I want to add your skin to AO3 but the only way I find that I can do it is by using the 'create new skin' option, and although I can keep it private it feels so wrong to upload your skin under my name ;__; Is that how I'm supposed to do it? Am I doing it wrong? I'm so sorry for the dumb question I just don't want to do it wrong, I am sososo grateful for your skin after all.
This is an incredibly late response but it's perfectly fine to upload the skin under your name. It's the only way you'll be able to use the skin. Thank you for your consideration and sorry for the late response!
Hello! I'm open to taking more headcanon requests but I'd like to set a limit of one character per request for the meantime. My capacity to take requests fluctuates here and there so I hope this compromise is satisfactory for everyone.
Note: Crack at it again—I mean back—with chapter 2.
As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome! I may not be able to reply to them but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate them!
The words ‘café mastar’ rang in your mind.
It sounded silly—like something a child came up with—yet with Giorno’s soothing voice and gentle touch, there was a warm air of elusive nostalgia. What was so familiar about him and his dumbass pun?
You cocked your head to the side. “Have we met before?”
Golden ears flicked forward as he flashed you a smug grin and shrug. “You’ll figure it out, Mistress.”
He smoothly released your hands and withdrew to his companions. Narancia and Fugo had ceased squabbling by the time Giorno settled himself beside the confused pair.
‘You’ll figure it out, Mistress.’
You gaped your mouth like an offended goldfish. Why couldn’t Giorno tell you straight? Now it really bugged you, but as much as you’d like to press that matter, there was a bigger question that needed answering.
“So, back to the catboy thing...” You sceptically pointed to their peculiar feline features. “Those ears and tails can’t be real, right?”
“Of course they’re real,” Narancia scoffed, arms crossed. He demonstrated said realness by wiggling his folded ears and tail. “See?”
“But...” What did you miss in biology class?
“We’re catpeople—or ‘catboys’ as you put it.” Mista shrugged. “If you still don’t believe it, you can feel my tail up for proof.”
You raised a hand but awkwardly hesitated. Was there correct etiquette for feeling up the tail of a guy you just met?
Fuck it.
You graciously accepted his offer and lifted a wary arm to his stripy appendage. The tail moved with a mind of its own. Muffled body heat under the velvety coat faintly emanated against your fingers and palm.
It was the real deal.
“Oh my God. You really are real-life catboys,” you breathed, intently running your fingertips up and down his tail’s length.
Mista mewled when you grazed an inconspicuous spot. His voice climbed an impressive octave. “Nyaaah, Mistress! Not there! It’s sensitive!”
“Sorry! Sorry!” you squeaked and promptly let go.
However embarrassing, you still couldn’t believe it. There were real-life catboys in your kitchen! Did some weeaboo genetically engineer them?
“We normally don’t share this aspect of ourselves with humans,” explained Bucellati, “but because you’re our new owner, it’s only natural you should know.”
You gritted your teeth upon hearing ‘new owner’ again. Could you really afford to house six catboys you just met on such short notice? The fluffy one even mentioned the mafia.
Could you really house six ex-mafia catboys?
You frowned. With business so slow, you barely housed yourself.
“Should I really be your new owner? It’s just”—you sucked in a breath to piece together the internal chaos swarming in your head—“I’m not exactly ‘ owner’ material. I don’t have much money or living space...and I work in retail.” You envisioned the myriad of luxuries a gangster would have. Their eccentric fashion painted a picture of delicious, seven-course meals and huge, plush beds to sleep in after a hard day of curb stomping civilians. “It might be different from what you’re used to...”
A firm clasp on the shoulder snapped you out of your worried stupor. Buccellati’s intense gaze softened as you peeped up at him. “Whatever you can provide is enough for us. I believe Polpo saw something in you. You earned his trust so we’ll honour his decision to leave us with you.” Plump lips curved upwards. The glint in his deep sea eyes had optimism powerful enough to faintly lift your dimmed spirit. “Don’t worry, Mistress. We’ll work for you as compensation for you taking us in. Serving you will be our last duty as the capo’s former soldatos.”
You deflated under Buccellati’s generous affirmations. Perhaps it was fate to become a crazy catboy lady. Buccellati was insistent you were the right woman for the job and to your surprise, it seemed Polpo genuinely was a mafioso like you jokingly mused. He wasn’t some ordinary gangster, either; the title of capo was significant. His judgement to select you held more weight than ever before.
God, you hoped Polpo’s judgement was right.
“If we’re to work here, we should get started,” Fugo suggested.
You gawked at the hole-cladded boy. “Huh? Like right now?” Didn't they only burst out of your oven a moment ago?
“Sure. Why not,” he replied, a hand on his hip. “So where are we exactly? I assume this is the café’s kitchen?”
You nodded. “Yeah, and over there is the front,” you gestured to a wide doorway situated adjacent to a narrow flight of stairs, “and upstairs is where I live. I guess it’s also where you’re going to live, too...”
“You mean we don’t have to travel for work? Sweet!” Narancia cheered with a fist pump mid-air.
You chuckled. Honestly, that was your reaction upon finding this place available for rent, too.
“Alright then. Show me around the café. I’d like to inspect it.”
You quirked a brow at Fugo. “What about the others?”
From your peripheral vision, Mista sneakily wrapped his arms around Narancia and Abbacchio. “Let’s explore upstairs while Fugo and Mistress are busy.”
“Mistress better have a TV up there,” Abbacchio grumbled and let Mista escort him up the stairs.
“And a gaming console,” Narancia chirped as he followed closely behind. He stopped on the second step and leaned out. “Giorno, you coming or what?”
Giorno opened his mouth to respond but Buccellati quickly intervened. “I need to talk to Giorno first.”
Narancia squinted, shrugged, then hastily disappeared up the stairs, much to your dismay.
“Don’t you dare look in my bedroom!” you yelled with a stomp. Fugo grasped the back of your collar before you could give chase.
“Come on, Mistress. There’s a lot we need to cover,” Fugo urged and tugged you towards the wide doorway.
You whimpered as you were led away. Your stomach churned at the dreadful prospect of your new roommates rummaging through your private belongings unsupervised.
It was one long, anxiety-inducing half-hour. You leaned over the counter, drumming an uneven tempo onto its hard surface, while Fugo scrutinised every machine, menu and utensil in the café. Blond locks shielded his expression but that didn’t stop you from attempting to telepathically read his mind.
Why wasn’t he talking? Were those grunts of joy or disappointment? Was his tail flicking side-to-side because he’s impressed? Did he even know what he was doing?
“It’s a good place although a bit plain.”
You snapped back to reality upon hearing Fugo finally share his thoughts. His eyes flickered around the scenery behind him as he stood opposite you from the counter, hand resting on the edge.
“Huh? What do you mean?” you asked.
In your own humble opinion, Milky Maid Paradise was aesthetic as it was inviting. It was the kind of place you dreamed of spending your mornings and afternoons in. It was the idealistic facility of respite you desired to share with your childhood community. Now it was a reality you passionately worked and lived in.
“I’ve been to many cafés before. They’re a lot like this one,” he expanded. He turned to face you, eyeing the frills adorning your outfit. “Besides your maid outfit, what else does this café have to offer?”
“Well, uh…”
Good cake? Quick coffee? Pretty layout? But those were the bare minimum for any decent café…
“Yeah, maybe it is a little generic,” you admitted tentatively. “But isn’t that enough? Good food and service is plenty for most customers.”
“For many, yes, but what’s more important now is drawing in customers.”
“ Oh ,” you replied lamely. “It’s true I haven’t been doing much advertising lately.”
“I’ll work something out,” Fugo assured with a half-hearted glance. “The front of the café appears solid. Shall we move on to the kitchen now?”
You rose off the counter with a stretch. It was about time he finished deciphering sandwich menus and the barely-used logbook. “Yeah, let's go. I want to improve what we can. After all, Polpo’s put a lot of faith in this café.”
“Yeah,” Fugo responded quietly. His brows knitted together as he frowned. “Master Polpo…”
You and Fugo quickly occupied the kitchen once more. Evidence of the explosion that happened early afternoon still remained scattered on the kitchen bench as you walked in. Presumably, Buccellati and Giorno must have finished talking and joined the others upstairs, leaving you alone with the curly-furred catboy. Whatever those two talked about, you hadn’t the faintest clue.
Fugo resumed inspecting while you busied yourself with packing away leftover cake ingredients and loading dirty equipment into the dishwasher. As Fugo neared the bench, deep purple eyes trailed from the mess to the incriminating recipe.
“Mistress, did Polpo say anything to you before he left?” he asked.
You turned your head away from the clutter of the pantry. If you could somehow cram the muffin tray in there, everything would be packed away. “Not much besides how this café needs extra people staffing it. Why?”
He chewed his lip, seemingly unconvinced. “Just suspicious.”
You pouted as you shoved the tray inside and slammed the pantry door. You leaned against it as a precaution. “What are you suspicious of?”
Fugo dropped the recipe he was holding and crossed his arms. “Polpo’s intentions. Buccellati was a longtime valuable asset to the capo for years. I can’t fathom how Polpo could forfeit his best subordinate and team over to some random owner of a niche café no one in this city has ever heard of.”
That was certainly a harsh way of describing things . Though, Fugo’s concerns were valid. Why you , indeed. You had never met Polpo before today so why did he trust you enough to take ownership of valued members of his organisation?
You merely shrugged. “I don’t know how or why he chose me but I’m grateful all the same. And I’m very grateful that you’re taking the time to critique this café.” You strenuously performed a small curtsy, as best you could with your ass scraping against the pantry. “Thanks, Fugo.”
“It’s nothing,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. Instead, his attention diverted to the leftover orange on the bench. He picked the zested citrus up and examined its marred peel with slitted pupils.
“Is something the matter?” you asked after a moment.
Fugo dropped his stern gaze from the orange to you by the pantry. “Mistress, I need to make one thing clear.”
Your apron was wrinkled clump between your digits. “Oh?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“...Oh.”
“Buccellati and Giorno may, but I don’t.” He folded his semi-clothed arms, orange still in hand. “I won’t lower my guard around you just because you're my owner.”
“I can understand,” you replied. “Trust is something that takes time, right? We can get to know each other as we live together. Then maybe we'll become friends or something.”
Fugo grimaced. “Like I’d ever befriend a human.”
“What ? What did humans ever do to you?” You manoeuvred your hands to your hips. “What have I ever done to you?”
His curly tail frizzed twice its typical fluffiness behind his back—a biological sign that this conversation was getting real serious. “It doesn’t matter if I tell you. I’ll never trust humans, and I don’t trust you to not dump us into the streets once we stop becoming useful to you.”
You winced at the thought. Some people would kill to have their own catboy. Were there really morons out there who would abandon them? “Fugo, I’d never abandon you or your friends. Not even Abbacchio who probably hates me.”
He clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because I’m—” you gestured jauntily to yourself, “—not a monster? I don’t know what kinds of people you’ve met but I promise I’m not like that. I’ll do my best to take care of you, Buccellati, Narancia and the others with the little income I have.”
He huffed then relaxed his posture a tiny fraction, tail almost deflating to its default volume. Ears twitched as he rested a hand on his hip. “Very well. I apologise for losing my temper.”
You breathed a sigh of relief, having somehow tamed this catboy. “No, it’s okay. It’s not like you had much choice getting stuck with me.”
Fugo grunted in agreement. “However, if you try anything to harm me or my team, this—” he mercilessly crushed the orange in his bare fist, juice dripping over the tiles and splattering onto your chin and cheek, “—will be your head. Understood, Mistress?”
You swiped the sticky droplets off your face. The absolute audacity of this kitty. You knew he was a gangster but not an asshole.
“Understood, Fugo,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “Now I have to clean this mess up, too...”
There was orange juice sprayed everywhere. You scooted your ass off the pantry for a moist rag but without your back to support the doors, the doors of the pantry flew open. Trays and pans clattered as they loudly poured out of their compartment like a metallic landslide.
“And that…” you groaned. You looked to Fugo. “Mind helping me?”
At last, you made it out of the kitchen alive—with your skull intact, mercifully.
To summarise Fugo’s critiques, he suggested minor organisational changes for efficiency’s sake, all to benefit a team of seven; advertisements on social media to bolster the café’s presence across the city; and unique, trendy menu items to coax new patrons—all of which he insisted he undertake designing himself. It had been less than a day and Fugo was already climbing the ranks.
He also suggested you rename Milky Maid Paradise.
You pouted indignantly. What was wrong with ‘Milky Maid Paradise’!?
The pair of you trudged into your humble living room where empty cardboard boxes littered the hardwood flooring and fuzzy pastel rug. The setting sun filtered through sheer curtains, forming a warm glow on your family’s old plush sofa that Buccellati, Giorno and Abbacchio sank comfortably on.
You acknowledged them with a smile. “Sorry for the mess. I just moved here so I haven’t yet finished unpacki—”
You shrieked as a black and orange blur lunged from the side. It gripped your shoulders with intense fervour.
“Why is there no TV or Play Station!? Are you that poor, Mistress!?”
“I—”
To your much needed rescue, a knight in shining leather pants barged Narancia off of you. Unfortunately, his stronger pair of hands gripped you tighter and more fervently.
“Mistress! Mistress! Why are there four cushions on the sofa!? Do you want us to die !?” Mista wailed as he savagely shook you.
You struggled to respond. You let the world sway around you.
“We don’t have anywhere to sleep, either,” Abbacchio added, unimpressed.
You lightly shoved Mista off you who flopped with a thump and a questionable clatter of bullets raining from his hat. Vertigo crept but you fought it down for dignity’s sake.
“I know and I’m sorry. This all happened on short notice so I’m not prepared. Maybe one of you can use my bed and another can use the sofa? I can lay blankets and pillows on the rug too.”
“We can sleep in these boxes,” Giorno suggested, foot playfully nudging one of the many empty boxes on the floor.
“Like strays?” Abbacchio’s disdain etched a wrinkle on his nose. “I don’t know about you but I’m not some dirty stray.”
“ You can sleep on the sofa and the rest of us will sleep in boxes,” Buccellati finalised. “Mistress, you keep the bed. You deserve your own space.”
You eyed him funnily. You've had sleeping arrangement arguments with friends before but none of your friends ever volunteered to sleep inside literal cardboard. “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound too comfy.”
To prove you wrong, Fugo slunk into a box and reemerged his head from the top. “It’s fine. It might not be comfortable for humans but it’s comfortable for catpeople.”
You acquiesced with a shrug. “If you say so...”
You battled to endure a poker face. For someone with an explosive temper, Fugo looked too precious peeking out of a box.
But the battle wouldn't last long. A growl from Mista’s stomach disturbed the tranquillity. He rubbed his neck with a strained laugh. “Heh, what’s for dinner, Mistress?”
Good question.
You mulled over your options, finger tapping your chin. It was a little late to whip up dinner for seven and who knows if you had the quantity of ingredients for it. Though there was one other option...
“We can order delivery,” you announced, hands clasped. “What do catpeople eat?”
The catboys glanced at each other until Narancia piped up for the team.
“Margherita pizza!”
You sat around the low, living room coffee table, your bums cushioned by the soft pastel rug. On your left sat Narancia, guzzling down slice after slice of margherita pizza while on your right sat Giorno, elegantly poised and savouring the rich flavours of fresh mozzarella and soft porcini mushrooms. Mista and Fugo joined you on the floor while Abbacchio and Buccellati dined on the sofa like kings overseeing a banquet even though you paid for everything.
“This is the good shit, Mistress. Glad we convinced ya to order authentic Italiana and not the crappy American kind,” Mista commented across the table. “We haven’t had proper lunch before we got zapped here.”
You paused mid-bite, intrigued. “What happened before I summoned you?”
Mista waved his half-eaten pizza. “Well, we were chilling in our dining room,” he began.
Mista picked at his food and grimaced. “What flavour is this cake? Shit flavour?”
“It’s not vanilla or even lemon... It’s just bland,” Abbacchio mumbled, inspecting the blond crumbs on his fork.
“It’s like they baked the bare essentials to make what technically counts as cake,” Fugo added.
“Just finish your plates. Master Polpo gifted this to us and to refuse his generosity would be a sign of disrespect.” Buccellati's ears flexed back as he frowned. “You know how he feels about respect.”
Silence overcame the table afterwards then Narancia resurfaced an old conversation topic.
“After eating this cake, would I still taste good?”
Giorno stared at his empty plate, not a single crumb left behind. “Probably.”
Then a burning light flashed.
Without warning, the room warped around their modest dining table. Light and shadow inverted and their tiny room span rapidly, toyed by time and space bending anomalously.
The world was pitch-black until a pop in their triangular ears and sensation of cool, solid ground signalled it was over. Slitted pupils strained in the bright overhead lights to adjust to chocolate brown tiles and polished stainless steel surfaces. Above them stood you in a frilly maid outfit, waving an unthreatening toothpick.
“I don’t get how he does it, either. Polpo’s an enigma,” Mista spoke with a shrug, mouth full of pizza.
You hummed and pondered the story over. He mentioned they ate bland cake. Could there be a correlation between the cake they consumed and the cakes you baked, thus summoning them to you? How the hell would that be possible?
“He’s an enigma indeed,” you dryly concluded. He was a man who could vanish in a flash and willingly gave catboys away to small business owners.
Still hungry, you knelt for another slice of pizza. You sifted through empty boxes until your hand brushed a remaining slice—the last slice of pizza.
You were careful to observe anyone else’s interest in snatching it before moving it to your plate. It seemed everyone was still eating what remained on their plates but before you could indulge in your prize, you caught a clearer glimpse of Narancia.
He stared longingly at the empty boxes resting upon the coffee table, not unlike a sad puppy. With him close by your side, his scrawny physique was more apparent. He lacked the same bulk around his arms and torso the other catboys possessed. The only evidence of fat on his lean body was in his boyish cheeks. It was a wonder what his previous owner usually fed him.
Your eyes shifted guiltily between your plate and his. The poor kitty hadn’t had proper food since breakfast. He could use the extra slice more than you.
“Hey, Narancia,” you quietly called. You presented the golden slice of margherita pizza to him. “Here. You can have the last one.”
Black, folded ears twitched tentatively at your offer. “Are you sure? You grabbed it first. You paid for it.”
You waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, I’m sure. That only means I get to decide who to give it to.” With that, you unceremoniously plopped the pizza onto his plate; there would be no room for arguments.
Violet eyes shimmered in disbelief and his tail followed suit. Narancia muttered his gratitude to you and bit into the pizza gratefully.
You smiled at how adorable he was. A simple gesture like this was the least you could do as his owner.
Though from his back pocket, the silver of his switchblade glinted. Of course, Narancia could slit your throat anytime he wanted, but you tucked away that ridiculous thought. How could he murder the hands that fed him free pizza?
With dinner done, you brushed off crumbs and shuffled towards the corner of the living room where you unpacked a loaded box of fabrics.
“When you’re all finished, I have some uniforms for you all to pick from.”
Abbacchio leaned past Buccellati’s broad frame to see. “They’re not maid costumes, are they?”
Your mouth tightened to a thin line. You had bad news to deliver.
Abbacchio read your silence. “Fuck’s sake.”
You contemplatively stroked one of the frilly articles on your lap. While you believed men could rock dresses, frills and bows, it wouldn’t be right to force it upon them. Comfort was more important than appearances, after all.
“You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to,” you said. Your grasp on the article slackened slightly. If it made them more comfortable, you would happily compromise running a gimmicky maid café for a plain old conventional café.
From behind, Giorno snuck up and delicately plucked a pink dress amongst the heap piled beside you. “I’ll wear one, Mistress. It’s a maid café so it’s not a big deal,” he assured with a smile.
“Me too,” Mista spoke, smirking behind the coffee table. “I’ll wear one ironically.”
Narancia twisted around to participate. “If there’s one that isn’t too girly, I’ll wear it...”
“I’ll wear one too,” Buccellati said. A prideful smile crinkled his eyes. “It’ll be good for business.”
A palm impacted the table. A red-faced, flat-eared Fugo tremored where he sat. “Give me whatever’s there.”
Your hands rose to your chest. Your heart pattered against your ribs like rain on a tin roof but really, you were filled with beaming rays of sunshine. “Everyone...” you breathed.
Wait, not everyone . You glanced at Abbacchio who glowered back with sharply furrowed eyebrows.
“Fine! I’ll wear one!” He stormed over and yanked the garment off your lap. The smoky-hued fabric draped over his toned arm and cascaded down to his knees. “Happy, Mistress?”
A giggle bubbled from your chest. “I’m very happy, Abbacchio.” Perhaps the big, grumpy catman was as soft inside as he was with his fluffy tail.
None of them had to but they chose to. They were willing to wear cute maid outfits for you and the café. Nothing could contain your enthusiasm.
Together, the seven of you sorted through maid outfits to wear as a team. You bought them online for any future employees to wear and you couldn’t wait to see what they’d look like on everyone tomorrow.
Was this Polpo's intention? To have these catboys join you as valued staff in your maid café? Maybe now, the café would finally succeed.
“You’re sure you’re all good there? It’s not too cold or cramped?” you asked.
“We told you, we’re fine. Please get some rest, Mistress,” Giorno assured from his stuffed cardboard box. “Tomorrow will be our first day working together.”
Everyone but Abbacchio, who haughtily hogged the sofa, curled up in a box of their own, insulated by whatever pillows and thick linen you had spare in your closet. You made a mental note to go shopping later in the week.
“Okay then. I’m turning the lights off now.” You traced the nub of the light switch by the hallway. “Goodnight, everyone. Wake me up if you need anything. You know where my room is.”
“Buonanotte,” they chimed back.
You flicked the lights off. The living room dimmed to blackness instantly. Only through the cool moonlight and flickering street lamps could you make out the fuzzy silhouettes of ears, boxes and furniture.
You tiptoed past the hallway and into the much-needed privacy of your quaint little bedroom. You slipped out of your frilly work clothes and donned the first set of pyjamas you could find before flumping onto your rugged single bed. The mattress dipped with your dead weight and you let the bed covers surround you before exhaling. Stress escaped your lungs and dissipated into the cool night air.
It was warm and peaceful in bed. For the first time since this morning, you had time to yourself again. Time to think. Time to slow down and comprehend.
So, catboys apparently existed and six of them were sleeping in your living room. They were a rowdy bunch and with a criminal background to boot. How would they handle the transition from crime to café?
You stifled a yawn. Though your body was sluggish, your mind refused to slumber. It jumped from one thought to the other. Like, what if your café continued to roll downhill? How would you feed and house the catboys and yourself then? What about your friends and family? Would they believe your situation is real and not think you’re trying to concoct a wet dream?
You clumsily pulled your smartphone from under your pillow, careful not to unplug it from its charger. The dazzling screen burned your retinas as you strained to read a text message sent from your best friend a few hours ago.
How’s the café going!!? :3 :D I might have to visit and find out soon!
Shit. How could you explain to them? You dropped your phone and muffled an incoherent scream into your pillow. Now you really couldn’t sleep.
You tossed and turned under the covers in vain until a knock on your bedroom door put an end to your funny horizontal dance. You held back a sigh before whipping the heavenly covers off your torso and shuffling over your freezing floorboards to the door.
“Coming,” you announced before quietly peeling the door open to reveal a messy head of black hair. “Narancia? How can I help you?”
The catboy in question rubbed his eye. “Is it okay if I sleep with you tonight? Mista meows in his sleep.”
Suddenly, the floorboards felt like eggshells.
“S-sure…” you answered carefully. “My bed can probably fit two people…”
Narancia grinned at your response. “Grazie, Mistress!”
You silently let Narancia inside and shut the door behind him. A vertical tail followed the catboy as he unabashedly made a beeline towards your bed and dove under the covers, ignoring all the kitschy posters framed on your walls and your sizable collection of quirky trinkets and manga on your shelf.
He’s going to see that shit in the morning, you realised.
But there was no time for worry or embarrassment now. You robotically joined Narancia in bed and awkwardly slipped into the blankets beside him, cosying up as best you could with the limited space available.
“Good night, Mistress,” he whispered, his warm breath tickling your nose.
“Good night, Narancia,” you whispered back.
Your room was too dark to make out his features but if the soft vibrations of his purrs rumbling from his chest meant anything, he was already dozing off.
They say a cat’s purr is the most soothing sound in the world to humans. Perhaps they’re right. You were drifting off to sleep, too.
Note: I said I'd post this a week later but I'm an impatient creature. You're getting Chapter 1 now whether you like it or not.
Comments and constructive criticism are highly appreciated! I love hearing thoughts and jokes about my works. Maybe you can guess what breed of cat each of the gang is based on? No looking at the author notes on AO3 because that's cheating.
“Giovanna, what do you wanna be when you grow up?”
Dark, long lashes fluttered upwards. The black-haired boy turned to you from his seat on the warm grass, lowering an empty plastic teacup from his lips. “I don’t know. What about you?”
You crouched to set your toy teapot on the small picnic blanket then puffed your chest in pride with a heroic pose to rival a superhero’s. “I'm gonna be a café mastar!” you exclaimed in your squeaky pitch. Luckily, the two of you were in the park and not your house. Your mother’s scoldings weren't pleasant to say the least.
Giovanna tilted his head. “Café ‘mastar’? You mean master? Like a master of cafés?”
“Mhm!” You stuffed your chubby face with a mouthful of chocolate cake before continuing. “I’m gonna run a café with the best cake and hot chocolate. It’ll have TV, a ball pit, video games and a slide!”
“Wow...” Your friend clasped your filthy hands, his seafoam green eyes twinkling into yours. “That sounds amazing! If anyone can do it, it’d be you! I'll be your first customer!”
“Noooo,” you whined, cake smudged on your pout. “You can’t be my customer, Giovanna! I want to run it with you!”
Giovanna chuckled softly, a little dazed by your demand of him. “Okay. When you open your café, I'll be there with you.”
“Promise?” Still pouty, you offered a pinky in front of him which he studied curiously. A soothing breeze brushed through his blunt locks as he formed a matching gesture to yours.
“Promise.”
Your tiny digits intertwined. A pinky promise between two children was sealed in sticky frosting.
You idly fiddled with your maid uniform behind a thoroughly cleaned counter, tugging the frilly hem down your thighs. Surrounded by the faint aroma of coffee, you almost lived up your weeby fantasy.
The café interior remained silent on a late weekday morning. Accompanying you were a variety of untouched, freshly baked goods in their display case and half a dozen empty tables. Sunlight lit up the foyer through the wide glass. Indoor plants in ceramic pots guarded the door and hung over the walls, painting the shop in splashes of natural green. You were pretty sure these plants were supposed to bloom flowers but, alas, you were no gardening expert.
Beyond the expansive café windows were locals walking by. Some gave your shop a passing yet curious glance though many ignored it entirely. Seldom would a customer or two walk in the café since the grand opening a few days prior. The items they ordered were barely enough for you to get by.
You sighed in defeat and slouched against the cool countertop with an added temptation to eat all of the baked treats yourself. No doubt would binging sweets ease a bit of the bitterness and salt on your mind.
Your eyes rested upon the dainty arrangement of blue irises wilting in their vase beside you. They were a parting gift from your friends before you moved back to your city of birth. You groaned.
Perhaps returning to your hometown to pursue your childhood dream was silly. Dreams don’t just come to fruition on hope alone. A pang of guilt settled in your stomach. You felt as though you were letting down the young boy you used to play with all those years ago. You hadn’t seen him ever since you and your mother moved away during elementary school.
On a whim, you gently pulled an iris from its delicate vase and began plucking its shrivelling petals one by one. “I’m a dumbass... I’m not a dumbass...” you murmured. You repeated the self-deprecating chant until the last petal. “I’m a dumb—”
DLING!
You jolted up. The sudden chime of the front door ripped you out of your trance, scaring the crap out of your body so hard, you dropped your tortured flower.
You cleared your throat in an attempt to awkwardly recompose yourself. “Hello! Welcome to Milky Maid Paradise!” you called out. You scanned the room to find whoever entered only to find no one. How strange. Is some fucker messing with you?
You swiftly rounded the counter to further inspect the situation. Peering outside the window, you spotted no suspicious figures to pin the blame on. You scratched your head. Such a thing never happened before. Just as you were about to dawdle back to your signature sulking spot, a menacing voice caught your attention.
“Buongiorno, Signorina.”
Oh lord.
You span around to face an imposing, colossal man sat at the table closest to the dessert display. A spiky red hat rested upon his baby bald scalp and intricate patterns adorned his immaculate, luxurious outfit. Somehow his large frame must have fit through the door without you noticing. It was very impressive considering he needed five of your vintage chairs to sit comfortably on.
“Oh! Sorry, I didn't see you there!” you replied exasperatedly. “Buon... giorno?” You quickly swallowed your apprehension. “What can I get for you today, sir?”
No matter whom this plus-sized ninja clad in banana yellow was, it was important you treated him with warmth and respect as you would with any ordinary customer. With a steadied heart and stride, you approached the large man awaiting your hospitality.
“The last time I’ve eaten was ten past eleven this morning,” he began.
You glanced to the wall clock beside the wide kitchen doorway. 11:10AM was forty minutes ago.
A thick finger pointed towards the desserts behind their polished glass case. “As you can tell, I’m famished. I’ll have everything available in that display case, please.” He clasped his chubby hands and awaited your response.
You blinked.
...Was he serious? The low rumble of his gigantic tummy sounded serious. He eyed you expectantly with his unusual black sclera and glowing pupils hiding beneath his sharp, protruding nose. It caused your neck hairs to stand on end.
“O-of course! Right away, sir!” you over-enthusiastically stuttered. If he could afford luxury clothing tailored to his massive body, surely he could afford your entire menu, right?
With haste, you promptly plated every dessert he could see. From tarts to cakes to biscuits to scones, each added pastry caused your customer’s dark eyes to grow wider and wider like a starving lion’s observing its prey.
“There we go,” you huffed. With the dessert case empty and the man’s table covered in plates of pastries all barely fitting on the tabletop surface, you were rewarded with a pleased hum.
“Thank you, Signorina. They look delectable.” He licked his lips with malice.
A plain napkin from God-knows-where was tucked beneath his double chin. Raising his noodly arms, he began his feast. A whole black forest cake was inhaled into his system straight from the white ceramic. Scones were gobbled one after the other with fruit jams swallowed as an afterthought. You've never been so confused and scared. His vicious appetite and table manners subverted his sophisticated, millionaire appearance.
In the midst of his wild indulgence, you thought it necessary to brew a cup of chai tea to help him down the sugary contents. Just as you served him the hot beverage in its dainty teacup, your customer’s table was cleared of any sign of cake and crumbs. He graciously accepted the free cup of tea and let out a hefty belch to punctuate the end of his quaint café experience.
“Pardon me,” he said, patting down his mouth with a dirtied napkin.
Fortunately, no one had entered during the entire bizarre affair. His monstrous appetite would have driven them away.
“Signorina, are you the only staff working at this café?” the giant asked after a short moment. “What I ate tasted like it was baked by the same pair of hands. Their flaws, textures and flavours were consistent. No other chef could replicate them. Am I right in my observation?”
His expression was unreadable. Where could he be going with this? You slowly nodded, which earned you an amused grunt.
“Why is that?”
You shrugged sheepishly, tightly wringing your wrists. “...Well, I can’t afford to hire anybody right now—not that I need anyone or anything.” Though assistance around the store would be helpful, you never saw a need to hire anyone with the abysmal business you’d been garnering until today—even if it meant your maid café would only have one maid. “I can run the café fine on my own,” you add.
The mountain of flesh clicked his tongue, seemingly to disapprove of your words. He leaned forward as far as his belly would allow him, casting you in shadow. His terrifying mouth uttered your name. Did you ever tell him that?
“You won't go far relying on only yourself; it’s foolish,” he continued. His emerald irises peered into your soul and you shivered. His speech and mannerisms outside of gorging cake were no different from one of those high-ranking mafiosi in those old-fashioned gangster movies, or more accurately, a demonic nightmare clown from a horror flick.
Reaching into his yellow coat, the man pulled out an oddly unwrinkled sealed envelope. It was held out to you but before you could obtain the envelope, he spoke up. “Do you like cats?”
What?
You furrowed a brow, trying to compute the out-of-the-blue question. Despite the sinister smug expression on his face, the question appeared fairly innocent. You lowered your guard, if only slightly.
“Yeah, I like cats. I even had a kitten when I was little.” You neglected to mention that your kitten went missing one week after adopting it from the pound. No one needed to know that right now.
His deep laughter reverberated across the room. You swore you could hear the silverware rattle. “Hohoho! Then I believe you’ll find this recipe very useful. Use this recipe and your café will thrive in the city.” The ominous smirk across his plump lips and the cold glint in his gaze made you a teeny bit suspicious that this recipe was actually for a bomb.
The envelope was then finally passed on to your smaller, much sweatier hands. “Alright then... Thank you for coming, Mr...?” You trailed off.
“Polpo,” he finished. You glanced at the envelope and back at Polpo.
“Thank you, Mr. Polpo.” You meekly smiled. Peculiarly enough, having a name to this absolute unit of a human being shed a bit of the mystery surrounding his creepy presence. It was a subtle comfort you were willing to take.
“You’re welcome,” he smirked, uttering your name once again. “Now, if you'll excuse me...”
You stepped back so he could stand but he made no effort to budge from his five chairs. You also wondered if he would make an effort to pay for devouring a day’s worth of desserts. Just as you were about to ask him if he prefers cash or card, the doorchime intervened.
DLING!
Your attention leapt to the door. Again, it fell shut on its own with no customers seeming to enter although unlike last time when Polpo mysteriously appeared in your café, he mysteriously vanished.
Tension spiked. You scampered out of the café, apron strings dancing behind, completely confused as to how a being so massive could exit a building so stealthily. You saw no spiky-hatted man in yellow rolling down the street nor waddling on it, so you re-entered the store, still in shock from your virtually paranormal experience.
“What the fuck just happened?” you asked yourself.
You leaned over a chair, envelope in hand, processing your recent memory. Some Humpty Dumpty-looking dude materialised in your maid café, ate everything and left. You were honestly a little pissed at the audacity. When you raised your head, a smidge of colour where Polpo dined caught your vision.
Beside the unholy hill of plates piled high upon the wooden table laid a fat stack of cash neatly nestled in a plain strap of paper. Trembling, you scrambled to inspect the money between your fingers. Carding through each note, you realised it was more than enough to compensate the emptiness of your dessert case.
He tipped well, though maybe a bit too well. If he was still here, you’d refuse his generosity out of guilt.
But he’s not here...
Giddiness and disbelief overwhelmed your heart. With this much to fill your wallet, rent this month would be stress-free. Plus, you could buy that cool anime figure you’ve had your eye on for two months now, splurge some cash for cute clothes to fill your wardrobe, or invest in a brand new computer that wouldn’t shit itself during a hot day. The hedonistic possibilities were endless but before could make any debilitating financial decisions, first you had Polpo’s secret recipe to success to try out.
You decided to close the café early for the day. After flipping the open/closed sign on the door and clearing Polpo’s crime scene of a table, you headed off to the café kitchen, sealed envelope in tow.
You squinted at the finely written instructions. While you were sure what the cursive letters spelt out were what you thought they were, the implied end product sounded disgusting.
Splayed out upon the kitchen bench were the necessary ingredients, along with dirtied bowls and utensils, and the recipe’s batter that now filled a 6 cup muffin tray. It was a simple batter reminiscent of cake if you removed any of the flavour and joy. If you read Polpo’s handwriting correctly, each of the six mini cakes required their own unique ingredient of flavour: sea salt, wine, orange zest, strawberry seeds, coffee beans, and flower petals.
For the first tin, you sprinkled a pinch of sea salt as the procedure instructed. Bada bing, bada boom.
Wine? You whined and reached into the industrial refrigerator. For ‘special occasions’, you stashed a bottle of red wine towards the back behind all the cartons of milk, eggs, berries, and the like. The recipe seemed special enough, so you splashed the second tin a responsible amount.
Orange zest was normal enough. You carefully grated an orange peel into the third tin and set the fruit down for an afternoon snack later.
Strawberry seeds were a bitch and a half to procure. You fumblingly tweezed a single ripe strawberry until all the seeds joined the batter of the fourth tin.
The fifth tin simply requested six coffee beans. You shrugged and flung them all into the designated cup.
Lastly was the sixth tin that nondescriptly asked for flower petals. Wracking your brain for any idea where you could obtain any, you remembered the irises dying on the front counter. Once you grabbed the healthiest blossom of the bunch, you zipped back into the kitchen in record speed and flicked a few of its petals into the depressing mixture.
With preparations finished, it was time to bake. You stretched your arms in anticipation and placed the muffin tray into your trusty pre-heated oven. Feeling satisfied with your handiwork, you sauntered back to where the recipe rested.
There, you twitched where you stood. The recipe frustratingly had no mention of a baking time written anywhere on the paper. You sighed and dropped the recipe to focus on the oven. With your experience in baking, you deducted that the cakes would be ready in 15 minutes minimum. You kept a small toothpick nearby for when it was time to check the doneness of the cakes.
As the batter tanned and rose in the enclosed heat, the kitchen became perfumed in a combination of citrus, roasted coffee beans and other underlying scents in the mix. You breathed it in, embracing the aroma in your lungs. If your baker instincts were right, the bland goodies would be ready soon. You quickly plucked the toothpick from the bench but as you turned towards the oven, the oven spontaneously exploded.
Smoke and steam violently gusted the oven door open. You shrieked at the thundering clash and lost your footing. Your eyes squeezed shut as a rainbow of colours blurred your vision. The floor was cold beneath your limp form and you hissed, feeling sore where your ass impacted the hard tiles. Fortunately, no butt bones broke.
You slowly got up, rubbing the pain away from your buns and smoothing out your skirt. The bowls and jars on the bench laid askew but the resulting mess was minimal. You cautiously turned the oven off before it could burn down the whole building. When you peeked into its interior, you froze. You expected to find burnt batter slapped everywhere onto its scorching hot walls but instead, an immaculately clean muffin tin sat empty exactly where you set it.
You don’t remember the recipe including hallucinogenic drugs as an ingredient.
You wanted to pause and process everything again but before you could, deep grumbles and groans sounded behind you. Very, very cautiously, you twisted towards the source of the voices, armed with a toothpick for protection.
“God, my head...”
“...What the fuck? Where the fuck are we?”
“A kitchen...? We’re not gonna become someone’s lunch, are we!?”
Three strangely dressed men occupied your kitchen floor. Behind them were three more strangely dressed men. You backed away from them with your tiny toothpick raised in defence as they stirred and arose.
The first man had tousled strawberry blond hair and a pair of cat ears atop his head. Wait, cat ears!? A matching tail with coarsely curled fur swished out of his green trousers littered with holes. He bore an irritated expression as he surveyed his surroundings.
Perplexed, you studied the second man who hid his hair with a distinctively patterned cap. Though you couldn’t glimpse his ears, a tiger-like tail stuck out of his striped leather pants having nowhere to hide with his cropped sweater exposing his rippling midriff. He looked just as confused as you as he stared back.
As expected, the third one also bore feline features. His dark ears folded over his orange headband and his tail frizzed out beneath a yellow, checkered skirt. Shaky slitted pupils settled on your form.
“Who are you and where the fuck are we!?” a tall man with long, white hair from behind the three screamed. His purple lips contorted to bare pronounced fangs. Behind his dark coat was a fluffy white tail puffed up to threaten you.
“W-Who are you and how did you get into my kitchen!?” you counter-screamed.
“So we are in a kitchen...” the yellow skirted boy murmured. His dread could not be described.
“Calm down, everyone! I think I know what’s going on,” a smooth but firm voice called out.
The small sea of upset potential cat cosplayers parted and another potential cat cosplayer came forward. Large ears above his bob cut twitched realistically. Golden zippers glinted in the light and jingled with each step he took. He stopped in front of you, hand on his exposed chest. As crazy as his dotted suit was, he was easy on the eyes. With a flick of his spotted silver tail, you dragged your gaze from his well-toned body to his chiselled face to engage in respectful eye-contact.
“You've met Polpo, correct?”
His companions twitched their ears at the name. You couldn’t help but take note on how organically their ears and tails seemingly moved.
You nodded and wrung your apron absently. “Yes, if you mean that giant man who ate all the sweets here. What about him?”
The catboy quietly hummed and held his chin in thought. “Did he give you instructions to summon us?”
“Instructions?”
Polpo's recipe laid undisturbed on the bench where you last set it. Could he be referring to that?
The spotted catboy must have read your mind. He stepped towards the paper and skimmed its contents.
“I see... So you did,” he murmured, placing the recipe back down.
“Excuse me, but what does Polpo have to do with you all popping out of my oven?”
“Yeah, Buccellati. What does this all mean?” the curly furred catboy chimed in with a creased brow. It was nice to know you weren't the only one left in the dark.
He remained silent for a moment, focused on the lines between the floor tiles before speaking up. “It means that Polpo is no longer our master. By receiving the recipe and summoning us, this woman passed Polpo’s test.” Shifting to an authoritative stance, he demanded the attention of his peers. “Starting today, she is our new owner!”
“UH, WHAT!?” you shrieked. Was that what those weird questions from that giant were really about? About why you work alone? If you like cats? The fucking strawberry seeds?
That recipe was a test in disguise all along?
The others echoed your astonishment with audible reactions of their own. You backed further away from the crowd of cats until you thumped into a solid wall. All eyes were on you.
You weren't ready to be a crazy cat lady—let alone crazy catboy lady!
“Hey, are you sure she's supposed to be our owner? I mean, look! She's wearing a maid costume!” the striped one pointed out. “Maybe the owner is her employer? Or—” he dropped his volume to a whisper, “—sugar daddy?”
“I don't have an employer! OR sugar daddy!” you hastily corrected, hands and toothpick flailing in the air. “I run a maid café and this is what I wear!”
“Oh fuck this!” spat the white, fluffy catboy. “Our lives were perfectly fine in the mafia! Now Polpo wants us to live and work in some fetishist restaurant!? Of course that fat bastard would.”
You glared at him. “What do you mean ‘mafia’? What do you mean ‘living and working’ here? What do you mean ‘fetishi—’”
“We can explain our history and other details later but let’s introduce ourselves first,” the spotted catboy interrupted. As much as you needed answers to your never-ending well of questions, you reluctantly agreed that introductions were in order.
You sighed. “Alright. But you better also explain the whole catboy thing here, too.”
He diffidently flexed his ears. “Of course.” Gracefully, he placed a hand on his heart. “I’m Buccellati. This is—”
“Fugo. It's a pleasure to meet you,” greeted the curly catboy.
“I’m Mista,” said the stripy catboy, gesturing to himself with a gun. That didn’t look too safe. Hey, hold on! He has a gun!?
Fugo nudged the skirted catboy beside him. The boy flipped his switchblade away and pocketed it. “I’m Narancia,” he drawled.
“Abbacchio,” grunted the fluffy one.
Five out of six introduced themselves to you but if you recalled correctly, weren’t there six? You looked around then the last catboy strode forward.
“You may call me Giorno,” he said. Three golden rolls of hair framed his forehead. Behind them were feline ears as you came to expect. A lithe tail curled into a gold ring against his magenta suit.
‘Giorno’. It was funny. You had a cat named Giorno once.
“Nice to meet you all,” you replied. You only wished it was under better circumstances, like not after an explosion or surprise adoption. Meekly, you shared your name to the room which was admittedly a worse experience than introducing yourself to your new class when you changed schools.
“But you'll be our master, right? We should be calling you Master,” piped Narancia.
Fugo crossed his arms. “No, the correct word here would be ‘Mistress’.”
Narancia shrugged. “Same thing.”
Fugo hissed.
As the two began to bicker, Giorno's gentle voiced called your name as he quietly approached you. With his calming demeanour, it was no wonder he was so easy to miss before introductions. His seafoam green eyes shone brightly in the kitchen lights. Something familiar was beneath their vibrant hue and intensity. Where have you seen them before?
He held your clammy hands in his. The sharp toothpick you armed yourself with fell to the floor.
“I, Giorno, promise we'll help you become a café mastar.”
my sideblog is currently on shadowban...may I ask how long does it take for tumblr to fix yours? thank you so much and I hope I ain't bothering you 🙇🏻♀️
I'm sorry to hear your sideblog got shadowbanned! It's a really stressful situation to be in!
As for how long it takes for Tumblr to fix it, it may vary. My sideblog (this one) got shadowbanned around the weekend and it took roughly two or three days for the shadowban to be lifted. I'm guessing it takes longer for Tumblr staff to respond depending on the day of the week.
I sent in two support tickets using the email associated with this blog before creating a new Tumblr account with a different email and using that email to send in a third support ticket. I finally received a response with that email so if you haven't tried that method already, I strongly suggest you do. It's worked for me and many other users who experienced the same issue.
Tags: F!reader, slowburn, coffee shop AU, no Stands, ex-mafia catboys in maid outfits
Status: Ongoing
With a massive man's secret recipe and six special ingredients, you blow up your oven to accidentally summon ex-mafia catboys all prepared to become maids in your maid café.
[OTHER WORKS] | [READ ON AO3]
Chapter Index:
Recipe of Disaster
Sweet Dreaming
...
Note: Chapters 1 and 2 will be posted one week apart. The first chapter will be posted a week after the posting of this masterlist.
Looks like my blog is finally back to normal! I'm no longer shadowbanned and all my posts show up in their respective tags!
Thank you to Tumblr staff for helping me out of this situation and I'm sorry to my followers if I've confused you with notifications for any non-existent posts.
My hiatus is over so I'll be back to posting as normal. Please check out my latest Bucci Gang + Trish headcanons if you haven't already!
Heyo! Love ur Bucci gang Hcs! (Especially the tsunderes ones!) Not sure if you're taking requests rn (sorry if ur not bsbdbdb) but I was wondering if I could request sum Bucci gang Hcs with a s/o who has Somniphobia! It's a phobia of sleeping, this can be due to being afraid of something bad happening while asleep or afraid of going to sleep due to nightmares and/or night terrors. S/o is afraid of going to sleep and tries to do everything in their power from falling asleep!
If your request aren't open or you don't want to do this request, you can totally disregard it! ^^
Thanks for the request, Pomegranate! Somniphobia is actually something I can relate to. I don't have much problems with sleep anymore but in the past, I used to avoid going to bed until I got incredibly tired. I hope all you somniphobes reading get the chance to overcome your fear!
As for my status about requests, requests aren't officially open beyond the neko short fics but I like to take them anyway because it offers a break in between projects I have.
Psst. By the way, I'm trying out a new aesthetic and informative format for my posts. I made the webcore-styled header myself in MS Paint from scratch too so I'm pretty proud of it.
❁ - - Giorno Giovanna - - ❁
He has a tendency to wake up in the middle of the night sometimes
It was during one of those nights that he heard you brewing coffee at 3AM
Shuffling downstairs and into the kitchen, he finds you nestling a hot mug of coffee with the darkest circles under your drooping eyes
He asks you if something is wrong but your answer of "no" doesn't satisfy him
"We have a day off tomorrow. There's no need for caffeine this late."
He learns of your fear of sleep and he's intrigued to hear you open up about a vulnerability to him so easily
He nudges the mug away from your lips and morphs the top buttons of his silk shirt into fragrant lavender buds
"Come. You need to rest. I'll sit by you until you're asleep."
❁ - - Bruno Bucciarati - - ❁
When coming home from a mission, he's used to having you run to the door to greet him but not at this unusual hour
It was 2AM when he returned and you were right there on the sofa, languid but ready to kiss him hello
"Amore, I won't be offended if you're asleep by the time I come home..."
Your explanation of how you can’t sleep unless he's there with you has him slightly concerned
After a little quick thinking, he zips together a concoction of fabric and cushions to create a crude cuddle buddy
"Let’s call him...Onurb. When I'm away and you can't sleep, Onurb will be here to keep you safe."
Although he'd rather be the one cuddling you to sleep, he supposes Onurb will have to do for a stand-in when he's away
Though he sincerely hopes you don't become too attached to Onurb...
❁ - - Guido Mista - - ❁
"Baby, it's 4AM. Why are you baking so early in the morning?"
He receives the most deadpan explanation for your fear of slumber, of nightmares and the inherent vulnerability that comes with sleep
Considering his superstitious fear over a single-digit number, he doesn't have much room to criticise your fear of a biological necessity so instead, he relents
He makes conversation with you while you bake but as soon as it hits 5AM, he's hauling your ass back to bed and keeping you there until you get some decent shut-eye
When you wake, the baked goods of 4AM have all been devoured by Sex Pistols
"See? Told you baking at 4AM was a bad idea!"
❁ - - Narancia Ghirga - - ❁
His little spoon is nowhere to be found and now he has to search the entire apartment for your whereabouts
If you're not in the living room, the bathroom or the kitchen then where the hell are you?
The front door suddenly clicks open and there you are with a small bag of snacks in one arm another bag in the other
"You went to the shops without me!?"
You could have at least bought him some orange juice
But what really matters is that you’re safe and you didn’t get kidnapped
"Why'd you go without me? And why this late?"
Though your somnophobia isn't something you want to bother him with, he insists you wake him up whenever your anxiousness gets the better of you
In his lean arms, he reminds you that he's always here to protect you from your fears
"How am I supposed to sleep well if you can't sleep well?"
❁ - - Leone Abbacchio - - ❁
He knows you don't have the best relationship with sleep so what he does is keep you locked tight in his strong arms until you fall sleep
He'll save you from your nightmares, shoo your sleep paralysis demons and hum a quiet lullaby to coax you into dreamland
He doesn't mean to hum you a lullaby; that's something he does on the cusp of sleep
If you mention this habit, he'll deny it
❁ - - Pannacotta Fugo - - ❁
"How come you're still awake?"
The evidence of an all-nighter are all etched into your features as he can tell
Despite how tired you look, there's a tenseness to your posture he can pick up on
"Is there something wrong? You can tell me anything."
Contrary to his suspicions, you're not sleep deprived because you're anxious over any upcoming missions but because of sleep itself
There's guilt over how he's never known this about fear of yours until now
The way he scoops you into his arms is tender
He's very attentive to your needs from that night onward and he takes rigid care to ensure your eight hours of sleep happens
Anyone who dares disturb your slumber will receive the biggest reprimanding of their lifetime
❁ - - Trish Una - - ❁
"Do you want some water? Tea? Warm milk with vanilla?"
She knows of your somnophobia and she won't rest until you're asleep
In the dim lighting of your bedside lamp, she shares a mug of hot milk with you as you share stories about your day
"That was the seventh phone call I received that morning. I wish they'd leave me alone while I'm getting my nails done. I kept hoping it was you who was calling."
She stays up later than she'd like but she can't help wanting to indulge in your company just a little more before fatigue takes over
Hi! I love your bucci gang tsundere hcs, if your requests are open can you do bucci gang + trish with a s/o who's russian? And they have russian accent and loves to call them russian nicknames?
Thanks for the ask, anon! Though I don't know a whole lot about Russia, I'll do my best to write something cute. I do enjoy a good challenge after all.
Just a heads up... I've done some light research on Russia's language, naming conventions and culture but since I don't have any Russian friends IRL or online to double-check my writing, things may not be 100% accurate and thus, I haven't gone too deep into detail as a result. I hope that's okay with you!
Bucci Gang + Trish with a Russian S/O
I'm also going to assume that Reader was born in Russia and at some point in their life, moved to Italy where they met their S/O.
Giorno Giovanna
Your accent is very sophisticated to him and he'd be slightly envious for it if he wasn't so attracted to it in the first place
He can relate to being a foreigner and keeps a close eye on any crooks who might try to ridicule or swindle you for it
He often daydreams about showing you around Italy, exploring its cities and sharing the finest foods and wines it has to offer
Bruno Bucciarati
The first time you jokingly called him "Mamushka", he was deeply confused
You can get away with calling him any silly pet name so long as he doesn't know what it means
Though he's a bit shy about it, he'll occasionally use Russian pet names on you too with his own charming accent
Guido Mista
He adores the quirkiness your culture brings to the table and perks up whenever he hears your familiar voice across the room
He'll convince you to teach him a handful of words to use in petty arguments, notably against his teammates
The Pistols love your little names for them so much that they occasionally use them on each other even when you're not around
Narancia Ghirga
Like Mista, he's thrilled to learn some crass words and spend quality time with his most favourite person in the world
Sometimes you need to correct him as he uses these words in the worst contexts or messes up the pronunciation
When he's alone, he genuinely attempts to study your language in hopes of impressing you someday
Leone Abbacchio
He can drink you under the table and will use your Russian-ness to bully you about it
"You're Russian, aren't you? You should be able to hold your liquor."
Whatever Russian nickname you have for him will turn him redder than a red panda as he tries to figure out what you just called him
Pannacotta Fugo
He has an unending curiosity of what your life was like prior to moving to Italy
He has a guilty pleasure in asking you for help in translating certain words or texts and will blush like mad if a passage has a romantic or sexual subtext
He's okay with being your little "strawberry cheese man" as long you don't mention it in a language everyone can understand
Trish Una
She's greatly amused by the surprised reactions she receives when she introduces you to her friends and acquaintances and they hear your accented voice for the first time
She will request you to whisper your language in her ear when she wants to feel closer with you
She will often pester you to take her on a romantic tour of Russia
