Leans on a wall trying to look cool
HEY!! IM HERE TO REQUEST, I WANT BRUABBA x READER FROM YOU THIS TIME HAHAHA!
Could I PLEASE mayhaps get some BruAbba who are already in a relationship with each other and them both realising seperately that they like the reader and have to go to each other like um... so i uh kinda like reader, then the other is just OH THANK GOD ME TOO and theyre so excited about it that theyre like!! LETS TELL THEM RN !!!
and then they already to go to the reader BEFORE THEY EVEN TALK ABOUT HOW THEY CAN TELL THEM LMAO so now theyre all shy cos how tf do you invite someone into a polycule LMAO
and reader is just confused cos neither of them are making ANY sense
you can do absolutely anything with this, change anything you'd like! HEHHEHE <3 THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU CAN'T GET RID OF ME NOW
AND THERES NO RUSH!! I CAN WAIT YEARS FOR THE FOOD YOU WILL GIVE ME (if you do this one ofc!! if you wanna scrap it thats completely fine too dont feel bad!!)
ft Bruno Bucciarati x reader x Leone Abbacchio
a/n: @theshatteredstar AAAAAAA IM SORRY I TOOK SO LONG ngl this req has lived rent free in my head since i got it but alas ATBIEL grabbed me by the balls and refused to let go HAHAH also omg i hope you like what i’ve written you’re like one of my fav writers + THE BruAbba author so i’m kinda nervous ahaskhjadfgaduihf
btw omg if there’s anything anyone would like me to explore in a possible part 2 for this, pls feel free to hmu in my askbox :3c i won’t count any recommendations as a request bc i just wanna write more for this trio heh
contents: gn!reader (though i use the female form of certain italian petnames but they are interchangeable with the male forms :3c), fluff!!, PINING and YEARNING, very very mild angst (in the veins of unrequited love that is actually not unrequited after all), lowkey kinda suggestive at points idk i think i’m ovulating, polyamory written by a person who has no personal experience with it (but i will try my best aaa if anyone would like to teach me more pls feel free!), not proofread bc im tired goodnight
Leone Abbacchio thinks he might be screwed.
as he gazes down silently at the way you’re kneeling on the plush carpet between his legs, first-aid kit popped open with its contents strewn around you like a halo. you’re biting down on your plump lower lip, no doubt in deep concentration as you dab away at the stinging open wound on Abbacchio’s inner thigh with an alcohol wipe.
he’s returned from a solo mission scraped up but alive. the moment you laid your eyes on his haggard, bleeding form limping through the front door, you jumped to your feet and went hunting for a first aid kit.
Abbacchio was frankly too tired to tell you he’s fine so he plopped down on the couch and waited. it had taken you longer than expected to fish out the dusty box since your team never needs it with Giorno around.
however, Giorno’s not around right now. in fact, he’s been away for the past week–and will continue to be absent until the end of the month–in the United States for a ‘family reunion’.
“i thought Giorno was Japanese…” Abbacchio, so stifled by the silence, initiates small talk before he can really stop himself. he so desperately needs something to keep his mind off the fact that you’re kneeling between his bare legs that he hadn’t considered how much worse it would be if you look up at him at the same time–which you do.
you quirk an eyebrow, caught off guard by the lack of context; but having known Abbacchio for nearly five years now, the fact that he tries to make small talk is reassuring. for the past few silent minutes, you’d been worrying about making him uncomfortable–you hadn’t thought about how intimate the position would be until you already found yourself flanked by his firm thighs, alcohol swab in hand.
Abbacchio trying to break the silence soothes your worries.
“he is.” you hum as you carefully apply fresh dressing over his now-clean wound. “but he has family living in America, i think. i’ve heard him talking about a–” your shoulders shake as you begin to laugh at the amusing memory, “–great grand niece before. she’s American-Japanese.”
“the kid’s family tree is insane.” try as he might, Abbacchio’s unable to hide the mild fondness in his tone.
“he’s 22 years old.” you rise to your feet, stretching your arms over your head as you wiggle your toes to let blood flow back into your stiff legs. “hardly a kid, i’d say.” your shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of your bare tummy right in front of Abbacchio’s eyes. he coughs and looks away.
“he’s still a brat.” the older man huffs but it lacks any bite. he’s never admitted it out loud to anyone but Bucciarati but he’s become fond of the young don over the years.
although, Abbacchio supposes, it would’ve been too heartless even for someone like himself to not grow attached to Giorno Giovanna after having been saved from sure death by him on that beach in Sardinia. not to mention, it was thanks to that same near-death experience that had pushed him into confessing his feelings for his capo–a move that he regards as the best decision of his goddamn life.
which is why when Abbacchio feels his heart flutter as he watches you re-pack everything into the first-aid kit, he wonders if there’s something truly wrong with him. this isn’t the first time he’s reflected on how he feels towards you but the internal struggle that follows is always the same:
am i betraying Bruno? but i still love him and want to be with him. i want to be with both of them. is that normal?
“are you hungry?” you ask softly, derailing his train of thought. for a second Abbacchio just stares up at you, no longer bothered by the fact that he’s still sitting pants-less in the open living room. the way you look at him reminds Abbacchio of how Bucciarati does–so kind and gentle but never with pity or shame.
even all those years ago when you first met–two years after Giorno dethroned Diavolo and claimed Passione as his own–despite how rudely Abbacchio had brushed you off as a newbie who wouldn’t last a week in their profession, you’d looked at him the same way.
he didn’t think much of it back then but it’s been plaguing his mind for weeks now.
Abbacchio doesn’t realise he’s nodded in response until after you retreat to the kitchen and begin rummaging through the fridge for whatever groceries remain. he has a clear view of you from where he sits, so he just watches as you prepare two bowls of instant noodles. the scene is so painfully domestic, especially when he imagines Bruno being present, as well.
Bruno would wake up the earliest every morning and we’d both fail to convince him to sleep in. you’d probably get up next and i’d later find you preparing breakfast together in your pajamas in the kitchen. you’d comb your fingers through Bruno’s hair that’s sticking out in all directions, in a failed attempt to tame it, and he’d laugh before taking your hand and bringing the back of it to his lips–
“the food’s ready,” you announce, head tilted slightly, no doubt wondering why Abbacchio’s just been quietly staring at you the whole time. he stands up automatically and your eyes flicker downward for just a split second before a smile tugs at your lips. “wanna put on some pants first?”
Bruno Bucciarati thinks he might be screwed.
as he struggles to stay awake, dizzy and lightheaded from having nearly drowned, all he can think about is how much his lips are tingling. he’s drenched from head-to-toe but you rest his sopping wet head on your lap anyway, hands cupping his face as you hover over him.
“hey, capo, now’s not the time to fall asleep, okay?” you say calmly, gently brushing away some stray hairs that have stuck to his face. “Abbacchio’s on his way here and i don’t want him to think i’m bad at my job if he arrives to find his boyfriend passed out.”
you chuckle under your breath but even in his bleary state, Bucciarati can’t help but pick up on the hint of disappointment in your tone.
“you’ve done well, bella,” he coughs out, grimacing at the taste of the salt water that expels from his throat. “my apologies, i–”
“don’t give me any of that.” you cut him off. “we’re a team, remember? you can rely on me.”
earlier that day, Bucciarati had invited you to join him–no doubt since Abbacchio was still sleeping after an overnight stake out, you remind yourself–on what should’ve been a run-of-the-mill patrol around the streets of Naples. instead, the both of you were ambushed by an enemy mafia hit team composed entirely of Stand users that you couldn’t help but notice had abilities perfect for countering Sticky Fingers.
the opposing organisation clearly sent their best to take out one of Passione’s consigliere but since they hadn’t expected a second Stand user, you just barely managed to come out on top. it was no doubt a tough fight—especially since midway through one of the hitmen had managed to drag your incapacitated team leader into the ocean.
thankfully you were able to take out the last few attackers and rescue Bucciarati before he succumbed to a fate worse than just having drunk some sea water.
“i’m your leader, i should’ve been more alert—”
“did you really hate the mouth-to-mouth that much?” you pout, edges of your lips twitching upward when he smiles and chuckles tiredly in response.
that was my favourite part
“—i’m so grateful.” he lets out a deep sigh, wondering why his heart’s still pounding like crazy even though he’s been resuscitated for quite a while now. “but that doesn’t erase the fact that i should’ve done better.”
you tear your eyes away from the man in your lap when you hear the sound of a car approaching and Bucciarati seizes the moment to steal a glance at your mouth–the same one that had breathed life into him just moments ago. he recalls how soft your lips felt against his and how widely you smiled when he’d woken up despite how violently he coughed as he regained consciousness.
from where he laid, head propped up on your thighs, Bucciarati could’ve easily mistaken you for an angel with how the setting sun cast a halo-like light around your head. he’s only ever felt this way for one other person and it just so happens to be the man rushing over to the two of you right now.
the moment he hears Abbacchio call out from a distance, Bucciarati feels a sharp pang shoot through his chest. thinking about you in such a way feels like such a disgusting betrayal toward his partner of seven years and yet a tiny voice in the back of his head tells him it’s different.
how so? am i not actively desiring another person?
he turns his head to glance at the pale-haired man closing the distance with a concerned look on his face. in his hands are two fluffy towels and behind him trails Moody Blues armed with two flasks.
Bucciarati’s head continues to swim with a stomach-churning mixture of yearning and guilt when you help him sit up straight, right as his partner reaches his destination and takes a seat on the stone ground beside you. the capo watches in awe, a whole new sensation blooming in his chest, as Abbacchio unravels one of the towels to wrap it around your head of sopping wet hair.
“i thought you said you were bad at swimming.” Abbacchio teases, clumsily ruffling your hair dry with the towel whilst Moody Blues uncaps one of the flasks and brings it to his partner’s lips. Bucciarati opens his mouth–tensed up muscles relaxing as the hot tea enters his body–but his eyes remain locked on the scene before him.
at his silence, Abbacchio glances over at him and their eyes meet. there’s a look in his boyfriend’s eyes that, to the average person, would probably mean nothing, but for Bucciarati–the man who’s seen absolutely every part of Leone Abbacchio, inside and out–it comes with a revelation.
i want the both of you. i want the three of us to be together.
you think you might be screwed.
a lot has happened ever since your young boss left for what’s essentially just an extended vacation. which is fine, if anything, you’d been hounding him for a while to take a break before Giorno finally bit the bullet and arranged to meet a part of his bizarre family all the way in America.
but why did he have to take Mista, Narancia and Fugo with him?!
you punch your clenched fist weakly into your mattress as you lay face-down on your pillow. the eclectic tunes of Björk fill your room and the cool night air of Naples seeps past your open windows, rustling the curtains ever so slightly, whilst you wallow in self-pity in your lonesome.
you can hear the sound of the source of your dilemma downstairs as the distinct sound of cooking mixed with idle chatter just barely reaches your ears. Bucciarati and Abbacchio had offered to prepare dinner, even insisting that you not lift a finger and spend your time waiting just relaxing when you’d offered to assist.
they’re talking about how uncomfortable i make them.
you sniffle pathetically into your pillow covering, hot tears soaking into the fresh linen as you dig your fingers into your comforter.
you’ve certainly overdone it now, haven’t you? it seems that being left alone with the two men you’ve been pining over for years now has rendered you completely unable to behave professionally–something you’ve managed to do rather effortlessly ever since you learnt that they were a couple.
but they’ve been showing signs… right?
a tiny voice in the back of your head weakly attempts to justify your rapidly-blooming feelings. what you’d once regarded as a harmless crush on two men you looked up to had been ignited beyond repair when, just two weeks into being alone with the couple, you began to pick up on certain behaviours from them–both together and separately, when either one was away handling work-related tasks.
there was the delicate bouquet consisting of purely pink camellias and tulips that Bucciarati had handed to you a few days after the whole ambush incident. he’d said it was merely a small thank you gift from both himself and Abbacchio but the faint flushness of his tanned cheeks–and a quick google search of what the two flowers meant–hinted to you otherwise.
then there was the night you’d called home after staying out drinking with friends. you weren’t drunk by any means but certainly too tipsy to drive and since your two options of heading home consisted of either getting in a car with a stranger or getting in a car with a trusted friend, you chose the latter.
you’d kept your hopes low, however, since you recalled overhearing them discussing a date night earlier in the morning. so it had come as quite the surprise when Abbacchio not only picked up the phone after less than two seconds but also had driven all the way to the bar within the next five minutes.
“you should’ve asked one of us to come with you.” he chided as he allowed you to grab onto his sturdy forearm to steady yourself while you slid into the passenger seat.
“didn’t wanna interrupt your date,” you replied only after Abbacchio had settled into the driver’s seat beside you.
“it was just a homemade dinner.” his hand pressed against the back of your headrest as his upper body leaned over and twisted around to look out the rear window. “we have those every other day.”
“i can protect myself.” you crossed your arms with a huff as you began to feel lightheaded. maybe you were more drunk than you would’ve liked to admit. “my Stand’s sooo strong.”
“i know it is.” Abbacchio’s tone softened dramatically. “but we would’ve…” his eyebrows knitted together as he struggled to find the words, fingernails digging into the steering wheel.
“would’ve what?” you asked as your eyes began to close.
“nothing. just sleep until we get home.”
“you’ll protect me?” the last syllable slurred into a contented hum as you finally felt safe enough to doze off.
and then there was this late afternoon, just a few hours ago. you’d been stopped on the way toward the front door by both of your teammates.
“where’re you going?” Abbacchio asked, earning himself a faint scoff when his tone came out much too accusatory for Bucciarati’s liking.
“what Leone meant was: if you don’t have any plans for tonight,” his partner said, “we’d love it if you could join us for dinner tonight.”
“oh!” your eyes widened in surprise, having not expected such an invitation. “what’s the occasion?”
they shared a knowing glance.
“there’s something we need to talk to you about.”
you grunt restlessly into your pillow just as your stomach rumbles from hunger. you can smell the delectable scent of freshly fried garlic and hear the sound of silverware clinking against ceramic so you know you’ll be called down soon enough.
however, as much as you’re excited to eat Bucciarati’s home cooked aglio olio, you can’t help but dread whatever conversation’s bound to happen at the dining table. you can already feel the shame and guilt eating away at your heart as you curse the damn thing for making you develop feelings for two men—who are taken by each other, no less
your body snaps into an upright sitting position before you slap your face with both hands.
i have to join a different team.
“which wine do you think they’ll prefer?” Abbacchio asks in a hushed tone, in spite of the muffled tunes of Bjork’s ‘it’s oh so quiet’ coming from upstairs indicating that you’re nowhere within earshot. “i bought, like, five different bottles just in case.”
“are you sure they aren’t all for you, amore mio?” Bucciarati exhales softly out of his nose, light amusement dancing in his tone. if it had been a few years earlier, he would’ve been concerned about Abbacchio’s dependence on the alcoholic drink but he’s been managing it well for a while now so the capo trusts that he has no reason to worry.
the taller man clicks his tongue in faux annoyance.
“well, ideally, the three of us would share all five over time, don’t you think?” he asks, placing three wine glasses upon on the decorated dining table before returning to where Bucciarati has stationed himself by the stove. Abbacchio hovers over his lover’s shoulder, his painted lips quirking into a small smile when the darker haired man tilts his head to lean his temple against Abbacchio’s cheek.
“you’re right, of course.” Bucciarati sighs. “but we still don’t know what they’ll think about our… proposal.”
“i know.” Abbacchio brushes his lips against the apex of his partner’s cheekbone as he feels his heartbeat rapidly growing faster in his chest. the last time he’d felt this nervous was not too long ago, when his boyfriend greeted him one early morning not with a ‘good morning, amore mio,’ like he always does, but rather with a–
“Leone, we need to talk.”
that was not what anyone in a committed relationship would want to hear from their other half–let alone right after waking up in bed whilst beside said person. however, despite the chill that ran up his spine upon hearing that dreaded sentence, somehow Abbacchio had a hunch a much more different conversation was about to take place.
“what’re your thoughts on… (y/n)?” Bruno asked, his tone now a lot less confident than before. his normally perfect hair was frazzled from tossing around in his sleep and Leone had to resist the urge to comb away the parts that were sticking out.
“as a teammate or a friend… or…?” the pale-haired man responded, testing the waters.
Bruno hummed, seemingly unconvinced that Leone didn’t know exactly what he was referring to. he took one of the latter’s large hands and splayed it open. then, Bruno traced his index finger from the tip of Leone’s middle digit down to the centre of his palm.
Bruno liked doing little things like that, pointless, meaningless actions that grounded Leone nonetheless.
“are you… attracted to them in any way?” the capo asked, tone free of any judgement or scorn that would normally be present in any accusation of infidelity. instead, the dark-haired man merely sounded curious—and almost playful.
Leone felt his face warm up as he averted his gaze away from where Bruno had now linked their hands together, having pressed his palm to Leone’s opened one before interlocking their fingers.
“are you?” Leone tosses the ball into Bruno’s court, still unable to look his lover in the eye now that his blushing face had surely given away his true answer. the latter shuffled closer until his chin could rest upon the other man’s shoulder. Leone turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Bruno’s expression.
it was cat-like; a smirk danced on his lips as his piercing blue eyes gazed upward–almost smugly–into Leone’s. it was a look Bruno rarely showed outside the comfortable realm of privacy and he only ever pulled it out whenever he wanted something from him.
“i’m open to talking about it if you are, amore mio.” Bruno brushed his lips against Leone’s flushed cheek.
he didn’t need to think twice about his answer.
the setting is extremely romantic, you realise once you take your seat and start to fully take in the delicate decor of not only the dining area but also the rest of the visible living room. they had hinted at you to wear something nice and now you’re glad you listened because if you’d sat down in your pajamas, you’d feel even more out of place than you already do.
Abbacchio emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of unopened wine, also donned in a nicer-than-usual outfit and you wonder if this is just a thing they do every time they have dinner dates at home. you try to meet his eyes so that you can try to gauge what he’s feeling but it’s obvious he’s avoiding making eye contact entirely and that frankly that just makes you feel so much worse.
still, he pours a small amount of wine into all three glasses before taking a seat across from you. there’s only one empty chair left and it’s beside him so when Bucciarati enters your view, you expect him to sit down as well. instead, your capo pulls out a lighter and begins lighting all the unlit candles.
for a minute or so, he simply hums a tune to himself whilst he diligently lights every fresh wick. unlike his partner–your coworker, your friend and nothing else, surely–though, Bucciarati doesn’t pretend you’re absent and smiles warmly when your eyes meet.
after the final candle has finally been lit, he crosses over to the foyer in lengthy strides before turning down the lights ever so slightly–just enough to make the candlelight stand out but not so much that it affects your sight in any meaningful way.
“dinner will be ready soon, bella,” Bucciarati says after finally taking his seat. “we just wanted to talk to you about something important first.” for the first time tonight, his voice wavers ever so slightly and it seems that Abbacchio’s noticed as well since his eyes flicker over to his lover’s face for a split second.
beneath the pretty table cloth, your fingers dig firmly through the material of your bottoms and into the fat of your thighs, bracing yourself for what will surely be a shameful conversation on your end. you feel the familiar pressure building up behind your eyes as hot tears threaten to break through but you quickly blink them away and hope that the dimmed lights had hidden them well enough.
“as you know,” Bucciarati begins speaking again, elbows propped up on the table as he locks his fingers together beneath his chin. “Leone and i have been in a committed relationship for seven years now–”
the normally calm and collected Bruno Bucciarati struggles to keep his voice as calm as possible despite the fact that his heart’s pounding so hard it feels as though it’s trying to escape the prison that is his ribcage. the last thing he wants to do is intimidate or scare you in any way… so imagine his shock when you begin crying before he even finishes his sentence.
“hey, wait–” Abbacchio stands up abruptly, causing the legs of his chair to scrap against the floor and make an unpleasant noise.
“wh-why’re you upset, amore mio?” Bucciarati can feel his lover’s stare burning into the side of his face, almost like he’s silently pleading: you made them cry somehow! fix it!
“i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” you sniffle through sobs. the mixture of guilt for harbouring such feelings of infatuation for the two and the shame of being called out on it in such a gentle manner, no less, finally breaks the dams behind your eyes as hot tears begin pouring out.
“i’m sorry i’m so unprofessional.” your speech increases in speed with every syllable. “i couldn’t help my crushes on you both even though i knew you from the start you were together. i feel so terrible.” you inhale a sharp, shaky breath. “i swear i’ll ask Giorno to transfer me to another unit when he’s back and you’ll never have to see me again–”
the two men are flabbergasted, barely able to catch what you’re saying until the very end when your promises of removing yourself from their lives snaps them out of their collective panic.
too busy wiping away your endless tears with the sleeve of your shirt, you fail to notice them both make their way to your side of the table. it’s only when Bucciarati brushes your hair out of your face do you open your teary eyes to gaze up pitifully at him.
“oh, tesoro mio,” he coos as he silently urges you to stand up. “come, let’s move to the couch, shall we?” you nod slowly before rising to your feet, goosebumps erupting all over when you feel Abbacchio quietly brush his hand against the small of your back.
you end up seated in between the both of them–though it may be more accurate to say that you’re sandwiched between them. they’re sitting so close to you that your thighs are touching but the proximity doesn’t bother you in the slightest, if anything, you’ve only ever dreamed of being this close to them.
“you silly thing,” Bucciarati exhales with a doting smile as he tilts your head toward him and dries your tears with a handkerchief. “you didn’t even let me finish speaking first before jumping to conclusions.”
behind you, Abbacchio hovers his arm around your waist and when you don’t move away, he leans forward to press his lips against your shoulder.
“just assuming the worst right off the bat,” he chuckles. “why would we set up this lovely dinner if all we wanted to do was tell you off?” his hand rests against your hip as his thumb rubs soothing circles into your waist.
“i…” you sniffle. “i thought you just wanted to be nice to me.”
now that you think about it… you sound stupid as hell.
but maybe you only realise now because you feel the warm reassurance pouring out of the way Bucciarati tenderly wipes at your cheeks, fingers under your chin to keep your face tilted up at him; and the quiet comfort in how Abbacchio, in the midst of his teasing, holds you close in a way that only lovers do?
“i’m sorry if we scared you by making it so formal,” Bucciarati says sincerely, pulling away once your face is dried whilst moving his hands down to grab one of yours. he sandwiches it between his palms and holds it up to his chest. “the truth is that we have no clue how to ask you this.”
“... ask me what?” you murmur, even though you’re pretty sure you already know. you just need to hear one of them say it. your breath hitches in your throat when Abbacchio presses his chest against your back and rests his chin on your shoulder.
“we wanted to ask if…” his warm breath brushes against your earlobe. “you’d like to date us both?” his voice wavers and he thanks a god he doesn’t believe in that you’re unable to look at his face right now.
“we’ve both developed feelings for you, (y/n).” Bucciarati brings your hand up to his mouth to kiss the back of it. “beyond what friends feel for each other.”
“both of you?” you murmur in disbelief. the idea that one of them might reciprocate your feelings already seems far-fetched enough but both? “am i dreaming?”
Abbacchio chuckles, and you can feel the way the sound rumbles deep in his chest.
“so…” Bucciarati leans forward to brush his lips against the corner of mouth, nearly purring in delight when he hears how your breath hitches in response. “what’s your answer, amore mio?”
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