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Your famiglia had barely spent longer than a night in your newest safehouse when Bucciarati had called you for a private assembly. Your initial thought, upon being ordered to report to your Capo’s room, was that he intended on doing one of two things:
One: appoint you a fresh set of orders pertaining to how to keep Trish safe. A necessity, given that it had become clear that her father wanted her completely out of the picture.
Or perhaps more likely, given that nothing ever seemed to go unnoticed by the straight-laced mafioso, two: interrogate your reaction to what had unravelled within San Giorgio Maggiore.
You had gritted your teeth, steeled yourself for Bucciarati’s gaze to dress you down. For him to pry if your resolve had waived after witnessing what you did - if it was the reason you’d drawn into yourself, the thoughts racing through your head stamped across your face plain as day.
Thoughts that had kept you awake until your undereyes were painted with thick, smokey shadows.
He had been the one to usher you to bed that first night. A frighteningly gentle hand on your shoulder steering your gaze from the moon, its milky dusk blurred to a smear with the exhaustion that had crept over your vision.
You’d flinched, gawked up at him like you’d seen a phantom.
The thought now made guilt settle in place of the dread.
What you hadn’t anticipated in the slightest however, was what Bucciarati had actually said after making sure you’d closed the door behind you upon your arrival.
“I don’t feel as though I’m real.”
The bluntness of his statement had caused any conjured excuse to die on your tongue.
“I just want- no, I need to know I’m alive,” you had noted at this point, that he wasn’t looking at you. Gaze disconnected and dreamlike, it half focused on the bed he stood next to as though counting the hemmed flowers on its sheets. His shoulders visibly heaved as he had forced down a sigh. That carefully crafted poker-face slipping away in the sanctuary the tiny, sparsely furnished room allowed. You found a small piece of yourself almost awestruck at the prospect of Bucciarati showing you such rare vulnerability. Though seconds later, it was replaced with a deep sadness, as it fully dawned on you how badly affected he truly was after his fight with Passione’s boss.
The dim light of the room had served only to highlight his melancholy expression. The hollows carved beneath his eyes exposing his exhaustion.
This was the side of Bruno Bucciarati you’d seen him bite his lip bloody over to hide from his subordinates.
You’d wanted to hold him.
You must have stepped towards him then, because suddenly his face was so much closer. He’d faced you head on and you could see how the conflict swirled in the pools of his eyes.
“I know I must sound ridiculous.” His voice had sounded so unsure, so unlike him.
How am I supposed to lead the others when I can’t even make sense of what I’m feeling?
The question hung between you as though strung in neon, despite it never leaving his lips.
You had taken his hand in yours at that, choosing to ignore the hiss in your mind that you were overstepping in a situation you should have resigned yourself to conducting professionally.
Your boss had let out a tremble of a sigh at the contact, fingers flinching for a moment before allowing themselves to lock with your own. You had swallowed nervously as you’d stared up at him, hoping the conviction showed on your face.
“Tell me what you need me to do, Bucciarati.” You recall willing down the frantic beat of your heart as you’d spoken, blood pumping in your ears as you’d noted how close you were to him. “I want to help you.”
His eyes had darted over your face, scanning for something you couldn’t decipher as he clearly struggled to untangle his own thoughts.
What you hadn’t expected from Bucciarati, was for him to duck down and hurriedly crash his lips against your own.
And what you certainly didn’t expect from yourself, was that minutes later, you would have your capo straddled and almost topless atop the bed. A myriad of emotions fighting for dominance in your chest all the while.
……………
“Ah, amore, that’s-!”
Bruno’s voice tapers off into a shuddering sigh as you splay your fingers down and over his torso. His skin kisses at your touch with a heat that only grows hotter the lower your fingers dare to drift.
You find yourself swallowing against the forming knot in your throat as your palms slide over the sides of his waist, settling at the jut of his narrow hips. There's a quiver in your fingertips that betrays the lust-driven eagerness of your touch, and now that your actions have ground to a halt, that same quiver eats up past your arms to freeze you in place. Guilt cools the flames in your belly to a rotten paste, and for a second it feels as though it personifies, clawing at your jaw to shove your gaze stumbling upwards.
Bruno’s rib cage heaves beneath the force of his panting, though you cannot allow yourself to fully indulge in what a pretty sight he makes beneath you.
Instead your eyes remain transfixed on his chest tattoo, the once delicate linework that fringed the bottom of the design now warped and faded where the ink coils around what should be angry, twisted scar tissue at best.
Yet your unblinking stare did not lie - Bruno’s olive skin was marred by little more than a thin sheen of sweat, the tissue supple and healthy.
Devoid of any outward scars.
Fresh.
New.
You shudder a little as those same ghostly hands from before creep over your shoulders, hoping to edge closer to your airway, to snatch the breath from your lungs until a fresh snare of panic can paralyse you once more.
Bruno’s velvety call of your name helps you to shove it away. His voice is still throaty with desire, but carries with it a concern that reflects in his eyes as they search for your own.
“Amore? My darling, you're acting as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Bruno shifts to pull himself up slightly, the rustle of sheets beneath him sounding disquietingly sharp against his rushed movements. “Is something wrong? Please, talk to me”
He’s struggling to steady the flow of his breathing, it's obvious, despite the stern expression he’s trying to force back over his features as his eyes flit between your own to coax the truth out of you.
Perhaps the intensity of his expression would have been intimidating to someone not privy to Bucciarati’s quirks, but you knew him well enough to know better.
You knew him well enough to know the two of you would not be going any further - in any capacity - until you gave him an honest answer.
A hollow sigh leaves you and your eyes drop back to his chest before you can catch yourself. Your concentration only falters momentarily before you dart back to look him in the face, but it's long enough for the pieces to snap together in Bruno’s head as he mirrors the direction of your vision with his own.
There’s the briefest flash of sadness as he scans over his torso.
You can feel the muscles in his abdomen flex as his body goes rigid for a second. His reaction has the back of your neck prickling with shame.
“Buccia-Bruno, I’m-”
“We can stop if this is too much.” His voice is gentle, even as he intercepts your garbled apology. Yet even still, he makes no effort to move you from where you straddle him.
It just serves to make your heart ache more.
“It’s not-” you trail off, eyes no longer a contender in the battle of holding his gaze.
Your voice is so much smaller than you want it to be when you speak again, tongue dry and heavy as you struggle to wet your lips against the choked up feeling lining your throat.
“It’s not that, Bruno. I don’t want to stop, it's just…”
It’s just when you gaze down at him, all you’re reminded of is the crumpled, lifeless mess that had greeted you when you’d found him and Trish bleeding out on the floor of San Giorgio Maggiore.
You fight against the itch of tears as the grisly image blooms into technicolour.
……………
The basilica’s tiles had been stained with so much blood your feet had almost slipped from out beneath you as you’d thrown yourself down to assess the bodies of your companions.
That same sickly, burning crimson had almost completely dredged through the fibres of Bucciarati’s tattered white suit in the short time it took for you to reach him.
Viscous, sticky and oozing, it had lapped at your fingers as you’d fought through it to push and press to stem the bleeding. You’d screamed your throat raw for Giorno, for Gold Experience - for anyone to do something to save your Capo.
It was almost fitting in a grim, twistedly-ironic sense, that all this had transpired in a house of God. You had prayed to any deity listening in that moment to aid Giorno in saving Bruno, to bring him back to you and your famiglia.
I am begging you.
Please.
Please don’t leave us.
Please don’t leave me.
The prayers knotted with the panic boiling your insides as you’d begged to hear Bucciarati’s voice snap you out of your spiral, to feel the warmth that he carried with him as he fed you soothing reassurance and those rare, fleeting smiles that could so easily be missed if one wasn’t paying attention.
Your time in the Mafia had eaten away at your ability to believe in miracles, but it seemed someone - or something - had taken mercy on you: hunched over the mosaic of ruptured arteries and ruined flesh beneath your palms.
It felt like you’d stared straight past the gates of Heaven itself when Bruno Bucciarati’s dark lashes fluttered once, twice, before parting to gaze blearily upwards.
You had held your breath as those big blue eyes took those excruciating seconds to adjust and focus. An unknowing act of self suffocation for what felt like hours in the space of a moment.
The instant he had whispered your name, your first name at that, you had shattered like stained glass against marble.
……………
You feel as though you’re about to crumble away into pieces right now, as he once again peers up at you - that same sapphire gaze alert and calculating as it skims over your troubled expression.
You feel so very exposed atop him, stiripped of layers of flesh to expose the turmoil blistering beneath your surface.
The featherlight warmth of hand curling around your wrist almost pulls a shout from you, tearing down the curtain of misery you’ve unintentionally draped yourself with. The shock dulls quickly, settling beneath your raised pulse as Bruno gently pulls your hand to rest against where the ghastly wound once tore through him.
It isn’t bloody, exposed sinew that meets your fingers, but warm, firm skin and muscle.
You spread out your fingers, the lines of Bruno’s tattoo appearing to expand beneath the rise of his chest with each breath he takes. They dance beneath your palm to the beat of his heart, and you press a little harder to feel the thump of the muscle working so diligently, so healthily within his ribcage. Bruno’s thumb rubs against the bone of your wrist in a soothing back-and-forth motion all the while, content to watch the panic ebb away from your reflection as you begin to relax against him once more.
“I’ve been telling myself the same thing since we left San Giorgio Maggiore, but I’m alive and real,” Bruno’s voice is firm, but you’re certain you hear the slightest waiver of emotion tangled on his tongue, “That bastard may have forced me to leave you - but I promise you will never lose me again, I swear it with all that I am.”
His eyebrows furrow as he sees your expression fall and break. Tears gather at the corner of your eyes but you force them to remain steadfast, to watch him spill his heart to you.
“Amore-”
Something in you - something primal and frightened - doesn't let him finish, lurching forwards to slam your lips against his. Whatever reassurance he was about to bestow you with curdles to a surprised groan. You’re sure your fallen tears have left an itching wetness down his cheeks, but you push the thought further and further away with each kiss you share.
Now he’s panting again, breath slipping out in hot little puffs across your tongue when it glides against his own. The thump of Bruno’s heart has quicked beneath where your hand stays anchored to his chest, nails digging in ever so slightly as you press yourself closer to him. He leans back with the action, melting down into the stiff safehouse mattress as though it were butter. Bruno allows the hand holding your wrist to fall back to rest next to his head, limp and malleable in a mock-pin beneath you.
You hope that he can feel everything you want to say in your kisses. Everything you’ve been desperate to tell him for what feels like a lifetime at this point.
Thank you.
Please don’t leave me.
I love you.
I love you, more than you’ll ever know.
The words whisper in your mind with every press of your lips against his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw. So loud inside your skull yet not quite brave enough to breach into the heated air of the room. You focus instead on the hitch of Bruno’s breath when your teeth graze over his pulsepoint, his groan of your name settling like caramel in your belly when you fasten your lips to suckle around the sensitive skin there.
You can feel the subtle jerk of his lips against you as you drift down to mouth at the column of his throat, dragging your tongue across the bob of his Adam’s apple and delighting at the rumbling sigh that you earn as a result.
“Ah - please,” you’re not certain he even knows what he’s asking for, but you’re all too happy to make good on his request regardless, “please, please…”
His voice is the quietest you’ve ever heard it as you continue to shower him in affection. At this point you’re so closely pressed against him you can feel the muscles of his upper body flex as he tilts himself upwards, catching your lips as you pepper kisses over his chin. Bruno snares you in another searing kiss, his free hand trailing up and over the curve of your back to rest at your nape, keeping you locked against him.
“I’m alive, amore, I’m here with you and I’m alive.”
You’re not sure if Bucciarati’s whisper is meant for you or himself at this point, but you relish in the sound and feel of his words as they wash over you. The heat of his breath licks into your mouth and you swallow it down earnestly. It’s all you can do to contend with the force of his affection as his tongue slides into your mouth to dance with your own once more. He groans into your mouth and a shudder wracks through you at the feeling. Even so, there is a greed in you that still has not been satiated - not yet. Not until you can convince the voice at the back of your skull that he won’t disappear the moment you pull away from him again.
So you begin to drag your nails gently over the exposed plane of his chest, pulling a spluttering gasp from your Capo’s plush lips as he arches his back to chase the feeling, lips parting from yours until only a string of saliva connects them. You turn your half-lidded gaze down to drink in the sight of him. He's panting and flushed, his once pristine hairstyle messily splayed across the pillows like spilled ink on parchment. His designer suit jacket, still sporting the sizable hole in its back, hangs crumbled and open around his body, partly webbed across the crook of his elbows where you’d hastily shoved it down upon first falling into bed with him.
You note now, that the garment frames his chest like a zipper-gilded frame. A work of art brought about by your very own hands, an idol you were more than happy to worship. He’s molten hot and malleable beneath your touch as you all but tear the jacket from him, flinging it out of sight. Your hands skim over his abdominal muscles, marvelling at the impossible feeling of silk and steel beneath your fingertips. You make quick work of tugging down his trousers, shimmying yourself down his long legs immediately after to remove his shoes. Bruno barely has time to blink before you’re kissing your way back up his thighs, your stomach flipping dizzily at the gasp he lets out when your wandering hands move to slip past the waistband of his underwear. You can feel his erection twitch beneath the thin material and it makes your mouth water as you fix your hungry eyes up and over the heave of his chest.
He looks wrecked already, skin shining with perspiration, glowing even in the poor lighting the room’s sole light fitting offers. You blow lightly over the damp spot staining where the tip of his cock nudges against the cotton and he squirms, hissing your name out between clenched teeth. You can’t help but smile a little at the wrecked look on his face. So overwhelmed already without you even touching him properly - the layers of composure he usually kept so closely guarded peeling away further the closer your mouth crept towards his dick. You can feel the tense strain of his thigh muscles beneath you, and it's clear that it’s taking a great deal of concentration for him to not buck upwards to the heat your mouth promises.
It seems that Bruno Bucciarati is as much of a gentleman in bed as you had dared to fantasise.
This salacious acknowledgment shoots straight between your thighs.
Another breathy groan of your name snaps through the air, soon accompanied by the rustle of sheets as Bruno hurriedly shifts himself to sit half-upright. You stay motionless at his change in position, watching him with catlike interest as you attempt to decipher his sudden decision to halt your movements and lean towards you.
There’s the sound of Bruno attempting a shaky inhale, then the heat of his clammy palm resting against your cheek. You lean into the touch, eyes watching him dreamily as he wets his lips before attempting to speak,
“I-” his voice sounds almost wind-bitten with strain. Your stomach jolts again at the pleasant unfamiliarity it carries as he trails off before catching himself, “I want to see you, please, if that’s alright.”
He moves his free hand to tug lightly at the hem of your shirt, and with a nod against the softness of his palm (that you’re sure he feels more than he sees), you pull back reluctantly to swing your legs over the bed and rush to pull off your shoes. Within seconds you’re back to resting on your haunches, eyes never leaving him as you raise your arms. Bruno’s face crinkles with mirth as he smiles at your brisk compliance before surprising you, bringing his slender hands to cup your face. The tenderness of the gesture has your arms wilting down to rest around his shoulders. You note momentarily, how his blue eyes seem the warmest you’ve ever seen them, before he’s closing the gap between you once more to draw you into a sweet kiss - one that seems almost chaste in comparison to the ones you had indulged in earlier.
Now it’s your turn to soften against him with a sigh as your eyes close. It is only at the sensation of your clothes falling away from you in unzipped strips do you open them once more, throwing a sideways glance at Bruno’s handiwork before noting the slightest curl of a smile playing on the corner of his lips.
“I’ll zip them back together later,” his voice is dangerously low as he leans in to kiss you quickly, a hand finding your shoulder to guide you off him until you’re the one lying back against the pillows, “forgive my impatience, I need to touch you.”
You note, through a hazy mind, that he’s neglected to zip away your underwear. Seemingly with the determination to remove it by his own hands only - if the way his nimble fingers snap against your waistband is any indication.
“I said I’d help you.” You push down the butterflies in your stomach, attempting to make your voice sound stern even as your body betrays you, chasing the promise of feeling his bare skin against yours.
He simply smiles, dangerous benevolence flickering in his eyes, as he hooks his thumbs beneath the elastic, elegantly dragging the damp fabric down your thighs before dropping it over the side of the bed to join the collage of clothing decorating the floor.
“You are.” His tone is matter of fact as he delves forward until his hot breath flares against your sex.
You're nary given a second to even contemplate feeling self conscious before a jolt of pleasure shoots through you as Bruno licks a stripe up your slit. Your jaw slackens, brain flitting between whether to grip at the sheets or Bruno’s silky locks. The blister of your cheeks threatens to set your entire face on fire as you feel yourself clench around nothing, Bruno’s plush lips now placing suckled kisses over your clit between each flick of his silken tongue between your folds. The wet, slick sound of Bruno eating you out, your mindless gasps of his name and the shifting of your writhing body against the pillows fills the tiny room with its own obscene little orchestra. You can barely hear the effect your reactions have on him over the blood pounding in your ears, can barely find the strength to prop your head up enough to watch him work you into jelly. But you can feel the way he groans into you and ruts into the mattress each time your hold tightens in his hair, the white-knuckled grip he has on your thighs the only thing stopping you from clamping them around his head from just how good he is with his tongue.
You hope he leaves marks.
Your hips tilt to grind against the fork of his tongue, a pitched whine your only outlet to the sweet torture of him circling around your clit. You’re shivering now, as he cocks his head to probe your entrance with the slippery muscle, a strange mixture of relief and disappointment bubbling within you as you realise he’s about to send you tumbling over the edge at a frightening pace.
It's all you can manage not to scream when Bruno settles to flick his tongue rapidly over your clit. You’re not even sure if you possess the lucidity to form his name properly on your tongue as you cum, but you cry out for him all the same, head thrashing against the wrinkled pillows as you gush down his chin.
You’re still twitching with the aftershocks even after he pulls away to nurse sticky kisses into the skin of your inner thighs.His fingers stroke over your stomach and hips mindlessly, even as the nerves jump and quiver with electricity beneath the skin there. You gasp for oxygen in deep, whistling breaths before daring to turn your face to meet him, only for the air to be knocked from your lungs once more.
The leaking tip of his cock has slipped past the waistband of his underwear - the flimsy garment having been pushed down his hips with his repeated grinding against the mattress. Precum beads prettily at the flushed tip and your fingers twitch with the urge to take him in your hand, even with how boneless you currently feel. Your heart only skips quicker when you’re able to focus on his face. Bruno looks a shell of the pristine, disciplined Capo he’s known, and feared as. Eyes blown navy-black beneath furrowed brows, the braid atop his head tousled, spilling out strands of ebony to join the other locks of hair currently clinging to his face. He looks at you with an expression of such admiration and desire that it almost makes you hide into yourself, but you find you can’t look away.
Not even when he drags the thumb of his right hand over his slick-covered lips, smearing the remnants of your orgasm across the plush fruit of his lower lip.
He gives an audible suck as he draws it into his mouth, and you find your arousal igniting back full force at breakneck speed.
There’s a hint of a smirk licking at the edge of his smile and it makes a part of you yearn to ruin him. Yet the kind, gentle fire in his eyes cuts you to the bone. Wordlessly, you coax him to crawl forwards until he’s positioned atop of you, lithe arms caging your head. Your fingers dance over his ribs and you delight at the shiver the action pulls from him. Bruno leans down to steal another kiss. This one is gentler, almost chaste despite the taste of yourself lingering on his lips. A sigh grazes between you as your crafty fingertips slip down to his hips and begin to peel down his last article of clothing.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel-” You cut down his apprehension with more kisses until it wanes and relaxes. The weeping tip of his dick slides past your inner thigh, closer to where you need him. You grind your hips until your pussy catches against the head in a bid to show him just how much you need him.
With how wet you are, it almost slips right in - much to your combined delight and frustration.
“I’ve never been more sure, Bruno. Just fuck me already, please,” the roughness of your voice is betrayed by the longing dragging heavy in your heart. You’re a little disappointed in yourself, masking your adoration for the man above you beneath a crass blanket of lust. But a part of you is still so very afraid that the depth of your feelings will drive him away if discovered. You’re sure, deep down, it's a pointless endeavour. Bruno never misses a trick, astute and unrelenting in his pursuit of all things. Yet still you hide, hoping that another press of your hips is distracting enough that his eyes will stop scrutinising your expression with such intensity. “I want this, I want you.”
More than you’ll ever know, you think as the words leave your lips.
Bruno sighs through his nose, his chest falling with the action. Your eyes drop to follow the perfectly-imperfect lines of his tattoo dance with the motion. The sight of him taking his cock in hand to line himself up with you soon steals away your attention, and your breath, as you worry your lip in giddy trepidation.
He eases into you with a firm, steady push of his hips and your nails pinch into the flesh of his shoulders, the remaining air in your lungs shooting out in a gasp. You spread your thighs further as his hips come to flush against your own. Vaguely, through the rush of blood whipping through your ears, you note that your head has fallen back to rest against the pillow, knocked back by the stretch of him. Overcome by the heat and feel of Bruno inside of you, all you can do is moan - winded by the weight of your emotions because, fuck, the reality is so much sweeter than any fantasy you’ve conjured.
“Oh, Bruno,” Your head feels empty, airy almost as you will your eyes to refocus and your pulse to calm. “Please, Bruno”
Please fuck me please love me please just move move move.
You can feel yourself clench around him, the pulse of his cock throbbing like a heartbeat. You’re so wet you’re sure you’re soaking down his shaft at the point and he hasn’t even moved properly yet. Your gut twists impatiently, coherence finally returning only for the man above you to knock the breath from you once more.
The sight Bruno paints could make the most pious of priests blaspheme. The blue of his eyes has reduced to a thin band now, pupils blown wide and dark as they swallow you down. His lips are parted with the strain of keeping his breathing grounded, swollen and glossy like overripe fruit in the sun. You can see his jugular twitch as he swallows, damning evidence that he’s just as riled up and aching for this as you are. Yet despite it all, it’s the quiet kindness in his stare that makes you want to shrink away. There’s something there, something that glows in his expression when he looks at you that you’re half convinced you’re making up. Something that you even more desperately want to be true and real and reserved for you.
“Shhh, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you I promise,” Bruno’s voice rasps as he leans down to kiss you, to swallow down the silent pleas you didn’t even realise your lips were peppering the air with, “I just need to - ah - your face - I’m here, I’m here with you, amore mio…”
He’s almost babbling, stringing his words together in a way you have to fight the gauze settling over your mind to comprehend. Still, he refuses to move, starry eyes locked on your face for a breath more before he pulls back ever so slightly to drag his gaze down to where your bodies meet. The resulting, tiny bit of friction has your eyes rolling back, and before you can stop yourself you’re chasing it with a roll of your hips.
Bruno’s eyes snap shut, head lolling back as a gravelly, winded groan rumbles through him.
“Dio mio - oh my darling, the feel of you…”
He’s so sensitive, you think - though you don’t have long to think coherently of much else before Bruno gathers himself to move properly. He grants you a few mercifully slow strokes, dragging the full length of his cock against your walls until you’re keening against him each time the head threatens to slip out of you completely. Soon enough though, he’s snapping his hips with a vigour that has you grateful the bed has no headboard to bash against the thin walls. You grab at him blindly, fighting through the mingled barrage of curses and moans to pull him closer. Your arms loop to cling at the back of his neck, hands threading through the hair gathered there to mock-cradle his head in your grasp.
There’s barely an inch of space between you now as Bruno plunges into your sopping cunt over and over. He angles his face to kiss wetly at your jaw, eyes lidded to slits as he battles against the bliss he’s feeling to keep watching your expression.
“T-tell me, love - tell me this feels as good for you as it does for me.” Bruno’s voice sounds wrecked as he mutters against your skin, mouthing compliments and murmurs of your name into the crook of your neck. He’s louder than you’d imagined, the thunder of his moans and sighs contending evenly with your own. Each thrust of his cock punches a whine of his name as your body does the talking for you, brain too muddled with toe-curling pleasure to form anything intelligible. You’re so close again already, quivering on the edge of release because it's all too much. Being with Bruno, feeling so safe yet so tortured by his every touch as he guides your body towards climax is too much.
Having him alive and breathing and so, so beautiful above you is so perfectly overwhelming that you feel the beginning of tears gathering at your lash line, burning brightly right alongside the growing promise of your orgasm.
His pubic bone grinds against your clit with a particularly harsh thrust and you yelp, curling around him until your legs have anchored themselves around his waist. It locks him even closer, his hips forced to piston shallowly at an angle that has his cock dragging deliciously against a particularly sensitive spot inside of you.
“I need you,” Bruno cries out as you tighten around him, voice desperate with the strain of starving off his own impending orgasm, “oh, my love - need you to cum around my cock - I need you I need you I need you-”
“You have me - all yours Bruno - I promise-!” your voice finally finds itself again just as your selfless, perfect Capo shifts his weight to slip a hand to rub at your clit and you’re gone - vision painted with starlight as you crash over your peak.
You can barely hear anything now, the white hot frequency of your orgasm all encompassing. But vaguely - dreamily - you register your own voice call out over the lewd sound of your bodies working against each other.
“B-Bruno - love you - Bruno, I love you!”
You hear Bruno’s breath hitch violently around a shaky cry of your name, his whole body seeming to shudder as he cums. There’s a bloom of sticky heat that fills you as he spills inside, twitching again and again as he claims you in thick ropes. He’s still whimpering into your shoulder as his dick begins to soften, tattooing an unintelligible coo of sweet nothings onto your skin.
As the electricity of your orgasm ebbs away, the weight of your confession sits heavily on your chest. You feel yourself go rigid as your common sense drips back, your own voice echoing in your mind. Bruno, tucked into the sweaty crux of your shoulder, doesn’t react. But you know he heard what you said, he must have - you had all but screamed it to the entire safehouse as you’d tumbled over the edge.
Somehow, despite everything that has just happened between you both - this still feels like a step too far. The perspiration coating your naked body begins to chill and you shiver, even with the weight of Bruno’s body blanketing you. The breath fanning over your collar bone suddenly feels too close, the gossamer hair wretched in your grasp too holy a vestment for you to handle-
“Did you mean what you said?” A familiar, dulcet tone drags you away from the panic.
You open and close your mouth, fighting through the dryness on your tongue to speak. It only becomes harder when Bruno lifts himself back up on his elbows so he can look you square in the face.
He looks adorable, despite the anxiety his hazy blues are injecting into you right now. His face is ruddy with a flush that creeps down his neck. Part of his messy hair sticks to his bottom lip and you wish you had the gall to reach up and tuck it behind his ear, but your limbs still feel far too heavy after falling to rest at your sides, your previous iron grip on him abandoned.
Afterglow - you can’t shake the word from your head, similarly to how you can’t pull your eyes away from his own. He wears it like a crown - and you feel so small drinking in his presence like this. You should be glad he was alive, grateful it was you he had bled his heart to - and yet you still dared to overstep for more…
“Answer my question, please.”
You couldn’t deny Bruno the truth, not when he was staring you down with that look, one that told you he could very well reach into the recess of your brain and pluck the truth out himself if he so wished it.
A bigger part of you knew that you owed him your honesty after everything he had bared to you.
“Yes.” Your reply is small and simple - it's all you can manage, but it cuts him to ribbons instantly. His expression softens almost violently. Shining eyes flit between yours for a second as though afraid that you’ll snatch the words back and change your mind.
“Thank you” He breathes the words against your lips before claiming them, lowering himself to cage himself to you. This kiss is slower, softer than the many you shared earlier. Bruno’s thumb caresses over the quiver of your jaw as he tilts your head to deepen it.
You stay like this for a few moments longer before Bruno, seemingly content with stealing any and all oxygen your body has left, takes a firm grasp on you and rolls onto his back. You’re dragged atop of him with the motion, an airy puff of surprise escaping as you find yourself staring down at him - mind and expression kiss-dazed. You’re certain his cum trickles out to drip onto his thighs as you straddle his middle, but Bruno doesn’t seem to care.
Perhaps it's a trick of the poor lighting, but his eyes seem glassy. There’s fresh, raw emotion shining through the tiredness that hoods them. His hands are back at your hips, their hold much more delicate now as they draw nonsensical patterns across your flesh. Your Capo simply watches you for several, long seconds.
You wish you could crawl inside of his head, read his mind for answers that would put you out of your misery. Even with his expressed gratitude, you still feel as though you’ve shared too much.
It’s agonising. The pitiful splutter the naked lightbulb above you offers might as well be a spotlight with how you’re feeling right now.
“You were the last thing I thought of before…” Bruno trails off, eyes drifting away for a beat as his mind no doubt follows the unpleasant memory. You don’t push him to answer, though your heart drops and winds around itself in your chest with a feeling you can’t quite place.
“What I’m trying to say is, I love you too.”
A deep sigh falls across Bruno, the tension spearing the mafioso’s limbs rotting away like driftwood. You feel yourself crumble right alongside him.There’s the tang of salt across your lips when you kiss him this time. The taste of it mixes with relief and joy and a fucked-out exhaustion that has your limbs slacken heavy as steel when you throw yourself down to kiss Bruno again and again.
But above everything else, you’re grateful.
Grateful that come tomorrow, when you’re both coherent enough to talk things through fully and continue forward with your mission, he’ll be there to stand by your side.