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it’s been ages but i am coming back with a complete makeover for this blog! to make a long story short, i had a lot going on in my personal life and was very busy and lacked motivation but i am back babies!!
Summary: You and Prosciutto, both determined to keep things casual, are sent out on a mission to eliminate a target, but something goes wrong and you end up hurt, forcing Prosciutto to come to terms with his feelings
A/N: I started this weeks ago, but have been so busy that I haven’t had time to properly finish it until now! I’m a very slow writer, and I struggle with creating longer fics that exceed 1k words, so this was a huge labor of love! I hope that y’all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Warnings: heavily implied nsft, violence, guns, minor character death, blood, Prosciutto being a bit of an asshole, fainting
You both told each other when you made this arrangement that it was strictly physical and that you were only doing this out of convenience and carnal desire. Sure, he’s very attractive, and you’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about lingering in bed and pretending that you’re still asleep if only to savor his body heat and the weight of his arm across your torso for a few more minutes. But you couldn’t possibly cross that line.
The lives that both you led didn’t allow for the luxury of developing and maintaining romantic — or any, really — relationships that were outside of your work. You’d lost friends and family members to the steady passage of time and lack of communication. It came with the territory of the job, and though you’d tried to justify your drifting relationships by assuring yourself that it was done to protect those you used to hold close, you knew that was just an excuse you told yourself so that you could sleep at night.
The initial adjustment to your new job was tough in that aspect, but Prosciutto, aside from being your mentor, slowly became a comfort and a confidant for your bouts of anxiety and late night regrets of leaving your old life behind. You’d joined him outside at night on the balcony of the hideout plenty of times. He would self-soothe with cigarettes, exhaling out his demons in the shape of a puff of smoke whilst he listened to you reminisce on your happier, less bloody days.
“It’s a damn shame you’re so good at you job,” he’d told you one particular night, when the orange and white city lights below cast a bright glow over his sharp features; yet simultaneously, it accentuated the dark circles under his eyes, and the shadows beneath those jagged angles of his cheekbones and jawline made him look far older than he was. Prosciutto looked beautiful as he did horrible.
You just shook your head and smirked, inquiring, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Kid, there were many different paths that you could’ve picked from,” He stops briefly to take a drag of his cigarette. “But this is what you opted for.” The blond flicked his cigarette and snuffed it with the toe of his oxfords, answering with, “All I’m saying is that you had your whole life ahead of you, and instead of getting a normal, decent job, you decided that this was worth the Louboutins and those diamond earrings of yours.”
“It’s good that it ended up working out for you.”
His compliments were usually pretty backhanded, but you could tell that this wasn’t just because of his usual condescending behavior. He seemed almost... sad and guilty, but then again, it could just be from the shadows on his face exaggerating his features.
“I’m glad you’re damn good at your job, too,” you remarked, leaning against the railing, savoring in the feeling of the warm, summer night wind caressing your face.
Soon, you found the touch against your cheeks was replaced by his calloused fingers and then his lips, giving birth to a routine that would continue every-so-often: you’d join him outside at night and would wake up in bed next to him in a tangle of limbs and satin sheets.
Maybe it was only natural that you and him would end up growing closer and more intimate.
—
This little arrangement between the two of you continues, and with each time you bare yourself to him, you struggle with your developing feelings. After you had slept together that first night — before you had a real chance to give yourself a proper chance to evaluate your own feelings — he assured you that the prior night’s events had meant nothing to him, that it was a mistake. He apologized, confessing that the rendezvous had stemmed from a place of pent up arousal and convenience and that it wouldn’t happen again.
That’s what he’d said the second, and third, time too. But by the fourth time, you’d both decided to become ‘coworkers with benefits’ as you’d so eloquently put it. It’s purely out of physical need and mutual trust and nothing else. There’s no time for romance.
—
The following spring, you were sent out together to a job on the coast, and were given a shared room at a hotel near the warehouse where your target was supposedly going to be tonight. The assignment had worked in your favor, you’d both arrive mid-morning, have time to scout out the location, go back to the room for a quick fuck, then proceed to the location, clean up, and spend the night between the sheets until you both passed out from sheer exhaustion.
“The target should be on location this evening,” he informs you casually as he’s sliding on his trousers, as if he hadn’t just fucked you into the mattress. He gives his watch a quick glance before speaking again. “Which gives us approximately an hour before we need to head out.”
You nod, reaching for your clothes — his hand stops you, grasping your wrist. “Let me clean you up first,” he says, briefly locking eyes with you, before averting his gaze just as quickly. “If you’re going out you should at least be comfortable.”
While Prosciutto walks off to the bathroom to retrieve a glass of water and a washcloth, you look down at your naked body. Your combined releases dribble down your thighs, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of the sticky, wet sensation on your lower body.
He’s back approximately a minute later, the glass is set upon the nightstand, and he’s kneeling, still shirtless, at your feet with the wet washcloth in hand. He cleans you up in relative silence, and the intimacy and vulnerability in this situation is not lost on either of you. It hangs around like a heavy fog that both of you desperately try to ignore, hoping that it’ll dissipate.
Under different circumstances, you’d love to be able to cradle his chin in your hand and confess every single romantic thought that you’d ever held for him, and in turn, he’d press tender kisses up your thighs, and trade the rag for his tongue, cleaning you up with a few slow licks. Instead, you give him a curt, ‘thank you’ and get dressed.
Your little trysts were littered with subtle, more domestic moments like this one where you wanted to push the boundary between what is and isn’t appropriate when you’re in a friends-with-benefits situation with your coworker. Even without the romance that you so desperately craved, there was still a strong sense of intimacy and familiarity with each ‘Was I too rough?’ or ‘You can sleep in here tonight’ that could only stem from a certain level of trust and comfort.
The rest of the time leading up to your assignment was spent going over your plan of attack and working out any loose ends or confusion on either side, and as he spoke, you couldn’t help but allow your eyes to travel down to his plush lips and the exposed patch of skin from his half-buttoned blouse that, when he shifted at a certain angle, allowed for you to catch a glimpse of a dark red bruise where your lips had been.
You were passing the threshold, the imaginary line. You’d stepped on it, gotten it stuck to your feet, and try as you may to deny its presence and scrub it clean from your skin — you could scrub it raw, until you bled — it wasn’t something you could erase.
As he’s stepping out of the hotel room, you glance back to ask him if he’s ready, but you’re caught off guard by the buttons of his shirt. They’re all closed completely save for a lone button rendering the bruise no longer visible. Inquisitively, the blond quirks up an eyebrow, silently asking if there’s a problem.
“I’m just ready to get this over with,” you sigh, matching your stride with his as you both exit the hotel and journey to the warehouse.
The target doesn’t show as planned, much to your and Prosciutto's dismay and annoyance. You had both searched the large building and its surroundings as thoroughly as possible but still the target hasn’t made an appearance. There aren’t even any hidden clues as to where he’s run off to. As pissed as you both felt in that moment — you were cursing to yourself and your partner was leaning against a metal structure with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth — Risotto was going to be absolutely furious.
Unlike most contracts where you were paid after the deed or half before and half after, the client had paid a hefty sum up front and with a dark leer he was insistent that the job be completed as soon as possible. Something deep within you knew that he would not be the type of man whose bad side you’d like to be on.
Defeated and angry, you both decided to bite the bullet and head back to the hotel to inform your superior of the unfortunate situation. Just outside of the hotel, Prosciutto glances over at a payphone on the street corner.
“Go on inside and shower and eat, kid, I’ll talk to Risotto.”
“Are you sure? We can speak to him together, or I can just sp—“ He cut you off with a hand patting your cheek, gently thumbing your skin. He was stressed and so were you.
“Don’t make me change my mind,” he manages a tiny half-smile. “I’ve got it.”
Yeah, you are stressed as all hell, but at least you didn’t have to be at the receiving end of Risotto’s wrath — for tonight anyway. Thinking about Prosciutto opting to do so in your stead and acting out of concern for you sends a cacophony of butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. He has always looked out for you ever since you’d joined, but this was something more than just him looking out for a junior member of his team. There was no way that he’d touch Formaggio or even Pesci like that, with such a pure tenderness that leaves your skin tingling from where his fingers were.
Making your way up the stairs to your shared room, the sensation of butterflies immediately flees from your stomach and instead, an eerie, insidious feeling begins to tiptoe up your spine, and you get the sense that something is very, very wrong.
One of the hall lights has gone out, and the other is flickering in random spasms as it emits a faint buzz. With each step towards your door, the broken light fixture seems to dim and buzz louder until it makes one final loud screech and dies completely the moment that you touch the door handle, and as soon as your fingers gripped the metal handle, an overpowering jolt of electricity fizzles throughout your entire body, sending you doubling over in pain, desperately croaking out for your stand as you fall to the dingy carpet.
The world around you seemed to morph into blackness and little snippets of sounds — you weren’t sure if you were still awake or if you’d lost consciousness — but you clung onto what you could decipher to the best of your ability. Static, the plodding footfall of someone running on carpet with urgency, the unmistakable click of a gun, a heavy thud, then silence.
You crane your head and espy a familiar pair of oxfords, and with a sigh of relief you feel your eyes grow heavy.
—
You come-to in the backseat of a car, and if it weren’t for the intensity of the events before you passed out, you would’ve happily shut your eyes to the steady thrum of the car speeding down the road. A bubble of panic rises up your throat, throwing your senses in overdrive as you carefully assess your surroundings. You find that a suit jacket has been draped over you like a makeshift blanket, and the familiar scent of cologne, tobacco, and cigarette-smoke is an instant relief.
Looking up, you find Prosciutto is in the driver’s seat of the car with a plain, white tank top in the place of his button-up. The bones of his knuckles are prominent due to the strain and force of his grip on the steering wheel, and they’re dotted with specks of red that extend up to his forearms.
There’s an evident scowl on his lips, which are scabbed and bloody from worrying teeth marks and not from — what you can safely assume given the sound you’d heard earlier — a gunshot to the man that had been in your hotel room.
“The target was dealt with,” he says upon seeing you awake, and he disguises it with a cough, but his entire face softens with a relieved sigh. The visible tension in his bulging veins on his forearms eases along with the death-grip that he has on the steering wheel; Prosciutto settles one hand on his thigh, splaying his fingers out on the fabric of his trousers, feeling for something in his pocket — cigarettes most likely. He’s still antsy and tense, alternating between his hands on the wheel to search his other pocket.
You have a myriad of questions wreaking havoc on your brain, which is still a bit fuzzy from the electricity and has brought on a dull headache. With the blazer clenched tightly to your chest, you fiddle around until you find a pack of his smokes and pull them out, holding them in the air with a dopey, lopsided grin that says ‘lookee here!’. It earns a playful eye roll and a smirk from Prosciutto who brings his hand back to take them from you.
When you offer the box up, your fingers brush, and you swear that he leaves his hand extended towards you a moment longer than necessary. The sensation sends a full-body chill through your veins.
“Put the coat on, kid, I don’t want you freezing up and getting sick in the car.” He’s staring straight out at the road, but you know the sentiment is there, beneath the layer of sweat and blood there’s worry. “Go back to sleep,” he orders in that gravelly, stern but caring tone of his that he uses on you when he gives you orders, and only you. In a way, it’s not that much different from how he talks in bed, and the familiarity has you warm all over. God, you’re in love with this man.
“I’ll wake you up in about an or two, capisce?”
—
You’re awoken by Prosciutto opening the door of the backseat and calling your name. You can barely see him, he’s almost a dark, looming figure in the night. The sky in the countryside is worlds away from the city skyline that you’re accustomed to. Behind him, there’s a sea of twinkling stars, and the bright crescent moon hangs proudly behind his head like a half-halo, and he appears to you like a fallen angel, still clinging on desperately to something good and holy that someone like him does not deserve. In his right hand, he holds a shovel, and his arms and face and tank top are caked in the weight of his sins, blood and dirt and sweat; you surmise that the closer you get to him, the less the moon resembles a halo and moreso a pair of horns. Again, the night is playing tricks on you.
“I’ve buried the remains,” he explains. “I decided it would be easiest to just take care of it myself until we can get you checked out. We don’t know the full extent of the damage that you’ve received or what effects that my stand could have on you in this state.” It’s a poor excuse, and you both know it, but it’s easier for him to lie to you when his facial expressions are harder to see.
Still, you don’t know if it’s from the adrenaline in your blood, your feelings for him, or some leftover electricity that’s done something to your brain, but you decide to call him out.
Sitting upright, you say, “I still could’ve helped, Prosci, otherwise there would be no point for me to come on this mission with you. You’ve done more than enough to help me, and I… I really appreciate everything that you’ve done to help me, but I have to work to earn my share of the payment!
“I can’t just lie back and let you treat me like some doll or damsel in distress!” You spout, wadding up his blazer and tossing it at him. He catches it with a growl, and the shovel clatters to the ground with a resounding clang.
He’s crawling across the backseat, hovering over you like a mangy beast; truthfully, you don’t think that you’ve ever seen him look so unhinged and disheveled. His scent bears no resemblance to the comforting aroma of his suit-jacket, and instead, he emits a pungent odor of grime and sweat, evident by the damp, dirty stray pieces of hair that encircle his face and the thin layer of earth that stains his skin with splotches of gray and brown. He looks like he can hurt you, and for a second you make the mistake of thinking that he will.
“Kid, you need to listen to me! I—“ he huffs, but upon seeing your face up close, all scared and doe-like, he kisses you. It’s emotional and hurried and needy and far unlike any previous kiss that you’d shared. It’s not spurred on by wanting or lust but by love and a great fear of loss.
“I love you,” he whispers like a gasp when he pulls apart from you. “I love you,” he says once more, softer, sweeter. “I love you.”
In his eyes, you can see every word that he leaves unsaid, his confession of how afraid he was that he’d never see you again, how he panicked and saw red and shot the man on sight, how he carried you to the car with a metaphorical knife stabbing at his heart, and how he almost cried from relief when he saw you open your eyes.
“I love you, too,” you say back, smiling, kissing him again with that same passion as before.
heyyyy 🎨 i love how supportive you and Doppio are, [💖] u both so much (in very different ways lol)
what would Doppio tell me if he found out i got a bad grade on a [language] paper i was proud of? i put a lot of effort into my [language] finals, but since it's the 4th one i learnt i'm not as good as i am with the other three even though it's the main language of the country i live in.
the finals essay, which i got a D on, was supposed to be on the topic of kindness, and i felt really proud of it until the grades were out :(
🎨
baby, i love you too!!! sm!!! but it still pales in comparison to what doppio thinks about you 💖
first of all — doppio is so, so proud of you regardless of what your grades are, and for you to already have three different languages under your belt? that’s nothing short of remarkable! he wants you to know that his love is not something that can be altered nor diminished by your academic status because that would just be silly to base your affections on that; really, no one is perfect, even if to him you come pretty close!
he does want you to know, as well, that your bad grades or ‘failures’ don’t define you, but instead they are something that you can grow and learn from. he’s had dozens of instances where he’s made a mistake or not executed (pun intended :D) a plan as well as he would have liked, but he doesn’t let that stop him — the boss is counting on him to do his best!
also! in my personal experience, when it comes to writing essays, your teacher/professor is always going to have an opinion that differs from yours and from other educators. what their idea of a ‘good’ essay is may very well be another’s idea of a ‘bad’ essay. they may say they’re being objective, but 80% of the time they aren’t :/ unless the subject is based on grammar and not content or something similar to that. and kindness is very subjective imo!!! don’t let it get you down, honeybear, one bad grade won’t break you! you’ve got this!!!
thinking about a concept where abbachio, jotaro, or rohan’s s/o is constantly showering him in praise and compliments with a cheeky grin on their face, and the moment that he decides to do so to them, their eyes go wide and they cover their face up with their hands and get super flustered and embarrassed!!
I have a huuuge bio test tomorrow n i think speciation can actually suck a dick tbh 🥴 also,,, Doppio!!! Aaaaaah!!! 💓💓💓💓 🎨
sorry my baby for answering this late, but Doppio is proud of you!!! he’s the type of boyfriend who, even if he doesn’t understand the subject matter, will still try to help you study! i hope that you did well on your test, honeydew!!!
we’re on facetime rn, and he cannot stop gushing about you ☺️ my only qualm with him is that he takes forever to answer his phone 🙃 the man will check at least five random objects before his actual, physical phone! it’s kinda annoying having to explain to him that, no, his toothbrush and his socks do not have the capability to facetime 🙄 i s2g
Summary: You and Prosciutto, both determined to keep things casual, are sent out on a mission to eliminate a target, but something goes wrong and you end up hurt, forcing Prosciutto to come to terms with his feelings
A/N: I started this weeks ago, but have been so busy that I haven’t had time to properly finish it until now! I’m a very slow writer, and I struggle with creating longer fics that exceed 1k words, so this was a huge labor of love! I hope that y’all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Warnings: heavily implied nsft, violence, guns, minor character death, blood, Prosciutto being a bit of an asshole, fainting
You both told each other when you made this arrangement that it was strictly physical and that you were only doing this out of convenience and carnal desire. Sure, he’s very attractive, and you’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about lingering in bed and pretending that you’re still asleep if only to savor his body heat and the weight of his arm across your torso for a few more minutes. But you couldn’t possibly cross that line.
The lives that both you led didn’t allow for the luxury of developing and maintaining romantic — or any, really — relationships that were outside of your work. You’d lost friends and family members to the steady passage of time and lack of communication. It came with the territory of the job, and though you’d tried to justify your drifting relationships by assuring yourself that it was done to protect those you used to hold close, you knew that was just an excuse you told yourself so that you could sleep at night.
The initial adjustment to your new job was tough in that aspect, but Prosciutto, aside from being your mentor, slowly became a comfort and a confidant for your bouts of anxiety and late night regrets of leaving your old life behind. You’d joined him outside at night on the balcony of the hideout plenty of times. He would self-soothe with cigarettes, exhaling out his demons in the shape of a puff of smoke whilst he listened to you reminisce on your happier, less bloody days.
“It’s a damn shame you’re so good at you job,” he’d told you one particular night, when the orange and white city lights below cast a bright glow over his sharp features; yet simultaneously, it accentuated the dark circles under his eyes, and the shadows beneath those jagged angles of his cheekbones and jawline made him look far older than he was. Prosciutto looked beautiful as he did horrible.
You just shook your head and smirked, inquiring, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Kid, there were many different paths that you could’ve picked from,” He stops briefly to take a drag of his cigarette. “But this is what you opted for.” The blond flicked his cigarette and snuffed it with the toe of his oxfords, answering with, “All I’m saying is that you had your whole life ahead of you, and instead of getting a normal, decent job, you decided that this was worth the Louboutins and those diamond earrings of yours.”
“It’s good that it ended up working out for you.”
His compliments were usually pretty backhanded, but you could tell that this wasn’t just because of his usual condescending behavior. He seemed almost... sad and guilty, but then again, it could just be from the shadows on his face exaggerating his features.
“I’m glad you’re damn good at your job, too,” you remarked, leaning against the railing, savoring in the feeling of the warm, summer night wind caressing your face.
Soon, you found the touch against your cheeks was replaced by his calloused fingers and then his lips, giving birth to a routine that would continue every-so-often: you’d join him outside at night and would wake up in bed next to him in a tangle of limbs and satin sheets.
Maybe it was only natural that you and him would end up growing closer and more intimate.
—
This little arrangement between the two of you continues, and with each time you bare yourself to him, you struggle with your developing feelings. After you had slept together that first night — before you had a real chance to give yourself a proper chance to evaluate your own feelings — he assured you that the prior night’s events had meant nothing to him, that it was a mistake. He apologized, confessing that the rendezvous had stemmed from a place of pent up arousal and convenience and that it wouldn’t happen again.
That’s what he’d said the second, and third, time too. But by the fourth time, you’d both decided to become ‘coworkers with benefits’ as you’d so eloquently put it. It’s purely out of physical need and mutual trust and nothing else. There’s no time for romance.
—
The following spring, you were sent out together to a job on the coast, and were given a shared room at a hotel near the warehouse where your target was supposedly going to be tonight. The assignment had worked in your favor, you’d both arrive mid-morning, have time to scout out the location, go back to the room for a quick fuck, then proceed to the location, clean up, and spend the night between the sheets until you both passed out from sheer exhaustion.
“The target should be on location this evening,” he informs you casually as he’s sliding on his trousers, as if he hadn’t just fucked you into the mattress. He gives his watch a quick glance before speaking again. “Which gives us approximately an hour before we need to head out.”
You nod, reaching for your clothes — his hand stops you, grasping your wrist. “Let me clean you up first,” he says, briefly locking eyes with you, before averting his gaze just as quickly. “If you’re going out you should at least be comfortable.”
While Prosciutto walks off to the bathroom to retrieve a glass of water and a washcloth, you look down at your naked body. Your combined releases dribble down your thighs, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of the sticky, wet sensation on your lower body.
He’s back approximately a minute later, the glass is set upon the nightstand, and he’s kneeling, still shirtless, at your feet with the wet washcloth in hand. He cleans you up in relative silence, and the intimacy and vulnerability in this situation is not lost on either of you. It hangs around like a heavy fog that both of you desperately try to ignore, hoping that it’ll dissipate.
Under different circumstances, you’d love to be able to cradle his chin in your hand and confess every single romantic thought that you’d ever held for him, and in turn, he’d press tender kisses up your thighs, and trade the rag for his tongue, cleaning you up with a few slow licks. Instead, you give him a curt, ‘thank you’ and get dressed.
Your little trysts were littered with subtle, more domestic moments like this one where you wanted to push the boundary between what is and isn’t appropriate when you’re in a friends-with-benefits situation with your coworker. Even without the romance that you so desperately craved, there was still a strong sense of intimacy and familiarity with each ‘Was I too rough?’ or ‘You can sleep in here tonight’ that could only stem from a certain level of trust and comfort.
The rest of the time leading up to your assignment was spent going over your plan of attack and working out any loose ends or confusion on either side, and as he spoke, you couldn’t help but allow your eyes to travel down to his plush lips and the exposed patch of skin from his half-buttoned blouse that, when he shifted at a certain angle, allowed for you to catch a glimpse of a dark red bruise where your lips had been.
You were passing the threshold, the imaginary line. You’d stepped on it, gotten it stuck to your feet, and try as you may to deny its presence and scrub it clean from your skin — you could scrub it raw, until you bled — it wasn’t something you could erase.
As he’s stepping out of the hotel room, you glance back to ask him if he’s ready, but you’re caught off guard by the buttons of his shirt. They’re all closed completely save for a lone button rendering the bruise no longer visible. Inquisitively, the blond quirks up an eyebrow, silently asking if there’s a problem.
“I’m just ready to get this over with,” you sigh, matching your stride with his as you both exit the hotel and journey to the warehouse.
The target doesn’t show as planned, much to your and Prosciutto's dismay and annoyance. You had both searched the large building and its surroundings as thoroughly as possible but still the target hasn’t made an appearance. There aren’t even any hidden clues as to where he’s run off to. As pissed as you both felt in that moment — you were cursing to yourself and your partner was leaning against a metal structure with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth — Risotto was going to be absolutely furious.
Unlike most contracts where you were paid after the deed or half before and half after, the client had paid a hefty sum up front and with a dark leer he was insistent that the job be completed as soon as possible. Something deep within you knew that he would not be the type of man whose bad side you’d like to be on.
Defeated and angry, you both decided to bite the bullet and head back to the hotel to inform your superior of the unfortunate situation. Just outside of the hotel, Prosciutto glances over at a payphone on the street corner.
“Go on inside and shower and eat, kid, I’ll talk to Risotto.”
“Are you sure? We can speak to him together, or I can just sp—“ He cut you off with a hand patting your cheek, gently thumbing your skin. He was stressed and so were you.
“Don’t make me change my mind,” he manages a tiny half-smile. “I’ve got it.”
Yeah, you are stressed as all hell, but at least you didn’t have to be at the receiving end of Risotto’s wrath — for tonight anyway. Thinking about Prosciutto opting to do so in your stead and acting out of concern for you sends a cacophony of butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. He has always looked out for you ever since you’d joined, but this was something more than just him looking out for a junior member of his team. There was no way that he’d touch Formaggio or even Pesci like that, with such a pure tenderness that leaves your skin tingling from where his fingers were.
Making your way up the stairs to your shared room, the sensation of butterflies immediately flees from your stomach and instead, an eerie, insidious feeling begins to tiptoe up your spine, and you get the sense that something is very, very wrong.
One of the hall lights has gone out, and the other is flickering in random spasms as it emits a faint buzz. With each step towards your door, the broken light fixture seems to dim and buzz louder until it makes one final loud screech and dies completely the moment that you touch the door handle, and as soon as your fingers gripped the metal handle, an overpowering jolt of electricity fizzles throughout your entire body, sending you doubling over in pain, desperately croaking out for your stand as you fall to the dingy carpet.
The world around you seemed to morph into blackness and little snippets of sounds — you weren’t sure if you were still awake or if you’d lost consciousness — but you clung onto what you could decipher to the best of your ability. Static, the plodding footfall of someone running on carpet with urgency, the unmistakable click of a gun, a heavy thud, then silence.
You crane your head and espy a familiar pair of oxfords, and with a sigh of relief you feel your eyes grow heavy.
—
You come-to in the backseat of a car, and if it weren’t for the intensity of the events before you passed out, you would’ve happily shut your eyes to the steady thrum of the car speeding down the road. A bubble of panic rises up your throat, throwing your senses in overdrive as you carefully assess your surroundings. You find that a suit jacket has been draped over you like a makeshift blanket, and the familiar scent of cologne, tobacco, and cigarette-smoke is an instant relief.
Looking up, you find Prosciutto is in the driver’s seat of the car with a plain, white tank top in the place of his button-up. The bones of his knuckles are prominent due to the strain and force of his grip on the steering wheel, and they’re dotted with specks of red that extend up to his forearms.
There’s an evident scowl on his lips, which are scabbed and bloody from worrying teeth marks and not from — what you can safely assume given the sound you’d heard earlier — a gunshot to the man that had been in your hotel room.
“The target was dealt with,” he says upon seeing you awake, and he disguises it with a cough, but his entire face softens with a relieved sigh. The visible tension in his bulging veins on his forearms eases along with the death-grip that he has on the steering wheel; Prosciutto settles one hand on his thigh, splaying his fingers out on the fabric of his trousers, feeling for something in his pocket — cigarettes most likely. He’s still antsy and tense, alternating between his hands on the wheel to search his other pocket.
You have a myriad of questions wreaking havoc on your brain, which is still a bit fuzzy from the electricity and has brought on a dull headache. With the blazer clenched tightly to your chest, you fiddle around until you find a pack of his smokes and pull them out, holding them in the air with a dopey, lopsided grin that says ‘lookee here!’. It earns a playful eye roll and a smirk from Prosciutto who brings his hand back to take them from you.
When you offer the box up, your fingers brush, and you swear that he leaves his hand extended towards you a moment longer than necessary. The sensation sends a full-body chill through your veins.
“Put the coat on, kid, I don’t want you freezing up and getting sick in the car.” He’s staring straight out at the road, but you know the sentiment is there, beneath the layer of sweat and blood there’s worry. “Go back to sleep,” he orders in that gravelly, stern but caring tone of his that he uses on you when he gives you orders, and only you. In a way, it’s not that much different from how he talks in bed, and the familiarity has you warm all over. God, you’re in love with this man.
“I’ll wake you up in about an or two, capisce?”
—
You’re awoken by Prosciutto opening the door of the backseat and calling your name. You can barely see him, he’s almost a dark, looming figure in the night. The sky in the countryside is worlds away from the city skyline that you’re accustomed to. Behind him, there’s a sea of twinkling stars, and the bright crescent moon hangs proudly behind his head like a half-halo, and he appears to you like a fallen angel, still clinging on desperately to something good and holy that someone like him does not deserve. In his right hand, he holds a shovel, and his arms and face and tank top are caked in the weight of his sins, blood and dirt and sweat; you surmise that the closer you get to him, the less the moon resembles a halo and moreso a pair of horns. Again, the night is playing tricks on you.
“I’ve buried the remains,” he explains. “I decided it would be easiest to just take care of it myself until we can get you checked out. We don’t know the full extent of the damage that you’ve received or what effects that my stand could have on you in this state.” It’s a poor excuse, and you both know it, but it’s easier for him to lie to you when his facial expressions are harder to see.
Still, you don’t know if it’s from the adrenaline in your blood, your feelings for him, or some leftover electricity that’s done something to your brain, but you decide to call him out.
Sitting upright, you say, “I still could’ve helped, Prosci, otherwise there would be no point for me to come on this mission with you. You’ve done more than enough to help me, and I… I really appreciate everything that you’ve done to help me, but I have to work to earn my share of the payment!
“I can’t just lie back and let you treat me like some doll or damsel in distress!” You spout, wadding up his blazer and tossing it at him. He catches it with a growl, and the shovel clatters to the ground with a resounding clang.
He’s crawling across the backseat, hovering over you like a mangy beast; truthfully, you don’t think that you’ve ever seen him look so unhinged and disheveled. His scent bears no resemblance to the comforting aroma of his suit-jacket, and instead, he emits a pungent odor of grime and sweat, evident by the damp, dirty stray pieces of hair that encircle his face and the thin layer of earth that stains his skin with splotches of gray and brown. He looks like he can hurt you, and for a second you make the mistake of thinking that he will.
“Kid, you need to listen to me! I—“ he huffs, but upon seeing your face up close, all scared and doe-like, he kisses you. It’s emotional and hurried and needy and far unlike any previous kiss that you’d shared. It’s not spurred on by wanting or lust but by love and a great fear of loss.
“I love you,” he whispers like a gasp when he pulls apart from you. “I love you,” he says once more, softer, sweeter. “I love you.”
In his eyes, you can see every word that he leaves unsaid, his confession of how afraid he was that he’d never see you again, how he panicked and saw red and shot the man on sight, how he carried you to the car with a metaphorical knife stabbing at his heart, and how he almost cried from relief when he saw you open your eyes.
“I love you, too,” you say back, smiling, kissing him again with that same passion as before.
My crush on Doppio that obvious huh 🥲 🎨 ily too bby
I don’t blame you tbh :’) He’s a really interesting character and is a nice mix between cute, terrifying, and complex. He’s definitely one of my favorites to write for because there is just so much to play around with.
I’m a little anxious but also happy b/c I have a job interview coming up soon that I really hope that I get! I am also working on a fic about Doppio in the strawberry dress for you 🥺
But enough about lil old me! How about you, bumblebee?
Sorry for the impromptu hiatus! To make a long story short, I was not in a great place and needed a lil break from social media, but I am so excited and nervous to debut a few fics that I started a couple of weeks ago! Headcanon requests are open!!
