JJBA Imagines

Mista: Sex Pistols

Hey y'all sorry my chapters have been kinda short lately. Writing has been extra hard recently. This one is for @KillerQueenDuck thank your for requesting I really appreciate it. It feels good to know that some one likes my writing enough to request :) I hope I lived up to what you were expecting.
Warning: none

Sex Pistols shrill whines never came as a surprise to you. At least, not anymore. More than twice a week you'd get a surprise visit from Mista's stand, usually begging you to feed them or give them tiny kisses.

You listened as the sound got closer, echoing through the hallways. Sex Pistols called your name again, drawing it out, stretching it to its entirety. They sounded like a heard of cicadas as they hopped up and down the hall. Heavy footsteps trailed close behind them, shuffling quickly. After all your time in Passione, you could easily recognize the sound of Mista's hard-soled, leather boots along the wood floors. The footsteps continue to scuffle closer as do the Pistols high pitched squeals. You look to the door and see Mista peek his head in. Sex Pistols is jumping at his feet, their eyes wide with excitement. Mista however, had a deep scowl plastered on his face. Dark eyebrows furrowed, arms crossed, hat tucked low over his face.

"They were begging to see you," he gestured carelessly to Pistols as they floated onto your lap, "they wouldn't shut up about it," he huffed, leaning against the doorway.

The corners of your lips perked up as they began to climb over you. You and Sex Pistols had developed a special bond over the years. Being Mista's best friend meant you saw them quite often. If Mista wasn't giving them the attention they craved, they came to you. They knew they could play on the soft spot you had for them, and they took full advantage of it. You didn't mind, of course. You felt it was a way to get closer to Mista.

"Did he feed you today?" You wondered, scooping up Five in your soft palm.

"Mm-mm," he shook his head shyly with each syllable. You looked to Mista, giving him a disapproving shake of your head. He just rolled his eyes in return. You placed your hand in your lap, allowing the rest of Pistols to climb on. Placing your other hand firmly on the bed and swinging your legs over the edge, you pushed yourself up from your bed.

"Let's get you guys some food," you said. Your legs carried you to the kitchen, down the quiet hallways of Passione HQ. Rounding the corner, you entered the kitchen. The warm glow of the sunset cast an orange creamsicle light into the kitchen. Mista entered behind you, arms still crossed over his chest. Pistols hopped from your hand to the table while you walked to the fridge opening it. You searched through the piles of produce and leftovers before finding the roll of salami in one of the drawers. The wax paper crinkled between your fingers. You reached for a knife from the countertop. Going back to the square, wooden table that was pressed against the wall, you took a seat in the chair next to the window; a perfect view of the Italy cityscape.

Sex Pistols cheered as you unwrapped the salami. You giggled as they cheered your name and began slicing the meat into thin rounds.

Mista sat in the chair across from you looking eager to get this over with as he leaned back into the chair, his legs stretching out under the table. Mista didn't enjoy it when you kept Sex Pistols company. He himself didn't fully understand why. He just knew it took time away from you keeping him company. It seemed like every time Sex Pistols was around you, Mista got put on the back burner. But still, when you asked to see them, he obliged against the pang in his stomach because he knew it made you happy.

He watched as you fed Pistols the sliced salami. They devoured it, thanking you profusely. They adored you and so did Mista. That's why he found it so hard to watch you give your attention to someone else. Even if it happened to be his own stand.

Once Pistols were full you set the knife down. A few half-eaten pieces of salami remained on the wax paper as Pistols sprawled out on the table, their tiny guts puffed up from overindulging. They seemed to be entering a food coma; their bubbling energy now turned down to a low rumble. Five looked up at you with doe-eyes, "Can I lay on your shoulder, Y/n?" He wondered.

"Of course," you gushed. He smiled. "Come on," you beckoned, "the rest of you too." Five happily floated up to your shoulder, wrapping himself in the locks of your hair as if it was a blanket, One and Three made themselves comfortable on your other shoulder, Two and Six remained comfortably in your palm, and Seven plopped down atop your head. They each placed a tiny kiss on your skin and then spoke, "We love you, Y/n."

You giggled, admiring their small voices. "I love you, little guys, too," you cooed as their eyes became sleepy.

Mista was over it. He'd seen enough of you gushing over them, feeding them, giving them all your attention for the past 45 minutes. He realized now, as the thoughts flooded his mind, that he was jealous. And it only made him more annoyed. It happened more than when you were with Pistols, he realized. He hated the pit in his stomach he got when he saw you talking with another person; laughing with them, placing a hand gently on their forearm, leaning into the sound of their voice. He wanted that right reserved for him and him alone, "Ok that's enough for today," he grumbled as he summons Sex Pistols back to him. The seat is pushed out from under him as he stands abruptly.

Your eyes widen slightly at the sudden loss of contact with the tiny stands. Mista had already begun to stalk out of the room.

"Mista wait," you called, "what's wrong?" You clasped his wrist, stopping him in the middle of the hallway.

"Nothing," he brushed you off, pulling his wrist back towards his torso.

"Come on, don't be like that. I know when something is up," you egged.

He sighed, "You take such good care of them."

"Pistols?"

He nodded avoiding your gaze. "Sometimes I wish you'd take care of me like that," he said like he was confessing a dark secret to you.

Your lips parted, not sure of what he was saying. You'd never seen Mista this serious and it caught you off guard. You responded carefully. "I'm your friend, Mista. I'll always care for you," you assured, grabbing his hand, intertwining your fingers together. His hands were rough and calloused from handling his pistol. It was like feeling the cracked soil in an empty desert.

"I know," he starts, gripping your hand tighter, "but I mean more than that." He cast his eyes down, afraid to look at you, afraid of what you would say.

But you were oblivious and Mista basked in your innocence. "What are you saying?" You stuttered.

He sighed, feeling like he was getting nowhere. "Nothing. Never mind," he deflects. He untangles your fingers, trying to walk away. But you wouldn't let him get away so easily.

"Please, Mista," you begged, "I want to understand."

He turns to look at you and a surge of warmth runs through him. He can't help his actions anymore. Not in times like this; when you've grasped his arm, holding him so he won't leave. When you give him your puppy dog eyes, trying to coax his feelings out. He's clay in your hands now, soft and ready to be shaped at your will. And so, he begins to melt into you. Hands cupping your face, feeling your soft cheeks. Your breath hitched as he leaned close, his breath grazing your skin. Your eyes fluttered shut, letting him pull you into him. And then his lips were on yours in a tender kiss. Instinctively you wrapped your arms around his neck, so your bodies were flush. You were sure he could feel your pounding heartbeat against his chest. He slid his tongue over your bottom lip begging to explore your mouth deeper. You let him, parting your lips enough for him to slip his tongue in. Your lips moved in sync, fiercely trying to take in as much of each other as possible. A gasp escaped your lips as he broke the kiss and nipped at your neck, placing soft kisses along your jaw. His lips pecked yours one last time before pulling away and gazing into your eyes.

Words were jumbled in your head, unable to form in your mouth. You were speechless but you managed to get one sentence out as Mista tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Oh, that's what you meant."