My dumbass foesnt kbow if i sent a request yet. Risotto x reader plsss. like okay reader was part of la squadra, died with sorbet and gelato but somehow is now alive and is a cyborg that was meant to kill them but the power of risotto's pecs made them snap out of it lmao just kidding but they do sort of snap out of it right as they were boutta kill risotto and is like "what in the fuck happened to me??" It had to be risotto because not only is he hot but the metal thing. I hope this isn't too stupid!
-🦹♂️
✃𓄧꒷꒦🩸“choking on my bones” Risotto Nero x Gen Reader ✃𓄧꒷꒦🩸
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) Heyo!! I hope you enjoy, was kinda puzzling over the cyborg aspect bc I wasn’t sure if you meant something akin to Stroheim? The Stand attack you suffer basically makes you into one with uh. Well you’ll see ajsjdkdkf
Maybe I do need to write the Risotto threesome fic, he’s only gotten angst lmao
Notes: possession/robotification to a degree, implied limb amputation, mentions of gore and blood, on the brink of death Cioccolate siccs a pretty freaky Stand on you and sends you after your former leader.
Stand: Lunatic Fringe
Ability: metallic organisms bury into and manipulate nerve endings to “rewire the brain”, building new limbs in cases of amputation and sealing over wounds.
In spite of his calculating nature, Nero did believe in ghosts.
They simply didn’t manifest as bloody-eyed specters or tugs at your limbs. Rather, they appeared in the lines of a song that sounded louder than usual— wearing a sweater that you swore still had their body heat lingering on it, eyes that didn’t match the person you were talking to. They were real. Real enough to whoever saw them that they hurt.
How terribly, painfully real you were.
Smoke and salt line his tastebuds. Once again, he tilts his head to the side, as a fist whirs past his cheekbone fast enough to stir the air.
A few minutes ago the alley had been quiet, empty save for him slinking across the shadows with Metallica carefully concealing him from the possibility of passersby on the main street enjoying a lovely afternoon sun. Wet garbage and wilted plants cling to the exterior walls in splatters.
A crash at the entrance twenty meters behind him drew his attention there. And a ghost stared back.
Without uncloaking he slips to the side, out of your swing’s range. Again. Again. Each move is precise, and if he were any slower he might have trouble, which wasn’t right. Gravel skitters and dust barely reveals a corner of his foot. His upper lip curls over his teeth.
“Hhh…..”
No blue lips. And the tug of iron in your veins. Though those clothes weren’t what he last saw you in, had he ever seen you in those…?
Your eyes are glazed, glassy like camera lenses.
“No Stand can resurrect the dead.”
“Where the fuck are they?”
“There’s hundreds of gutters in Naples…”
“That doesn’t make sense! Why let us find…. Find Sorbet and Gelato then?”
“An empty casket costs the same.”
“Y/N.”
Silently, you lunge for him, and his shoulder nearly grazes the wall when he steps back.
Shit. His mind races: focus. Focus.
One of your other senses must be in overdrive to get so close. That, or some kind of other ability. That had to be what was moving you like that, too. You weren’t much of a slugger, but here you were, trying to deck him like a professional boxer.
Someone else’s ability?
It had to be, or else you would certainly have brought out your Stand by now. Even if it did, it wasn’t as though he couldn’t counter it. How many times had you… had…
Bile burns his throat.
That isn’t you.
“Y/N.”
No response. Only a blank stare. But you do pause, your hands limp by your sides.
Soft mechanical whirring. The contours of your shirt are unnatural; a strangely shaped bulge sits at your hip, around your stomach. Metallica pulls towards you, but not… not just in the way it should. What?
“Out of all of you? You’re an idiot if you would fight Risotto over Ghiaccio. If he used his Stand on me…. Ugh, ugh, I’m not thinking about that.”
His heart twinges. Even as knuckles graze the side of his face and land against the wall with enough force to crack the brick.
Your hand bends unnaturally at the wrist. Bones crunch and the flesh splits, spilling blood that drops to the ground. You don’t even hesitate, swinging your leg out in a kick that he sidesteps.
He exhales. Whatever shit you gave him later, he’d take it. Please give him hell.
You stop half movement. A strange gurgle leaves your throat. Uncannily, you step back, arms shaking, and a burst of blood and razors tears open your shirt at the waist, exposing the true extent of the thing manipulating you.
That flesh shouldn’t exist. No, it wasn’t flesh at all, with that sheen and hue. It still shouldn’t be there. It shouldn’t. Metallic growths, textured almost like tree bark, spread across your torso, from your hips up your waist. The pattern though, it isn’t random, he realizes with a chill.
They follow the path of a vivisection’s cut.
“Risotto, is it weird I can’t stand blood?”
Red. Everything is hued red.
You step further back, trembling, eerily quiet, your face contorting but not in pain. Blood soaks your pant leg, the skin shredded along with the thin cotton-- the two practically blended together. He could almost see bone. He’d tried his best to aim away from the organs: tracing the flow of iron in your blood, he could tell they were still there. Something was keeping them going. The Stand attack on your torso. But there was no flow of blood to your legs.
There was, however, the same pull he felt when he manipulated stop signs. What the hell… what the hell had they done to you?
From your throat comes a high-pitched, keening sound. Nero grits his teeth.
Come on.
In one quick move, you clutch your temples and crumple to the ground. He kneels beside you without hesitating.
“H…Hah… ach…” Spit and blood drip from your lips. The itch in your veins-- could you even feel it? He wonders. His own nerves are alight. Leaping from his fingertips and into your wound, Metallica begins its march up and down your blood vessels towards the growths across your torso and your legs.
Long range, remote perhaps. But the strength still wasn’t the best. They knew, of course they did. He wouldn’t kill you.
But were they stupid enough to think that he wouldn’t be able to do something about you?
You fall onto your back, writhing, gurgling, the silver on your torso glinting. Risotto can’t help it-- he tilts your head up so you don’t choke, as if you had come home from a night out with the rest of the team. Eyes squeezed shut, your expression… it’s the most human thing he’s seen from you in the last ten minutes. Cold sweat dots your face.
Forgive him. He rips your shirt open down the middle to see the full surgical incision that the metal follows, gleaming and shimmering, and more clustered at your hips. He catches a glimpse of a metallic ankle peeking out of your pant leg, in his periphery, his fears confirmed and hands shaking.
He leans over your convulsing body to get a better look.
Between the scars of the cut, what look like minute silver snakes curl around each other and latch into your skin. It was fused into your body: under your skin he makes out the curl of what look like wires spreading down your limbs, to whatever metal prostheses were under your pants.
If it was metal, even if it was a Stand ability…
Whatever. It had to work. He’d make it work. If you were alive, you were alive.
Admittedly, there’s a guilty part of him that is grateful that you aren’t aware enough to see his face, as he sheds the dust of iron to focus all of his energy into pushing his Stand into the enemy’s.
The second he feels the contact, his muscles tense, and your back arches.
“Ach--hagh!” Your voice is strangled, arms thrashing. The side of your bloodied, broken fist smashes into his thigh and he forces the wrist back down. Concentrate. Concentrate.
But he’s staring at you, the red of your blood beginning to stain the white parts of his pants, your pained face, the shake of your head back and forth, and it hurts. God it hurts.
“Risotto?”
In that moment he hears the ghost, he’s thrown back onto the dirt by you with strength you shouldn’t have.
He hisses and grabs your other wrist to hold you up and off of him. Your knees on either side of his hips, the blood from your wounds dips onto his bare chest. His hood almost falls off, loosens as he’s pressed back.
In the shock, he almost unfocuses his Stand. Don’t. Don’t stop. Nero clenches his jaw.
He can feel it, the twinge of each bead of Metallica melding and overwhelming the things in your torso. Pressure grows in his chest. Every fiber of his being is tense, concentrating on the task at hand.
Whoever’s Stand it was, it wasn’t too strong-- or perhaps he was too focused. More than ever.
“Y/N.”
What else could he say? It was all you: it was you, it really was after all, you were close enough to one piece that he could fix it, he had to fix it. He hadn’t heard his own voice shake so much since…
“Y/N, please,” he says, soft. You likely wouldn’t even hear it through the Stand manipulating your system, like a damn puppet. And really, he hopes you don’t hear it. This wasn’t how he wanted you to hear him.
His ears ring. His arms are beginning to twitch, your inhuman strength testing him, as his ribs feel they’re about to break. Nero’s eyes burn. No.
Don’t.
Suddenly, you stop resisting. And the weight on him lightens.
Metallica forms staples to hitch together your flesh where you had been cut open, and weaves into your skin to form a strange mesh to hold you together. It would do. Just for a while.
Your heart begins to pump regularly. And finally, your eyes shoot open.
When they do, Risotto’s heart squeezes; they’re clear. Confusion turns to shock, to pain, to fear, back to confusion again. You frown slowly, brows furrowing. A bird calls behind you.
“Ris…Risotto?”
He exhales. It takes everything in him to not let you collapse on his chest and hold you, but he holds back, sitting up and letting you sit back on your heels. Your mouth opens, but before you can say anything, you wince.
“What… ow…”
Without a second thought he rips off a corner of his coat. Squinting at the mangled skin, his vision blurs as he wraps it in the fabric carefully. You wince again.
“We’ll go to the doctor’s.”
“Risotto, what? I don’t--” you shake your head, as he takes your other hand and pulls you up, carefully. You’re sluggish, shaky. And, his heart squeezing, he watches as your gaze trails down your torso. How your eyes widen at the sight of yourself.
“What happened?” your voice cracks. “Where are we?”
“What about you?” he asks. “What was the last thing you remember?”
“I…” you start, and swallow a deep breath. He follows your look, but you’re just staring at a random stone. “I was on… an operating table, and…”
As your voice starts to shake, he clutches your hand. In a voice just barely held together, you ask, “Where are Sorbet and Gelato?”
“We’re going to the doctor’s,” he repeats, and wraps his arm around your waist. You stumble a little as you’re pulled flush to him. Grief welling in his ribcage quells any tension he could feel from having you so close to him. He can’t let you hear it.
Terror shakes your shoulders as you lean into him; his pace is impatient, though he holds you close with a tenderness you’d never felt from him. And you know.
Tears prick your eyes, and you squeeze them shut. Damn it. Damn it all.
Rusted silver, the smell of antiseptic, the iridescent curve of a lens…. Low giggling and strangled screams overwhelms your senses and you gasp, choking on your own breath and holding a hand to your barely put together torso. Your legs… why did it feel like they were heavier? Dread threatens the meager contents of your stomach. When was the last time you ate?
But before you can spiral, Risotto stops his stride just before the shadows in the alley end and presses his cheek to your forehead.
Your heart lurches. Silently, he holds you firm. Steady. The strange coolness of his skin against yours all you can notice for a second.
A thin coat of iron dust lands on your shoulders. The light starts to flicker across your form and turn you both invisible. As you disappear, you feel his head leave yours.
With it, you feel a weight lift and your body is allowed to feel the fatigue of whatever the hell happened since you last surfaced, your legs numb and heavy: striding into the daylight and beginning to weave through the crowd, your shoulders slump, and you whisper it to him.
“I’m so happy to see you again.”
Though he says nothing, you feel it: the squeeze of his arm around you: as if in reply, I am too.
