AAAA your writing is so good! I love anytime you do stands lmaoo no one ever writes like they exist tooo 😔😔
Can youu do bucci gang not realising theyve released their stand, finding reader s/o cuddled up with them/reading to them/letting then rest on their lap
purple haze deserves attention this poor guy 😔
✦ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏
𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐢 𝐆𝐚𝐧𝐠 (+ 𝐆𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐨 & 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡)
𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭, 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬
𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞
Thanks for the request ♡ Hope you enjoy.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐎 𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈
✦ | Sticky Fingers is protective by instinct. If Bruno is tired, it acts before he does. If you’re nearby, it assumes you belong there.
It happens on a quiet night.
Bruno is seated on the couch, posture straight even in exhaustion. He insists he isn’t tired. He insists he’s fine.
You’re sitting beside him, reading softly — your voice low, steady, filling the apartment with something warmer than the city outside ever allows.
At some point, his eyes close.
It manifests silently behind him.
Neither of you react at first — you’re used to it appearing when he’s tense. But this time, it doesn’t stand guard.
It steps around the couch.
You only realize what’s happening when the cushion dips beside you.
Then, gently — carefully — it lowers Bruno’s head into your lap.
Sticky Fingers adjusts him with surprising delicacy, one hand brushing stray hair from his face. The other rests lightly over your knee — not threatening. Just there.
His breathing is deeper than usual. Softer.
Your fingers drift into his hair.
Sticky Fingers doesn’t disappear.
It settles at your side like it, too, is allowed to rest.
Bruno will wake later and insist he never fell asleep.
But he won’t question why your bookmark is several chapters ahead.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐎 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀
✦ | Sex Pistols have no concept of “personal space.” If Mista relaxes, they relax harder.
Mista swears he’s not tired.
He’s sprawled across the couch, one arm behind his head, rambling about something ridiculous. You’re half-listening, curled beside him with a book resting on his chest.
At some point, his voice trails off.
What you don’t notice at first is the faint pop of manifestation.
One by one, the Sex Pistols appear.
Number Three climbs onto your shoulder without permission.
Number Five settles in your lap.
Number Seven wedges itself between your side and Mista’s arm like it’s found the perfect hiding spot.
Number One tugs lightly at the edge of your sleeve, pointing to Mista’s neck where it’s bent at an awkward angle.
The Pistols visibly relax.
One of them pats your finger.
Another curls up against your thigh.
You keep reading aloud — softer now.
When Mista wakes up, he’ll blink at the sight of all six of them scattered across you like stray cats.
Number Five sticks its tongue out at him.
You just smile and continue your chapter.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐀 𝐆𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐆𝐀
✦ | Aerosmith mirrors Narancia’s emotions too closely. If he feels safe, it forgets it’s supposed to patrol.
Narancia doesn’t sit still often.
He’s stretched out on the floor, head in your lap, complaining half-heartedly while you comb your fingers through his hair.
“…And then he said I can’t do math,” he grumbles.
At some point, his words slow.
Aerosmith materializes above you automatically — tiny propellers whirring softly.
It lands on your shoulder.
Its propellers slow until they’re barely turning.
Your hand moves from Narancia’s hair to lightly steady the small plane.
You go back to combing through his hair with your other hand, murmuring nonsense about how he did fine, how he’s smarter than he thinks.
Aerosmith makes a small, satisfied sound.
Narancia shifts closer unconsciously.
You let both of them rest.
✦ | Moody Blues doesn’t often choose gentleness. But when Abbacchio is exhausted, it replays quieter things.
Abbacchio fell asleep sitting up.
You’re seated beside him on the couch, quietly, your thigh pressed against his.
At some point, his head tips sideways.
Then slowly, carefully — it lowers onto your shoulder.
Moody Blues manifests across the room.
You expect it to replay something mission-related.
The room fills with a soft projection.
Reaching for Abbacchio’s hand without thinking.
The sound is faint. Slightly distorted.
Moody Blues stands still, watching the replay.
“…You kept that?” you murmur.
The projection loops quietly.
Abbacchio shifts against you, brow furrowing like he senses it.
You brush your fingers gently through his hair.
“It’s okay,” you whisper.
Moody Blues doesn’t dismiss itself.
It dims the replay instead.
Like it understands this moment doesn’t need to be loud.
✦ | Purple Haze is volatile — but when Fugo feels calm, it becomes something almost careful.
Fugo is seated at the table, tense even at rest.
You’re reading aloud from across from him, knowing he listens even when he pretends not to.
At some point, his eyes close.
He doesn’t realize he’s drifted.
But Purple Haze manifests instantly.
You don’t move suddenly. You don’t react with fear.
Instead, you close your book softly and stand.
Purple Haze doesn’t lunge.
You kneel beside Fugo’s chair and gently guide his head down into your lap.
Your fingers brush its shoulder.
But it doesn’t pull away.
“You can rest too,” you whisper.
Fugo exhales in his sleep.
And for once, Purple Haze does not bare its teeth.
Just existing in the warmth you’ve created.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐎 𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀
✦ | Gold Experience reacts to comfort faster than Giorno allows himself to. If he feels safe enough to rest, it forgets it was ever on guard.
Giorno doesn’t fall asleep easily.
Even in silence, even beside you, there is always something calculating behind his eyes.
Tonight, though, you’re seated against the headboard, book open in your lap. The room is dim, bathed in amber light. Giorno sits beside you at first — composed, attentive, pretending he isn’t leaning closer with every page you turn.
Your voice is soft. Steady.
At some point, his shoulder brushes yours.
You simply shift slightly so he can settle more comfortably.
Gold Experience manifests at the foot of the bed.
You notice it immediately — the faint shimmer of gold, the attentive tilt of its head.
“It’s okay,” you murmur without looking away from the page.
Carefully — almost reverently — Gold Experience guides Giorno down until his head rests in your lap.
Your voice falters for half a second.
Giorno exhales softly, already half-asleep, unaware of the adjustment.
His expression is younger like this. Unburdened.
Gold Experience kneels beside you.
Its fingers brush lightly against your wrist, as if confirming you won’t move him away.
You smile and resume reading.
Outside the window, a small flower blooms from the crack in the stone balcony.
Another curls near your knee.
Gold Experience settles with one hand resting lightly over Giorno’s shoulder — the other against your thigh.
When Giorno wakes later, he’ll notice the petals scattered across the sheets
He won’t ask who placed him there.
But his hand will remain over yours long after.
✦ | Spice Girl acts on instinct. If Trish relaxes for even a second, it softens the world around her — and you.
Trish is pretending she isn’t tired.
She’s seated on the couch, legs crossed, flipping through a fashion magazine while you sit on the floor between her knees, reading something far less glamorous.
“You should let me do your makeup tomorrow,” she says absentmindedly.
Her fingers drift into your hair without her realizing.
You glance back slightly.
Her chin has tipped forward.
Spice Girl manifests instantly behind her.
It scans the room — sharp, alert until its gaze lands on you.
Then it does something unexpected.
The couch cushions beneath Trish soften further.
The edge of the coffee table dulls.
Even the floor beneath your legs shifts, becoming more forgiving.
Carefully, it presses two fingers against your shoulder.
Your balance shifts gently — not pushed, just guided — until you’re leaning back against Trish’s legs instead of sitting upright.
She stirs but doesn’t wake.
Spice Girl adjusts her posture so her head tilts more comfortably against the backrest.
Then it settles beside the couch, one arm draped over the armrest near you.
You reach up slowly and rest your hand against its forearm.
Spice Girl’s grip on the couch softens again — extra cushioning under Trish’s head.
Trish’s fingers tighten faintly in your hair in her sleep.
And for once, neither of them are bracing for impact.
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