Mista x Gender Neutral reader who struggles getting into pants because of their hips. Or maybe, an affectionate stand! x Bruno which is basically someone's stand that their Escorting takes a liking to Bruno.
In Dumb Love (Mista x Gender Neutral! Reader [Fluff/Request])
Hey, Anon!! If you are still here, I am so sorry this took so long to be made!! I also apologize if this is offensive in anyway TT I’m very awkward with these kinds of situations, so writing dialogue was a bit difficult :,)
This is also a shorter fic!! So I hope you don’t mind 🥺 thank you for the request nonetheless, Anon!!
Content Warning: Brief mention of gun usage at the end!
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“Oi, what’s wrong? You’ve been staring at the mirror for a while now.”
You stay staring at yourself in the mirror, eyes focusing on the pants that just seemed to hate having to travel over your hips.
They were uncomfortable as hell. Too tight around the back of your knees, and too restrictive at the hip area.
Whenever you unbuttoned these pants after a particularly long day, it felt like heaven.
You frown, having liked the way they looked on you then, despite the discomfort they caused you.
Last time you wore them, they were a lot less difficult.
“My jeans don’t fit well anymore,” a sigh exits your lips, and you grip at your thighs beneath the denim fabric.
Mista senses that you’re about to say something rude about yourself, so before you can open your mouth, he spins you around, hands traveling to your waist.
You gasp at the contact, Mista grinning at your reaction before blurting out a “let’s buy new ones then!”
A blush travels to your face at your boyfriends actions, causing his smirk to grow.
He sighs, “hey, it won’t hurt will it?”
You flush at his words, scolding the male lightly, “Your wallet will hurt. You always buy the fancy stuff even when I tell you to save money for the Sex Pistols lunches!”
“You are my top priority! You always are. Plus, those pants aren’t doing your form justice! No clothes can I think.” Mistas fingertips drum on the curve of your hips.
You click your tongue, “these jeans used to look great on me, you know. My hips just get in the way now.”
“Hey, nothing wrong with a few changes. I dig it, personally.” Mista presses his forehead against yours, noses touching.
“I just hope you aren’t thinking of yourself badly... your value shouldn’t rely on your appearance.” One of Mista’s hands make their way up to your scalp to give it a light rub before traveling back down to your waist.
“Sooo....” his fingers hoop at the hem of your pants. You snort, playfully slapping his shoulder as you pulled away.
“Idiot. Fine. Just tell the Sex Pistols I’m sorry they’re missing out on Ciambelle.” You can already imagine the whines that are about rip through the base when the Sex Pistols find out that Mista hasn’t brought them home snacks.
When he replies with a “they don’t mind, Tesoro,” you giggle knowing that he’s lying.
Mista finds your laugh contagious, a shy smile making its way up to his face.
He’d endure the whines of Number 5 just to hear your laugh again. Hell, he’d even accept Abbacchio’s threats against his whining stand.
Mista just thinks in that moment of lightness how much in dumb love he is.
You peck him on the nose before declaring that you were going to find another pair of pants to wear, heading off into the bathroom.
In the meanwhile, Mista inspects the jeans, wondering how he’ll be able to up-cycle it.
He notices the branding, the font implying that it was from a higher end line.
What catches his eye the most however, is the number 4 embroidered on the tag. Without missing a beat, he points his revolver at the piece of clothing.
You decide not to question the situation once you exit the bathroom, but you know you have some explaining to do to Bucciarati on why there were three holes burning through his expensive floorboards.