Basically what the title says! Oneshots are multifandom and not spoiler-free. I may also post OC content sometimes.
List of fandoms that have appeared so far:
- Bungou Stray Dogs
- Boku no Hero Academia
- Hamlet
- PJO/HOO
- Haikyuu!!
- Mo Dao Zu Shi...
I'm highkey on a JJBA streak rn (while writing this I'm also trying to finish up another oneshot, and thinking about yet another one. Send help??), I hope nobody minds :'3
So anyway...
I completed BruAbba Week 2020 Day 4 by accident??
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Idk if this is a small- or galaxy-brained moment, but I literally got the idea for this and wrote it all last night from 1-5 AM, in bed, while trying not to wake 2 other people sleeping in the same room. I'm ?????
But at the same time I'm glad it's finished :'D
Prompt 15: "Let's get this over with."(I didn't write this out word for word in the oneshot, but the gist of it is there. It was kinda hard to choose a prompt that would fit my idea :P Usually I choose the prompt first, then think of the scenario.)
Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Pairing(s): BruAbba (Bruno Bucciarati/Leone Abbacchio)(stg I'm in BruAbba hell rn, I haven't even finished Part 5 and yet here I am writing oneshots for them 😭😭)
Tags & warnings: language, depression, character study (?), hurt/comfort
** This doesn't contain any plot spoilers for JJBA Part 5! **
Aw man that is the l o n g e s t intro ever, here we go 👇👇
✁ — — —
10:00.
10:02.
10:20.
Abbacchio sighs as he picks up his phone once again. On the screen, three texts from Bucciarati he's been busy pretending like he hasn't already read.
B 💙 good morning ❤️
B 💙 you better be up
B 💙 i'll be there @ 10:30 ish
He sent those a little bit after 10, so Abbacchio has no doubt that Bucciarati is well on his way, and could be arriving in ten minutes. The ten minutes that will definitely not be enough for him to get up, get dressed and get ready. And yet, Abbacchio finds himself sinking deeper into his bed, eyes closing and the terrible feeling inside his core growing with each passing second.
Let's just cancel for today.
You hey
B 💙 yeah?
Fuck. He can't. He's agreed to this, and Bucciarati is already on his way. Abbacchio can't just type up some bullshit excuse to bail himself out last-minute. It's just brunch. He isn't hungry, but it's just brunch, and he can't bear to think that Bucciarati would have to show up just to leave again.
It's fine. He'll go. Get it over with.
You sorry i overslept i'll be ready in 10
10:27. It takes an unbelievable amount of convincing for Abbacchio to finally sit up, then swing his legs off of the bed. He sucks in a breath — as if he hasn't been lying there motionlessly for long enough — before pushing himself up and shuffling into the bathroom. He pees, then washes his hands and puts his hair up. Everything feels heavy. There are too many things to do, yet he doesn't want to do any of them, and it's already 10:28. I can't. Abbacchio brushes his teeth and washes his face, then dries it and puts his usual skincare on. He avoids his own eyes in the mirror as much as possible.
He checks the time. 10:34. Bucciarati's late. Abbacchio clicks on the weather: cold, with the sun coming out in the afternoon. He walks over to the closet.
Abbacchio glances through his shirts and jackets, then opens a drawer. He doesn't know what to wear. Everything either looks terrible, or is something he has worn too many times. His eyes are fixed on clothes but his mind isn't really there, isn't really anywhere except for the hollow in his stomach, the empty that goes all the way down to the soles of his feet, nails him to the floor, sans breath, sans thought, sans motion. He just wants to stay like that.
Abbacchio's phone buzzes on top of the dresser.
B 💙 i'm outside
B 💙 you wanna come down?
Fuck this shit. He gets angry at Bucciarati, then angry at himself for getting angry at Bucciarati, then angry at nothing at all and everything in general. Abbacchio ignores the texts and goes inside the bathroom again. He runs his fingers through his hair — disgusting. He felt like shit yesterday, so he didn't wash it, and he told himself he'd wash it next morning, but he feels like shit next morning too and now his hair's unwashed. I hate this. I hate myself. Where's the dry shampoo? His phone rings, and Abbachio storms out to answer it with what he immediately realizes is very poorly controlled anger:
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me." If his boyfriend picked up on that, he didn't let it show. "Did you see my text?"
"N— uuh, yeah. Yeah." Abbacchio can't bring himself to lie. "Sorry, I was in the bathroom."
"'S okay." Bucciarati's voice sounds sincere. "Are you almost ready?"
Abbacchio eyes the bathroom, remembering that his dry shampoo is probably in the second sink drawer. "Uh, yeah. Gimme two minutes."
"'Kay. Take your time." A pause. "Leone?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. See you in a bit?"
"Mm-hm. Love you."
"Love you too." This he means. Abbacchio walks back into the bathroom and dry shampoos his hair haphazardly, before heading out to tackle the closet again. He still doesn't feel like changing into anything, but he doesn't want Bucciarati to have to wait any longer, so Abbacchio pulls on a pair of jeans and a random hoodie he knows will have to match. He grabs a beanie to cover up the mess on his head, and in a split-second of resigned spontaneity, slides his most versatile jacket off its hanger. They all fit weird. Fuck it, he thinks as he jogs downstairs and shoves his feet into a generic pair of white shoes, grunting slightly since both of them are still tied. Stumbling out of the house at last, Abbacchio ducks into the passenger's seat of Bucciarati's car, quietly sighing as he sinks into the soft leather:
"Thanks for waiting."
"No problem." He can feel his boyfriend's eyes on him, but Abbacchio doesn't move. "Where should we go today?"
"Wherever you want." I don't have an appetite anyway. Bucciarati hums a reply, before turning around and taking the familiar road to Libeccio. He drives in silence, not too slow but not too fast, taking in the pleasant scenery of a Sunday morning in Naples. Or so Abbacchio assumes, until he feels a warm, gentle touch on the fist his left hand has unknowingly made.
There are no probing questions. No painful answers. Not even an emotion-ridden look, when Abbacchio turns around to stare at Bucciarati. But in that hand, which moves to fit his when he finally unravels his fist, and squeezes back ever so steadily when he squeezes it, Abbacchio knows that he is loved, and that he is understood. He still feels rotten inside, so he looks away, of course — but having Bucciarati here does make the passing time a little bit more bearable.
