Work Text:
At three AM, the urge to piss forced Leone out of bed. Almost too sleepy to aim correctly, a mellifluous hum stirred him, stupefied, away from bed and downstairs.
There, in the kitchen, stood “the source” in nothing but lace knickers and a white singlet that rode up his minuscule waist, illuminated by the light above the stove—a scene worthy of Vermeer’s hand.
Seeing as his mouth hung agape, Bruno, smiling coyly, held out a forkful of fettuccine. “Want some?”
Leone felt all his blood had gone to his feet—in fact, it had stopped slightly short of them.
