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paterson-blue · 3 years ago

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Gold Rush: Chapter 1

Summary: You and Maurizio have grown up together, sharing a special bond you've never experienced with anyone else. But one night the two of you cross a line; you're not sure how either of you will handle the fall-out.

Word Count: 5,586

Warnings: afab!Reader, domme(ish)!Reader (very light soft!domme), virgin!Maurizio, subby!Maurizio, angst & emotions & smut aka my brand, bashful shy quiet stubborn sweet nerdy freckle faced Maurizio, Reader just wants to have fun like give her a break, complicated feelings abound, alcohol consumption, hook-ups, Reader x Original Male Character (briefly), degradation if you squint, oral sex (f receiving), handjob(s), spit as lube but don't get crazy with it – let me know if I need to add anything else!

A/N: There is some Italian in this fic; however, I have provided in-text translations to make things easier to read. Hopefully it doesn't disrupt the flow for anyone!

Thank you @hedgy-hog for beta-ing this fic for me! I haven't written in a while and I was extra nervous about this one; you helped me so much. Sending you love!

**I feel this goes without saying but: the characters in this story are completely fictional, and are based off the equally fictional characters in the film 'The House of Gucci'. They are not meant to be in any way representational of the real people whose names they share.**

You’d heard through the grapevine that Maurizio Gucci had a crush on you.

It was silly, really—something you’d decided was a ridiculous rumor that would eventually fade. You’d known Mauri since you were both kids, having grown up together. Your family and the Guccis had a relationship that went back generations--intertwining through friendship, business, and even marriage. You figured Mauri’s supposed “crush” on you was concocted by some well-meaning Great-Auntie trying to further the family’s connections through match-making. So, you ignore the gossip until the next get-together, when you greet your childhood friend with a hug and get a stammered-out hello and quick escape in return. Maurizio’s face had been bright red, body stiff against yours; he’d tripped over his big feet as he left. It was uncharacteristic--sure, he was usually quiet, but he was never scared of you. His cousins had laughed, elbowed you; your elder sister just rolled her eyes into her champagne flute.

And you realized maybe the rumor isn’t so silly after all.

It’s funny, really--flattering, yes, of course, but Mauri is possibly the last man you’d think to have a crush on you. Sweet, shy, lovely Maurizio. He was fun to tease, fun to fluster, but you also always enjoyed truly talking with him, hearing his thoughts, listening to him discuss his studies. He was ridiculously intelligent, a softer man than the rest of his family. Rodolfo was far too hard on him, practically abandoning Mauri after his mother passed; his governess, a nice woman named Flora, had raised him to be babied, sheltered. And he was: locked away in that gloomy estate but for family get-togethers. He was a skinny kid with glasses, always touted around a pile of books. When the two of you were younger, you would find a place to hide while the other kids rough housed--you’d pour over intricately illustrated atlases, dreaming of where the two of you would travel once you were all grown up.

But then, the two of you had grown up--you finished school and went into the family business. You managed one of your family’s jewelry stores in Milan while you attended business courses part-time. It was a nice life. You were supported by your family’s money, but you were saving all your income; as soon as you got your degree and earned more experience, you’d move up in the company. The eventual goal was to become at least a little bit more independent, though you knew full independence from your family would never truly exist. It just wasn’t how things were done. For now, you have your job and your studies, and plenty of time for the socializing and courting that your mother required of you.

Maurizio, on the other hand, stayed relatively the same as he was when he was a child. He was a quiet, introverted shut-in ruled by his father’s whims. His father paid for his intense law schooling, for his plush apartment in the heart of Milan, for his Vespa, and all other expenses. Mauri wasn’t much for clubs or parties; he much preferred being all by his lonesome in a library somewhere, sipping espresso while he buried his head in a book. He didn’t date. Ever. The only two times you knew him to take someone out, his father had strictly required a chaperone--and poor, timid Maurizio hadn’t the heart to argue. You’d discovered, at one particularly raucous family event where the cousins had convinced a tipsy Maurizio to play along with their drinking games, that he’d only ever kissed one girl, when he was 18. The only thing that had really changed about your Mauri throughout the years was that he’d finally seemed to fill out to fit his height. He was still clumsy and awkward, but he was no longer stick-thin with coltish limbs--instead, he was built and sturdy. Handsome, though he didn’t know it.

You saw him around town from time to time, ran into one another in cafes and bookstores. The interactions were almost always brief, the two of you usually having somewhere to be--you would both wave, maybe exchange a cheerful greeting, his words always soft spoken. Occasionally he would be more daring, which was always a nice surprise. Often it was in the evening, when he was on the way home from studying, full of espresso and happy to be out in the fresh air--he’d pull aside you on his bicycle, a rosy smile on his face, say: “Buonasera, agnellino. Good evening, little lamb.” It always made you laugh, the teasing nickname. When you were children, you were both so quiet and timid that the adults called you “little lambs.” Now, you were nothing of the sort, but Mauri had clung to the pet name to poke fun at you.

Yes, Maurizio Gucci was possibly your longest lasting friendship. You genuinely liked him, and if you were being honest with yourself, he might be your closest friend--a migliore amico. A best friend. It’s not like you could very well trust those you were usually surrounded by with many serious things. The socialites and party goers were here one day, gone the next--they didn’t understand your commitment to your work and studies. And, likewise, those you met through school and work often did not understand your loyalty to your family and the obligations you had to meet. Maurizio, though--he understood. He always understood. He had never betrayed your confidence in the quarter century you’d known one another. Though the two of you had many differences, your similarities brought you back together time and time again. Shy, sweet, lovely Mauri. Your families would be delighted if the two of you got together--you’re sure Rodolfo would breathe a sigh of relief, relinquish his hold on his late-wife’s wedding ring, and fund the nuptials after the first date.

But Maurizio? Really? You weren’t sure you could imagine him as a boyfriend, much less a husband. Of course, it’s not at all his fault that he didn’t have a man to look up to in his life, unless you counted Aldo--and you were not counting him. He just… he was your sweet, smart but clueless, viso lentigginoso–freckle-faced Maurizio. At this stage in your life, you just weren’t looking for what he could provide. Or, more so, he couldn’t provide what you were looking for. Mauri would be perfect for someone who wanted to settle down, who wanted sweet kisses and gentle lovemaking, who wanted to be a lawyer’s wife and a homemaker. Maurizio would be kind and fair, would be loving and compassionate--of that, you had no doubt. But you were twenty-five; you wanted excitement, adventure, la passione. It wasn’t what Mauri exuded.

His crush would blow over. He would find something else to preoccupy his mind, whether it be some other young woman or simply a particularly interesting novel. You would treat him as if nothing was wrong, as if you hadn’t heard the rumors--or at least, didn’t believe them. Things would go back to normal in no time, and the two of you would continue to grow together. There would be parties, birthdays, weddings, children born--somehow, you have no doubt in your mind that Maurizio would be by your side through it all, and you by his. Migliori amici. Gli agnellini. Best friends. The little lambs.

You should have remembered how good Maurizio is at surprising you.

You didn’t plan it. Really, truly, honestly you didn’t--and maybe it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself, but you didn’t plan it. You really had put Mauri’s silly little crush out of your mind by the time Rodolfo’s birthday came around. Aldo insisted they have a party, and surprisingly, his brother was amenable to the idea. You half expected the get-together to be canceled, but when the day came and plans were still scheduled--well, there was no way you weren’t going. You did enjoy the parties the Gucci family threw despite the inevitable eccentricities and drama that came along. It was guaranteed good food, good gossip, and good wine, no matter the company.

You bring a date--James, a Brit you met at some party. His father owned yachts, or raced yachts, or something to do with yachts. It really didn’t matter. Neither of you were in it for the long haul--he was handsome, funny, rich, and a good fuck. That’s all you wanted, and all he wanted in return. He was elated to go to a Gucci party; you’re sure he’ll brag about it for the rest of his silly little life. It was all the same to you; he left for home in a month. All you wanted was someone on your arm so your mother wouldn’t pester you the entire time about finding a match.

It’s really not your fault that three hours into the night you get bored and drunk and horny. There’s a lull after the excited greetings, the football game, the heavy hors d'oeuvres, the giant cake, the flute after flute after flute of champagne. Later, everyone will catch a second wind--there will be raucous laughter, and music, and dancing, all followed by some sort of argument caused by a snide familial comment. But right now, everyone is sleepy and sated, finishing off stray bites of cake and making idle small talk. James is restless, a hand toying with the hem of your white sundress, inching upwards--you feel like indulging him.

So, you take his hand and make your escape, dragging him from the warm night air into the large mansion, giggling as you trip up the stairs and make your way through the winding halls. You don’t exactly have a destination in mind--you more so just want to find a room far enough away that you surely won’t be disturbed. You find one in the back corner that looks neat and tidy, as if rarely used; a study of some sort. James’ hands find their way under your dress as soon as the door shuts behind the two of you, and soon you find yourself perched upon the mostly empty desk, dress rucked up to your hips. James kisses you greedily, taking from you, and you let him, enjoying the feeling of his body pressed against yours.

His lips trail down your cleavage, and he pauses for just a moment to suck his index and middle fingers into his mouth before dipping his hands back underneath your dress and pushing your panties to the side. The pads of his fingers rub teasing, languid circles over your clit as he nips at the juncture of your jaw and ear. “Why don’t you sit back in that chair and I’ll get you nice and wet for my cock?” He murmurs the words quietly, and you swear you can hear the smirk on his face.

You consider it for just a moment. James wasn’t exactly the best at eating you out, but it did feel nice, even if you didn’t cum. He was attentive–always tried his best. Most importantly, you think you’re wine-drunk and horny enough to really enjoy it, and the thought of his thick cock filling you made heat spread through your body. He wasn’t the best you’ve ever had, but he was pretty damn good. Plus, your mother would be furious if she found out you skipped the party to go fuck your arm-candy-of-the-week upstairs. Una scelta facile–an easy choice, really.

It takes you just moments to get settled in the high-backed chair behind the oak desk, James kneeling in front of you. He grins at you, guiding your legs up and helping you balance one heeled foot on the edge of the desk. The other leg he hooks carefully over his shoulder, turning his head to press kisses to the side of your knee. You hum softly, settling back to watch him. You and James didn’t really have a connection–he was a bit too shallow for anything like that–but at least he actually cared about your pleasure. He takes his time kissing along your thighs, his neatly trimmed beard scratching your soft skin in the best way. Your heeled foot wobbles for better purchase on the wooden surface, but you ignore the tremor in order to keep the fabric of your skirt up and to the side.

You’re so preoccupied that you don’t notice when the door opens, a tall figure stepping into the room. It’s not until James’s face is fully between your legs, sucking a mark onto the fleshy part of your inner thigh, that you toss your head back to let out a moan–and finally see the intruder. You jump a little, startled as you take in the sight of Maurizio, the door closed behind him, his blue eyes trained intensely on the scene before him. James looks up, sees the look on your face, and pulls back, twisting his head around to figure out what’s wrong.

There’s a moment of tense, silent stillness–and then James is standing abruptly, roughly knocking your legs from their position. Your calf slams into the edge of the chair and you yelp, your gaze turning from Mauri so you can glare at James. “Hey, what the hell,” you snap, but you’re ignored.

Instead, James rushes to straighten his clothes and hair, giving Maurizio furtive, panicked glances. “Christ, I’m sorry, I–” words fall from his lips, stammering out apologies towards the Gucci heir and aiming scowls towards you. It finally dawns on you that James is embarrassed. Embarrassed and ashamed to be found out by a Gucci–that you’ve made a fool out of him. You scoff, rolling your eyes as he fiddles with his stupid fake golden cufflinks; you’re not even surprised when he finally bolts, leaving you behind without a second glance as he scurries out the door, head ducked so he won’t meet Maurizio’s eyes.

You don’t move from the chair - just smooth your hands over your dress, the sour feeling of disappointment setting in your stomach. Crossing your arms over your chest, you stare at Mauri, whose cheeks are a precious shade of pink. “You don’t knock?” you ask, tone mocking, annoyed at him for ruining what could have been a fun night.

His eyes narrow, brows furrowing together. “It’s my study.” His voice is clipped–you can tell he’s just as annoyed with you as you are with him. You just huff in response, finally moving to stand. You watch him as you reach up to fluff your hair, making sure it’s not too mussed to pass as presentable. Maurizio’s jaw works under his skin; it’s clear he wants to say something else.

“So?” you gesture at him, exasperated, “Sputalo fuori. Spit it out.”

And oh, does he.

“I’m sick of seeing you with la schifezza like him. Trash.”

“Excuse me?” Your words come out in a laugh, your brows arched up to your hairline. You weren’t expecting him to speak so boldly.

“You’re always with these fucking guys, letting them treat you like shit,” he accuses, before spitting out his next word. “Coglioni. Idiots.”

You roll your eyes, waving your hand as if waving away his words. “Oh, sei uno stronzo, Maurizio. You’re an asshole. You are going to sit here and lecture me about relationships? I don’t think–”

“--I would treat you better,” he interrupts, words urgent, tone hard as steel.

You can’t help but bark out a laugh, incredulous and indignant. “Vaffanculo. Go fuck yourself. You come in here to scold me, acting like you know what’s best for my life? You want to control me, is that it? Did my mother put you up to this?” You pause, looking him up and down, beyond irritated. Perhaps you should be gentler, but you have had enough of people trying to decide how you should live.

Maurizio fidgets, gaze flicking to the chair behind you and back again, and there it is. Your lips curl up into a smirk, and you find yourself going in for the kill. “Oh, is that it? You like what you saw him doing? You want your face between my legs, hmm? Don’t pretend like you know how to be with a woman.” You get silence in response, though the blush creeping up his face gives you enough of an answer. You continue on your tirade, anger taking the reins now that you seem to have the upper hand. “Actually, you know what? Why don’t you treat me better?”

You sit back down in the chair heavily, yanking your dress back up to reveal your panties. You spread your legs as wide as you can, rubbing your palm over your covered cunt–obscene, an act done through sheer liquid courage and bravado.

“Why don’t you come over here, get on your fucking knees and prove it,” you snap at him, but as soon as you’ve said it your ire begins to fizzle out. You know deep down that you’re acting out because you feel betrayed by him. He was the one who was supposed to have your back through everything. He wasn’t supposed to judge you, wasn’t supposed to have expectations of you. He was supposed to be your friend, the same way you were his–and now, you have said things you already regret.

Maurizio stands stiff, jaw clenched, blue eyes fiery in a way you rarely see. He spares a look behind him at the door, and when he turns back to you his expression has loosened, softened. Then, suddenly, he’s striding across the room towards you, stopping short when he’s standing in front of your chair. You glare up at him, ready for any venom he spouts your way, ready for the consequences of your actions—but then he’s catching you off guard, sinking to his knees before you. Your eyebrows arch, and you start to sit up, protesting even as something dangerous stirs in your stomach. “Mau— “

“No,” he interrupts, his tone stern despite the nervous tremor in his voice. “You want me to prove it, and I will.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded, completely unprepared for this turn of events. One of his giant hands curls around your ankle, guiding your leg up; all you can do is watch as his thick fingers trace around the bottom of your shoe, pulling the heel off and setting it gently to the side. He moves to do the same thing with the other one, and you notice the way his hands shake. It snaps you out of your reverie, and you straighten up in your seat. “Maurizio.” You say, tone gentle. He ignores you in favor of pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your foot before lowering it back to the floor; the touch of his lips on your skin sends a jolt through your entire body.

You think you’re going to have to take more drastic measures to garner his attention but finally he sighs, looking up at your face though not quite being able to meet your gaze. “Do you not want me to?” he asks quietly, his previous anger gone from his voice.

The question should make you pause. You know what he’s really asking: do you not want me? You should say no, because you don’t, not really–not because it's him, but because you don’t want a relationship with anyone right now. And you aren’t sure he’s the type for hookups. He’s your best friend, maybe the only person in the world who understands you. He should be off limits, and yet– “Yes,” you say firmly, surprising yourself. “Yes, I want you to. But I don’t think you–”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, his deep blue eyes finally meeting yours. “I am just as much a man as he is.”

You cannot argue. You want his mouth on you, as inexperienced as it is. Perhaps that just adds to the appeal of it all, knowing you were taking a part of him, knowing he was giving a part of himself away. And he’s right, he is a man; he can make his own decisions.

So, you bring one of your legs up, bracing your foot against the edge of the desk in front of you, finding a better position than you had in your heels. Maurizio’s breath hitches in his throat; you have a feeling that, despite his words, he still hadn’t expected you to say yes. His hands are warm when they guide your other foot against the desk as well, trapping himself between your legs. You scoot forward towards the end of the chair, giving him easier access; he licks over his lips, palms slip-sliding over your soft inner thighs until his thumbs can brush lightly over the lace that covers your pussy. The sensation makes you shiver–makes your cunt clench in anticipation. But Mauri suddenly seems frozen in place like a deer in headlights. You reach out to touch his cheek, smoothing the pad of your thumb over his sharp cheekbone. “Don’t be nervous, Maurizio. É solo en bacio. It is only a kiss.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, before finally leaning down to press his face between your thighs–and then promptly pulls back when the frames of his glasses smash into your skin. He comes up with a scarlet blush on his cheeks, glasses crooked on his face and smushed into his nose. He stutters out an apology, and you can tell the brief surge of confidence he’d just had has disappeared. You smile at him, reaching up to slip the frames off of his face before handing them to him. He places them on the desktop behind, and you notice how the tips of his ears are all pink.

“Solo en bacio,” you remind him, and he nods, allowing his hands to brush back up your inner thighs, spreading your legs even more for him to press his face back between them. You can tell he’s still nervous, but he takes your words to heart and presses a gentle kiss right in the center of your lace panties, the tip of his nose brushing above your clit. The shaky breath he lets out heats your skin, and suddenly he’s tightening his grip on your thighs and inhaling, letting out a broken sounding moan. A curse falls from his lips, lost between your legs, and then his big thumbs are–slowly–spreading you open, tugging your underwear to the side as well.

He’s quiet for a moment, just looking at your cunt; it makes you want to squirm, feeling like a bug under a microscope. But you force yourself to stay still, to let him look–you know what he’s seeing. You can feel how fucking wet you are already, though you aren’t sure if it’s from James’ earlier ministrations, from fighting with Maurizio, or from the anticipation of his mouth on you. For all you knew, it was all three.

Finally, he presses a kiss to your bare cunt–and then another, and another. They’re all chaste, but then he licks his lips to get more of your taste, and something must click. Because, suddenly, he seems to have a greater sense of urgency, his kisses sloppier and more eager, tongue sweeping through your folds like he can’t get enough. He’s so different from James--softer, but not in a bad way. He has no beard to scratch at your skin, and his hair is silky smooth where it tickles at your thighs. Maurizio has no finesse, but he’s thorough. He drinks in your cunt like it’s the finest wine, lapping and sucking noisily, rubbing his nose through your slick like he wishes to be drenched in you.

Christ, it makes you fucking dizzy.

He licks over your clit a couple times, clearly by accident, but it still makes you gasp, still makes you clench your thighs around his ears. The next time he does it, your hand flies to his head, burying your fingers in his long hair, aiming to hold him exactly where you need him–but then he’s pulling away, earning himself a noise of frustration from you. Maurizio turns his blue-eyed gaze to your face, his mouth and chin all shiny.

“Has he made you cum like this?” he asks as he looks up at you, eyes blown black with arousal. You think about lying, but decide against it. Instead, you run your fingers through his honey brown hair, the touch gentle, affectionate. You shake your head no; Maurizio’s grip on your thigh tightens so much you think he’ll leave bruises. Somehow, you don’t mind the idea.

“Show me,” he pleads, eyes searching yours. “Show me what to do. Voglio che tu venire. I want you to cum.” His voice is raspy and desperate, and makes a shiver go down your spine.

“Let me see your hand,” you say, trying to ignore the tremor in your voice. He obeys immediately, and you delight in how big his eyes get when you take his thumb into your mouth. You suck, and he whimpers, shifting on his knees; you try not to think about his cock all nice and hard in his charcoal grey trousers. When you determine you’ve gotten the digit sufficiently wet, you guide it down between your legs, pressing it against your clit. “Do you feel that?” The question comes out strained, the mere pressure enough to make you throb.

Maurizio nods, obviously catching on to your minute reactions; he always was a smart boy. He rubs over your clit gently, watching you intently; when you sigh and relax back into the chair, he puts a bit more rhythm into his movements. You watch him with half lidded eyes, biting down on your bottom lip before speaking. “S-sentirsi bene, Mau. Feels good. You can–you can kiss it, too.”

He does, his plush lips caressing your clit gently, giving it soft little kitten licks. It’s teasing in a way you know he doesn’t mean to be, and it makes you squirm, your hips wriggling against his face. Eventually you can’t take it anymore. “Smettila di essere così gentile. Stop being so polite.”

He chuckles against you, the sound quiet and familiar. There’s a pause, and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks–still gentle, but with far more pressure and intent than before. You cry out, clutching at his hair and shoulders, bucking your hips against his face, and it’s like he knows exactly what to do. He sucks and laps at your swollen clit, using the fat pad of his thumb to rub at the little nub as his tongue gets tired, kissing your cunt and thighs all the while. And when–to your own great surprise–you actually cum against his mouth, you think you’ve never been so thankful that he’s such a quick study.

“Maurizio,” you cry, neck arched back, thighs trembling where they've sagged against his broad shoulders. “Maurizio,” you sigh, coming down from your high, heart racing in your chest and fingers brushing through his hair. “Maurizio,” you whisper, watching him sit back on his heels, trailing his lips over your bare skin as he returns your legs and dress back to their proper positions. He’s flushed, hair in disarray; he licks over his plush pink lips, eyes dark as they trail up your body to your face. The two of you stare at one another in silence, unsure of what to say, of what to do.

–Until you straighten up, still a little breathless. “Get up.” It’s an order, one he scrambles to obey. Standing before you, his cock is placed right in front of your face, the bulge in his slacks absolutely indecent. He seems to notice, because he takes a step back, and promptly bumps into the edge of the desk. It knocks him off balance, and he sits back on it, eyes guarded as he watches you stand and press closer to him.

“Do you–” you start, settling your hand on one of his massive thighs. He only seems to understand what you’re asking when you slide your palm upwards, skirting past his cock to settle on the buckle of his belt. His gaze flies up to your face, and his hand quickly covers yours, stopping your movements. You freeze, and consider pulling away from him, but he holds you there as if trying to decide what exactly he wants.

“... No one’s ever touched me,” he finally says, and you can tell by his quiet tone that it’s a vulnerable admission.

“I know,” you say, because you do know. You know, and still you offer. It is his decision.

A beat, and then he nods, removing his hand from yours in order to brace himself against the face of the desk. You make quick work of his belt and zip, pulling his cock out with practiced ease. Maurizio hisses at your simple touch, and you know this will be over fast. His cock is the perfect size–not too big or too thick, but enough so that you know it would feel fucking incredible inside you. You flush at the thought, and try to shove the vision out of your mind. This was a one-time thing, you and Mauri. Nothing more.

He’s wet, precum dribbling steadily from the head; you have the sudden urge to taste him–instead, you spit into your hand before wrapping it more firmly around his cock. Maurizio lets out a strangled noise, hips jerking upwards frantically. You decide to take pity on him, not wasting any time as you start to jerk his cock, being sure to play with his foreskin, rubbing your thumb against his tip. You employ every little trick in the book, trying to figure out what he likes best.

It doesn’t really seem to matter; every little thing you do makes him shake, makes him moan. He hitches out your name urgently, and when you look up at him, he has tears in his eyes. You frown, slowing your movements, and Maurizio shakes his head frantically, reaching for you to pull you closer. “No. No, no, non fermarti. Oh Cristo, don’t stop, per favore.” He fumbles for your face with the hand that doesn’t currently have a death grip on the edge of the table, cradling your cheek in his palm as he struggles to calm his breathing.

You speed back up, preening at the way he’s begging for it, begging for you. “Si sente bene, Mauri? Does it feel good?”

He heaves in a breath, but chokes on whatever words he’s going to say; he nods his head quickly instead, not looking away from your face. His expression is twisted–part in pleasure, part in something that looks like trepidation, almost as if he fears his own release. You pull back his foreskin to rub at his frenulum, something that makes him let out a guttural-sounding sob, the look in his eyes frantic.

“Lascialo andare. Let go, Mau,” you tell him, wanting to keep your tone warm and reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

He whines, leaning in to press your foreheads together, his long nose nudging against yours. It’s intimate, tender–almost too much so. With anyone else you would pull away to put some distance between the two of you, but not with him. You both stay like that for what feels like a while, but is likely only a handful of seconds before his hand on your cheek is moving to curl around the back of your neck, holding onto you as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth. He says your name under his breath before pulling back to stare at you, eyes frantic. “Mi stai facendo venire,” he pants out, an astonished expression on his face, as if he’s surprised. “You’re going to make me cum.”

He goes silent when he orgasms, as if all the breath has been sucked from his lungs, hips jerking into your hand as he makes a mess all over your skin and his nice trousers. His hands clutch at you, clinging desperately as his body shakes. You settle your free hand on the back of his neck, mirroring him, brushing your thumb over his skin to soothe him. You stop stroking his cock when he starts choking out pained grunts, instead resting your messy palm on the desktop; you refuse to move in any other way, not wanting to jostle him as he drops his face into the crook of your neck.

Somehow, his clinginess doesn’t bother you or make you uncomfortable the way it normally would. You want to be here for him; you want him to have the time he needs to get his breathing under control, to let his head stop spinning. Your fingers move from his neck into his hair, massaging the bottom of his skull gently; Maurizio groans all low and quiet into your skin. You smile a little. “Are you alive?”

He nods, and there’s a pause before he finally sits back up to look at you. His expression is unreadable, but not because it’s closed off; instead, it seems to be full of too many emotions to decipher. Slowly, the two of you part–you each find tissues to use to tidy up at least enough to escape to a bathroom. Soon you’re both halfway presentable, hair smoothed back into place, undergarments straightened, clothing properly adjusted. You finally speak as you hand him his glasses, watching him set them on the bridge of his nose. “We’re okay, right?”

He nods with no hesitation, and it comforts you just a little. “We’re okay, Angellino.”

You choose to believe him.

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#maurizio gucci x afab!reader #maurizio gucci fic #adcu fic #maurizio gucci x reader #tori writes #afab!reader x omc #citrus scale: lemon #feedback always welcome & appreciated!#cw: light domme/sub #cw: light soft!domme

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