Guido Mista : Strawberry Cake

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I love Mista at the moment, the Bullets are so cute. This is more fluffy than anything, enjoy!

"Hey, Babe." Looking up, you could have screamed. Blood was actually seeping through the makeshift bandage on his belly.
"Guido Mista, what the fuck is that?!"
"It's a gunshot wound, I accidentally poked it in the van, so I tried to clean it up in the bathroom."
"You're bleeding all over the place, fucking Christ Guido, hold on." The young man did as he was told, chuckling as you fretted over him. Rushing back with a basin of mildly soapy water, you pressed a fresh tea-towel over it to stop the bleeding. The multi-patterened male pulled away, hissing at the pressure you were putting on his gunshot wound from Sale. "What the fuck were you doing to get this?" you stammered, voice wavering. He gazed down at you, wiping a tear from your eye since you were struggling to hold them back.
"Y/N, there's no need to cry," he replied sheepishly. "I'm alright."
Throwing that wobbly smile towards you as you moaned at him for presenting himself to you battered and bruised like this... It reminded you of the days he spent sleeping on the streets, before his imprisonment for murder.
"I thought you were past fighting people." Your words cut him deeper than the hole in his abdomen. You knew he worked under Bucciarati, who was well known to be part of the mafia, but he daren't tell you of the horrors he had to deal with. Fighting Stand Users and the like. Though he wasn't beating up passerbys for money anymore or getting into street scuffles, it still upset you when he came up battered like the old days.
Also, the capo Bucciarati knew you well, since he had stood up for you whilst you took abuse from the restaurant's previous owner, from being a young teenager. The previous owner was an evil man, motivated solely by money and greed, only holding Bucciarati in a higher stead simply because of his link to the mafia. Soon, enough was enough and he used his gang's influence to run the owner out of town, instead offering you the chance to manage the business yourself. By that time, you were already seeing Mista.
The pair of you had been together over a year by now, sticking by one another during Mista's prison time. You were eternally grateful to Bruno for his good heart, happy to see him frequently in your Italian eatery.
"Sometimes, you gotta fight bad people, Babe." Patting a bandage down and sticking it clean on, Mista thanked you for patching him up. 
"You don't have to almost get yourself killed though!" Staring up from between his long legs, it was difficult to remain angry at that handsome face. His black eyes consoled you through thick eyelashes as he reminded you how he couldn't afford to die because he loved you so much. Returning to your normal height, you continued to scold him from the kitchen as you left the dirty basin in the sink, along with the tea towel. Whilst you tidied up your mess, he took a seat at the table, claiming the space he wanted before anybody else turned up. Mista cheekily smiled as you came back, allowing you to potter about like you were doing before.
"Oh, by the way, are the others coming by today?" Relaxing in the chair, he glanced up at you before returning to a magazine he found on the table. After their missions, the gang usually used your function room to talk without being disturbed.   

Suddenly, you gasped, running back into the kitchen. Alarmed, Mista stood up, about to give chase when you called through.
"Don't move, I just forgot something!" Shadowy eyes scanning the kitchen door, they grew when they saw the delicious strawberry cake in your hands. "I baked this specially for the Pistols today!" The Italian's confusion was soon to be broken with the voices of your six little babies on the table. Scooping them up with a squeal, you kissed each and every one of them, letting them bask in your affection whilst Mista looked on, lowkey jealous he wasn't receiving the goods, considering he nearly fucking died! "Oh, my loves, I've missed you so much! You better not be bullying Number Five still, Number Three." Singing praises to the tiny, steel mites, they excitedly expressed their enjoyment to being cradled in your hands, savouring the touch of your soft skin. Setting them down on a large plate, they impatiently waited for their tasty treat, initially fighting over it. You sat down beside your partner and he rested on his elbows, supervising them as you cut some cake. Breaking up spongy pieces of it, you fed it to them, a smile gracing your face as they licked the cream off your fingertips, too.
"Number Three, don't fight, there's some for all of you," he told them, heart melting to see them munching so graciously. When you treated them like children, since they were a part of him, Mista felt a flutter in his heart, exaggerated by your coos to their cries for more grub.

"Buongiorno, Y/N." Turning to the voice, you noticed Bucciarati peering round the door.
"Ciao! You're back! Come and have some cake! Well, that's if the Pistols don't eat it all." They had returned from the marina earlier that morning, preparing to hand over Polpo's hidden treasure later that day. Filing in and sitting at the table, strawberry cake always went down a treat with the guys. You saw it as the least you could do along with offering a private space for them to talk in your restaurant after Bucciarati helped your boyfriend get back on his feet and better.
"Grazie, you always spoil us," the capo thanked, bowing his head.
"Bucciarati, please. It's the least I can do," leaning towards Sex Pistols noshing on cake, you closed your eyes gratefully. "Especially you guys, for keeping Guido safe, huh?" A frosting of blush decorated Mista's cheeks, his Stand's reaction to you always giving him this fuzzy feeling inside he didn't quite understand.
For the hour they sat there, taking a break before their next mission, Guido's eyes were glued to the miniscule, content faces of the steel bullets, snuggled in between your fingers as you spoke with the other members.

It was crazy, but maybe there was something they loved more than food and fighting after all.

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