Hi, love your work, can you do Jojos and jobros, la Squandra and bucci gang who are absolutely WHIPPED for their lover, would genuinely bust into tears if they ignored them (I know it's a big request😭😭😭 sorry, but I love your work sm and la squandra doesn't get enough love😭😭😭)
HIIII I LOVE LOVE LOVE THE WAY U WRITE AND CHARACTERIZE THEM 🫵🤌🤌🫶
would u mind doing a bucci gang x reader where they had a nightmare that they rejected her and she ended up courting someone else BUT THEN THEY WAKE UP TO HER BY THEIR SIDE
yumyummy hurt/comfort 😋😋😋😋
✿˚｡⋆ Just A Dream ⋆｡˚✿
♡‧₊˚✦ Pairing ✦˚₊‧♡: Bucci gang x fem reader!
☾⚠︎warnings: absolute delicious hurt/comfort it does end with fluff!
Bruno Bucciarati.
In the dream, his rejection of you was entirely logical at least, that’s what he told himself. He stood in the dim light of the back room, his posture rigid as he gently but firmly told you that his life was too dangerous, that a relationship was a liability he couldn't afford, and that you should look elsewhere for stability
He remembers the precise shade of hurt in your eyes before you nodded accepted his words and walked out.
The nightmare skipped forward, forcing him to witness the consequences. He was a ghost in his own city watching you in the piazza. You weren't alone. Someone else was sitting across from you, presenting you with a carefully chosen bouquet of deep red carnations a traditional, serious declaration of courtship.
In the dream, Bruno had to watch you blush, reach out, and accept them. He saw you smile a smile that used to belong to him, completely devoted to another man.
The suffocating realization that he had willingly handed your heart to someone else paralyzed him. He tried to scream, to step forward and tear the flowers away, but his feet were anchored to the cobblestones.
Bruno snaps awake with a sharp ragged gasp, his hand immediately flying to his chest where his heart is hammering violently against his ribs. His skin is slick with cold sweat.
For a terrifying three seconds, the darkness of the bedroom feels like the continuation of that lonely piazza.
Then, he hears it the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing right beside him.
He turns his head so fast his neck aches. There you are. You’re curled up on your side, completely buried beneath the heavy duvet, utterly safe and entirely his. The sheer wave of relief that crashes over him is so intense it leaves him dizzy.
Bruno doesn’t care if he wakes you he needs to anchor himself back to reality. He shifts closer, his large, calloused hands trembling slightly as he reaches out to cup your face. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone with desperate tenderness. When you stir, humming softly and blinking open sleep heavy eyes, he can’t contain a shaky sigh.
"Bruno...?" you murmur, your voice thick with sleep as you instinctively lean into his palm. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
He doesn't answer with words right away. Instead, he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you so flush against his chest that there is absolutely no space left between you.
"I am now," he breathes, his voice incredibly rough and uncharacteristically vulnerable. "Just let me hold you for a moment please."
He spends the rest of the night tracing lines over your back, kissing your brow, and silently vowing to never let a single foolish thought of pushing you away ever cross his mind again.
Leone’s nightmare fed directly into his deepest, most deeply rooted insecurities. When you had approached him with open vulnerability, confessing your feelings, his immediate defense mechanism was anger.
In the dream he scoffed, crossing his arms and spitting out cruel, dismissive words "I don't have time for this. You're delusional if you think someone like me could ever care about you. Find someone else to bother." He watched your face fall, the light in your eyes completely dying out.
It soon shifted to a local café months later. Abbacchio was sitting in the corner, nursing a drink, when you walked in. But you weren't looking for him. You were accompanied by a man who looked respectable and stable, and untainted by the mafia everything Leone felt he wasn't.
He watched in agonizing detail as this man pulled out your chair, ordered your favorite pastry before you even had to ask, and placed a gentle, courting hand over yours. You laughed bright and happy leaning into the stranger’s touch.
The dream forced Leone to sit there, invisible and completely forgotten, realizing that by trying to "protect" you from his darkness, he had permanently locked himself out of your warmth. The agonizing grief of being entirely replaced woke him up.
Abbacchio bolts upright, a choked curse leaving his throat as his eyes snap open in the dark. He’s breathing hard, his fists clenched so tightly in the bedsheets that his knuckles turn white.
His chest feels tight, a heavy, hollow ache settling deep in his lungs. The rejection felt so real, the sight of you with someone else so vivid, that he genuinely believes it happened for a horrific moment.
He turns his head slowly, terrified of what he will or won't see.
When his eyes adjust to the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds, he sees the silhouette of your tangled hair on the pillow. You've hogged most of the blanket, as usual, shivering slightly in the cool night air.
The contrast between the cold nightmare and your living, breathing presence makes his throat tight. He lets out a long shaky exhale, rubbing a hand over his face to wipe away the sweat.
He shifts his massive frame closer, practically hovering over you. He doesn't want to wake you because he thinks he'll look pathetic, but he has to touch you.
He gently reaches out, his long fingers tangling into your hair, smoothing it away from your face. His touch is incredibly light, a stark contrast to his usual heavy handed nature.
You shift in your sleep, feeling his warmth, and immediately scoot closer to him, burying your nose into his bare chest and draping an arm over his waist.
Abbacchio freezes, his heart swelling so violently it almost hurts. He wraps his heavy arms around you, locking you against him like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of your shampoo.
"Damn it" he mutters under his breath, a faint, rough chuckle hiding the residual tremor in his voice. He presses a firm, lingering kiss to the top of your head. You're here. You're his. He grips you just a little bit tighter, silently cursing himself for ever letting his mind create a world where he let you go.
Mista’s nightmare was loud and it started with an argument, he was being stubborn, letting his anxieties about the gang life get the better of him. When you tried to talk to him about a future together, he panicked, waving his hands defensively and laughing it off with a sharp, dismissive edge.
"Look, it’s not that serious, alright? We’re just having fun. Don’t read too much into it." He remembered the exact moment your expression shifted from hopeful to entirely closed off.
the dream fast-forwarded. It was a bright Sunday afternoon, and he was walking through the market. He spotted you near a fruit stand, but before he could call out your name, another man stepped up beside you.
This man was carrying a basket filled with traditional gifts fine wines, specific local delicacies the unmistakable signs of an old-school Italian courtship. Mista watched, completely frozen, as you accepted the basket with a soft, appreciative smile, tilting your head up to let this other man kiss your cheek.
The absolute rage and jealousy that flared in Mista's chest was suffocating, but when he tried to draw his stand or his gun to intervene, Sex Pistols refused to come out, squeaking that he had lost his chance. He was entirely powerless, watching you walk away on another man's arm.
Mista wakes up with a violent jerk, nearly kicking the blankets off the bed. He’s tangled in the sheets, his heart drumming a frantic, erratic beat against his ribs. "No, wait-" he blurts out, his voice cracking in the quiet room. He looks around wildly, his eyes darting to the corners of the dark bedroom, his mind still half-convinced he’s standing in that crowded market watching you walk away.
He turns around panting, and his eyes land on you.
You’ve been awoken by his sudden movement. You're blinking up at him, shifting on the mattress, reaching out a sleepy hand to touch his tense arm.
"Mista...?" you mumble, your voice laced with worry. "Hey, what's wrong? Did you have a bad dream?"
Seeing you look at him with nothing but pure concern, no other man in sight completely hurts him. He doesn't say a word. He just lunges forward, collapsing into your space.
He buries his face directly into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around your shoulders so tightly it almost takes your breath away. He’s trembling, his breath hot and fast against your skin.
"Guido, you're shaking," you soften, immediately wrapping your arms around his back, rubbing soothing circles into his spine.
"Don't go anywhere," he mumbles, his voice entirely muffled against your skin, sounding incredibly small. "Just... don't look at anyone else. You're mine, right? Tell me you're mine."
You can’t help but chuckle softly at his sudden clinginess, tightening your grip on him. "Of course I'm yours, you idiot. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Mista lets out a long, shuddering breath, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders as your words sink in. He shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to pepper your face, your jaw, and your lips with dozens of frantic, adoring kisses until you're laughing out loud
He doesn't care how ridiculous he's being he just needs to make sure you know exactly who you belong to.
In the dream, he had tried to act tough and cool, brushing off your affection because the guys were teasing him about being whipped.
When you tried to hold his hand or talk about making things official, he had laughed it off, pulling away and saying something incredibly stupid and careless "Come on, don't be so clingy! We're just hanging out, it's not a big deal." The immediate, quiet drop of your shoulders and the way you looked at the floor made his stomach drop.
Later, Narancia was walking through the crowd, looking for you, when he finally spotted your familiar figure near the fountain. But you weren't waiting for him.
A taller, sophisticated looking man was standing with you, holding a massive, beautifully wrapped basket of traditional sweets and pastries
Narancia watched, his heart breaking into a million pieces, as you accepted the basket with a shy, beautiful blush. He tried to push through the crowd, screaming your name, but the noise of the festival drowned him out, and the people formed an impenetrable wall.
He had to watch you walk away into the colorful lights, completely hand in hand with someone who actually appreciated what they had.
Narancia wakes up with a loud, terrified gasp, kicking his legs wildly against the tangled blankets. "No, wait! Stop!" he cries out into the dark, his eyes wide and brimming with sudden, panicked tears.
He sits up instantly, looking around the room frantically, his chest heaving as his mind scrambles to separate the dream from reality.
He turns over on his side, his breath catching in his throat when he sees you.
You’ve been jolted awake by his loud shout and sudden movements. Blinking sleepily in the dim light, you sit up, rubbing your eyes. "Narancia...? Sweetie, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
The moment he hears your voice sweet, worried, and completely directed at him the dam breaks. Narancia doesn't care about looking cool or tough anymore.
He launches himself across the bed, throwing his arms around your neck and burying his face in your chest. He is sobbing openly, his shoulders shaking violently as he clings to your pajamas like a terrified kid.
"Whoa, hey, I've got you," you soften completely, surprised by the intensity of his grip, immediately wrapping your arms around his back and rocking him gently. "It was just a bad dream, Nara. I'm right here."
"I thought- I thought you left me!" he wails softly, his voice muffled against your neck. "I dreamed I said something really stupid and you went and found some guy who bought you gifts and you smiled at him and you wouldn't look at me anymore! Don't leave me, please! I'm sorry I'm an idiot!"
You can't help but feel a rush of intense affection for him, tightening your hold and smoothing down his messy, sweat-dampened hair. "I'm not going anywhere, you dummy. I don't want anyone else's gifts, and I definitely don't want anyone else. Look at me."
He pulls back just enough to look at you with tear stained cheeks and big, puppy dog eyes. You reach up, wiping his tears away with your thumbs before pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to his lips.
Narancia lets out a long, shaky sniffle, finally calming down as he buries his face back into your neck, refusing to let go of you for the entire rest of the night.
Fugo’s nightmare dug sharp claws directly into his greatest flaw and his deepest fear his own volatile temper. In the dream, you had approached him during a quiet moment, offering a gentle, vulnerable confession of your feelings. Instead of accepting it a sudden, irrational spike of panic and unworthiness flared within him.
He snapped. He remembers the vicious, cutting words that flew from his mouth, the way his voice echoed off the walls as he shouted that he didn't need the distraction, that you were smothering him, and that he wanted nothing to do with you. He watched you shrink back, tears welling in your eyes before you turned and fled.
The nightmare then jumped forward with sickening clarity. He was standing outside a small, sunlit bookstore in the city center. Through the glass, he saw you. You looked happier, calmer, and completely at ease. A man someone stable, gentle, and utterly devoid of the violent cracks that fractured Fugo's psyche was standing beside you.
This man presented you with a bound collection of poetry a thoughtful and classical gesture of courtship. Fugo watched in agonizing, silent fury as you took the book, your eyes lighting up with a brilliant smile as you leaned up to kiss the stranger's cheek.
The realization that his own monstrous temper had permanently driven you into the arms of someone safe paralyzed him. He wanted to smash the glass, to tear the city apart, but he was entirely locked out, forced to watch his own self-destruction play out to the end.
Fugo bolts upright with a sharp, choked gasp, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. He is drenched in a cold, sticky sweat, his fists clenched so hard his fingernails dig painfully into his palms.
For a horrific, disorienting moment, the red-hot anger and profound grief of the dream blur with the darkness of the bedroom, and he feels an overwhelming urge to punch the wall just to ground himself.
a soft sleepy sigh breaks the silence right next to him.
Fugo freezes, his head snapping to the side. The moonlight cuts through the curtains, illuminating your face. You are curled up securely beside him, completely unbothered, deeply asleep, and safe. The sheer momentum of relief hits him like a physical blow, making his throat tight and his eyes sting.
He shudders, closing his eyes tightly as he tries to regulate his ragged breathing, terrified that his chaotic energy will wake you. Slowly, with a level of hesitation that betrays how deeply shaken he is, he reaches out.
His hand trembles slightly as he rests his knuckles against your jawline, letting the steady warmth of your skin melt away the residual ice of the nightmare.
When you stir against his touch, murmuring his name in a soft, completely trusting whisper, Fugo breaks. He shifts closer, sliding his arms around you with a desperate, careful tightness, burying his face directly into your shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into your skin, his voice cracked and raw with an emotion he rarely lets show. "I'm so sorry..."
You don't know what he's apologizing for, but you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
Fugo holds onto you like a drowning man, silently swearing to the universe that he will spend every waking hour mastering his demons just to ensure he never gives you a reason to look elsewhere
Because Giorno prides himself on his absolute composure and strategic mind, his nightmare targeted his internal sense of control. In the dream, he had analyzed his position as the newly crowned Capo of the passion-filled underworld and came to a cold conclusion involving you in his life would inevitably make you a target.
He recalls sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, looking at you with a completely expressionless, stoic facade as he told you that your arrangement was over. He remembers the quiet dignity with which you accepted his decision, refusing to beg as you turned around and walked out of the estate.
Slowly the dream had shifted into a warm sun drenched villa in the countryside months later. Giorno was standing on a distant hill, watching through a pair of binoculars like a common scout. You were in the garden.
A man a civilian with clean hands and a peaceful life was walking alongside you, holding a basket of freshly picked figs and a single, perfect white rose. Giorno watched as you smiled a soft, untroubled smile a look of absolute peace you could never have achieved under the shadow of his criminal empire
The sheer, agonizing weight of his own choice crushed him. He had achieved everything he ever wantedthe throne, the power, the respect but he was entirely alone, looking down at the only person who truly loved him for who he was, completely happy in the arms of a stranger.
Giorno opens his eyes without a sound, but the sheer velocity with which his consciousness snaps back into reality is jarring.
His eyes are wide in the darkness, fixed on the ceiling as his heart beats a frantic, uncharacteristic rhythm against his ribs. His fingers twitch against the silk sheets, his mind racing to process the hollow, freezing void that had just opened up in his chest during the dream.
He doesn't make a sound, but his head turns slowly, toward the other side of the bed.
There you are. You are sleeping peacefully, your face illuminated by the soft, silvery moonlight. One of your hands is resting open on the pillow between you, completely accessible.
Giorno lets out a very slow, very quiet breath through his nose, the icy dread in his veins slowly beginning to thaw, he shifts his body with fluid grace, closing the distance between you until he can feel the ambient heat radiating from your skin.
He reaches out, sliding his long, elegant fingers into yours, interlocking them tightly. He presses his palm flat against yours, as if verifying the physical reality of your presence.
The movement stirs you slightly. You shift, your eyes fluttering open just a fraction, humming a soft, questioning sound when you feel the tight grip on your hand. "Giorno...?"
"Hush, mio cuore" he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety rasp that carries a rare, hidden tremor. "Go back to sleep. Everything is alright."
Instead of letting go, he pulls your intertwined hands up to his lips, pressing a long lingering, and incredibly fervent kiss to the back of your knuckles, then to your wrist, where he can feel the steady reassuring thrum of your pulse.
He shifts even closer draping a heavy protective arm over your waist, anchoring you to his chest. As you drift back into sleep resting your head under his chin
Giorno stares into the shadows of the room, his eyes dark and utterly fiercely resolved. He will protect you from the world, and he will destroy any enemy that comes near you but he will never, under any circumstance, willingly let you go.
