i dont want to be ur ocs guy

bruno bucciarati is always falling asleep next to you ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ just cuddle with him!

cw: none! pure fluff

You never thought Bruno would be such a tired man, the first time he fell asleep near you was in the car. Giorno was driving, because for some reason he’s the only one who knows how to properly drive a car without making everyone vomit. You and Bruno were sitting side by side, with Mista squished by the window and a nice CD playing in the background. You were looking out of the window, the scenery of the coast of Italy making your cheeks warm when you felt something laying on your shoulder and then lifting right up. You turn your head quickly, seeing Bruno with his eyes half-lidded, trying so hard to not fall asleep right there.

But he quickly failed when you got slightly closer, pressing your shoulder against his, letting him rest his head fully on your shoulder. He obviously wasn’t conscious of what he was doing but something about it made you smile. When he woke up, he swallowed and stayed on your shoulder after realizing. 

i am literally so down bad and STARVED for that man like😩

13. “When I become God, I promise you’ll believe in me.” Diego Brando x Reader NSFW .ᐟ𒁂𓄧༝

ദ്ദി •⩊• ) hiiiiii anon this has been rattling around my brain EVER since I saw ur request and let me tell you, I was ready to fucking go places and I had to stop myself bc I didn’t want to get away from the prompt ;-; also I wanted to keep it drabble length so folks could see what that’ll look like. Tbh I could see myself blowing this up to a full short fic down the line.

Still working out the kinks of writing Diego, hope you enjoy ~ (I love rock eating man)

Notes: penetrative sex, hatefucking, Diego being Dio, biting/marking, mild SBR spoilers (I mention Diego winning something)

“—ck— you—“

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you.”

“FUCK… you.”

As soon as the words come out, his hips snap against yours again, and any hope of further cursing him out is stolen with your breath.

The dimly lit hotel room is hot. Sweat trickles down your back, only adding to the slickness between your thighs where his cock spreads you on shaky legs. One strong arm clings to the dark oak posts of the bedframe, the other one wrapped around your bare torso from behind. Muscles in his forearm flex to keep you in place—like a predator clutching its catch.

Your hands scrabble for purchase on the silken comforter; heaven sent last night, when you collapsed in it, but it’s a nightmare now. You grip into it only to slip away.

A particularly loud, squelching thrust makes you choke. Gods… why did he have to feel so good?

Blond hair draws a curtain around the side of your face, and you feel sharp teeth nip at the side of your neck. Tears prick at your eyes.

“I loved seeing your face, by the finish line… you looked horrified. How pathetic,” he taunts you, in a soft voice that hisses, cold, amused. “But you can keep your word. Good bitch.”

“Die— d-die, Brando,” you pant, as two fingers pinch a sensitive nipple. They brush over a deep purplish bruise, bitten, sucked in not thirty minutes earlier.

All over your torso, evidence of the winning jockey’s appetite for you lingered. One after another. Including one so high on your neck, it was impossible to conceal without really good makeup.

Which you needed to buy tomorrow… but you can’t think about that right now.

Really, you can’t think.

Diego’s body curls over yours. A scratching noise briefly grabs your attention, but it loses it just as quick. He thrusts into you, steady, hips pressed against your ass, his chin tucked on your shoulder, wild, without a thought for anything but how good you felt. Lips brush against the soft flesh, sending shivers down your spine.

“You can’t lie to me. You’re—fuck—clamping around me like a vice,” he whispers through gritted teeth. The man nips at your earlobe, and kisses just behind it. You can’t squirm even if you tried.

This wasn’t the first time Diego Brando had drawn to your bedside, arching along the shadows.

Callous, icier than the Great Lakes in the dead of winter. Friends of yours flocked to the British jockey’s side, oohing and ahhing, some offering condolences for the passage of his wife. While they obviously wished to become his next one, and maybe wouldn’t even mind dying like her.

You had suspicions. His arrogance, his glory belied something darker. You knew it.

It made it all the more annoying then, when he decided to go after you.

Teasing you with awful jokes. Inviting you to dinners across the country. Sending gifts to your hotel when you traveled to watch the races. He was at almost every one, beating out all a manner of other runners, including Johnny Joestar. It was the worst. His azure gaze burned into you anywhere you went— a magnifying lens capturing your every movement.

The first time wasn’t even his idea. It was yours.

“I’ll lay with you the day you spur that stallion of yours over a mile in under a minute and a half,” you spat. The corner booth was claustrophobic as he leant into you. Smoke curled around your heads, hovering from cigars and cigarettes of far off patrons. Odors of heavy grease and sounds of light conversations, punctuated with shrill laughter, pressed you in even further, as he caged you in with an arm. Dressed like this, no one could even tell it was him. A tall hat covered most of his golden hair, a black cape obscuring his muscular form.

He smiled at you, serene, assured. An evil glint in his eye.

“I expect you to be ready for me after the awards ceremony.”

To your absolute shock, the next day, Diego darted across the finish line in a turquoise streak; babbling judges confirmed what you knew in your sinking heart, that Diego Brando had set a new record.

He caught your eye in the crowd, and cruel amusement flickered in his eyes. And that night, you cried his name until you went hoarse.

Since then, this was the fourth time.

“Let’s place another bet,” he coaxed. The breeze made you clutch your thin shawl closer, glaring up at him on Silver Bullet— the sun casting a halo around his jockey helmet and leaving only his gleaming teeth visible. “I’ll win. And you will be waiting for me, as you always are.”

You shook your head. Firmly, replying, “No, not anymore, Diego. I’m done.”

“So… you do think I’ll win.”

Bastard. Which was worse, complimenting him, or giving into the game; a hard choice, you thought, irritable, holding your arms close.

Cool air dragged its fingers over your skin. Your heart pounded. To your chagrin, there was a flutter in your stomach at the thrill of the tension— hovering at the finish line, watching the racers come into view.

“Whatever. You’re on.”

And you reap those consequences. With pleasure, and shame, you whine as the fat head of his dick nudges against your g-spot again, curling up towards that achingly deep part of you. Even with his preparations, rubbing your clit until it could cum from the slightest touch, he stretched you out deliciously— it was so damn humiliating, you think, a tear sliding down your cheek, and letting out a choked sob as his fingers find your sensitive little bundle of nerves again.

You shake your head, head bumping lightly against his, babbling, “S’too much, D-Diego, p-please, s’too—“

“Not enough, no. It’s not enough,” he hisses, biting down harshly into the crook of your neck and sucking down; the veins burst in pops of pain and ecstasy, dragging another sob from you as your abdomen pulls in. “Never. Never enough.”

“Mm… MM!”

Moaning, you convulse in his arms once more, your pussy clenching around his fat cock, twitching, spasming in his grasp until you fall limp— trembling, panting. Eyelids flutter. Diego’s chest rumbles.

“Just like that. Just…. Shit,” he mutters, and picks up his pace again. Your dazed, fucked out body takes his thrusts like a doll, mouth agape. It’s too much. He’d never… he’d never fucked you like this. Then again… he’d never run in the Steel Ball Run before this.

The blond haired man drops you to the sheets, pushing you down by your neck. You wheeze. He laughs breathlessly.

“Nice to everyone but me, but you don’t share this pussy with anyone you’re nice to, huh?” His balls slap wetly against your over wrought clit, pulling small, broken noises from you.

Again, he presses his chest to your back, sticky, heated, trembling.

“One day you won’t be able to.”

And his movements speed up one more time— sloppy, bullying his cock into you and jolting your poor abused body with every one, until he hisses and rips himself from you.

Warmth spreads across your ass, a dripping sensation that makes you whimper as Diego slaps the already red skin. He exhales.

His release shamefully cooling on you, you let yourself collapse onto your stomach.

A barely audible dark chuckle. “Fourth time’s the charm, perhaps?”

You suck in a breath. Damn him. Damn yourself.

In a weak voice, ignoring how it warms your cheeks, how latent lust makes your head foggy, you ask— almost plead— “W-why do you do… this?”

“I could ask you the same,” he murmurs, and trails a finger down the back of your thigh.

“Though I know.”

He doesn’t say it, but the smugness in his voice already does.

You can’t get away.

“I will never… ever be yours, Brando,” you manage out, and, gathering what little dignity remains, you bring yourself up to your knees. Damn, you needed a bath— more importantly, you needed him out of the room.

But he doesn’t hustle along, as he usually did.

He sits, watching you, as you face him with as much hatred as you can muster. Easy, when he smirks so. His tresses frame the carved jaw, beautiful, angelic, a horrible irony.

“I don’t know… what god you fancy yourself as, Dio,” you say, clenching your fist into the comforter below you, and letting the nickname fall from your mouth like a bitter seed. “But I will never bow to you.”

“Did you ever think I wanted you to?”

He clucks his tongue, and captures your lips in a kiss.

As his lips slant against yours, you squirm, but the taste of him— salty from sweat, the bitterness of whatever he drank before, mingling with the metallic, earthy scent off his skin, melts you just slightly. When he pulls back, a thin line of drool connects you, that he smiles at. Were his teeth… always so sharp?

ദ്ദി •⩊• ) Graahhhhh I got way too into this. Domestic Bucciarati feels so classic, like in an “in another life” way. Chicken soup for the soul type stuff.

I hope folks like this! Truth be told I tossed Bucciarati in the poll last minute and played myself 🧍 but I loved writing this :)

Mentions: domestic life, afab genitalia, Bruno going down on you, cumming inside, mentions of the gang/implied violence.

Two chimes. That is what he told you to listen for, to ensure it was him, and not a threat, and his men knew that too; not one press of the doorbell, but two, the second resonating through the foyer of your shared apartment in a reaffirming tenor. The bubbling sink almost obscures the sound, as you wrap the tiny cut on your pinkie.

Of course, chopping up strawberries couldn’t end without any casualties, even as careful as you were. Jokingly, you called it your own rival mafia; the kitchen had it out to get you, accidentally burning your arm on the gas stove, dropping an iron skillet on your foot, and most strangely (and laughable to Bruno) getting a straw stuck in the sink and slipping on your ass. Innocent moments that his team carefully avoided mentioning any time they met at the apartment, though they certainly knew.

Mista had asserted that the reason you kept getting injured was the four bundles of dried herbs hanging in the window. When you promptly tripped on the kitchen rug after using up one of them, you laid on the floor and sighed.

Little mistakes. Never a dull moment, you think sardonically.

Moving here had turned out well other than the evil kitchen. Ocean waves became a shared alarm clock. The dark wood floors and beams were easily cleaned. Dried bouquets from your lovely partner adorned the walls alongside photographs of the two of you, including a candid shot of you Fugo had captured and Bruno practically demanded he give to him.

In it, you’re mid laugh, eyes squeezed shut and almost tearing up, a tiny dot of gelato on your nose, and the melting cone in your hand. Why were you laughing? The memory was foggy by now. There had been so many memories since then just like that— ones that warmed you, and made you mirror that mid laugh smile. Domestic. Peaceful.

Shaking your head, you turn to see the latch open and the first leather soled foot step through.

“Should I really be listening for the bell if you’ll unlock the door anyway?” You remark. The onyx haired man scoffs at you, good natured as he straightens.

“The door is locked regardless. If it were an intruder, they’d still have to unlock it,” Bruno counters and slips his shoes off at the foyer.

“And this is your home, Signore Bucciarati.” Arms looping around his neck, the man’s eyes soften as you lean into him, your body curving into his as if the both of you had been made to fit into each other. His own snake around your waist, and hold you firm-- hands clasped right above the small of your back.

“Welcome back, mi amore,” you murmur. Lips press against your forehead just barely, enough to unleash butterflies in your chest.

“My dove.”

It was him who looked like one, though it was your nickname. Ironic, a peace dove clad in white, the leader of a feared group of mafiosos. Though it would be remiss to call him a brute— and half the time, it was hard to remember that he was indeed a gangster, the way he treated any common man on the street. One time, your hands laced around his arm, you passed a blond haired, shifty eyed man on the sidewalk who caught your gaze. As he saw who you were walking with, his eyes widened and he turned to walk in another direction so quickly he almost tripped.

Blue eyes rove over your form briefly, appreciatively, and he sniffs the air. “Did you bake something?” Bruno asks.

Humming, you roll back and forth on the balls of your feet and toes. “Cake. I wanted to replicate the one we tried at that new bakery, remember?”

You tug him along a little, towards the counter where the cooling sponge sits, golden and fluffy. When you pulled it out, you were pretty damn proud at how it looked— close enough to the restaurant’s, even if there was one spot where the parchment hadn’t pulled cleanly and took some crumb. He nods approvingly, peering at the sides.

“It looks incredible. Did you whip the egg whites and all?”

Nodding, you lean back over the sink. “That’s an essential step, you know, to get it so light,” you say, and scoop the mixer bowl out to dry it. “I need to whip the cream, then put it all together, but the cake itself still needs to cool a little. Were you—“

“One moment,” he interrupts, and catches your wrist in a loose hold. You press your lips together; and his exasperated expression says everything you didn’t want to hear. “Did you cut yourself?”

“Look, I REALLY tried this time to be careful.”

He almost snorts and hides it poorly with a sigh.

“Bella,” he starts, in the same patient tone he uses every time (that was apparently unique to you— Narancia complained to you that Bruno yelled at them too much), “You ought to wear gloves. They make pairs perfect for this.”

“Don’t kid proof me, Bruno. It was a scratch, the knife was just sharp so it bled more,” you retort. As he raises an eyebrow, you hold your hands up in surrender, curling the battle worn pinky in emphasis. “I’m fine. If you’re so worried,” continuing, an idea pops in your head as you scoop up the bowl and start drying it with a tea towel, “Either zip it up or kiss it better.”

“Oh?”

You freeze. That tone… lilting, edged with curiosity, as his hand loosens around your wrist, it trails, ever so light, up your bare forearm. You look up at him, as he smiles. White teeth, against his white outfit. So clean, so perfect. Befitting a capo.

“May I, my dear?” Bruno asks softly.

Swallowing, you nod, and extend your wrist out, the fingers twitching slightly when he slides a finger around your bandaged one. He brings the hand to his face. Observing it carefully-- too carefully, really. There isn’t a reason for his breath to tickle the back of your hand. Or--

With a pop, the dull pain in your pinkie ceases. You blink, and look at your pinkie. Gold glints under the bandage-- a minute zipper has closed up the scratch, and you glare up at him. A rare glint of amusement in his eyes betrays him. A light punch doesn’t make him budge. Of course.

“You ass.”

“Forgive me, but you gave me two options.” He kisses the tip of your pinky regardless. “How could I not?”

“You could choose, mi amore,” you protest. Warmth floods your cheeks as you set the bowl back up on the mixer, striding to the fridge for a bottle of cream. “Choose to not do that. Or choose something of your own--”

Suddenly, you spin into his embrace, and his mouth meets yours.

Whatever juvenile retort you had in mind dies before it reaches your lips. As his mouth slants against yours, you loop your arms up around his neck once more, his own caging you in. One hand slides up your spine, pressing your chest against his-- the fabric of your shirt brushes his bare skin, eliciting a low moan that arches you further to him. His other hand trails down, to the hem of your shirt, rubbing the fabric insistently as if he hoped he could make it dissolve. His lips are soft, flavored with the brew of the cafe down the street, and insistent against yours. It’s warm, his body lean, hard with muscle. Carefully, he starts to pull you towards the living room.

You don’t hesitate.

The two of you nearly fall onto the couch. A soft puff of breath enters your mouth from his as he kisses you, his back hitting the brocade cushions hard. Plush thighs press against his as you straddle him, the hand on the center of your back sliding up to the base of your neck. Fingertips brush against the side of your throat. A delicious warning, as he runs his hand up your shirt. The clean, bourbon and pine scent of his aftershave tickles your nose.

Yielding flesh trembles under his touch; Bruno’s experienced hands guide you, as your shirt lifts from his hands and exposes your bare torso.

“Nothing under?” he murmurs in your ear. You shiver.

“No need. I’ve been off the clock for--”

“I’m happy you’re comfortable.”

The man whose hands have ended countless lives presses his lips to the soft curve of your chest. A pebbled nipple finds its way into his mouth, kissed, nipped upon-- a soft whine leaves you. He kisses up your collarbone to the curve of your shoulder, tongue trailing over the soft, stretched skin, still bearing just one nearly healed love bite he gifted you.

So good. He knew your body too well. Practically trained it himself.

Your trembling fingers make their way to the buttons of his suit, at his stomach, but falter there, and a swoon-inducing kiss makes you moan into his mouth. Helplessly, your hands fall slack, and the one of his on your neck drops to the buttons. Your hips weakly press against his, and the evidence of his arousal presses back as the man sighs.

“Mi amore, my beautiful dove…”

With a squeak from you, Bruno flips you up onto your back on the couch, head against the other armrest. Your head is foggy, akin to drunk, his dark hair bunching against the inside of your thigh and blue eyes downright royal, dark, intense where they lock onto yours. His arms lock above your bellybutton, your lower half only covered by thin pajama shorts and a pair of cotton briefs that brush against your most sensitive parts in a way that makes you moan. With a pop, golden zippers curl across the clothes and fall off of your trembling form.

“C-cheating,” you try to tease, but the effect is lessened when he touches the tip of his tongue against your delicate clit.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, letting a finger drag between your soft folds that grow wetter and wetter at his careful touch. “You’re too beautiful like this.”

A shuddering breath leaves you as he laps at your cunt, soft, careful kitten licks targeting you with absolute precision. As he does, a finger prods at your entrance. You moan while he presses it further in, curling up against your inner walls in the exact spot that he knows will make you gasp.

You choke on your breath.

With almost painful care, your beloved devours you— lips barely touching your wetness as he continues, the finger inside you pressing perfectly in and rubbing, every single curve of it hitting something awful and amazing. Panting, you’re locked into his touch with the curve of his arm, as he brings you to that familiar curl of pleasure in your lower gut.

“B-Bruno, I—“

And you cry out, the wave of ecstasy crashing over your pulsing clit and clenching you around his finger. Your trembling form arches from the couch, as much as his hold will allow, as he hums in satisfaction.

“Beautiful. Always so beautiful.”

You moan. He surges to kiss your lips, and tasting your own arousal sends thrills down your spine. There’s the soft sound of a zipper, and the hot, insistent press of his cockhead against your hole.

Your breath hitches. His lips brush the corner of your mouth.

“Are you ready, my love?” Bruno whispers.

Lips trembling, you nod.

Adoration saturates his gaze as he presses his lips to yours at the same time his length pushes inside you, curving into your pussy; you moan into his mouth in a way that borders on a scream.

Against your eyelids, he brushes a soft kiss. Even as his cock twitches inside you, he doesn’t dare move without your permission. Even if you felt heaven sent around him.

Brocade stains steadily below you with the thin sheen of sweat on your body. Heat and haze of post orgasmic lust have you spreading your legs more to accommodate him, to feel him sink just the tiniest bit deeper into you.

He hisses. A soft sound like a gasp leaves your lips.

The man presses his forehead to yours. Black hair blinds your periphery as he does, the silent question evident as he lets his hand trail to your hip.

When you finally nod, he begins to move his hips slowly, letting every ridge of him drag against you— you whine as his arms snake under you, clenching your bare chest to his, the delicate lace of his undershirt sending prickles down your skin. He thrusts steadily. With each movement, your clit brushes against his pelvis; eyes rolling back, you stammer his name.

“B-Bruno…”

He murmurs his reply. Almost thunder like with how his voice shudders: “Just… like that. My dove. My beautiful heart.”

His hand dips between your thighs to rub tight circles on your clit, lips finding yours as he brings your sensitive little bundle of nerves to the edge, all while moving inside you. You whine, holding onto him for dear life as he picks up the steady, rhythmic roll of his hips.

Lewd sounds of flesh against flesh, your wetness, the slight groan of the couch all score the scene. The heat. The smell of him, the musk and sweat of you both. How he rubs your clit like he NEEDS for you to cum, so he can as well.

You whine, cumming around him. Spasming, shaking, one hand clawing down his back. It’s too much. It’s so much.

He thrusts harder, almost trembling, letting à teeth-gritted string of praises, and a single, breathless— “I love you”— punctuate the final push of his cock into you, twitching and spilling his warm cum into your cunt.

Finding your release around him, you shake in his hold as you cum again. Your lover holds you impossibly close. Skin sticky. Hair tousled and falling out of his updo in curls.

Bruno presses his kiss swollen mouth to you one more time. You swallow greedy breaths when he pulls back, barely able to hear beyond the pumping of your heart. His eyes meet yours— tender, with remnants of that absolute lust he just took you with.

A lazy smile spreads across your lips. He mirrors you.

“I love you too,” you say back. Murmured. Just for him.

His eyes widen for a second, before softening once more and he kisses your forehead.

“I should have bathed, but I couldn’t help myself. Shall we both go now? Then we can finish the cake.”

You hum dazedly. He tilts your hips toward the end of the couch, swiftly pulling a handkerchief from his discarded jacket’s chest pocket for preparation as he pulls his softening cock from you. Doing your best not to squirm, you catch the hint of earnestness at the mention of the cake. Fighting a smile— you had to preserve a little bit of his ego, didn’t you?— you nod and sit up after Bruno cleans you up a bit.

“Ye—wait, we?” You ask, blinking. He tilts his head.

“I need to be on standby. To kiss or zip any more little scrapes of yours,” he teases, and you turn your cheek, poking your tongue out as he kisses it with a soft laugh. Shaking your head, you smile at him.

“Good I can rely on you then, hm?”

“Always,” he says simply. His gaze is akin to one looking upon the Sistine Chapel: reverent, and adoring. Your heart skips as he kisses you just one more time— at the corner of your eye.

How he had the fortune to catch it, he couldn’t fathom.