[ terror eyes ]
yandere! risotto nero x reader. commissioned.
âș word count:Â 2.8k. âș warnings:Â consensual kidnapping, delusions, dependency, implied familial abuse, graphic gore and murder. âș art credit: 39805470.
âNothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.â â Kait Rokowski, Alight
he didnât expect to feel this way. he didnât expect to lose himself in you.
itâs the way your eyes shine when you look at him â the fleeting glances, the lasting smiles. itâs the way you say his name â the unexpected tenderness, the excitement on your face. itâs the way his heart beats wildly in your presence, the way heâs reminded of its existence. itâs the way you remind him that he is human, not the monster heâs made himself out to be.Â
when he looks in the mirror, he sees a void, a blackness so thick heâs afraid it will devour him whole. of all the things risotto nero does not fear, he fears himself most. and yet, when you look at him, there is hope, light, the very opposite of what stares at him from the mirror. you look at him like thereâs something worth adoring, something worth loving â emotions he never imagined could be directed at him. itâs a foreign feeling, something he hasnât felt in years. nothing short of a nuisance at first, the way your gaze would pin to him like a fan adores their idol or a disciple worships their god. being the source of admiration is nothing new to him â many a man look up to him with a mixture of awe and fear, some groveling for mercy and others joining his cause. risotto nero is accustomed to being watched, to having eyes on him from every angle and direction: from diavolo, who both trusts and distrusts him; from the capos, who look at him with awe and scorn, and from his own underlings, who both fear and revere him. risotto nero is a force to be reckoned with, and yet, the way you look at him like a lover is enough to unravel his layers, as if there was nothing to fear at all.
itâs hard not to feel naked around you, to not feel vulnerable, as if youâll figure out his deepest desires and worst fears if you so much as tried. vulnerability is not to be shown in his line of work, even you understand this much. despite the way you look at him with such ardor, you keep distance. whether itâs out of fear or respect, he doesnât want to find out. itâs better this way, to keep you at armâs length; you arenât supposed to be alive. that thought rings true in the recesses of his mind, a reminder of who you truly are, who he truly is, of how this relationship was fated for end from the start. but even he isnât immune to selfishness and desire.
âwelcome home!âÂ
your voice holds the universe together, its stars and planets localized entirely to the house you both call home. there isnât this urgent need to be careful around him â to feign happiness, to pretend your heart hasnât been shattered so many times youâve lost track of its pieces. there isnât this urgent need to put your guard up around him, ensure itâs airtight, ensure it can take another beating. there isnât this urgent need to be afraid around him. not anymore.
you donât wait for a response, you never do. he never speaks without purpose, and youâve grown accustomed to the way he wears silence like a mask. bounding up to him with a skip in your step, you attach yourself to his arm and lead him to the living room, the same conversation on your tongue as yesterday, the day before, and every day before that.Â
âhow was work?â
a trivial question, considering his occupation; work is never good nor bad, because to him, taking life is neither good nor bad. itâs normal, it comes as easy as breathing. but for a moment, he feels the normality of it all wash over him. the catharsis that an ordinary life brings, one where he is married to a loving spouse, someone who greets him when he arrives home, someone who dotes on him at his highest and comforts him at his lowest. for a moment, you are his home, and for a moment, this is normal.
but moments are fleeting.
his heartbeat reminds him that this is real, that you are real. but thereâs an ache in his chest and a longing for something else â for something more. he wonders if this happiness isnât enough for him. if he was good, would he be capable of love? if he was good, would he be worthy of love? of your love?
how foolish... murderers arenât meant to dream.
âi was so lonely without you, even the little metallica got bored...â you rub the smooth head of the stand, a little part of his soul perched atop your shoulder. a means to keep track of you, but you insist on treating it like a friend. as much as he pretends to find disinterest in your affection, he feels your touch vicariously through the little being and silently revels in it. âyou didnât get hurt did you?â your eyes scan his chest, searching for any visible wounds. when you find none, you look up at him with a smile that reaches your eyes. âi know you have a high pain tolerance, but i know basic first aid, and...â, you hesitate, heat dusting your cheeks like stardust. should you finish that thought? itâd not like he particularly cares for what you have to say, or so he lets on.
âand i want to be of use to you.â
he stares at you, a sense of affection flickering through his gaze. his heartbeat quickens and he searches your eyes only to find that same brilliance, that same hope worn proudly like armor. a reminder that you are blameless in all this. there are still things you donât understand, things you couldnât possibly understand. the true nature of his job, the truth about his past, all parts of him remain shrouded with uncertainty, parts of him that will forever remain a mystery. never does he speak of the thoughts weighing him down. you wish you could understand and he wishes he could let you, but his heart does not allow it. you are better off in the light.
âaha, forget i said anything. i was just joking...â your laugh is sardonic and forced, and yet it is still music to his ears. âbut rely on me if you need anything, okay?â the question is rhetorical, you donât expect an answer nor do you expect him to ever need your help, but you offer yourself on a silver platter nonetheless. itâs the least you can do for the man who saved you.
risotto laughs through his nose and corrects that earlier thought: you may belong in the light, but youâre better off here. he tells himself that anyways, convinces himself that what he did was for purely for your benefit. and even then that sentiment feels foreign, his behavior like a man possessed. who is he? that day he saw you, that day he killed your parents, who did he become? heâs heard that some change when they meet a lover, that they become someone else. a sick yet romantic concept, to change into someone else entirely as easily as changing clothes, as if love is enough to change the depravity of humans. tragedy and hatred was never foreign to him, the better part of his adult years spent wallowing in contempt and resentment; a shameful part of him, one he looks back on with disgust. how he used to wish that were true, that the scum who killed his cousin would seek forgiveness and repentance. but life is no fairy tale. and yet, when he met you, he became someone different, someone better.
and it still isnât enough to make him worthy of you.
you are not red. when he met you, you were pure, untouched, unsullied by the red that surrounded you. unaffected by the red of your parents who hurt you, by the red of your family who let them, by the red of your friends who left you. despite the sea of blood you used to live in, you were anything but. anything but that wretched color, anything but the color of blood. you were his realization, his epiphany: his world has been dyed red for so long, heâd forgotten the beauty underneath.
you make him feel alive again.
âyouâll tell me if somethingâs wrong, wonât you?â there is no need for words, but you speak in hopes of giving assurance. you want to be his shoulder to lean on and to cry in, even if that offer will forever go untouched. but he canât. as much as he longs for that companionship, to fall apart in your arms and let you the collect the pieces, he canât. he doesnât know what he needs. he doesnât even know if he needs you.
but you need him. âif it concerns you.â his reply is blithe, far too scathing a response for a loverâs concern, but you show no signs of quarrel. this isnât the first time heâs brushed you off, especially when this false game of house has become commonplace: go to work, come home, be greeted a woman whoâd happily be your wife if you asked, rinse and repeat. âi can take care of myself.â
you nod like you always do, but he knows youâll fuss over him come his return from work tomorrow. a familiar smile is directed at him â a display which still feels foreign â and the gentle musings of a woman smitten with love follow as you guide him to the couch with the promise of dinner being ready soon. as he seats himself, the worries of the day roll from his shoulders like rain. how you fell for a man like him is beyond his understanding. even if he did save you from a far worse fate, from a family who would sooner be your undoing than the catalyst of your betterment, he is undeserving of your love. what he sees when he looks at you is hope and misguided truth â youâre too bright for him.
âweâre running low on groceries,â you call out from the kitchen, broaching the topic carefully, scared heâll think youâre eager to leave. in this situation, you suppose most would assume that much, but you... you want to stay here. you want to be with him, to be around him more, not just when he returns from work. you want him, and you know he wants you too if only heâd let himself indulge. âi... i know you usually pick it up yourself, but i want to come with you,â you try to explain, confidence melting away like ice under his gaze. will your words get through to him? ân...next time, i mean, if thatâs okay...â you meekly clarify.
if you didnât admire him, the way he looks at you now would make your legs buckle. his eyes have never scared you, not like he expected they would, but thereâs a certain terror they inflict when he looks at you as a nuisance rather than a lover. piercing red on black, the eyes of a demon rather than a human. and yet, he is your guardian angel, the only man whoâs ever saved you. you know youâre safe with him, he wouldnât hurt you like they did. the thought has flitted through your mind from time to time, memories of your abusersâ bodies mangled and torn apart from the inside. explanations donât come easy to risotto, so youâre still left in the dark about your own parentâs deaths. not that you cared much for their passing, you were more concerned with the nature in which they died. tiny slits had opened on all corners of their body, as if theyâd been instantaneously cut from the inside. you still remember their screams, guttural like the dying wails of animals, infused with the intense smell of iron permeating the air. you want to learn more about him, to understand him, and this... this power is the best place to start. why did he save you? why does he keep you? will there come a day where he leaves you too?
âitâs dangerous.â his eyes peel away from yours and you allow yourself the luxury of relaxation. âpassione is still looking for you. your parents had an outstanding debt that your disappearance alone isnât enough to tide over.â he notices the way your shoulders slump in his peripherals. if his lies werenât for your own good, he might have felt some semblance of regret. âthings will settle down, itâs pointless to keep asking,â he adds with a tone of finality. heâs never been one for consolation, so he doesnât dwell on the sadness that permeates your being. youâre safer here, even you realize that; you donât put up a fight.
âi see...â you turn away, hands busying themselves with a nearly-finished dinner. the smell of a home-cooked meal imbues the air with warmth, a reminder of his childhood. how long has it been since heâs enjoyed the presence of another, a meal made by someone who loves him? even when he treats you harshly, keeping you in the dark about your own safety and the reality of your situation, itâs never held against him. the love you pour into his meals is palpable, carrying a certain sweetness even where the dish has no place for it. if heâs being honest, itâs... addicting. to feel normal again.
his earlier reasoning isnât a complete lie, more of a... half-truth. upon learning of your home life, of how much abuse you endured at the negligent hands of parents who refuse to let you leave, heâd intended to kill you too. put you out of your misery. leaving the children of hits alive is problematic for a number of reasons, the biggest being that grief drives people to extremes. risotto has always been keen on finishing jobs thoroughly, but even he could see that something inside of you was... broken. the way you watched your parents being ripped apart, mauled by something you canât see nor begin to comprehend... amidst the guts and gore, he wasnât able to place an emotion to it at the time, only that it was visceral, animalistic. realization only came later: the look on your face was one of pure happiness. surrounded by the blood of your own family, you were happy, relieved, hopeful. to see them finally suffer as much as you had, to see them finally gone from your life; you were so much like him, and yet so far removed all the same.
regret is lost on him. he doesnât regret âsavingâ you. your parents had it coming; their presence in the underbelly of naples had become troublesome for passione, the pair even going so far as to try to escape their debt to the mafia. a last-ditch attempt akin to the behavior of animals whoâve been cornered, risotto almost felt pity upon learning of your existence. the onus of repaying their debt would have fallen on you, a tactic even he didnât quite agree with. but passione was never known for their lenience; this was the life risotto had chosen, after all. a life of crime and of murder, a life befitting a monstrous stand like his. at some point, heâd lost all sense of sympathy for his hits, their faces replaced by that of the drunk driver who killed his cousin. that scumâs sentence was far too lenient, and risotto has seen first-hand the trouble leniency can bring.
but he felt sorry for you. coming to terms with the sudden onslaught of pity was nauseating enough, but heâd offered to hide you until things settle down. the don was enraged that youâd âescapedâ before risotto could finish you off, but it was easy enough to let it go: youâll âturn upâ eventually, and the debt your parents owed is the back burner for the time being. and, whether or not you preferred to die at the hands of your savior, you still followed him without quarrel when he took you. under normal circumstances, perhaps itâs better to say he kidnapped you, but youâve always insisted that he did just the opposite; he freed you. for the first time in his life, he saved someone. where he couldn't save his cousin, he could save you.
âiâll stop asking, but... maybe we can go together one day?â you pipe up, already setting a fresh plate of food before him. a model housewife, if this had been under normal circumstances. despite your attempts to hide any sadness, you wear a blissful expression when you glance up at him, head curiously tilted with the weight of your admiration for him. when you speak, he feels your love for him in every word; when you speak, he feels like he can love again. âas a couple,â you suggest, your smile genuine.
no, he doesnât deserve you. not in the slightest.
â...iâd like that.â
but maybe one day he will.
dear-yandere, all rights reserved.Â
