fem!bruno bucciarati x reader x fem!leone abbacchio
SUMMARY: you call your two best friends because you're in need of a girls night out (wc: 1.6k)
cw: mdni, fingering, face sitting, sub!reader
You’ve been locked in your apartment for two whole weeks, ordering take out and scrolling through your phone seeing your ex has gotten back with her boyfriend. It doesn’t make sense to affect you this much, you were only dating for a few months, but she was practically living in your apartment and doing everything together. Seeing her rebuild her life so quickly like you don’t even exist pisses you off, you wanted to see her as heartbroken as you.
It takes you a few moments to decide that you can’t keep rotting in your apartment, being miserable and disgusting. You get up from bed, put your phone to charge and get in the shower. You scrub your body clean, wash your hair and do the whole routine to let you feel yourself clean again. Then you search in your contact list for your best friend, quickly clicking her name.
Bucciarati answers after a few rings, with some noise in the background. “Hi, honey. Is everything okay, we haven’t heard from you in a while?”
You try to hide your sigh, but Bucciarati clocks you so easily to end up spilling everything to her.
“Listen, call Abba and let’s go out, please!” you end up with your monologue. “I need to get out of the house and get drunk with my favorite girls.”
You hear her laugh on the other side of the line. “You know, Abba has been in this whole detox phase,”
“I don't care, Bucci. Tell her to put on that cute dress from last time.”
You hang up the phone with a little smile already tugging at your lips. You take your time getting ready. The shower left your skin soft and warm, so you rub on that vanilla-amber lotion that always makes people lean in closer without realizing why. You pick out the red top that hugs your chest just right and shows a hint of cleavage, paired with a short skirt that swishes when you move. Hair down, a little gloss on your lips and the good perfume on your pulse points. When you check the mirror you feel hot again, like yourself, like someone worth wanting.
Bucciarati texts you the name of the bar and you head out. They’re already there when you walk in. Bucciarati spots you first, her blue eyes lighting up as she waves you over. She’s wearing a fitted white button-up with the top few buttons undone, looking effortlessly elegant like always. Abbacchio sits beside her in a tight black dress that clings to her curves, silver hair loose and a little messy, the way it gets when she’s already had one drink. They both look good enough to stare at.
“Finally,” Bucciarati says, pulling you into a tight hug that lingers. She smells like expensive cologne and citrus. “You look incredible, honey.”
Abbacchio doesn’t say anything at first. She just looks you up and down, slow, then smirks and tugs you down into the booth between them. “Took you long enough to crawl out of your cave. Drink?”
The night slips into an easy rhythm after that. Shots arrive, then cocktails, then more shots. You talk about everything and nothing. Your ex, the way she moved on like it was easy and how lonely your apartment feels now. They listen, lean in close, hands brushing your arms and thighs under the table like it’s the most natural thing. The alcohol warms everything, loosens your tongue and your body.
Bucciarati’s fingers trace little circles on your knee while she laughs at one of your stories. Abbacchio keeps an arm around the back of the booth, her hand eventually resting on your shoulder, playing with the strap of your top. You don’t mind at all, actually, it feels nice.
After a couple hours you’re all buzzed, flushed and laughing too loud. The music gets heavier and you drag them to the dance floor, your bodies press close in the crowd. Bucciarati dances in front of you, hands on your waist, guiding your hips to the beat. Abbacchio comes up behind, chest against your back, her breath warm on your neck as she moves with you. The three of you melt together, touchy and comfortable, the kind of drunk where every graze of skin feels intentional.
At some point you end up back in the booth, squeezed between them again, cheeks hot and head pleasantly spinning. You take another sip of your drink and let the words tumble out.
“God, I haven’t had a good fuck in way too long,” you mutter, sighing. “Like… actually good. I’m so tired of my own hand and shitty memories.”
The words hang there for a second. Then Bucciarati tilts her head, eyes dark and curious. Abbacchio’s smirk turns sharper, interested.
“Is that so?” Bucciarati says softly, her hand sliding higher up your thigh under the table. “We can’t have that, can we?”
Abbacchio leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You should let us fix it then.”
They’re both watching you now, waiting, but not pushing. The heat in their eyes matches the one building low in your stomach. You bite your lip and nod, barely trusting your voice.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I’d like that.”
Bucciarati smiles sweetly, while Abbacchio’s hand squeezes your waist. They take you out of the bar with ease, you’re slightly more drunk than them because you deserve it, and they guide you out of the bar and into a taxi, which takes about ten minutes to get to Bucciarati’s apartment. In the ride, they tease you over your clothes, kissing your neck and collarbone, pinching your nipple and kneading your boobs. Your core just keeps getting wetter, staining your cute red panties.
When all of you arrive at the apartment and click the door shut, you’re covered in Abbacchio’s purple lipstick and high off neediness.
“Oh, you’re a mess,” Abbachio tells you when they pull you to the bedroom, both of them sitting on the edge while you stay up for them to look at you properly.
“Please…” you mutter, breath ragged and mind dizzy.
“Please what?” Bucciarati asks, tilting her head with a little more sweetness on her voice. “Use that pretty voice of yours.”
You bite your lip harder, cheeks burning as both of them stare at you, your voice comes out small and shaky at first. “Please... touch me. I need it so bad.”
Bucciarati’s smile softens. “That’s my good girl,” she whispers, reaching up to brush your hair back from your face. “You did so well tonight, honey. So brave to let us take care of you.”
Abbacchio snorts, leaning back on her elbows with that sharp smirk. “She’s fucking desperate. Bet she’s already soaked just from the cab ride, can’t even wait to get her pussy played with.”
You shiver at her words, heat pooling between your legs even more. Bucciarati shoots her a gentle look. “Abba, be nice. She’s had a rough couple weeks.” But there's no real scolding in her tone, just that soft reminder.
Abbacchio chuckles low, tugging your skirt so you’re closer to her as she runs her hands through your body, squeezing your curves and getting rid of your top. “Yeah, yeah. But she loves it, don’t you, baby? Tell Bucci how wet you get when I call you out.”
You nod quickly, breath catching. “I... I do. I love it.”
Bucciarati lets out a soft laugh and pulls you closer, kissing your forehead before guiding you down onto the bed. “Come here, pretty thing. Let us make you feel better.”
They move you like they’ve done this a hundred times in their heads. Abbacchio pushes your skirt up around your hips and tugs your ruined red panties to the side. Her fingers are cool against your overheated skin as she slides two right along your slick folds, teasing your entrance. “Fuck, you’re dripping. Such a messy whore for us already.”
You moan loud, hips twitching, but Bucciarati is already moving, straddling your face with graceful ease. She hikes up her white button-up and lowers herself down, her warm and wet pussy pressing against your mouth. “That’s it, honey,” she praises, voice like velvet. “Make me feel good while Abba takes care of that needy cunt.”
You nod and start to lick into her eagerly, tasting her sweetness and sucking gently on her clit. She sighs happily above you, rocking her hips slow and steady. “Good girl... you’re doing so good for us.”
At the same time, Abbacchio sinks two fingers deep inside you without warning, curling them hard against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. She pumps them fast, thumb rubbing rough circles over your swollen clit. “Can’t even speak with your face buried in pussy, huh? Bet you’ve been dreaming about this, locked up in your room touching yourself like a sad slut.”
Her words burn in the best way and you moan right into Bucciarati, the vibrations making her gasp softly. Bucciarati reaches down to stroke your hair, gentle even as her thighs tremble around your head. “Easy, Abba. She’s our sweet girl tonight... right, baby?”
They both laugh when you don’t answer, too lost in all the sensations around your body. Abbacchio adds a third finger while Bucciarati grabs your hair so she can ride your face better. The wet sounds of your pussy, your muffled whimpers and Bucciarati’s moans fill the room.
Your hips buck up involuntarily and you whine “You’re close already, aren’t you?” Abbacchio mocks. “Gonna cum all over my hand while you eat Bucci out?”
You moan in response as Bucciarati grinds down firmer, praising you the whole time. “Yeah, honey, c-cum for us like the pretty girl you are.”
The pleasure crashes over you hard, legs shaking as you cry out against Bucciarati’s pussy. Abbacchio doesn’t stop fingering you through it, drawing it out until you’re a trembling mess underneath them. Bucciarati lifts up just enough for you to catch your breath, looking down at your flushed, shiny face with so much affection.
“See? Our beautiful girl,” she whispers, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “We’re not done with you yet.”
