tease. he knows exactly what he’s doing, too. he knows what to say, when to say it, and just how to say it to get the reactions he oh so craves. playful banter is one of his many love languages, and he is happy to go back and forth with you anyday. you could tell this man the dumbest thing ever, and he is already doubled over, slapping his knees and all. johnny doesn’t bother suppressing his eyeroll. 

personal space? lmao good luck. he’s stuck to you. when you break for camp, he places his bedroll right next to yours. he actually attempted to squeeze himself into yours, ripping it in the process. you don’t let him live it down. 

johnny camps out a little farther from both of you when he thinks ya’ll are gonna go at it. which is often. he is not slick about it either. poor johnny x2.

likes whispering dirty stuff in your ear lolll.

gyro zeppeli is no stranger to romantic escapades. he never truly considered who slipped in and out of his bed until you came along. you’re something else entirely to him, someone he sees himself building a future with. when all this is over, he decides, he’ll take you back to Naples and marry you.

---

bruno is at your beck and call. need something? he’s on it immediately. if he is unable to meet your needs, he’ll ensure someone else can. if he’s away, one of the other gang members keeps an eye on you.

bruno’s function begins to morph into one of a bodyguard rather than a partner. his language is firm and concise, but not without unkindness. it’s how one would speak to a superior, and you despise it. remember how he was with trish? it mirrors that quite cleanly. 

you’ll have to speak with him, explain to him that you don’t want him to treat you as something to be kept under a lock in key. you have to remind him that at the end of the day, it’s a partnership. and he listens.

sort of.

it’s difficult for him to switch from his leading persona to something more personable, but with time and consistent communication, his shoulders will eventually slack, and his expression will grow into something soft. conversations with him turn from stilted to nearly philosophical–you find that he’s an incredible conversationalist when he wants to be. you’ll talk about any and everything, and he’ll indulge you, no matter how ludicrous the subject may be. it’s almost endearing how seriously he takes it. it’s through these conversations that you learn more about each other. he tells you about his life growing up with his father, you tell him about life in your home country.

his presence slowly starts to feel less watchful and more…comforting? you seek him out on purpose, and he seeks you out without realizing it. after long missions, he will make his way to you, asking you about your day and listening intently before telling you about his own, sparing the grittier details. 

he will invite you out for a nice meal with the gang or with only you and him every now and then. neither of you think too much of it at first, but 

this…partnership begins to blossom into something else. something that sits uncomfortably warm on your chests, but neither of you make the first move. instead, you allow it to unfold like the pages of a story you never want to end. 

bruno is incredibly perceptive. he knows where this could lead, what it could turn into, and all possible consequences involved. your feelings come first, however. he won’t voice his own flowering feelings until he’s absolutely sure that one, you feel the same way, and two, that he can guarantee your absolute safety. 

to him, this isn’t something that’s rushed; it’s something to be carefully cultivated, nourished like a budding flower, breathing life in between the both of you. maybe, just maybe, your marriage of convenience could one day become something of reality. 

qualities in a partner

bruno’s life was shaped by struggle. he was sucked into a world that didn’t care about what he wanted, but what he could do for it. despite this, his innate compassion remains a beacon to those who need it, and he would want this quality in someone he’d be holding so closely. kindness, without expectation, without motive, is his utter weakness. it’s something not found in his line of work, so he covets it like a jewel. if you’re good with children, you better get that wedding dress/suit ready lmaooo.

to bruno, allowing someone to see your true self, especially in this world, is one of the highest compliments you could give him. he wants every part of you, the good, the bad, and the ugly. he wants you, demons and all. he literally said this to fugo, im sobbing.

communication is something he struggles with at times. he could give orders all day, but when it comes to giving his own thoughts a voice, he falters. he values someone that’s able to help him make sense of what goes on in that jumbled mind of his.

this one might sound odd, but he appreciates seeing someone grow. when adopting recruiting his team members, he saw something in them that they couldn’t see in themselves. seeing you grow throughout your journey and within passione fills his chest with pride and admiration. he wishes nothing more than the best for you, and seeing you exceed your potential tugs at pulls at his heart funny. he loves your drive, your passion, even when the world presses in.

 you were someone else he'd have to care about. so he tries not to. distance, you find, is his solution. 

he only ever gives you orders. he may sport a small smile at your cracks, but that's about it. his cold shoulder leaves you achy and frostbitten, pulling at your thoughts, wondering which one will tell you why he's this way.

 despite this, you don't treat him any differently than the rest, nor do you put up with his shit. lowkey likes it when you put him in his place???

you check up on him like you do everyone else. he's suspicious of it at first:

"What about it?"

"Why do you care?"

"I don't need your concern."

slowly but surely, it starts turning into:

"Still alive."

"Not too bad.”

“Yeah, you?”

other than patience, what he needed was time (he's so slow-burn coded). as you grow as a mafioso and as a teammate, his jagged edges smooth over...somewhat. his words cut less, the grit in his tone sanded over, his scowl replaced with recognition. familiarity. he acknowledges you, in abbacchio fashion. he talked a little more. to you, anyway. 

he pours you a glass of wine every time he makes himself one because you “looked like you needed it”, or his favorite, “you look like shit”

 always sporting a small smile when you address the group. mista teased him about it once. 

his eyes have a tendency to linger on you, ombre hues trailing your form over the rim of a wine glass. bruno followed his gaze once, but decided to keep it to himself. for now.

it starts small, the embers in some decayed part of him warming, and it pisses him off. it feels like a betrayal to himself–he needed to get a grip. how did he even let it get this far?

so he does what he knows how to do: distance himself.

it confuses you. you were making so much progress. so what changed?

crushing stage

he doesn't want to name what he feels for you, because then it might become a reality, so he doesn't. he ignores it, and in turn, ignores you.

it leaves you blindsided and, admittedly, hurt. you thought you had…something. it was certainly more than a friendship, but you wouldn’t go as far as to call it anything more, either. he doesn’t seem to care anymore. 

he finds excuses to leave a room when you enter. he doesn’t even bother to acknowledge you anymore unless it’s to give an order. his eyes seem to never find yours like they once did so easily; it was like the last few months didn’t matter, and it sits like venom in your gut. 

when it comes to abbacchio, you would have to be a persistent type. he’s too emotionally constipated to ever come to you about something like this. 

luckily, you are. 

unfortunately, trying to get answers from him is like pulling teeth, and you’re losing your grip. he’ll brush you off, telling you that you’re worrying for nothing, that you don’t know what you’re talking about. it goes on like this for weeks, until it starts bleeding into your missions. that’s where mother bruno steps in. abbacchio can’t properly face his emotions on his own, and would need therapy help.

bruno doesn’t have to tell him what it's about. they both know that they know, and after some convincing abbacchio makes the terrifying decision to be honest with himself, and with you. but before that, he decides to have a drink. or two. or three.

he's a little tipsy while confessing. he comes to you later in the night, when the world is a little quieter: a tinge of pink dusted on cheekbone, the tips of his ears a fiery red. he'll approach you when he's sure no one else is around, when he's sure no one else can interrupt. 

it comes out…messily…sort of like a car starting and stopping; he can't get to the point right away. you don’t know what the hell is going on until he says something along the lines of:

“I like what we had…I like being around you all the time. I want that back.”

there’s no grand romantic gesture or rosy declarations of love, it’s just him. raw. open with himself and with you in this moment. it’s all he knows how to give you right now. he puts himself down for fucking things up. you pick him back up with compassion and quiet understanding. and an elbow to his side

that’s when he asks to kiss you. you say yes.

relationship stage

for abbacchio, being in a relationship is a beautifully terrifying thing. it scares him at times, fearing that one day he’ll roll over and you’re gone, or there’ll be a mission that you don’t come back from. he tries to bury the feeling deep in his gut, but his worries seep through the cracks. he’ll accompany you on every assignment, not that you’re complaining, but he’s at ease if he knows where you are. 

he has a few bad habits, namely drinking. they don’t go away just because he’s in a relationship; if anything, it exacerbates them. he’s a silent worrier pricked by years of insecurity and shame; it’s a journey you both will have to work through together. he needs patience and healthy encouragement, but you also need to set hard boundaries with him, really for his sake.

he’s a low-key lover. it’s not loud or flashy, but something firm and unyielding. once you’ve cemented yourself in his heart, you’re stuck there. 

he can be quite brash, especially if it concerns you. if anyone is staring at you too long, it’s a problem. if he thinks someone is getting a little too familiar, he is staring them down. god forbid anyone spills something on you by accident. 

no other person on earth would try anything with you when abbacchio is around. have you seen that mug?

he’s hyper-vigilant of people near you, civilian or otherwise. he’s not particularly trusting of anyone else either. 

he canonically hates waiting in line, but will do so for you and you only. if you need him to grab something from the market, he will absolutely do it, but not without complaining first. waiting in line for festivals and celebrations? he would actually rather hold your things while you and narancia go crazy. he never strays far.

he will always smile when you enter a room. he won’t call out to you or reach out, but he’ll always always acknowledge you in some way. he smiles a lot more in general when you’re around, and it earns a few not-so-subtle winks and nudges from the gang. 

he tries to be romantic, bless his heart, but it doesn’t come naturally to him. at least, not at first. he got tipsy on your first real date out of nervousness. you still tease him about it to this day. the flowers and gifts he brought you made up for it. sort of.

he isn’t very good with his words; he never has been. his love flows through action. having a bad day? he’ll get you something from that restaurant you like. can’t sleep? he’ll lie awake with you until you can. rough mission? he’s got the medkit and a vendetta.

pro shit-talker. it’s funnier if you’re one too.

also canonically does not like bratty kids. he likely doesn’t want them either. 

he could potentially have one if the stars happen to align juuuuuust right.

he loves it when you play with his hair or run your fingers through it. he pretends to give you shit about it, but is out cold in minutes.

a manspreading fiend, and it’s absolutely sinful. he knows exactly what it does to you, too. if he’s feeling cheeky, he’ll pat his lap as if beckoning you over. only in private, however. 

he isn’t one for pda at all. it makes him uncomfortable. the most he will do is hold your hand in public. 

black belt in complaining, oh my god. you’ve gotten into arguments over it. he gets much better about it, but you genuinely think it’s a part of his dna at this point.

it will take him a while to fully accept your love, as he slowly begins the work of learning how to love himself again. he could never have done it without you, he thinks.

he does not play about you, ever. nobody can say anything even remotely negative about you around him. or they better not let him hear it, at least. 

the thought of marrying you hits him like a freight train. it’s late at night, and you’ve long entered rem state, and he lies awake, just staring at you. maybe he shouldn’t, but he places you on a pedestal. you’re a guiding light, a balm to his soul, and under the silent glow of moonlight, he decides then and there to make you his.

overall solid partner, just very rough around the edges.

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when he does things for you, it’s only him being that gentleman that he is. it’s never meant to belittle you or undermine your autonomy. 

opening doors, a gentle guiding hand at your back; it’s how he shows his devotion to you. 

the effortless grace you carry yourself with is something balmy and familiar to him, as he often holds himself in similar regard, but you…

he thinks you look like a painting. something from the dust of a bygone era come to life: classical, intentional. he loves the way the light seems to cradle you wherever you walk, how you move with the instinctual grace and poise of a swan. 

he feels it every time he looks at you, a tug at the sinew around his ribs; he can’t stop the way his heart burns for you. how it gives him life to see you remain graceful and strong despite the loss of your sight.

he won’t voice it, but he loves the way your lashes flutter when you’re amused.

lowkey the classy couple??? the rent goes up when you both enter a building. 

he touches you like you’re fine porcelain, something to be cherished and admired.

he loves to read to you as his mother once did for him. he often reads at night while you’re in bed together. if you take an interest in whatever he’s reading, he will gladly read out loud to you. if there’s anything you want to read about, he’s always honored to oblige.

keeps you far from his line of work. there’s a sizable chance you don’t even know what he does for certain. he doesn’t want you anywhere near the grime of organized crime; he thinks you’re too respectable for that. he will do any and everything to keep you safe. 

he doesn’t need to wonder what’s behind your eyelids; the person in front of him will always be enough.

he respects your autonomy, but he can’t help but to be watchful over you. if you ever get pregnant,it gets significantly worse. if you're a mafioso/mafiosa, he’ll ease off a bit as he trusts you and your abilities, but he can’t help but to worry. he’ll ask where you’re going, when you think you’ll be back, and who might be there. he doesn’t mean to pry, he just wants you safe, especially given your line of work.

a huge foodie. he delights in a good meal, always taking you to the nicest spots in Italy. he’ll make a private reservation to the nicest restaurant you think you’ve ever been in with a gorgeous view. everything is planned right down to the letter. he always picks up the tab–if the place even allows him to pay, that is. you don’t ever see the check.

would be an amazing father. attentive, empathetic, compassionate. he can be fairly strict, however, but you’ll balance him out. it all comes from a place of love and a fierce desire to protect. 

he likely wouldn’t even consider children until he could put his mafia days behind him, ensuring their absolute safety. 

but he’d have like two to three. he’s a famiglia man.

he would be at every one of their games, recitals, ect. he won’t miss a single one. his legs are crossed, hands tucked into his lap as he watches them with a fierce attentiveness. afterwards, he congratulates them, making sure to tell them just how proud he is to be their father. 

the other mothers would absolutely try and chat him up. he remains polite, but will set the record straight if need be. he doesn’t play about you or your relationship. 

he’s very sentimental in private. he loves that he can be his full self around you, his shoulders loosening as he shirks off his leader persona. it tends to happen in your quieter moments together, after the blood and ash of the day settles into the dirt:

“I’m the luckiest man alive.”

“I see you, cara.”

“I’d love you in every lifetime.”

gives the best fashion advice. look at him. he will make suggestions and be 1000% correct. he loves it when you both go shopping together too: he gets to spoil you and watch you try on outfits??? win-win. he is never stingy with praise, either.

“You look absolutely divine.”

“Oh, cara mia…”

“Beautiful, molto bene.”

your laugh does something to him. it stirs something deep in his gut that he can never quite name, but it grounds him, reminding him that he’s allowed to be happy and want better for himself. he could get lost in you for hours. 

the type to ask your folks for their blessing. they say yes. 

he’s very empathetic, so he’s easily able to pick up on how you’re feeling. if something’s wrong, he’ll want to address it as soon as possible. he doesn’t like knowing that you’re struggling. you’ll need to tell him when you need your space at times though, as he has a tendency to hover.

he’s the type of person you feel very safe around. you know the kind of person you could tell anything to and they wouldn’t pass judgement? that’s him. his ears are always privy to you. he’ll give advice if you want it, and it’s pretty damn good. mothering fr.

anniversaries and birthdays are very important to him. he will somehow manage to outdo himself every time. it’s never flash or gaudy, but just rosy and personal enough that you have to fight back tears. it’s then you realize just how much he truly sees you–every part of you. 

he’s keen to your emotions, but struggles communicating his own thoughts at times. he gets better as your relationship progresses, but you just gotta be patient with him.

got teary-eyed when you walked down the aisle. it was a mix of everything: how radiant you looked, the symbolicness of it all, the fact that he was here, marrying you of all people. he never thought he’d live long enough to see it through.

a passionate lover. in all forms.