#abba x reader

It all started when Abbacchio had walked in on you touching yourself this morning… You were so needy... Untouched. One of his favorite things was to build up your sexual frustration. When he would leave you both agreed you weren’t allowed to touch yourself, but he was never gone for this long. He hadn’t been home in weeks, so what were the odds he’d be back now? You couldn’t resist the temptation and caved in, not knowing he would be home only moments later.

“Oh (y/n), you look so beautiful all tied up, crying out my name” He sighed, with a sinister smile on his face. “Tell me how badly you want me, like the desperate little slut you are.”

You were bent over his lap, arms and legs tied up so tightly you couldn’t move a muscle. He had one hand clasped around your throat, lightly enough that you speak but hard enough to slightly restrict your breathing. His other hand was tracing and pressing the continually growing wet spot drenching your panties, occasionally going underneath your panties and sliding a finger into your warmth.

“Abbacchio,” you panted, “Stop teasing me and please just fuck me!” This had been going on for at least half an hour by now and you were craving so much more than you were getting.

“Who’s the one in the position to be making demands right now?” he questioned harshly, stopping to spank your ass intensely. “This is your punishment for being such a needy little whore. You don’t get to tell me what to do”. You whimpered at the sensation, but it felt incredible.

“I couldn’t help myself! You were gone for ages!” You whined as he continued to torment you by not giving into your desires.

“Excuses excuses. Why not just admit it? You’re just a bad girl..” Abba muttered, his hand striking your ass for what felt like the thousandth time. “Touching yourself when you promised to wait for me… Were you really THAT deprived?” Yet again, you felt his hand smacking the sore spot once again. Your skin was extremely flushed and stinging. Tears began to well up at the corners of your eyes.

“You like that don’t you?” He teased, motioning towards the tears in your eyes. You couldn’t lie. You loved it. He always knew how to get you going and how to touch in the right ways...  how to get you all worked up and on the edge, but leave you hanging. He had barely touched you at all this whole time and you were nearly at your limit and he knew it too.

One night after a steamy session, you notice Leone is closed off and withdrawn....more than usual. Leone has grown accustomed to holding you as he slept. Sometimes he refused to let you go. Even in his sleep, he always held you close to his chest; his heart. He'd come a long way. In the beginning, he'd fuck you roughly and leave. Oh how times had changed. He went from leaving abruptly, still covered in sweat to lingering and taking showers in your bathroom. You'd been surprised the first time he spent the night. He was changing. He was falling in love with you. He'd only admit it months later in a voice that is nothing more than a whisper while you are under him. He now has clothes at your place, his own drawer, and his own mug that you resigned for him and only him. Seeing him this withdrawn now....it's unlike him. Leone is laid on his side with his back to you.

"I'm leaving in the morning," you hear him say, his voice barely that of a whisper.

You were no stranger to Abbacchio leaving for days on end to complete some sort of task that often left his clothes covered in filth and blood.

"When are you coming back?" you ask, throwing an arm around him to spoon him.

"I'm not."

You felt him wince against you. What did he mean he wasn't coming back? He always comes back. Leone Abbacchio always comes back.

"You're not coming back?" you parrot, feeling a lump forming in your throat.

"No. I'm not. You should find a new apartment. Find...someone else that'll love you." the way you deserve.

Leone doesn't say that last part.

Your voice is hurt when you ask, "You don't love me?"

He doesn't answer you. Oh, how he hated to see you upset. He couldn't do this any longer. He loved you. He could admit that to himself, but he couldn't stay with you. He'd told you what he does and how he makes his living. He's told you that there are things that he'd rather not tell you about the nature of his job...for your safety. He never openly spoke about you to keep you safe. The only person that knew what you meant to him was Bruno Bucciarati. So when a photo of you was pinned to Abbacchio's front door with a knife through your face, he knew that you were no longer safe. He couldn't tell you that. You'd suggest running away together or you'd tell him that you weren't afraid and could protect yourself. He knew you wouldn't be scared, but he was. He was scared of losing you. He didn't want to be the reason that another young life ended tragically. He wouldn't be able to stomach it. Breaking your heart was much easier than burying you.

Abbacchio got out of your bed and hung his head low with his back turned to you.

"Take it back," he heard you say through clenched jaw.

You were crying. He was hurting you. The worst part is that he couldn't even look at you. He'd crumble if he did. He'd jump back into your arms and beg for forgiveness. He'd hold you tighter than he's ever held you before and ask to runaway together. He couldn't do that. He had to be strong and let you go.

"I can't," is all he says.

With that, you're stunned. How could he say that? He couldn't mean it.

"Tell me you don't love me and I'll let you leave. You never have to come back here again."

He's silent as if contemplating whether or not he should continue on. You can see all the muscles in his back tense and relax as if he's at war with himself.

Your voice is thrumming with anger as you command again, "Tell me you don't love me and I'll let you leave."

He hears you kneeling on the bed and moving closer to him. He knows you want him to look you in the eye, even if you have to force him to. He quickly gathers his courage, sucking up any tears that were about to make their way to the surface.

"I don't love you anymore!" He screams in your face much, much louder than he intended.

All the anger drains from you. He can't make out your new expression, but he can't stick around to find out. He quickly grabs his clothes that were strewn across the floor and makes his way to the front door as he quickly dresses. He expects you to trail him. No, he wants you trail him; to stop him from making what is about to become the second biggest mistake of his life. He listens for your footsteps, but he can only hear your sobbing coming from the bedroom. With that, he leaves. When you get home from work the next day, all of Abbacchio's things are gone. Abbacchio wiped the house clean of his existence. He's even taken his toothbrush and mug. That is the last time you see Leone Abbacchio.

Abbachio stands in front of the house of the address scribbled on the back of a restaurant receipt. It feels odd. It's well into the night, but this house is the only one not illuminated from the inside. The windows are dark and the shades are drawn. He makes his way forward, his heart pounding in his ears. His hand shakes as he reaches for the knob; the unknown waiting for him on the other side. How could he still be so terrified when the worst has already happened? His fingers land on the knob and the images of a family flash through his mind. He sees you on the other side of the door, happy to see him after he's been gone a while. He sees you trying your hand at blueberry pancakes again, powder smeared all over your cheeks. You never did get the hang of those pancakes, but you did try. For a second, Abbacchio smiles at the thought before his heart begins to ache at the reality of the situation. He could never have that. He was too late. Abbachio opens the door to the small home, the door having never been locked. The inside is just as dark as it looked from the outside. The home is nicely decorated, art pieces and now wilting plants decorating the halls. He walks through the house almost as if he's amazed at how you've decorated. This is what he would've come back to. This should've been his home...with you. Abbacchio stops dead in his tracks as he wonders the house. He smells it before he sees it; he smell of iron and decay. All the furniture in the living room is pushed out of the way and into a semi-circle as if to make room. In the center of that circle was a large brown stain that seeped into the wood flooring. The brown stain was much darker in color than the rest of the wood. It was the color of rust, the color of blood that had dried. Abbacchio could recognize it. He's seen this kind of stain many times before. This is where it happened. This is where you died. This is where they killed you. This is where they tortured you for information. Information about him. Abbacchio began to sweat, the anxiety slowly building in his chest beginning to overcome his desire to breathe. There was a heaviness in his chest that he knew would remain even after leaving this place.

"Moody Blues, begin replay," he called as he summoned his stand.

Moody Blues stood in the center of the dried bloodstain.

"Go back to one week from today."

He watches as the stand morphs into you in a seated position. That must've been where your couch initially was.

"Play."

You're humming to yourself as you write on a notepad. He looks over to see that you're making a grocery list. You're just as beautiful as before. He notices you've cut your hair. It frames your face so well. His eyes drift to your left hand, no sign of a wedding ring. It only makes him more upset. Why didn't you find some poor sap to settle down with? He clicks his tongue.

"Moody Blues, fast forward one day."

Abbacchio feels his heart sink into his chest at the sight of you just 24 hours later. You were on your knees on the wood floor, battered and bruised. Your right eye was swollen shut, lip split open, and blood dripping down from the crown of your head. You were looking up at someone.

"Play," he says with a dry mouth.

"I don't know where he is. I haven't seen or heard from him in four years! I'll give you anything you want, just please let my son go!" He heard you beg through split lip.

Son? You had a son? When had you had a child? The possibility of the child being his began to make him nauseous. Could it be? You shriek as you're kicked in the stomach and double over in pain. Abbacchio flinched. He could hardly watch the scene unfolding in front of him. Abbacchio had no problem beating up other mafiosi. He could do it without blinking an eye. This was different. This was you. You were innocent and so was your child. You were being beaten and tortured because of him. You died because of him. He didn't protect you. You probably died despising him for the harm that came to you and your son. All because of him. Abbacchio felt useless. He hated himself. Your death was on his hands. The kid. He had no idea what would become of the kid without his mother.

"Mama!" A small voice cried, breaking Abbachio's train of thought.

Small hands were on you in a matter of seconds as you coughed and wheezed. You knelt back up to hug the young boy as he cried into your shirt.

Abbacchio felt sick. His questions were being answered. He sized the boy and his heart raced. The resemblance was uncanny. The boy shared the same hair color and eye color...as him. This was his son. Abbacchio watched as you tried to shush the young boy and get him to stop crying. He felt dizzy. He was watching you hold his son while you were being interrogated by mofiosi.

"It's alright, Leone. Mama is going to be alright," he heard you whisper to the boy.

That's it. That's all that Abbacchio could stand to see. He was going to throw up. His family was suffering for his mistakes. His family. You'd had his son. You even named the little boy after him. He'd missed out on raising your son together because he was selfish. Four years ago, he'd erased every trace of himself. Even if you did try to find him, it was impossible. Every avenue was a dead lead. At the time, he thought it was better that way. You would move on. Instead, he'd impeded his only chance at happiness. Where was his son now? He had to find him.

He didn't stop the replay in time. Not before hearing a single gunshot. The sound rang through his ears, his eyes widening at the scene unfolding. The room had grown quiet. He heard no more sniffling or shushing, only the sound of a shell casing hitting the ground. Your arms still clutched the young boy as he laid on top of you on the ground. His eyes were shut but yours were wide open, staring right at Abbacchio. He'd watched the color drain right out of your eyes as your blood mixed with your son's, spreading in a pool on the living room floor.